Chapter 5

Hazel

"Ma'am?" the female officer says as she exits the house and stows her gun on her utility belt.

Looking up from where I'd been texting Cam updates, I acknowledge her.

"No one's in the home. What was it that gave you the idea there was, if you don't mind me asking?"

I look at the officer behind her as he exits.

"Well, I went upstairs to turn off a light, and it shut itself off. Then I smelled man's cologne." Saying it out loud seems silly. Neither one were indicative of someone truly being in the house. But I'm somewhere new, and the size of the place is daunting.

"Sounds like you encountered one of the tenants," the male officer spouts.

The female officer rolls her eyes, reaching for me. Her hands come down on my shoulders. "Don't listen to him or anyone else in town. There is no such thing as ghosts. These old homes don't have the best wiring. And anything can hold scent for a long time. Maybe the last person who rented this house stayed in that room."

I nod, appreciating her taking the time to give me logical explanations for everything. Because my brain needs it right now.

"All that matters right now," the male officer says, "is that you're safe. The house is clear, and if you need us, we'll come right back." He smiles, and it gives me comfort.

"I appreciate you both so much." A deep sigh of relief wafts from my chest.

"And turn the heat on in there, for fuck's sake. You'll freeze if not," he adds, and I lift a brow.

"It has heat?" I squeak, feeling foolish.

He nods. "Most of these homes that are used for out-of-town visitors do. Can't have the southerners turning to ice blocks. Or we'd never get any tourism, now would we?"

I smile.

"The thermostat is in the kitchen. Saw it when I was clearing the area. Come, I'll show you."

Taking in the name on her badge, I nod. "Thank you, Officer Smith."

After showing me where the thermostat is and reminding me once again I'm not alone, the officers leave, and I plop down in front of the fire.

Calling Cam, I lift my feet onto the ottoman. It's well past ten p.m. now, and I'm exhausted from traveling and from the excitement. Even though I love to write at night, I know tonight isn't the night it's going to happen.

"Well?" Cam answers.

"No one. House is empty, and I look like a fool."

Cam chuckles. "Well, it's better to be vigilant. What if an ax murderer had snuck in?"

"As frigid as I had the temperature, I don't know why he'd stay," I joke.

We talk until my eyes droop, and I know I won't make it to my bed. The fire feels too good, and I'm too comfortable. I've laid back on the couch and snuggled under a quilt that looks handmade.

"Look, Cam..." I yawn. "I'll call tomorrow. I'm so tired."

"Alright. But don't forget. At the very least, text me. I'm worried about you being there all alone."

"Don't worry," I tell her softly as my eyes close. "I'm not alone. The place is fucking haunted."

A distant laugh is all I hear from her before I fall asleep, the phone dropping from my hand.

A man stands over the back of the couch. He's dark and handsome. His face is thick, with chiseled lines that no artist could capture perfectly. Dark hair is slicked back in waves on his head, and blue eyes assess me where I'm lying.

I'm frozen beneath his stare.

When he leans over to get a better look at me, my heart pounds like non-stop thunder.

"Where did you come from, sweet cherry?" he asks.

I'm too afraid to move. Too afraid to answer. Too afraid to think.

I'm confused.

Am I dreaming? Am I awake?

Was he the one who turned off the light?

He reaches down with an enormous paw of a hand, brushing a loose lock of red hair off my face.

"You shouldn't be here," he says gruffly.

My heart is beating so quickly, I fear it might stop altogether.

Before my eyes, he disappears. Gone as fast as he'd come.

Gasping awake, I scramble back on the couch toward the arm. Pillows hit the floor from my abrupt movement. The house is light and silent. No man is behind the couch.

It was a dream.

I close my eyes and take a moment to calm down.

Fuck.

I'm losing my mind in this house. I don't know how I'll last an entire month.

I check my phone.

There's missed texts from Mom and Cam.

Mom:

I don't know why you insist on being weird this time of year. All because of your wild accusations last year? Consider them forgotten. Come home. I've been trying to nail down your plans for Christmas, but you won't answer me.

She's drunk.Anger moves through me from her accusations that my admission last year to her had been made-up. Why would I do that to her? How could she do what she'd done to me? It's why I refuse to go back. I can't.

Cam:

Please tell me you're alive.

Hello?

Did the ax murderer get you?

Can I have your book collection?

I smile before sending her back a text.

I'm alive. I was sleeping, you psycho, and if you touch one of my books, you'll lose a finger.

Very medieval of you.

I shake my head, dropping my phone back onto the small ottoman in front of the couch. I can't believe I hadn't made it to the room, but the adrenaline wore off, and there was no way to do so.

After showering to try to get the creative juices flowing, I take my breakfast to the small office that had sold this place to me in the first place. It's right off of the principal bedroom on the first floor.

I drop my laptop onto the desk, plugging it in behind it because it's always dying. Then, as it powers up, I shove a bagel into my mouth. Steaming coffee sits to the right, ready and waiting for when I get the first caffeine withdrawal pain and remember to snatch for it.

Staring at the blinking cursor, I wait for my brain to kick on and go into writer mode.

I'm what they call a pantser in the writing community. I don't outline. I don't plan. I have a slight idea for a story, sit down, and let my fingers do the talking. I don't consciously think when I write, and I have no idea where half of my books come from.

Writing is a natural gift I've gotten from who knows where, and it's saved my life. Came to me when I needed it most. Reading has always been my escape. But writing is my life. Writing is where I deal with my demons.

Small-towns are known for their charm. Known for the country feel. The small gatherings and silly events. But when I moved into Clark, New York, I found that small-towns are much more than any of those things. They're romantic. And romance is needed in life more than people realize.

Romance is the reason for everything. Romance leads to love, which leads to family, which leads to legacy. And our legacy, well, that's everything, isn't it? It's what we leave behind when we're but dust in the earth.

I sit back, staring at what I've written. Taking a chunk of bagel into my mouth, I chew as I try to stoke the inner fire to write this book. It's almost as if the deadlines and the pressure have taken the fun out of the writing process altogether.

Hitting delete, I erase all I'd written. Starting over isn't something I usually do. I normally let the narrative go where it's going to go. Unworried about the beginning or middle. Only excited about the conclusion and eager to read it as a whole once I'm done. There's magic in not consciously thinking while writing. And it's reserved for when you get to read it and don't remember writing it. Sometimes, I don't believe I've written the words on the pages.

Death. It comes for us all. It's something looming over us every moment of our life. Something hidden in the shadows, lurking for when our time comes. But what I hadn't known before I moved to Clark, New York, is that death is a person. Not an abstract concept.

A real-life, broody, dominating man.

One that I might not fucking survive.

And I'm not all too certain he hasn't come for my life. That it's not my time.

But surely, dying by his hands won't be the worst way to go.

I bite my lip, excitement thrumming through my veins. I don't know if it's because I'm not supposed to be writing this. Or, because this is what I need.

Either way, I let my fingers dive back down to the keys.

* * *

Something thumps upstairs,and I break my eyes away from my manuscript. It's dark in the room surrounding me, and confusion takes over as I look at the clock and see that it's five o'clock in the evening.

What the hell?

It's been so long since I dove into a book so deeply that I lost track of time.

Another thump sounds, and I stiffen.

Footsteps follow the noise, and I gasp.

Remembering last night's harrowing ordeal, and how I'd looked foolish in front of the cops, I try to tell myself it's the house moving in the wind. Even now, the wind is howling outside the windows, and I know that wood flexes in heat and extreme cold. This house is made solely of wood.

"It's nothing. You are alone. You're fine," I tell myself.

I listen for what seems like forever, hearing no more footsteps or movement.

For all I know, there could be an animal taking shelter from the cold up there. And who am I to evict it? It's fucking freezing outside. I don't blame it.

Closing my laptop, I gather my breakfast dishes and stand. My body is stiff from hours in the office chair, and I groan as I try to straighten. Moving into the kitchen, I pop a ramen cup into the microwave, snacking on Cheese-Its as it heats.

Another loud noise sounds upstairs, and I squeak. Dropping the cheesy snack to the floor, I move away from the door, backing toward the refrigerator and grabbing a knife from in the drawer next to it. I'd spied them last night when I was looking for a wine opener and I noted their location in case of need.

Holding the butcher knife out in front of my body, I ready for if something comes down the stairs.

The microwave beeps, and I jump. My heart slams into my ribcage as I roll my eyes at myself.

There's no one here. Calm down.

Maybe giving over to my urge to write a dark-themed novel in the middle of nowhere was a dumb idea.

When I sit down with my noodles, I do so in a chair facing the door. My knife is on the table, close enough to grab at a moment's notice.

I don't take any time to check my phone. I keep my eyes trained on the stairs, listening hard for any more noises that my ears are ringing.

This is how Jack Torrance went mad in The Shining.

Too much isolation isn't good for the human brain.

Especially the creative one.