Amelia

AMELIA

I hear another noise downstairs in the chapel and I know I’m not imagining it.

I reach blindly for the light switch by the bed, but it doesn’t work. Either there has been another power cut—which seems odd if there is a generator—or someone has cut the power. I try not to allow my overactive imagination to make this experience even scarier than it is. I tell myself that there must be a rational explanation. But then I hear the unmistakable sound of a footstep at the bottom of the creaking stairs.

I hold my breath, determined to hear nothing but silence.

But there is another groan from elderly floorboards, followed by another creak, and the sound of someone climbing the staircase is getting louder. And closer. I have to cover my mouth with my hand to stop myself from screaming when the footsteps stop right outside the bedroom door.

I want to reach for Adam but I am frozen with fear.

When I hear the sound of the door handle start to turn, I practically fall out of the bed in my hurry to get away from whoever is out there, and wish that I was wearing more than just a flimsy nightdress. I grip the unfamiliar furniture, feeling my way in the shadows, walking as quickly and quietly as I can toward the bathroom. I’m fairly sure its door had a lock. As soon as I find what I’m looking for, I close the door behind me and barricade myself inside. The light switch doesn’t work in here either, but maybe that’s a good thing.

I hear the bedroom door slowly open and more creeping footsteps. I blink into the darkness, willing my eyes to adjust to the low light, then hold my breath and step back as far as I can while the sound of creaking floorboards gets closer. I realize I’ve been twisting my engagement ring around my finger—something I only do when I’m most anxious. The ring—which once belonged to Adam’s mother—doesn’t come off anymore, and has started to feel too tight. My chest feels the same way, and my heart is thumping so loudly, I’m scared that whoever is out there can hear it when they stop right outside the bathroom door.

The handle turns very slowly. When they discover that the door is locked, they try again. More aggressively this time. I feel like I’m in The Shining, but the only window in this bathroom is made of stained glass—even if it did open, I’d never fit through it, and the fall from this height down onto the ground below would probably kill me. I search for a weapon, anything to defend myself with, but find little comfort in my Gillette Venus razor. I hold it out in front of me regardless, then press myself up against the wall, unable to get any farther away. The tiles on my bare back are icy cold.

Everything is quiet for a few seconds. Then the silence is smashed by the sound of a fist banging on the door. I’m so scared I start to cry, tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Amelia, are you in there? Is everything all right?”

My husband’s voice confuses and calms me at the same time.

“Adam? Is that you?”

“Who else would it be?”

I open the door and see him standing there in his pajama bottoms, stifling a yawn, with his bed hair sticking out in all directions. The light from the old-fashioned candlestick holder he is carrying casts ghostly shadows around the bedroom, so that now I feel like I’m in a Charles Dickens novel.

“Why are you crying? Are you okay?” he asks.

My words trip over themselves in my hurry to say them. “No, I’m not. Something woke me, I heard a noise downstairs, the lights wouldn’t work, then I heard someone coming up the stairs and—”

“It was just me, silly. I was thirsty and I went to get a glass of water. But I guess all of the pipes must be frozen because none of the taps work.”

“There’s no water?”

“Or power. The storm must have out taken out the generator. I tried to find a fuse box while I was down there—just in case I could fix something—but no joy. Good job we have these creepy candlesticks!”

He holds the flickering flame below his chin and pulls a series of silly faces, like children do with torches at Halloween. I start to feel better. A little bit. At least there is a rational explanation. Then I feel foolish …

“I thought I heard a noise downstairs. The sound of someone creeping around. I was so scared—”

“Me too, that’s what woke me,” Adam interrupts.

After a brief absence, my terror returns. “What?”

“That was the other reason I went downstairs, to check everything was okay. But the main doors are still locked, there is no other way in or out, this place is like Fort Knox. I had a good look around, no burglars—or sheep—have managed to break in and everything is fine. Just as we left it. Besides, Bob would have barked if a stranger had let themselves in.”

That is true: Bob does growl if a stranger comes to the front door at home, but only until we open it. Then he wags his tail at double speed and rolls over to show the visitors his tummy—Labradors are too friendly to be good guard dogs.

We climb back into bed and I ask a question he never wants to answer.

“Do you ever wish that we’d had children?”

“No.”

“Why?”

I expect Adam to change the subject—that’s what normally happens next—but he doesn’t. “Sometimes I’m glad we don’t have kids, because I’m scared that we might have fucked them up somehow, the way our parents fucked us up. I think maybe our line came to an end for a reason.”

I think I preferred it when he didn’t answer. I don’t like him describing us like that, but part of me does wonder whether he might be right. I’ve always felt abandoned by people I was foolish enough to care about, including my parents. Yes, they died in a car crash before I was born, but the result—me growing up alone—is the same as if they deserted me deliberately. If you don’t have anyone to love or be loved by as a child, then how do you learn?

But then, isn’t love like breathing? Isn’t it instinct? Something we’re born knowing how to do? Or is love like speaking French? If nobody teaches you, you’ll never be fluent, and if you don’t practice you forget how …

I wonder if my husband really still loves me.

“I don’t like it here,” I confess.

“No, me neither. Maybe we should leave in the morning? Find a nice hotel somewhere a bit less remote?”

“That sounds good.”

“Okay. Let’s try to get some sleep until it is light outside, then pack up and go. Maybe take another sleeping pill, it might help?”

I do as he says—despite the warnings on the prescription—because I’m exhausted, and if I’m going to have to drive for hours again tomorrow, I need to get some rest. But before I close my eyes, I notice that the grandfather clock in the corner of the room has stopped. I’m glad, at least that won’t wake us up again in the night. I squint at the time and see that it stopped at three minutes past eight, which seems strange—I thought we heard the bells at midnight—but my mind is too tired to even try to understand. Adam slips his arm around my waist and pulls me to him. I can’t remember the last time he did that in bed, or made me feel safe like this. If nothing else, the trip has already brought us closer together. As usual, he is asleep within minutes.