Amelia

AMELIA

Adam starts to run down the hill toward the chapel, but I can’t keep up.

He’s been somewhat preoccupied with his own health and fitness recently, and started taking vitamins and supplements, which is new. His obsession with jogging at least twice a week is finally paying off, and I tell him not to wait; the sooner one of us gets back the better. I keep having to stop to catch my breath. I forgot to bring my inhaler—foolishly leaving it next to the bed in my panic to find Bob—but I know I’ll be okay, so long as I take my time and try to stay calm.

It sounds easier in my head than it is in reality.

If we hadn’t both seen someone letting themselves into the chapel, I might have thought I imagined it. But it was real. Maybe it is the mysterious housekeeper? Come to check we are okay after the storm? I tell myself that whoever it is will be able to help us. And want to. Because none of the other possibilities auditioning inside my mind are good. When I reach the snow-covered track at the bottom of the hill, I’m relieved to be on a flat surface again. Adam’s lead has increased. He isn’t far from the chapel now, so I hurry on as fast as I can, trying to catch up.

I stop when the bell in the tower starts to ring.

The snow pummels my face. I didn’t see Adam go inside but he must have, because when I look up—shielding my eyes from the relentless blizzard—he’s vanished. Did he ring the bell? I remember earlier, when Adam said that the main doors were the only way in, and out, of the chapel. I haven’t seen anyone leave, which means whoever we saw go inside is still there. Anything could be happening. The latest snowstorm seems to have turned the world black and white. I can barely see my own hand when I hold it in front of my face. I try to run faster but I keep slipping and my chest starts to hurt. My heart is beating too quickly, and my breaths are too shallow. My anxiety is made worse knowing that even in a medical emergency, we have no way of calling for help.

When I finally reach the huge chapel doors, I don’t need to worry about knocking—they are wide open and the floor of the boot room is covered in snow. I spot a pair of large, unfamiliar Wellington boots next to the old church bench, and notice that someone has drawn several smiley faces in the dust on its wooden surface now. I wonder if it means something and lift the lid, but it’s empty. When I look up, I catch sight of my reflection in the wall of tiny mirrors. I look wrecked.

“Adam?” I call, but am met with an eerie silence.

The kitchen is empty, as is the lounge full of books. I hurry up the wooden spiral staircase to the first floor, wheezing, and gripping the banister like a cane. I ignore the DANGER KEEP OUT sign on the farthest door, and climb the steps to the bell tower. But there’s nobody there, and the bedroom is empty too. It doesn’t make sense. The pain in my chest isn’t getting any better, so I pull open the drawer beside the bed. My inhaler has gone. I’m sure that’s where I left it, and now panic starts to ripple through me.

I need to find Adam. Back out on the landing I try the other doors, but they’re all still locked. He isn’t here, I’ve already searched every room. Then I remember the crypt.

“Adam!” I yell again.

Silence.

I run so fast that I almost fall down the creaking stairs.

“I’m in here!” he calls when I reach the lounge, but I can’t see him.

“Where are you?” I shout back.

“Behind the bookcase on the back wall.”

I hear his words but fail to make sense of them.

I follow the sound of his voice, staring at the shelves lined with books from floor to ceiling. I don’t understand until I see the sliver of light revealing a secret door, covered in the spines of old books. I hesitate before pushing it open, once again feeling as though I might have fallen down the rabbit hole, or become trapped in one of the dark and disturbing novels my husband loves to adapt.

The thin door squeaks open to reveal another room. It’s a study, but unlike any I have seen before. The long, narrow, dark space only has one stained-glass window for light. There is an antique desk at one end, and my husband is sitting at it.

“Whoever was here has gone,” Adam says without looking up. “I searched the whole place. The only thing that I noticed was different was that the door to this room was open.”

“I don’t understand—”

“I think I’m starting to. I recognize this room.”

He doesn’t seem to notice that I can barely breathe. There are no supplements for people who suffer from a sympathy deficit, and my husband has always been easily distracted by his own thoughts and feelings. “You do?”

“Yes, I’ve seen it before. I couldn’t think where at first and then I noticed this,” he says, tapping the shiny wooden desktop. “I’ve seen a picture of this study in a magazine, albeit a few years ago. And I remember who the article was about. You say that you won a weekend away by chance, in a raffle, but that can’t be true. It’s all too much of a coincidence. I know who this property belongs to now.”