Adam

ADAM

I slammed the chapel doors closed. I didn’t mean to do it that hard, or realize it was going to make such a loud bang. And I don’t know why I didn’t just confess to it rather than blaming the wind. Maybe because I’m tired of being told off by my wife every five minutes.

There is another door in the boot room, right in the middle of the wall of miniature mirrors. Bob starts scratching at it, leaving marks on the wood. Along with the growling earlier, it’s something else he’s never done before.

I hesitate before turning the handle, but when I do, the door opens revealing a long, dark hallway. The sound of our footsteps on the stone floor seems to echo off the white walls, as the three of us walk toward the next door in the distance. When we step through that, all I can see is darkness. But when my fingers find a light switch, I see that we are in a very normal-looking kitchen. It’s enormous, but still looks cozy and homely. If it weren’t for the vaulted ceiling, exposed beams, and stained-glass windows, you would never know that the room used to be part of a chapel.

A large cream-colored stove takes center stage, surrounded by expensive-looking cabinets. There is a solid-looking wooden table in the middle of the room, surrounded by restored church pews. It’s the kind of kitchen you see in magazines, except for the thick layer of dust covering every single surface.

Something on the table catches my eye. I take a step closer and see that it is a typed note, addressed to us.

Dear Amelia, Adam, and Bob,

Please make yourselves at home.

The bedroom at the end of the landing has been made up for you. There is food in the freezer, wine in the crypt, and you’ll find extra firewood in the log store out back should you need it.

We hope you enjoy your stay.

“Well, at least we know we’re in the right place,” Amelia says, twisting her engagement ring around her finger. It’s something she always does when she’s nervous. One of those little quirks I used to find endearing.

“Who is the ‘we’ in the note?” I ask.

“What?”

“‘We hope you enjoy your stay.’ You said you won this weekend away in a raffle, but who owns the place?”

“I don’t know … I just got an email saying that I’d won.”

“From who?”

Amelia shrugs. “The housekeeper. She sent the directions and a picture of the chapel with Blackwater Loch in the background. It looked amazing. I can’t wait for you to see it in daylight—”

“Okay, but what was her name?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. What makes you think it’s a woman? Men are also capable of cleaning, even if you never do.”

I ignore the snipe, I’ve learned it’s best to, but even my wife can’t deny that there is something very strange about all of this.

“We’re here now,” she says, wrapping her arms around me. The hug feels awkward, like we’re out of practice. “Let’s try to make the most of it. It’s only for a couple of nights and it will be one of those funny stories we can tell our friends afterwards.”

I can’t see expressions on faces, but she can, so I try to keep mine neutral and resist pointing out that we don’t really have any friends anymore. Not ones that we see together. Our social circle has become a bit square. She has her life and I have mine.

We explore the rest of the ground floor, which has basically been divided into two huge rooms: the kitchen, and a large lounge, which looks more like a library. Bespoke wooden bookcases line the walls from floor to ceiling—except for the occasional stained-glass window—and all the shelves are crammed full with books. They’re neatly arranged and color coordinated, possibly organized by someone with a bit too much time on their hands.

An intricately designed wooden spiral staircase dominates the middle of the room on one side. On the other, there is an enormous stone fireplace, blackened with soot and age, and literally big enough to sit in. The grate has already been prepared with paper, kindling, and logs, and there is a box of matches beside it. I light it straightaway—the place is freezing and so are we. Amelia takes the matchbox from my hand, and lights the church candles on the gothic-looking mantelpiece, as well as a few others she finds in hurricane lanterns dotted around the room. It looks and feels a lot cozier already.

The uneven stone floor—which must have been the same when the chapel was still a chapel—is covered in ancient-looking rugs, and the two tartan sofas either side of the fireplace look well-loved and worn. There are indentations on the seat and cushions, as though someone might have been sitting there moments before we arrived.

Just as I’m starting to relax, there is an eerie tapping and scraping sound at one of the windows. Bob barks, and my own heart starts to race a little when I see what looks like a skeletal hand banging on the glass. But it’s just a tree. Its bare, bonelike branches, being blown against the building by the gale outside.

“Why don’t you put some music on? Maybe we can drown out the sound of the storm?” Amelia says, and I obediently find the bag where I packed the travel speakers. I have a much better selection of music on my phone than she does, but then I remember it not being in the car. I stare at my wife and wonder if this was a test.

“I don’t have my mobile,” I say, wishing I could see her expression.

I don’t like to talk about face blindness, not even with her. The things that define us are rarely what we might choose. But sometimes, when I look at other people’s faces, the features on them start to swirl like a van Gogh painting.

“I think a surgeon would struggle to separate you from your phone most of the time. It’s probably a blessing in disguise that you left it at home by mistake. There are some albums you like on mine, and a break from staring at screens all day will do you good,” she says.

But it’s a bad and wrong answer.

I saw her remove my mobile from the glove compartment before we left home this morning. I always put it in there for long journeys—I feel nauseous if I look at screens in cars or taxis—and she knows that. I watched her take it out and put it back in the house. Then I listened to her lie about it all the way here.

Having been married for so long, I know better than to think that my wife doesn’t have some secrets—I certainly do—but I have never known her to behave like this. I don’t have to see her face to know when she isn’t telling me the truth. You can feel it when someone you love is lying. What I don’t know, yet, is why.