2. Chapter Two

Rose

When the realtor showed me this old cottage, it looked ordinary enough from the outside, but once I saw the walls, covered in frameless paintings of beautiful forests filled with magical creatures, I knew this place was special.

It reminded me of a fairytale cottage. I knew it would be perfect for me with its small kitchen/living room, separate bedroom barely big enough for a bed and a dresser, and a bathroom.

Previous owners came and went, leaving behind belongings from the past ten decades. There's an avocado green 1970s blender, cast iron skillets from the early twentieth century, and an entire wall of bookshelves filled with antique volumes.

That place between my shoulder blades is killing me from painting for too many hours today. Now that the sun has set, it's time to make a cup of Bengal spice tea and curl up with a book.

At the bookshelf, as I trace a finger along their spines, one floor-to-ceiling segment swings open with a creak, revealing a hidden doorway.

My heart pounding, I peer through the opening. At first, all I can see is darkness, but as my eyes adjust to the dim light shining in from the living room, the silhouette of a bed comes into view. There, lying motionless under a heavy quilt, is a body.

I back up, and, though reception is spotty on even the best day, I slip my cell phone into my jeans pocket, then I grab my biggest kitchen knife.

"No, no, no," I whisper, knowing I should run to my little Ford and hightail it to the sheriff's office five miles down a two-lane road. As my lips say no, my feet ease to the doorway of the hidden room. I know, I'm an idiot.

Is it possible? His chest is rising and falling gently with each breath. I gasp, stumbling back in shock. How long has this person—clearly a male because his beard must be a foot long, been asleep in this hidden room? Did he sneak in here while I was in the forest yesterday?

With my knife held in front of me, I step a foot into the room and take his inventory. Once I get past his horrible beard, longer and more scraggly than the worst hipster on the planet, it appears he's not the old man I first imagined. He appears young, maybe in his mid-thirties, with a handsome, angular face and generous lips.

I should leave immediately and call for help, but curiosity roots me to the spot. Who is this guy? The idea that this is a fairytale dawns on me again. How has he come to be locked away in a secret chamber, as if under some enchantment?

I check out the room for more details. The air in the room is fresh, thanks to a vent on the outside wall. The blanket, the kind of patchwork quilt women used to sew by hand in a previous century, is still in good shape.

My imagination is obviously getting carried away. He's likely a homeless person who has been sleeping in this hidden room, coming and going while I'm out exploring. That's the logical explanation. I'm surprised he hasn't been stealing my food. Has he been here the whole time I've lived here?

I shiver, terror whirling through me as I realize how vulnerable I've been, all while thinking I was safe and isolated here.

Before I can answer any of the hundred questions flying through my mind, his eyelids flutter open. Icy blue eyes meet mine, and he sits bolt upright.

His posture is stiff, and becomes stiffer when I brandish the carving knife at him and threaten, "Who the fuck are you and why are you in my house?"

His chin tips up, and he examines me from hair to toes. His expression is groggy, almost drugged, just what I'd expect from someone awakened from a heavy slumber—or someone way too high on drugs.

"Is it you?"

Add deranged to the already growing list of weird things about this entire bizarre scenario.

"Who were you expecting?"

Stupid, Rose. You're acting as though even one word out of his mouth is going to make sense.

"I-I'm not sure."

Jackpot! As if my childhood wasn't weird enough, my peaceful sanctuary has turned into the plot of one of those escape-from-the-mental hospital Halloween movies.

"Listen up. You're going to get up and shamble out the door before I call the police."

I glance at my phone only to see it's playing games with me. No service. I swallow. Hard. This guy is demented and my only weapon is a kitchen knife.