Winter's Shadow (12 page)

‘You’re such a loser,’ Winter told herself, letting out a long, shuddering breath. The door opening beneath her grasp was odd, especially how it coincided with that scarily detailed mental image of the tumbler sliding free – an image she had no idea was stored somewhere in the archives of her imagination. It was almost like her mind’s eye had zoomed in through the keyhole and witnessed the parts of the lock moving about, motivated by her will alone. However, it was easy to rationalise this peculiar sensation. The vivid image had simply been the byproduct of all that adrenaline flooding her system. Her frantic jiggling of the door handle simply must have worked the old lock free. There was nothing unusual about that.

Satisfied she’d solved the mystery, Winter stepped away from the door. ‘Hello? Blake?’

The only sound she could hear was the ticking of a clock somewhere in the depths of the house. Though the light outside had almost disappeared, it was still much brighter than the interior of the house. Night had fallen early within these walls. It looked as though Blake had drawn every curtain in the house, sealing the darkness in, or the light out. As her eyes adjusted, Winter could see a staircase directly in front of her.

Looking at the shadows at the top of the stairs made her feel uneasy. She imagined the spectre of Velasco emerging from that space, floating down the stairs towards her, his eyes bloodshot and face black, the hanging rope dangling from his pale hands.

Shivering, Winter put down her bag and withdrew Blake’s jacket. Now what was she going to do? Blake would probably be a little concerned if he came home to find his jacket sitting folded on the floor with no explanation of how it appeared. She had to at least leave a note. Unfortunately she’d left her exercise book in her school locker, so she had nothing to write on. There were several battered cardboard boxes stacked against the wall next to her, some still sealed with packing tape. Blake mustn’t have had time to finish unpacking. Maybe she’d find a scrap of blank paper among his things. Winter peeked inside the nearest open box.

Instead of paper, or pots and pans, or anything else she had imagined it might contain, Winter was intrigued to see that the box was full of books. Not just any books – she couldn’t see any paperbacks or textbooks. Instead, the box contained several dozen leather-bound journals. Her curiosity overpowering any guilty reservations, Winter took out the topmost journal and opened it. Its pages were yellowed with age and rustled softly as she turned them.

The date above the first entry read ‘11th novembre, 1891’. The book was more than old – it was an antique! Unfortunately, the flowing calligraphic handwriting beneath the date, while beautiful to look at, was completely incomprehensible to her. Winter had taken French one semester four years ago and recognised a word here and there, but there was no way she could translate what she was reading.

Winter closed the journal, in the process dislodging a loose leaf of folded paper tucked into the back cover. It fluttered to the ground, and when she knelt to pick it up, she was surprised to see it was written in English.

Winter paused reading, when she heard a muffled sound deep within the house. She held her breath for a moment, listening. When there was no further noise, she called out nervously, ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’

It must have just been her imagination. After her mad dash from the invisible phantoms in the woods, it was obvious that she was in a highly suggestible state of mind. Despite wanting to read the rest of the letter, Winter slipped it back into the journal and replaced it in the box. It wouldn’t do for Blake to find her going through his personal belongings. She wondered briefly if the author had ever confessed his true feelings for Elisabetta or if the love had gone unrequited. If she ever got to know Blake better, she might ask him about the journals and what happened to the romantic who wrote them.

Right now, she didn’t want to linger in the Velasco place any longer. Winter felt like a trespasser, an
uncomfortable feeling compounded by her dread of this infamous house. There had to be a scrap of paper somewhere for her to write a note for Blake.

The hallway branched off to either side. A white-tiled kitchen was visible to her right and to her left what looked like a large living room —

Winter started as something grey rippled in the half-light. It was just a sheet covering a piece of furniture. There must be a window open somewhere, allowing a breeze to ruffle the fabric in such a disquieting manner. What had she thought it was? A ghost? Ridiculous. There was no such thing as —

A shape came scuttling out of the living room towards her.

Winter jumped back a step. But she wasn’t being attacked by the spectre of Velasco – just an overweight ginger tabby. She really was a bundle of nerves this afternoon. The cat eyed her curiously for a moment before padding over to rub itself against her jeans.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked, kneeling to stroke the cat. It stretched beneath Winter’s touch, clearly enjoying the attention. There was something familiar about the cat. It reminded her of a cat she’d seen on television . . . or in a dream.

As she was stroking the tabby’s back, another dash of movement drew her attention. To her surprise, three more cats appeared. One was jet black with sleepy green eyes, another white and very skinny, the third grey and sporting a battle scar on its right cheek. All of them were
collarless like the tabby. The cats stood on the threshold of the living room, regarding her suspiciously.

So Blake was a cat lover.

Winter found the notion of him owning so many cats – strays, judging by the lack of collars – touching. It suggested a loneliness that seemed at odds with his looks and personality.

Against the wall near the base of the staircase stood a large oak table and mirror. Surely there would be some paper and a pen in the drawer that she could use. She walked over and began rifling through the drawer, dismayed to find there was no stationery whatsoever. Just dust and a few dead cockroaches.

She slammed the drawer shut in frustration, and her knee knocked against something covered with a thick cloth leaning against the legs of the table. The large rectangular object began to tip over, and Winter only just managed to catch it.

One of the corners of the cloth fell down, and Winter knelt to see what it had been covering: an oil painting. Intrigued, she drew aside the cloth, revealing the entire picture.

It was a family portrait of a beautiful young woman, nursing two small children on her lap – a boy and a girl. Twins, Winter was sure of it! They shared the same sparkling green eyes and angelic features. Winter was no history expert, but judging by the way the figures were dressed she guessed the painting dated from the mid to late nineteenth century.

There was something about the image that seemed strangely familiar, though for the life of her Winter couldn’t put her finger on why. Maybe she’d seen a print of it in an art book. She was drawn to the expression in the mother’s eyes. There was happiness tainted with a sweet sadness that Winter found incredibly poignant. She wondered what the young woman had been thinking about while the artist captured this aspect.

Winter’s breath caught as soft music began playing in the rooms above. She wasn’t alone. The music was strange – slightly muffled and with a distinct hiss, as if being played through an old-fashioned gramophone.

Winter stood up and caught her reflection in the mirror over the table, and was shocked at how fearful she looked. After all, it was just music. There was nothing frightening about someone playing a record. Blake must be upstairs somewhere. He’d probably been in the shower and had just stepped out, which was why he hadn’t heard Winter calling to him.

A smoky voice, accompanied by a lone violin, floated down through the ceiling, sending chills up Winter’s spine. She thought it might be Ella Fitzgerald.

Winter called out again – ‘Blake?’ – but again he didn’t reply. It was possible that the record had drowned out her voice. She moved to the base of the stairs and paused, looking up into the shadowy recesses of the landing. Was she really willing to go up there?

Winter was vaguely aware of a strange sensation at the back of her mind, like a voice whispering to her in a
language she didn’t know but whose meaning was undeniably clear. There was something up there, something she had to see . . .

Feeling like she’d fallen into some kind of dream, Winter began to ascend the staircase. She ignored the suspicious gaze of the four cats, who sat at the bottom watching her like a silent Greek chorus. She was halfway up when a voice boomed through the house.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

She whirled around and saw Blake standing in the open front doorway with an armful of groceries. The fat orange tabby ran to where he stood, curling its tail around his left leg. He didn’t pay attention to it, and instead continued to glare angrily at Winter.

Feeling as though she’d been slapped awake from a deep dream, Winter skittered back down the stairs. Her face felt hot enough to ignite into flames.

‘I’m so sorry . . . I heard music upstairs and —’ As if on cue, the music had stopped playing from the upper level, making her look like a liar.

‘What are you talking about?’ Blake demanded.

‘I . . . um . . .’

‘I should call the police!’

‘Please don’t! The door was open. I – I called out before coming in. And —’ Winter was having difficulty getting the words out. How could she explain to him the irrational panic that had driven her inside?

‘Just go, Winter,’ he ordered, visibly trying to contain his rage. His eyes kept jumping past her to the stairs
beyond, as though he were looking for someone else. A girlfriend? That’s probably who was playing the music! Mortified, Winter desperately wanted to escape this awful situation, but then remembered the jacket. Maybe it would help to prove she’d come here with the best intentions.

‘Blake, I . . . ah . . . only wanted to return your jacket. It’s over there by the books.’

His eyes flicked to the jacket lying near the journals. He seemed to grow even more angry as though he guessed she’d been snooping through his things.

‘I didn’t touch anything,’ she lied, growing redder by the second. ‘I also came to give you a present. You know, for saving me yesterday.’ Fumbling in her pocket, she silently chastised herself.
What’s wrong with me? I must have lost my mind!
Her actions had been painfully stupid. Inappropriate. Foolish.

Finding the ticket, Winter held it out to Blake as a peace offering. ‘I thought it would be a nice gesture —’

‘I don’t want anything from you. Just leave. Now.’ This time there was more frustration in his voice than anger. He wanted her gone, and Winter didn’t blame him. First he’d caught her spying on him in the church graveyard, now he’d walked in on her prowling around his house – no wonder he wanted to call the cops! Blake probably thought she was some mentally unhinged stalker, and the scary thing was that Winter couldn’t be sure he was wrong.

‘Okay. I’m going.’ With a trembling hand, Winter left the concert ticket on the hall table, then walked past Blake with her head lowered. She’d never felt so ashamed in her entire life. Once outside, she practically ran to where Jessie was parked, leapt on and turned the key. Nothing happened.

She heard the front door open. Blake probably wanted to yell at her some more. Winter wanted to be dust, to be gone. Her stomach felt as if it was full of battery acid. Any moment now she might throw up.

‘Please start!’ she begged Jessie, turning the key again, but the scooter refused. Now all she heard were footsteps on the grass as Blake walked towards her. Tears of humiliation pricked the back of Winter’s eyes, and she blinked them away. She didn’t want him to see her cry.