Page 5 of Captive Heart

Or was it a house? She didn't want to risk going near another house; she still wasn't far enough away. No more than a mile, maybe a tiny bit more...or less. Who knew?

Taking a resigned breath, she attempted to pull on one of the boots, only to find the opening blocked by something that stopped her getting her foot in. There was next to no light to show her the problem, so she resorted to feeling.

Jamming her hand inside, she pulled out some soft, wadded fabric. She peered at it through the dim gloom and realised it was a sock, and the lethargy that had overtaken her changed to excitement as she pulled it over her poor, icy foot. It was long and thick, reaching to her knees, and the warmth it imparted was instant. As she struggled to pull on the bulky Wellingtons before her lovely surprise got wet, she realised they were much too big, but that was better than too small at least.

Bolstered by the small comfort, she struggled to her feet and managed to wind the long scarf around her head and neck. Then she hitched up the tarpaulin, and since there was no better direction to take, she set off toward the darkened shape of the building and prayed her eyes weren't playing tricks on her.

Walking closer, she realised she was approaching a house and not a barn and almost turned away, except… there was something unnatural about the way it sat in the landscape.

As she drew near enough to see, she realised it was abandoned and partially ruined.

The windows were broken, vines and brush grew in the doorway and up the brickwork, and one wall had been reduced to a large pile of rubble.

She wondered if it was safe, wondered if there was any choice but to find out. There weren’t many options open to her.

She couldn't go on much longer. It was over twenty-four hours since she had eaten the most meagre of meals, and while she was used to being half starved, she wasn't accustomed to running or even stumbling for miles with so little to sustain her. Her physical reserves had been running on empty for some time now, fuelled by adrenalin and survival instinct alone, and she recognised that the cold was affecting her thought processes, too.

As she trudged around the perimeter, trying to decide if it was safe or sensible to stay here, she couldn't find another entrance, and she didn't want to disturb the vegetation. That would make it obvious, to anyone looking, that someone had recently attempted to get inside. She didn’t want to take that kind of risk. Especially when she needed to rest. Maybe even sleep a little.

A quick glance at the downstairs windows showed wicked shards of glass from the broken panes sticking out of the rotting woodwork and sprinkled liberally on the ground around the neglected openings. That only left the side of the building that was crumbling.

How safe was it? It was difficult to tell in the nearly black of night.

It looked like the rubble was covered in vegetation, too, as if it had been that way for a while, but maybe that was just her own wishful thinking. A darker rectangle in the corner of the ruined wall hinted at a doorway, and beyond that was a chimney, close to the centre of the house.

Had she read somewhere, once upon a time, that the chimney breast was the strongest part of a house? She didn't know, really. Maybe her tired, stressed mind was just making things up.

Nevertheless, she picked her way across the debris, toward what she hoped was an opening. She was proved right, but peering through, all she could see was blackness. Did she dare test her luck any further?

Looking up, she saw a hole in the roof, and maybe God was on her side, because right at that very moment, a feeble shaft of moonlight shone down between the broken rafters and allowed her enough light to see a doorway on the other side of a derelict but clear room.

When she hobbled further inside, she found the door of this next room was intact but ajar, and she pushed at it. It didn't want to budge, obviously swollen with damp and decay, but she pushed again, and it gave a little bit, screeching loudly as it scraped the quarry tiles beneath.

Still, it opened far enough for her to squeeze her tiny frame through to the other side, and little enough that it might prevent someone bigger from getting through without at least making a noise that would alert her to somebody's presence. That gave her a much-needed feeling of security, however nebulous it was.

For long minutes she waited on the other side of the door, willing her eyes to adjust to the darkness a little more. She could make out dim shapes which she took to be furniture and, finally, took a few tentative steps inside the room, hugging the walls to avoid tripping over anything.

She could hear scratching and scrabbling nearby and knew her presence had certainly disturbed some kind of wildlife. She didn't want to consider what they might be. Instead, she shuffled her feet across the floor and detoured around what felt like a chest of drawers and then a wardrobe.

She cursed when she stumbled into something which sounded metallic, but which had been too low for her fingers to connect with. She continued on, swearing some more when she banged her knee on something else made of metal, but the ensuing squeak made her heart jump. Was that the sound of old-fashioned bed springs?

As she felt around blindly, she stretched out her arms and leaned lower, only to jump back when her hands came into contact with something soft.

She let out a hoarse cry then quietly chastised herself for being so skittish, but the darkness was almost absolute, just a hint of denser shadow on a softer shade of black—the kind of dark where you could barely see your hand, even if you held it right in front of your face.

She had never been scared of the dark. It didn't hurt you, and there were many more things in life that did.

She’d found that out the hard way.

But the unknown had her skittish, she had to admit. Things lurked in the unknown and sometimes they were evil.

She’d found that out the hard way, too.

Leaning down, she felt fabric. When she smoothed her hands across the wide expanse, she came into contact with something firm but with a little bit of give. As she pressed down, she heard that same tell-tale sound of creaking springs.

It seemed to be an old-fashioned kind of bed or maybe some type of chaise lounge. The type with an old-fashioned, horsehair mattress.

To her joy, there was some bedding as well. It felt surprisingly dry, but almost overwhelmingly musty. She decided what she felt must be a dense, but scratchy, wool blanket. She picked it up and gave it a shake, choking on the cloud of dust that billowed up from her actions.

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