Page 30 of Night So Silent
The crisp air jolts me to life as it hits my nostrils and rushes into my lungs. Thick grey clouds float across the sky, laced with a vibrant blue. Sunshine bursts through the cracks every so often, making the snow glimmer as I trudge to the edge of the yard. I need some small pine branches I can cut with the shears and easily bend into wreaths and garland.
Gazing around, I still as a clearer view of the mountain comes into focus. It was snowing so hard when I arrived here that I couldn’t see more than 10 feet in front of me. But from my vantage point in the yard, the trees break and give way to an amazing view of the mountains across the valley with their jagged snowcaps reaching for the sky.
I’m so mesmerized that I have to remind myself why I’m standing out here in the snow. Finally pulling myself away, I continue on toward a pine with thin branches jutting off the trunk. Searching for a few wispy cuttings, I start laughing to myself.
Maybe if I’m trapped here long enough, I can convince Sergei to bring one of these trees into the house to decorate.
Settling on three branches filled with needles, I finish snipping them and tuck the shears into my coat pocket. But as soon as I turn around, there’s a snap somewhere in the trees that gives me a start. I whip around, eyes darting over the terrain. A branch in the distance bounces up and down ever so slightly, but then everything goes still.
I’m in the mountains. There are animals in the mountains.
Granted, even if there’s an elk or moose wandering around, I don’t necessarily want to run into it while gathering craft supplies. I head back to the house, shaking out the branches to make sure the needles will stay put. But as soon as I reach the porch steps, I freeze.
The door is ajar.
I hesitate and look down at the prints in the snow, or what’s left of them. Some of the prints are mine, other’s Sergei’s, all scuffed around together at this point. Then I see it; the edge of a different print that doesn’t look like the other two. There’s no snow, melted or otherwise, inside the door, so I follow the prints along the porch until they disappear around the corner. They’re big, with long strides, and they definitely weren’t there when I came outside.
Seconds later, I dart inside the house, slam the door, and lock it behind me. My heart is pounding and there’s a rushing through my ears as pure adrenaline shoots through my body. I force myself to check all the rooms, which takes all of 10 seconds, before returning to the living room. Suddenly, all these windows don’t seem so lovely anymore. Instead, now I feel completely exposed, just like I was standing out there cutting tree branches.
I’dratherit be a moose or elk that was hanging around compared to what left those prints. I’m not from here and I’m not a mountain woman. I don’t know what made them, but I’m also not going to ignore how unsettled they made me. I pull the long curtains over the windows, casting the great room into shadow. I should call Sergei. I should tell him what’s going on.
But what is going on?
I don’t even have his phone number, which is probably just as well. What would I even say?
Sergei, when are you coming home? There are prints outside the door and, oh yeah, I can’t really describe them.
Besides, if there was damage at his building, he’s probably dealing with that. I split the difference and decide to ask Brett for his number if he’s not back by dark. I might need to feed Edie anyway. It seems like he’s pretty strict with that routine, which I can identify with.
As soon as the curtains are drawn, I try to take my mind off the weirdness by executing Project Grumpy Christmas. Which, by the way, is only days away. The low-key stress that I won’t get home in time is only mildly killing me. Not that spending the holiday with Brett and witnessing Ev’s first Christmas wouldn’t be amazing, but there’s also the simmering dread of dealing with my job when I get home.
But I can’t dwell on any of it right now. I have décor to make now that I’ve sealed myself inside Sergei’s house. I’m pretty proud of my genuine pine wreaths adorned with twine bows and origami cranes. The strings of white paper and foil four-point stars hanging from the middle of each curtain rod aren’t too bad, either. I’ve also managed to kill a couple of hours in the process.
After reading a few more chapters of my book, I notice the glow behind the curtains has dimmed and once the sun starts dipping behind the trees, night quickly approaches. I check the time and decide to shoot Brett a text and try to get ahold of Sergei. Afterward, I head to the kitchen. Maybe I can make dinner, too. I need to eat, after all. And seeing how Sergei is a veritable giant, he’ll need to eat at some point, too.
His pantry is neat and immaculately organized, which fills me with excitement. It’s the little things. I’m in the middle of assessing his pasta supply and dreaming up a vinaigrette to make a salad from the vegetables in the refrigerator when there’s a faint thump from across the room. When I glance up, I expect the lock to click and Sergei to open the front door. But, instead, there’s only silence. Why isn’t he coming inside?
Oh yeah, I locked it.
Crossing the living room, I arrive at the door and grab the deadbolt knob, preparing to open it. But then I stop. I stare at my hand on the lock, images of the prints on the porch flashing through my mind. Then I remember—this is Sergei’s house.
He would unlock his own door with a key.
Slowly, I lift my hand and draw it to my chest as I take a step back. I catch sight of Edie sitting on the arm of the sofa, staring at the door, eyes wide, and her back rising and falling in deep breaths. She’s not purring, she’s watching. Just like Roux did whenever he heard a squirrel scratching around on the roof. But this isn’t a squirrel, it’s something on the porch, and something tells me it’s much bigger.
Another creak draws my attention, as if someone’s shifted their weight on the floorboards. And then, to my utter horror, the knob twists ever so slightly. My heart pounds in my ears, adrenaline rushing through my veins as something turns the knob, but doesn’t try to open it. Almost like it’s testing it.
Seconds later, the knob goes still and then something shuffles away from the door, along the side of the house. My eyes track it to the curtains covering the massive windows along the living room. Fear claws at me as I come to the realization that I’m separated only by the glass behind the curtain.
My first thought is to turn off the lights. But if it’s not Sergei, then whatever it is already knows I’m here. My eyes stay glued to the curtain as the shadow lumbers along the porch, the floorboards creaking under its weight before it disappears around the corner.
That’s it, I’m calling Brett.
But when I do, it only rings and then goes to voicemail. I let out a frustrated growl and my fingers fly over the screen, texting her again as I back out of the living room. She’ll see a text before taking the time to listen to a voicemail. I’ve already shot off a third and fourth one by the time I’m back in the kitchen andplugging in the countertop food processor to mix my vinaigrette. Because now I can’t justnotfinish dinner.
While it’s going, I plug in the toaster oven to make some garlic bread and continue waiting impatiently for a response. But as soon as I turn the knob, everything goes dark. All the appliances stop and all the lights go out.
Oh my god.
