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  To my family, who have always allowed me to express my creativity freely.

  To Felix, my partner, who believes in me and keeps me positive.

  To my marzipans, who never fail to support me.

  DAY 1

  THERE IT is, right in front of me.

  A one-story Greek Revival house, probably dating back to the early 1900s by the look of it.

  From the gate, a path of small flagstones crosses the front garden, ending at three small steps which lead up to the porch. A row of columns supporting a triangular pediment with a small bull’s-eye window adorn the façade, and between them I can see a rocking chair among the potted plants.

  The whole thing is painted a luminous white, which is set off by the pale blue of the shutters flanking its narrow windows. It’s surrounded by neatly trimmed green lawns, perfectly tonsured hedges, and immaculate flowerbeds, and they all suit the place perfectly.

  A thin trail of smoke rises from the chimney on the pointed roof. To one side, the top of a white church spire peeks out from behind distant trees, while to the other, the dark tiles of a neighbour’s roof are visible.

  I somehow have the strangest sensation that this is all I have ever dreamt of, ever since I was just a little girl—of owning a modest yet exquisite house, a house like this, surrounded by fields and the odd neighbour. And now it seems as though the image that I’ve been gradually assembling in my mind since childhood has come vividly to life right in front of me, just so that I can admire it in all of its splendour.

  I stand there by the black iron gate that separates me from the tidy garden and stare at the doorbell, an elegant little gold button set below a brass nameplate that, evidently, no one has ever bothered to use, undisturbed as it is by a name.

  The unengraved nameplate might suggest there’s nobody currently living in the house, but the sight of the well-kept grounds gives the lie to the idea—and holds me there, transfixed.

  Perfectly still.

  Immobile.

  Frozen.

  Wondering how exactly I even arrived here in the first place.

  I’ve never noticed this house before, and yet it’s always been right where it is. I know that.

  Somehow.

  Blanketed by the woolly clouds of deepening autumn, the sky is getting darker and darker by the second. That’s the way it feels, at least, although I don’t really have any idea how long I’ve actually been standing here, my finger suspended in mid-air, aimed at that lonely button.

  The air is heavy with a powerful smell, something that I recognise, something that makes me think of . . . lawnmowers? Is it oil? Or maybe kerosene?

  I don’t even know what it is I’m standing here waiting for, but there’s definitely something holding me back from ringing the bell; it’s as if I’m not supposed to be here now, in this particular moment.

  Here I am, though, stuck under this darkening sky, and so I eventually decide to force myself to go through with it. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and begin to move my finger forward.

  But before it gets close enough to make contact, I hear a worried voice from nearby asking, “Are you all right?”

  My eyes snap open and I see an elderly couple standing on the front porch, which just a minute before I’d been admiring with such intensity. I stare at them, not uttering a single word.

  Looking increasingly unnerved, the lady slowly descends the steps and walks down the path towards me, the old man close behind her. She’s not looking at me, though—her eyes seem to be focused on something over my shoulder.

  Mine remain locked upon her.

  She reaches the gate and—looking me full in the face now, her eyes quite concerned—repeats, “Are you all right, dear? You really shouldn’t be standing out here in the rain.”

  I gaze down at the grey paving stones beneath my feet and notice that, yes, they’re rapidly becoming freckled with dark, wet spots. Before I can say anything, the tall gentleman accompanying her opens the gate and puts his arm around me, implying an invitation to enter what I suppose is their lovely home.

  Once we’re safely inside, the front door closes behind us and I’m ushered over to the sofa near the fireplace. I can’t stop looking around the room in which I now find myself—a medium-sized parlour with a high, embossed ceiling, its Victorian décor illuminated by two large French windows and a crystal chandelier.

  It truly is my dream house. It just happens to already belong to someone else.

  While I make myself cosy, the kindly old lady disappears for a minute, and with shaky hands the old man puts some logs on the fire in an attempt to bring the dying embers back to life.

  Strangely enough, I have the feeling now that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be—not like before. And I don’t want to leave. Even though I know that very soon I’ll have to, and that I don’t actually have any real excuse for being here to begin with.

  As I sit on the stiff leather sofa, still peering in wonder around the beautiful room, I realise that the couple who live here must be religious, because the walls and bookshelves are dotted with symbols whose meanings I’m not exactly sure of but which I’m absolutely certain are esoteric.

  I ask myself why on earth they would be so nice to me, why they would so happily invite a complete stranger inside their home, but then I think, What am I complaining about? I wanted to go inside, didn’t I?

  The sweet-looking lady appears again. She places a cup of hot tea on the coffee table in front of me and clears her throat as she takes a seat at the opposite end of the sofa. She’s fair-skinned with hazel eyes, and her hair—short and fluffy, its original auburn colour now fading—suits the healthy pink glow of her cheeks. The smile on her face seems forced, though, betraying a tension she’s trying carefully to hide.

  I reach for the cup and feel its warmth between my fingers.

  “I’m Amabel,” she says. “And this”—pointing at the man who is now standing by the door with an open book in his hands—“is my husband, Marvin. Nice to have you in our home.”

  Giving me a distracted smile, Marvin nods.

  I open my mouth, but no words come out, so instead I bring the cup to my lips and take a slow sip, bothered and confused at the same time.

  What is wrong with me?

  I’ve always been aware of the fact that I’m not exactly what you might call a particularly . . . sociable person. But I’m definitely not rude. And yet that’s exactly the way I’m behaving towards these people.

  Why?

  But before I get a chance to ponder the question further, Amabel stands up and walks across to the other side of the room to join her husband.

  “It’s getting late,” she says, “and there’s a storm forecast for tonight. You are very welcome to spend the night here. I’ll take you to the guest room. I hope you’ll find it comfortable in there.”

  Finding myself unable to reply, I decide that the least I can do is go along with the invitation, and so I nod meekly and get up to follow her. As we walk past Marvin, who is still intent on his reading, I manage a quick peek at the embossed title of the volume he is holding—Spiritual Relief.

  The carpeted floor creaks beneath our feet as we make our way along the corridor which leads away from the living room. The walls are wainscotted and hung with artworks and the odd photo, and at the end of the corridor is the door to a little spare room, isolated from the rest of the house. Now lo
oking visibly pleased to have me there, Amabel holds it open for me.

  As I step past her and go inside I manage a gesture with my head that’s meant to show my gratitude, and while she closes the door she gives me a smile in return that seems both happy and melancholy.

  I potter around that solitary yet cosy little room for a while, trying not to dwell too much upon what a strange situation I find myself in, but at the same time quite unable to fathom what has happened.

  In the end, I lay myself down on what turns out to be a surprisingly comfortable bed and do my best to relax.

  The sound of the breeze blowing softly through the slightly open window by the bed makes me sleepy, and so I decide to switch off the Tiffany lamp that, together with a small alarm clock, occupies the nightstand.

  A few moments later I feel my tired, heavy eyes closing, allowing me to get some rest for the night.

  DAY 2

  A FRIGHTENINGLY LOUD crashing noise awakens me from what seemed to be a weird yet wonderful dream, and I’m surprised to find that I am actually still here, in the same room where I went to sleep. It is real, after all.

  Hugging the pillow, I turn my head to the bedside table in search of the clock.

  It says 3:00 p.m.

  How can I possibly have slept for so long? Is the clock wrong, or can that really be the right time?

  I jump out of bed and rush over to open the door, revealing the quiet corridor I walked down last night. I make my way to the living room, but there’s no one there, and the only sounds filling the emptiness around me are the rain rattling incessantly at the windows and the soft ticking of the grandfather clock that stands near the door.

  In that soft grey light, the house looks completely different; even though everything is still exactly as it was, it no longer feels like the lovely, warm home I’d snatched a glimpse of the previous day. It’s not quite as homely, almost as if it were . . . abandoned.

  No, that can’t be right.

  The couple I had the pleasure of meeting must have worked hard to create this love nest of theirs, and there’s no conceivable reason for them to have just walked out on it, especially not after being so hospitable to me, especially not today.

  They wouldn’t just leave me.

  Would they?

  They probably went out; that would explain it. It is Monday, after all, and people have things to do. Not me, but normal people. Jobs, chores, shopping, walking the dog.

  Personally, I don’t even know where I’m supposed to be.

  Would anyone care where I am?

  What do I usually do with my time?

  Dozens of questions suddenly start popping into my brain, and at the violent blizzard of thoughts my head starts pounding, as though it’s in some way wrong of me to want to know the answers.

  Standing in the centre of the very same room where yesterday I’d sat drinking my hot tea, I suddenly begin to feel dizzy—both cold and sweaty at the same time—and a second later I find myself lying facedown on the floor, my palms flat against the chilly wooden floorboards.

  My eyelids start to grow impossibly heavy, and despite struggling with all my strength to keep them open I only manage to give myself a few extra seconds of blurry vision before they’re forced shut.

  And in those few seconds, I see something.

  A pair of feet, clad in shiny Oxford shoes.

  Right before I lose consciousness.

  A loud knocking on the door brings me back round.

  When I open my eyes, everything is dark.

  I lie there for a few seconds, trying to come up with a plausible explanation for what just happened.

  Maybe I’m sick?

  I certainly don’t feel too great. I haven’t had anything to eat for ages—perhaps I just passed out because of that. I probably ought to have something . . . but why is everything so dark? Am I still alone?

  I stop, draw in a deep breath, and then slowly let it back out.

  From outside there’s the sound of rain pattering on the roof and splashing from the gutters.

  Sluggishly, I climb to my feet. And realize, when I hear a renewed burst of loud knocks, that whoever is outside of the house is still trying to get my attention. Summoning all of my strength, I drag myself over to the front door and, to my surprise, manage to open it without difficulty, only to find a petite woman standing on the porch who, by the looks of her, is well into her eighties. In her hand she holds a huge black umbrella, which she has been using to shelter her small body from the rain.

  Our eyes meet, she, seemingly, as surprised to see me opening the door as I am to find her on the other side of it, and for a moment this bizarre tableau remains motionless.

  The old lady makes the first move: without uttering a word, she points her index finger right at me, between my eyes, and then turns around.

  Puzzled, I watch her back as she slowly trots away down the steps and along the path towards the gate, the raindrops splashing off her umbrella, and then I set off after her.

  When I’m halfway across the garden I turn to look behind me, wondering if I really should leave the house.

  But why should I stay?

  Unable to come up with any convincing reason, I turn back around and continue down the path again, ready to go.

  It takes me a moment to realise that the old woman isn’t there anymore—all about me there’s only darkness, and the only thing I can see ahead is the gate, which has been left open.

  I walk over to have a better look at it, but as soon as I touch its iron frame a weird sensation—something almost like a shiver of disgust, or of horror—runs through my entire body, and I back away quickly, feeling strangely upset and vaguely nauseous.

  I shouldn’t leave, I tell myself, hurriedly pushing the gate closed with my foot and rushing back to the house through the rain. I slam the door shut and flick the switch to the enormous chandelier floating up there near the ceiling, and the room instantly springs to life, giving me a feeling of warmth and welcome almost as strongly as it did the previous day.

  Even though I’m starving, there’s something more pressing that needs dealing with right away: getting hold of some dry clothes; after being out in the rain, the ones I am wearing—literally my only belongings—are now soaked through.

  Dripping all over the floor, I walk through the corridors of the house turning on the lights and eventually find myself back in what is, for the moment at least, my bedroom.

  I open the wardrobe: there’s a pair of soft pyjamas covered in pictures of bunny rabbits hiding in their burrows. They’re not ideal but they’re good enough, and when I put them on I find that they fit me perfectly.

  There’s an ideal spot for drying my wet clothes on the radiator underneath the window, so I borrow a few hangers from the wardrobe and use them to hang my green army jacket and plain white T-shirt as well as I can against the hot metal, dumping my black jeans untidily on top.

  Gradually starting to warm up again, I find myself back in the kitchen, which opens onto the living room, and hunt through the cupboards, drawers, and shiny chrome fridge for a snack. Just like with the pyjamas, there isn’t much choice—but probably still more than I’ve really got any right to expect. I opt for the packet of tortilla chips I find, pour some into a bowl, and walk into the parlour.

  As I snuggle down to tuck in to my food, I realise that I’m starting to grow fond of this stiff old sofa, and it begins to dawn on me that the thing I’d been secretly hoping for is actually becoming reality: the house of my dreams is all for me.

  If it weren’t for the strangeness of the whole situation, I would still think that I was dreaming.

  After finishing off the tortilla chips, I place the bowl on the coffee table by the sofa and walk over to the French windows.

  The rain is still pouring down and night has swallowed up the outside world, but I spot a light on the other side of the hedge which runs around the border of the back garden.

  The neighbours.

  Perhaps they ha
ve the answers to some of my questions. There’s a small chance that they might know where the owners have gone, at least.

  I look for an umbrella, find one in the wooden cupboard in the entrance hall, slip on my sneakers, and make my way outside. I’m standing at the front of the house now, the side that I’m acquainted with, but I’ll need to walk round to the back if I want to get a better view of the neighbours’ property and find out how to reach them.

  I start making my way across the wet grass, staying close to the thick walls of the house, and make my first left turn, eyeing as I pass it the small window of the room I slept in. Another left turn is all it takes to reach my destination, and so—treading carefully through the darkness—there I am.

  There’s nothing to light my way out here, but I follow the path and soon enough find myself standing in the middle of the damp back garden, looking at the yellow light that cuts through the blackness.

  There’s no movement visible through the neighbours’ windows, but to the right, a small wooden gate in the hedge seems to connect the two properties. At the other end of the garden, half-hidden by some bushes, I spot a small shed, very similar in appearance to the house itself but much smaller.

  I spend a moment deciding what would be the best course of action: should I enter the neighbours’ property, or go and take a look at that tiny shed? Neither option is particularly enticing, but at a loss as to what else to do, I start walking over towards the corner of the garden where the little wooden hut sits.

  Before I get very far, though, I hear a sound from behind me.

  I spin around and freeze in my tracks at the sight of a shadowy form in one of the two big living room windows of Amabel and Marvin’s house.

  Just like me, the indistinct figure freezes for an instant. The only thing I can see clearly is a hand touching the glass; everything else is too dark and blurry to make out. All I know is that someone—or something—is inside that room, inside the house, and that I can’t just stand here—I need to do something, fast.