The Cottage

The thick smell of sulfur in the air mixed with the already constant damp of her grandmother's cottage had Briony longing for the dry heat she was used to. The house sat on top of a natural spring, and after all these years the egg-smelling water seemed to overtake everything else. She’d only arrived that morning and already, she was desperate to leave.

The sheer wetness of the northwest was a large reason that she avoided visiting her grandmother, but with her old age setting in, Briony figured time was running out. She busied herself that morning with cooking for the two of them. Her grandmother, a willowy thing, sitting in her rocking chair willing her nimble fingers to and fro, desperate to finish her latest blanket before she more than likely departed from this world. Her back hunched over, her hair matted and unkempt - pausing only every once in a while to smile at Briony. The only acknowledgement she got that the old woman even registered that she had a guest.

All throughout breakfast, she stitched.

Briony cleaned, and still her grandmother stitched.

She’d spent the afternoon slugging through the swampy land, and still her grandmother stitched. Briony found herself missing the heat of home, the sweet smelling marigold’s that bloomed this time of year. If she focused hard enough, she could almost smell them now - their musk masking the dead smells that hung around her. Just this morning she’d found the rotting corpse of a mouse in the garden, it’s body being picked at by the local scavengers of the forest. She’d shuddered and hurried back, eager to put it out of her mind.

Nightfall came quickly here, casting a chill throughout the cottage. They spent the evening sitting by the weak fire Briony had made. She stared into the flames trying to strike up meaningful conversations with the old woman, to learn why she chose to live like this when there were perfectly nice homes closer to town with far less of a stench and ominous vibes. All to no avail - try as she might, her grandmother remained tightlipped and wholly focused on her task of stitching.

Suffocating the last few dying embers of the fire, Briony sighed, understanding that today would not be the day that she got more than three words from her grandmother.

“Goodnight,” Briony mustered a small smile.

She trudged off to her room, dressing in her warmest pajamas, adding a layer of wool socks for good measure before crawling between the sheets. Rolling onto her side she stared blankly out the window that led to the garden at the back of the house. She’d left it slightly ajar to air out the musty smell of her room, hopeful that even more sulfur wouldn’t somehow seep in.

The house itself must have been older than even her grandmother. It creaked and whined with each gust of wind, seeming to breathe in time with the old woman who called it home. In some ways it was comforting. Places that found their own version of quiet that never quite settled, but rather blended into the dull background of white noise that filled everyone’s heads. So constant that they didn’t even realize it was there after a while.

***

Usually, it took a little while for Briony to wake. It was often like clawing her way up from a deep pit of sand or coming up for a breath of air after diving underwater.

Tonight she woke as if she’d been kicked.

Her eyes sprang open, adjusting to the darkness of her room. She reached for her phone on the bedside table only to realize she’d never plugged it in to charge. A dead, black, useless screen stared back at her. She huffed and rested her head back on the lumpy pillow.

That’s when she saw the man in the window.

Or was it a man?

From where she laid, it was a figure mostly. Only his torso and shoulders were visible to her as he swayed gently in time with the wind, in time with the house.

Only the house wasn’t really in time was it?

No.

The house was silent.

The comforting murmur of it’s bones had ceased and the quiet of it all creeped into Briony’s scalp, setting her hairs on end tingling at the roots.

The figure stopped his rhythmic swaying and slowly lifted a hand.

And waved.

He was waving?

Briony squeezed her eyes shut.

Dream. This had to be a dream. She took a few deep breaths and opened them.

The waving had stopped but there was definitely still a man in the window and she was definitely awake. Her hands began to shake as her brain tried to process the fact that there was a strange man only inches from where she’d laid her head. A scream caught in her throat, now a constant pressure at the bottom of her neck. What now? What was she supposed to do? She had no weapons, not that she’d know how to use them even if she did. She couldn’t phone anyone until her phone charged, and there was no one around to run to for help within a 30 mile radius.

She was alone.

Unable to pry her eyes from where he stood, she watched as he slowly began to tip to the side, leaning so that his chin was now visible in the windowpane. He was tall and slender, wearing a long black coat that the moonlight bounced off of, his chin came to a sharp point and the more he leaned the more distorted he looked.

Men shouldn’t be able to bend like that. His torso now contorted at a 40 degree angle, allowed Briony a full view of his thin lips, stretched into a smile that was too wide to be comfortable, too inhuman to make sense of.

“Briony,” a voice sounded at the door.

She gasped and whipped her head to the doorway where she found her grandmother standing, encased in darkness - knitting needles still in hand, the blanket she’d been working on dangling from their points. The bottom of it had been soaked through and was thick with mud. Briony squinted to try and make out the orange swirls of color that made up the body of the blanket.

Marigolds. She’d knit a blanket covered in marigolds.

“Christ, grandma. You scared me,” She replied.

Her grandmother stared back at her, still clutching her needles.

“Briony,” she repeated.

“There’s a man out there, we have to call someone.” Briony’s breath was sharp, the smell of sulfur stronger than before.

Her grandmother tilted her head, mimicking the man. “Are you sure?” She asked.

Briony turned her head back to the window, sure enough the man was gone.

“But I-” she started, looking back to where her grandmother stood, but she was gone now too. Only the dirtied blanket remained in her stead.

Bravery was a trait that she’d always found foolish, to be quite honest, and now was no exception. Shaking her head, Briony tried to convince herself that she’d likely still been half asleep when she’d seen the figure in the window and her grandmother was just being...well, her grandmother.

She swung her legs from her bed and made for the window - at the very least she would shut it, if for nothing other than peace of mind. Slamming it down and sliding the rusted lock into place she heaved a sigh of relief. Pausing, she looked back at the blanket that littered her doorway. Leaning down, she scooped it up and draped it on the end of her bed, the marigolds now a field of orange with the filthy side dangling over the ledge.

Briony tugged the scratchy top sheet up to her chin and adjusted to the addition of the marigold blanket, hoping the weight of it would lull her back into her dreamless sleep, and closed her eyes.

Have you ever heard a body being dragged across the floor? The violent surge of the first steps, of momentum being generated out of thin air. The smooth drawl of the final few as they slowed to regain strength - only to begin again a hairsbreadth later. Briony hadn’t either, which is why she’d mistaken it as sweeping at first - confused as to why her grandmother would be doing such a thing at this hour.

Timidly she called out, “Grandma? Is that you?”

The dragging paused as if to say, ‘I can hear you’. It began again as if to say, ‘And I am coming’.

Briony shivered, the cool hand of fear now closing around her neck and blossoming in the pit of her stomach. She sank as deeply as she could into the mattress, yanking the sheet fully over her head now. Burying herself in its depths like a child, desperate to will this night into day. She squeezed her eyes shut and called on every memory of joy she had, every moment of feeling safe and warm and protected. It did little to help.

The dragging was close now, she had the feeling of someone’s eyes on her - that inane human sense of knowing you’re not alone in a room. She hugged her arms around her waist, fingernails digging into her sides, breaking the skin as small drops of her blood stained the plain sheets - decorating them in delicate patterns of her blood and sweat.

It entered her room, whatever it was, and dragged and dragged across the floor. In two long pulls, it was at her bedside - its shadow looming over her. It’s head tilted to one side and it began to lean down.

Close your eyes, she thought. Whatever this is, you don’t have to see it.

She could feel it now, its hot breath at her ear. The heat of its body next to hers. It’s breathing was labored and forced, as though someone was constantly putting a bit too much pressure on its chest. The smell of sulfur was stronger than ever. It seeped into all of her senses, her nostrils on fire and her eyes watering at the stench of it. She could hear the wet smack of its lips as it opened its mouth. In her mind's eye, she could see the smile of the man in the window. Lips stretched over glistening teeth.

This was it, she knew that for a fact.

Whatever it was, this was the end, the grand finale of the evening.

That’s when it stopped.

The heat evaporated. The breathing ceased. The sulfur scent covered now by the familiar moldy smell of the cottage.

Slowly, she pried her eyes open again. Her fingers, still stiff with fear, began to release their hold on her waist.

“Briony!” her grandmother’s voice called out. She was frantic this time - but Briony dared not respond, for fear of bringing back whatever had finally left. Taking a deep breath, she pulled down the sheet just enough to see her room.

Everything seemed vaguely the same. Everything but the marigold blanket.

It was gone. All that was left was the scratchy top sheet she’d begun the night with, its fabric still clutched in her sweaty palms.

The only trace it had ever been there was the pooling water and dirt that had accumulated on her floor.

“Briony,” her grandmother’s voice sounded again. This time, she was eerily calm. Almost singing Briony’s name, as though it were a precious thing that only deserved to be uttered with the sweetest of voices.

Tomorrow she would leave. She only had to make it through the night. Tomorrow she would go home. Tomorrow it would be fine.

“Briony,” this time, it was nothing more than a whisper. The shell of her name sent across wind and into her ears. A call meant only for her.

She rolled over, desperate to be done. Desperate to just fall back asleep.

That’s when she saw the man in the window.

Or was it a man?