Free Dream House by Marzia Bisognin Page A

him.”
    â€œI understand,” he says affectionately, “but don’t forget to take a break and catch your breath sometimes.”
    I just nod.
    â€œIn any case,” he adds, “if you ever need me, you know where to find me.”
    Still not entirely convinced that he’s taking my fears seriously, but grateful in any case to have him on my side, I thank him, and for a short, intense moment we stand facing one another over the gate, me wishing that I didn’t have to ever let him go away. But I realize we both have things to do, so I politely say goodbye and make my way back inside, in desperate need of a hot bath.

    As I walk towards the front door I pick up the newspapers and magazines again lying on the doorstep and, once inside, dump them unceremoniously on top of the stack accumulating on the console table.
    One of the newspapers slips to the floor and falls open to a page of adverts for local businesses and events. I run my eyes over them—it’s the usual assortment of provincial weirdness:
    The Hills Inn Line Dance and Barbecue—Live music from Hank Akeley and the Black Mountain Boys . . .
    Wilma Nightmoth, Psychic and Seer—Not a fraud!!! Since 1954—drop in at 13 Chapel Lane and speak to the dear departed . . .
    LOST!! TIBBLES—Our lovely cat, black-and-grey coat, one leg missing. If you see him, please call . . .
    White Hills Hardware, Est. 1890—A knife for every occasion! . . .
    Machen and Sons, Greengrocers—Special offer: pumpkins half price (while stocks last) . . .
    I reach down, pick it up, and fold it closed, and as I do, the words on the front page catch my eye. The headline is in bold capitals and reads “TRAGEDY ON CHURCH ROAD,” and there’s a photograph of a broken body, its face covered with a sheet, lying on the ground surrounded by a crowd of onlookers and some ambulance staff. The fields in the background of the picture are easily recognisable as the ones in front of the Blooms’ home, or at least ones very much like them, and I feel certain that the accident must have taken place somewhere around here.
    I place the paper back on top of the others and go to finally take that much-needed bath.
    As soon as the water in the tub is hot enough and the steam has started misting up the mirror on the wall, I take off my clothes, dump them on the white wicker chair in the corner by the sink, sit on the edge of the tub, and slowly lower my feet one at a time into the scalding bathwater, sliding the rest of my body in as soon as I’ve got accustomed to the temperature.
    A feeling of extreme relaxation starts to suffuse my entire body, and thoughts of the night that I’ve just spent in the garden with Avery come vividly back to me—it’s probably the only positive experience I’ve had since my arrival here, other than that of living in what I would consider my dream house.
    As I remember the moment that passed between us before I fell asleep next to him, I feel my cheeks warm with a blush.
    Is this what infatuation feels like? Have I ever even been in love ? So many things about my own past seem blurred and inaccessible in my mind, to the point that I can’t even answer my own questions about myself.
    At that moment, my train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the keyhole cover being moved, as though somebody is trying to get in.
    I leap out of the bath, struggling to keep from slipping on the wet floor as I cross the room, and place my hand on the doorknob, waiting. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, as I don’t hear anything else, but needing to be sure, I twist the handle.
    And, to my horror, realise that I’m locked inside.
    I’m certain that I didn’t lock the door—I’ve never even seen a key for this room, and there was certainly none in the lock. I can feel a sense of dread mounting inside me.
    With my composure beginning to