Free Dream House by Marzia Bisognin Page B

crumble, I start anxiously shouting, then banging and eventually kicking at the door, yelling for someone to let me out.
    But nobody does, and my panic is getting closer and closer to being pure hysteria. My heart is beating so fast that it feels as though it’s about to explode, while the air in the room gets thinner and thinner until I can scarcely breathe anymore.
    Finally, I collapse onto the cold marble floor.

DAY 12
    S LOWLY, MY senses start to return, and I carefully get myself up from the bathroom floor.
    There’s no longer any light shining through the window, which suggests that it must now be night-time outside. I reach for the doorknob, hoping with all my heart that it’ll turn and let me out—and to my surprise and relief, it does.
    Without wasting any time, I pick up my clothes, wrap a towel hurriedly around myself, and run down the hall towards the living room.
    When I get there I pause for a moment, looking about me and trying to work out what it is that has happened. I peer into the kitchen and see the digits of the clock on the stove click over to 2:00 a.m.
    Hiding myself as best I can from any prying eyes, I put my clothes back on and dump the towel on the clean kitchen table. I open the fridge and find some fresh fruit—which I’d swear I hadn’t noticed in there before—but only take out a bottle of water to hydrate myself. Feeling my wobbly legs begging me for mercy, I pull out a chair from under the table and sit myself down.
    And then I see the camera that I left there a few days back.
    I turn it on and replay the long clip, stopping at the fifteenth minute. As expected, the glitch at the sixteenth minute is still there, and so I replay it over and over again, watching as closely as I possibly can and studying every tiny detail.
    Eventually, I manage to pause and capture a frame that I haven’t noticed before: right after the shed door opens, a strange light is visible coming from it for a split second, and I can barely believe my eyes when I realise that I’m looking at a face in there.
    I zoom in on the picture, focusing on the shape of the light: as the image increases in size it starts to lose clarity, but I’m still able to make out some features that I recognise—it’s Alfred’s expression, beyond a doubt. Just somehow a bit warped.
    But what does this mean? That he’s a ghost? A demon? Has he actually become the monster that keeps the Derfla legend alive?
    If that’s the case, I need to prove it.
    I look behind me, over at the fridge—the plastic letters that scared me so much the other night are still there, still spelling out the same words. Could it actually have been him who wrote that? But why would he write “dear” if he doesn’t even know me? It doesn’t make any sense . . .
    But maybe it doesn’t really need to make any sense.
    I stand up and touch the letters, sliding them into different positions until a new sentence appears.
    Who are you? the row of letters across the fridge now crookedly asks.
    I step back, waiting.
    Nothing happens. Could it be my presence in the kitchen that’s stopping the supernatural forces from showing their hand?
    Avery’s words come to mind again—“Take a break and catch your breath.”
    So I follow his advice, leave the room, and lie down on my bed, listening to the sound of my own deep breathing until I feel so relaxed that I drift off into a nap.

    My eyes open again to the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance.
    Feeling pleasantly rested, I decide immediately to check if my question has been answered. I walk down the corridor towards the kitchen and the fridge, but nothing has changed, and I tell myself disappointedly that there’s only one thing left to do: break into the shed and get it over with.
    My blood’s up now, so I grab a large knife from the wooden knife block by the sink and head outside.
    I open the front door,