“Maybe… maybe…”
“When I left the group, I left alone. I walked back along the road alone. The blizzard set in before I found you. No one could have followed me. And even if they had, the doors and windows have all remained closed.”
Angry, confused tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back furiously. She tried to step out of Dorran’s hands, but even though he never held her hard enough to hurt, he didn’t let her go.
“I don’t know what’s happening, Clare. But I promise this house only holds two people—you and myself.”
“There’s got to be…” Her voice was strangled. “I’m not crazy. I’m not imagining it. Are… do…” Again, the lump in her throat caught her words. “Does this house have any… any stories about ghosts? A maid, maybe, who died? With… with an injury in her side?”
His reply was a whisper. “Ghosts? No. Not in this house.”
“I’m not crazy.”
He looked incredibly, intensely sad. His head dropped, and he spoke so softly that she wasn’t sure she was supposed to hear. “How can I make this better? How can I help you?”
She knew the answer to that question. “Let me go to my car for the radio.”
He took a slow, ragged breath. Clare couldn’t stand it any longer and leaned forwards to rest against Dorran. Slowly at first, hesitantly, his arms wrapped around her back. The embrace was gentle, and Clare hid her face in his chest as she finally let the tears escape.
“All right,” he said, and his voice was just as tight as hers was. “All right. We will both go.”
Chapter Twelve
They didn’t try to debate the figure Clare had seen. There was nothing else they could say without arguing in circles. But in an unspoken agreement, she and Dorran stayed close together through that morning’s routine.
She could feel him watching her when he thought she wasn’t looking. She wished she could say something to make things normal again. If she said it had all been a dream, that she’d been trapped in a fog of sleep when she’d seen the woman, she knew he would accept that, and the tension would be over. But she couldn’t bring herself to lie.
And she still couldn’t explain what she’d seen. The gash in the woman’s side had been large and old. The flesh had begun to dry and turn dark as though it had been exposed to the air for too long. She’d looked demented. But she’d moved towards Clare with a purpose, like she wanted something. And she had only fled when Clare screamed.
I’m not imagining it. But already, doubt was starting to seep in. Not trusting her own eyes was a horrible thing, but her conviction crumbled with every passing minute.
She knew Dorran thought the house was affecting her, that the high walls and grim furniture were making her paranoid. He turned on every light they passed as they made their way through the building. When he spoke to her, his tone was warm and encouraging. He was trying to help, but in some ways, his kindness made it worse. She didn’t want to be coddled. She just wanted to know she wasn’t crazy.
One thing held her together. They were going to get the radio. For the first time in four days, she would have some contact with a world other than Winterbourne, and she felt like that by itself would make everything right.
Dorran was being cautious about the trip. He went through the house, collecting layer upon layer of clothes for Clare. Two sets of socks—one to keep her feet warm, the other to keep them dry. Jackets and layers of pants that needed their cuffs rolled up to fit her, followed by gloves that were a little too big but secured with twine tied around the wrists. Finally, a knit hat and a thick wool scarf to wrap across her face.
“These are some of the lowest temperatures the area has seen,” he said when he caught Clare frowning at the outfit. “And it’s a long walk.”
She was sure he was overreacting. She lived not far away. The winters could get bitingly cold and had never been bad enough to require more than a good thermal coat. But she also knew Dorran didn’t want her coming at all. So she swallowed her objections.
She felt a little better when he went through the same process for himself, wrapping on layers of clothes. And she had to admit it was effective. Even though the house was like a fridge, she felt pleasantly warm.
Finally, Dorran boiled water and filled two insulated flasks. He tied one to Clare’s belt and one to his then added a small toolbox.
“Ready?” he asked. She nodded. “Good. We’re going to the shed along the side of the house first. It has snowshoes and shovels, which we will need to reach your car. Follow in my wake. Call out if you become stuck.”
“Roger that,” she said, trying to inject some lightness into the situation, but even though Dorran’s eyes scrunched up in a smile, he didn’t laugh.
They approached the front doors. Dorran looked her over a final time, seeming to run through some kind of internal checklist, then, satisfied, he wrenched open one of the double doors.
Clare’s heart sank. The snow had built up against the door nearly to her chin. It created a solid wall of white. More flakes drifted in through the narrow opening to melt on the tile floor.
“Do you think you can manage this?” Dorran asked.
She hardened her expression. “Yep.”
“All right. Come here. I’ll help you up.”
He gripped her around her waist and lifted. Clare scrambled on top of the snowbank, feeling it slip and compact under her, then finally got enough momentum to tumble down the other side. She rolled, skidding on the snow, and finally came to a halt in the valley. A moment later, Dorran followed her. He was a little more graceful and stayed on his knees as he slid down the slope. When he reached Clare, he offered his hand and pulled her up.
She stood, felt her balance wobble, then regained it. She adjusted the scarf over her face and gave Dorran a thumbs-up. He nodded then beckoned for her to follow.
The snow was cold, but the wind was infinitely worse. Even bundled up, Clare could feel it snatching at her warmth and trying to worm in through the layers of clothing. It whistled around them, beating flurries of snow against their bodies and screaming in Clare’s ears. Dorran kept up a fast pace, but every few steps, he looked over his shoulder to check on Clare. She felt faintly pleased that she was able to keep up with him.
Their path led them alongside the manor. The stones had been caked in ice, giving it a hostile, spiky texture. Clare sank to her waist in the snow, making every step an effort. Sometimes she stumbled and had to use her hands to clamber back to her feet. Dorran had a better footing, but he seemed to be struggling too.
They fought their way around the building. A mound in the snow appeared up ahead, and when Clare squinted, she realised she could make out the top part of a hut. Dorran quickened his pace as they neared it, then he dropped to his knees and began digging to clear a way into the building.
Clare knelt beside him, and together, they scraped armfuls of snow away from the door. When the handle was finally revealed, Dorran took a key out of his back pocket and crouched to see the lock. He struggled for a minute to unlock the frozen metal. The door swung into the hut, and he motioned for Clare to slide in.
She took a quick breath to brace herself, turned around to point her legs at the opening, and dropped in. Her boots thudded as they hit the floor, and she stepped back to let Dorran follow.