She closed her eyes. “Yeah.”
“But I feel that as long as we stay together, as long as we stay a team, we will be all right.”
Clare smiled. “I’d better get stronger, then. And the sun had better spend some more time melting the snow. Because I don’t think I could stand ignoring that radio for much longer.”
“I know.”
Chapter Twenty
When Clare woke the next morning, Dorran was still asleep beside her. He’d stretched out, one leg hanging off the edge of the bed and his forearm over his eyes to keep out the sunlight.
She moved gently to avoid disturbing him as she slipped out of bed and approached the window. The sun was out again. That seemed like a good sign. She shivered as she leaned close to the glass and tried to guess how deep the snow was. Another layer had been applied the night before. The sun might have been working to cut through the cold, but it had a long way to go.
Clare stepped into the bathroom and splashed icy water over her face, trying to shake off the last cobwebs of sleep. A door farther down the hallway creaked open. She kept her eyes fixed on the basin as she brushed her teeth.
Dorran thought that ignoring the phantoms would make them go away. Clare had hoped it would get easier the more she shut her eyes and ears to them, but the paranoia seemed to be growing worse.
Her hands shook as she ran the toothbrush under the stream of water. She still couldn’t control her reactions. Fear was always present, lurking just under the surface, waiting for the smallest disturbance to rise up and wreak havoc. A creaky door. A whistle of wind. A floorboard flexing. They were simple, harmless noises, but they made her pulse race and her throat dry.
It was better when Dorran was around. She could look at him, and he would smile back. That was enough to often stop the hairs from rising and her breath from quickening. He thought they were safe. And that meant they were. Doesn’t it?
She left the bathroom and stopped at the edge of the bed to watch Dorran’s chest rise and fall. She’d woken early that morning.
Something that might have been a cricket or a closing door latch echoed from the floor below. Clare closed her eyes and squeezed her hands together as her breath hitched. She could wake Dorran. He would blink lazily then stretch, like he always did in the mornings, and she would feel safe again.
But that wasn’t solving the problem. Ignoring it wasn’t making anything better. Keeping the lights on, staying close to the man she trusted, and backing away from anything threatening weren’t fixing her.
Will confronting it change anything? She had asked herself that question repeatedly over the last few days. Bethany had never been part of the face-your-fears camp, but Clare knew it worked for some people. They would meet the phobia head-on, embrace it, and learn to live with it. And then it would stop being frightening.
But what she had was more than a phobia. She still didn’t know what it was. She didn’t want to believe it might be insanity. But there were very few other explanations that made sense.
If there is something wrong with me… something that’s been knocked loose in my brain… will confronting it make it better or worse?
Clare carefully, silently plucked her coat off the chair beside the bed and slipped her feet into the oversized boots. They couldn’t keep on the way they were—wasting electricity and wasting Dorran’s time. The radio, Clare’s only other hope to escape the phantoms, was just as far out of reach as it had ever been. So it was time to try the other option.
She turned the door handle gently. It had been kept oiled and didn’t make a noise. She gave Dorran one final look before she stepped out of the room and shut the door behind her.
The air bit her exposed skin. Her knees were already shaking as she tugged the jacket over her back and zipped it up. It had a thick, fluffy collar, and Clare tucked her chin in so that her neck would stay warm.
She waited for a moment, arms folded, as she listened to the house. The wind was calm that morning. The sense of hollowness about the space seemed to reverberate tiny noises back at her. They were maddening.
Simply being alone in the corridor made the back of her neck prickle. But it wasn’t enough. She needed to face it, to see it, to stare it down and win. Whatever it was. That meant travelling into its territory.
An image popped into her mind: the wine cellar. Clare reflexively stepped back then forced herself to hold still and not shiver as the fear enveloped her. She didn’t want to go to the cellar, which meant she had to.
The frantic voice of caution begged her to tell Dorran where she was going. But she couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t want her to go anywhere alone. He wouldn’t want her stepping into the dark.
It’s just a cellar. She reached the staircase and ran her hand along the bannister as she descended. One large, dark room at the foot of the house. There is nothing sinister about it, nothing dangerous. You’ll walk into it and spend a minute or two in the darkness, surrounded by old bottles that probably cost more than your car. Once you’ve acclimatised and realised there’s nothing to be afraid of, you can come out again. Run back to your room, slip back into bed, and you’ll be a step closer to conquering this.
She tried to cling to that thought as she passed through the foyer. There was nothing dangerous about a cellar. It wasn’t like going outside, where one bad footing could leave her stranded and freezing. The phantoms—whatever they were—existed only in her mind. She would be safe. She might not feel it, but she would be.
She entered the stone chamber. The familiar garden door stood ahead. The lights hadn’t turned on yet that morning, but they would automatically power on soon. She glanced to her right, at the small, innocuous, and familiar door to the furnace room.
To her left, the cellar’s archway seemed larger than she remembered it. The opening was huge, its insides a swirl of moving black and infinite possibilities, none of them friendly. The stones were old, almost old enough to start cracking, but somehow, they managed to look eternal. She knew the steps would be much the same way. Solid. Unyielding. Unforgiving.
The table at the back of the room held candles and matches for when Dorran ventured into the basement. Clare found one that was half-melted and lit it. The flame started small but quickly grew as it softened the wax and fed itself more fuel. She picked up the old bronze holder and turned towards the cellar.
It’s just a wine room. The temperature dropped noticeably as she approached the entrance. A place for fancy people to store expensive drinks. Nothing more exciting than that. Don’t give it any power.
Her candle flickered as she passed over the threshold. Clare stared at the light, her heart hammering and her palms sweaty, but the flame righted itself within a second.
She almost backed out. The thought of her bed upstairs was painfully tempting. She could lie there, warm and comfortable, swaddled in soft sheets, as she watched Dorran dream. She didn’t need to push herself that day. She didn’t need to face her demons as long as Dorran cared enough to stay at her side.
But that was the problem. He was giving by nature. He would do what it took to make her feel safe. And she couldn’t keep asking him for that, absorbing his time and energy, wasting resources, and slowing him down at every turn. He didn’t need an obligation. He needed a partner.