fit. I have to contort my body in an odd way to get to the window. The screen, when I get to it, is torn. Not just a little, but enough for a whole body to get through. I tug on the window behind it, thinking it won’t give—surely this can’t be so easy—but to my surprise it does.
The window into the basement is unlocked.
What kind of homeowner doesn’t secure their home before leaving for the winter?
I press my body through the window, feet first. I climb awkwardly into the dark basement. My head passes through a cobweb as my feet land on concrete. The cobweb sticks to my hair, though it’s the least of my concerns. There are so many more things to fear than this. My heart pounds inside of my chest as I glance around the basement to be certain I’m alone.
I don’t see anyone. But it’s too dark to really know.
I inch across the basement, find the unfinished steps to the first floor. I go slowly, dragging my feet, careful not to make any noise as I climb. At the top of the steps, I set my hand on a door handle. My hand is sweaty, shaking, and suddenly I’m wondering why I thought it was such a good idea to come here. But I’ve come this far. I can’t go back. I have to know.
I turn the knob, press the door open and step onto the first floor.
I’m terrified. I don’t know who’s here, if anyone is here. I can’t call out for fear that someone might hear me. But as I creep around the first floor of the home, the reality is hard to ignore. I see no one, but there are signs of life everywhere. It’s dark outside and in; I have to use the flashlight on my phone to see. I discover an indentation in the plastic that covers a living room chair, as if someone sat down there. A piano seat is pulled out, sheet music on the rack. There are crumbs on the coffee table.
The cottage is a single-story home. I make my way down the dark, narrow hall, tiptoeing so I don’t make a sound. I hold my breath as I go, taking short, shallow breaths only when I have to, only when the burn of carbon dioxide in my lungs is more than I can bear.
I come to the first room and look inside, shining my flashlight along the four walls. The room is small, a bedroom that has been converted into a sewing room. A seamstress lives here.
The next room is a small bedroom crammed with ornate antique furniture that’s buried beneath plastic. The carpeting is thick, plush. My feet sink into it, and I feel guilty for wearing my shoes inside, as if that’s the worst of my infractions. But there’s also breaking and entering.
I leave that room and step into the largest bedroom of the three, the master bedroom. The room is spacious in comparison. But that’s not the reason my eyes do a double take when I step inside.
The sun has set outside. Only a faint hint of blue creeps in through the windows. The blue hour, it’s called, when the residual sunlight takes on a blue tone and turns the world to blue.
I shine my flashlight into the room. I see the ceiling fan, the blades of which are formed into the shape of palm leaves. The ceiling is a trey ceiling. And I’ve seen it before.
I’ve dreamed of this room. I dreamed of myself lying in this bed, or a bed similar to this, hot and sweating beneath that fan, in the crevasse that is still in the center of the bed. I stared at the fan, willed it to move, to push a gust of cold air onto my hot body. But it didn’t because the next thing I knew I was standing beside the bed watching myself sleep.
This bed, unlike the other furniture in the house, isn’t covered with plastic. The plastic that should be on the bed lies in a heap on the floor, on the other side of the bed.
Someone has been sleeping in this bed.
Someone was here.
I don’t bother with the basement window well this time. I head straight out the front door. I close it behind myself, the light in the living room flicking on as I leave.
As I run back home, I convince myself that the ceiling, the bed, the fan weren’t the very same