The next few days were as ordinary as it could be.

Raisa spent them completing her audiobook and being an absolute homebody. When coming to Gwaywe, she had promised herself that she was going to go on walks around the town, explore the beautiful beach and run errands in the housekeeper's absence. But no, she had broken that promise wholly. Most days, she did not feel like leaving the house. Not out of tiredness. No, she had never been more refreshed. In fact, she was sleeping better than she was doing back in London. The nightmares had grown less frequent and the ones she had were ones she did not remember.

No, she did not leave the house because it had started to feel like a home.

Raisa now understood why her great grandma refused to be moved anywhere from here. The reason she insisted she die here in this house rather than in some sterile hospital bed. There was something about this house which she could not exactly pinpoint that made it feel cozy and warm. A mother's embrace in the middle of a bad day, or a kind word, amidst a season of melancholy breaking through the gloomy clouds like a single ray of sunshine. So Raisa stayed, lounging and lazing, getting more and accustomed to this strange little house and its flowery walls and embellishments. She explored almost each room; just the attics and a few rooms on the third floor were left. Even the bearskin rug was bearable with a towel thrown over its head.

And then there was Miss Rose, bless her soul. The little old lady came in a clutch. She came twice to do some dusting and fetch whatever she needed from the supermarket downtown. Her home-cooked meals made Raisa have three servings each time she sat down to eat. At first, a flush-faced Raisa insisted that Miss Rose need not to do it. But the little old housekeeper would have none of it. In the end, Raisa had to relent; not that it was a loss because Miss Rose made a mean cawl. It was both refreshing and so darned tasty that sometimes she couldn't believe it was not made by some star chef.

But enough was enough. Raisa needed exercise, which she was not doing. Not that she was the most active person back in London, but she walked longer distances and went to jog in nearby parks. Here she was eating way too much and not at all stepping out of the house. So that fine morning, on her eight days at Gwaywe, Raisa Thorne donned her grey jogging gear and set out for a long walk into the forest. The elastic of the leggings dug into the skin of her tummy. She had wheezed at it when she noticed. Yet the moment she stepped outside, she forgot all about it.

The skies were bright blue, the colour that would have made the Romantic poets wax poetry about. The clouds were fluffy and few. Though the sun was up hours ago, it was not too hot outside. Birds flew in flocks. Some of their cries could be heard from within the forest behind the house. The grass beneath her feet was like fields of mint, their blades dewy in the morning light. Immediately, Raisa was smiling.

Then there was the house, a beacon of blue in a field of green. It sparkled in the sunlight, the chipped paint of the walls being able to do nothing to dull the effect. A fairytale house in a fairytale land. She could totally see herself running a lawn mower and plant back the flowers that her great grandma did. Maybe she should start with the roses and bring them back to life.

"You won't believe how pretty it looks," she said. "I have half a mind to move here forever. Maybe even start practicing. I have the license, after all." Her earbuds were planted in her ears as she was on call with Michael Glasgow, her friend from her days as a psychology undergraduate.

"I cannot believe you are saying this, you know. Young Raisa would have a fit if she heard you talking about living in obscure small towns!" Michael's voice was a deep hum in her ears. It sent a pleasant rush of warmth throughout her body, and she had been feeling it more frequently after her breakup with Sharon.

"Well, young Raisa was a fool," she chuckled, taking long strides into the forest. "I seriously cannot believe I forgot all about Gwaywe! This place is so beautiful."

"Our brains sometimes shut down things that might be too traumatic for us to handle. You were only a child then, after all," Michael said. "And ya know, deaths are always traumatic."

"That is true, but I want to understand it better." Raisa nodded. "Like, why does this happen? What are the mechanics? I wanted for so long to find out what happened all those years ago."

"Isn't that what you were working on?"

"Yes, before I left London. Made a fair bit of progress, but..." she stared at the bark of a tree in front of her. She frowned absent-mindedly at its gnarled branches, the colour of soot. "Now I don't know what I am even looking for. I don't even know if I want to go back."

"Come on, Thorne, you cannot give up now. You are one of the most brilliant people I've ever known." Michael proclaimed. She could almost imagine him sitting in front of her in some cafe and gesticulating wildly. "This little break will clear your mind and then you will realise how good you are at what you do. In fact, I think you are one of the very best. The bestest."

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Flatterer."

Michael had been one constant in her life who had never let her go or let her down. Hers was a life where she had to bid goodbye to everything a little too soon; be it her father, her family, or her high school friends. But Michael? He was a freaking barnacle. A ride or die type of friend. He was a lanky black boy in their college, all gangly limbs and shy smiles, with a strong American Midwest accent. He had only just moved from the States after getting a scholarship. He had the prettiest eyes Raisa had ever seen; almond-shaped, a brown shade that looked almost amber with lashes that were long and graceful. Those eyes were never not kind.

It was he who had guided her through the murky waters of her freshman year, when she discovered she was a bi-romantic demisexual. He helped her realise that her sexuality was something real and not a lifestyle choice or simply how all women felt about sexual intimacy. Though their paths diverged after he opted for criminology and she chose clinical psychology, she had never strayed. He held her when she cried, when her first crush rejected her. Cheered for her when she got together with Sharon. Warned her repeatedly when Sharon started imposing intimacy. Supported her in the aftermath of her breakup. Slept on her couch when she was too scared to be alone after the murder.

In between those moments, she started feeling something more than friendship for him. There would be a distinct flutter low in her belly when he smiled at her. A thrilling jolt that sent her head spinning when their fingers brushed. Some nights she had wondered what it would feel like if his soft, full lips brushed her thinner, torn ones. He often joked about it too, her habit of worrying her lips when worried not about kissing her. But she was not sure if it was some instinctual need for comfort or really something deeper. She sure as hell would not destroy their friendship because she needed a crutch to lean on after life had thrown lemon after lemons at her. She would wait until she was a hundred percent sure.

"Are you crying or what?" He spoke after a long pause. "Did I make you cry?"

"Nuh uh," she laughed, trying to hide the tremor in her voice. "Was just thinking."

"About what?"

"Renovating the house."

Michael groaned. "Telling me you are kidding. That place is six hours away from London. Six long hours!"

"Yes, but what about it?" Raisa grinned. "What if I want to live a slow life like that of ballerinafarm?"

Another low groan buzzed within her earbuds. "Oh goodness, don't tell me that my bestie has gotten corrupted by all that shitty trad wife content online."

This time, Raisa did not stop her laughter. "Okay, okay, I give up. I will not move away forever. Might just keep it all the same. You know, to go on vacations and stuff." She giggled.

"That's better. Else I will have to come and drag you back to London."

"Gosh, you are so dramatic."

She was well inside the woods. The sounds of the morning were very faint here, almost silent. No birds sang, no critters moved. Raisa did not notice it. She did not notice how the crunch of dried branches of the moist ground were the only sounds that echoed. Sometimes she felt a sensation of being watched; she would turn back to look but found nothing. Raisa surmised it was nothing to be worried about. A false sensation which she did not escalate into fear. Fear is the mind-killer, after all.

Besides, she had such pleasant company. Disembodied, yes, but effective. The ten thousand steps that her watch had counted also made her quite content.

The two chatted about his work and how exhausted he was with his fellow mates at the police department. Raisa was about to cross the bog without even noticing it. Twelve thousand steps, her watch displayed. Then it happened. No moment she was giggling at some joke he had made about his boss and at the next moment she was falling down after tripping against a stray branch stuck in the bog.

"Oh shi-"

The expletive got cut mid-sentence as she fell headfirst into swampy peat. Mud squelched beneath her. The rich and somewhat acidic smell of peat burnt the inside of her nostrils, making her sneeze several times. She spit back whatever had gotten into her mouth, which looked suspiciously like rotten leaves. Groggily, she sat up, more disoriented than hurt. Her blouse and leggings were ruined, marred by peat murk. She gasped in horror when she noticed that her watch, a gift from her mother on her last birthday, had fallen off and devoured by the wrist. One of her earbuds had fallen off as well.

"Raisa?" Michael's voice was faint as it sounded in the remaining earbuds in her left ear. "Raisa, what happened? Are you okay?"

She might have said something in reply if not for the thing she said next. Might have told him about her misadventure of how she had lost her watch and earbud to a god damned bog. But no. The surprises for the day were not over. Not yet.

Because a few yards away from her, a hand stuck out from the bog's surface. A human hand with black, leathery skin and its nails all intact. The fingers were curled into something resembling a fist as it stretched skywards. Her own hands turned cold and clammy. She shook like a leaf caught in a ferocious gale, unable to run or look away.

No, this isn't happening to me, her mind said while her heart thumped so loudly as the organ was trying to tear apart her ribs and run away. No, this cannot be happening. Not again. Raisa had enough of corpses after seeing Charles. She had no interest in them. But this hand meant only one thing; there was something in the bog. Something dead and rotting upon which she had stumbled. She had it in her mouth, on her clothes. Though she had spit it out, it was inside of her. Perhaps some of it still was. Bile filled her mouth.

The scream that tore out of her lips could have deafened anyone in the near vicinity.

~•~