I cannot see a damn thing through the window. 

I'm standing with my feet among wet plant life in flowerbed mud, trying to see through masses of ivy into a tiny little window that might belong to the locked room next to the kitchen. 

It must be because further to my left are some more windows, a little larger and through those, I can see vague shapes that might be bookcases. The library, if I understand the layout of this house correctly. The window I'm launching all my efforts on is not giving me any clues; it is too dark inside. I don't even see any silhouettes.

"Useless."

A spider darts between some leaves near my face, and I jump back, almost tripping in my haste to vacate the flower bed. The air around me is crisp after the storm, and everything is dripping and glistening in the morning sunlight. 

Fresh.

A stone path, similar to the one I'd seen on the west side of the house yesterday, leads from the back of the house through a thorny jungle to the creepy-looking building with the pretty roof. The two paths probably connect at some point. I'm not really up for bundu bashing, not in flip-flops, but the building is making me a little curious. 

Could I have been there last night?

No, I don't think so. If I'd gone there, I'd be covered in even more scratches than I already am. Fighting through brambles and bushes is not pleasant in broad daylight; it will be a lot worse at night. Surely, I would've woken up if I attempted to reach that building in my sleep. 

Unless sleepwalking grants a person magical powers... like walking through locked doors.

My OCD tendencies are too strong for me just to let this go. It is going to bug me until I find the answer. I know someone who might at least give me some clues. I fish my phone from my pocket, absently noting that it will need a recharge after this phone call. My phone's battery doesn't last very long. 

I find Ron McLaughlin's saved number and press the call button.

"Ron," he barks when I'm about to hang up after letting it ring for some time.

What a marvellous way to answer the phone!

"No, it's Belle," I cannot resist responding.

"What?" He sounds sufficiently confused and more than marginally irritated. I don't think I like Ron much. I would rather deal with Tom Something...

"I'm renting the house with the orchard. I called yesterday about the electricity."

"Oh! Right, right. Is it working now?"

"Yes, thank you. I just wanted to ask you about the set of keys that was left in the kitchen."

"Sure." The sigh accompanying the word doesn't make him seem very eager to hear the question.

"There seem to be five keys missing..."

"Five? I only know of four that won't be there. The sunroom on the top floor, the study and one of the bedrooms don't have keys, and the key to the cellar is missing as well. No idea where they went. They haven't been around since long before I started to work there. The sunroom is unlocked; you can use that for your pictures."

Pictures? Does he think I'm a child that draws pictures?

"Oh! Right! The dining room doesn't have a key either, but it's not locked. Why do you need the key? The other three rooms have always been locked. I think the key to the study might be with the owner. Surely you don't need to go in there?"

There's a dining room?

"I probably don't; I just wanted to make sure that their keys aren't supposed to be here with the others." I decide not to tell him that the study is open; I don't want him to come and close it up. However, I doubt that he'd go to that kind of trouble.

"Nope, won't charge you for them," he almost chuckles, or it's just a grunt; I can't tell for sure. "So, that's all five keys accounted for then."

"No, I didn't count the dining room, so... it's six keys I'm missing then."

"What room's the fifth one?"

"The room in the kitchen, next to the pantry and the one in the passage between the kitchen and the foyer."

"The one in the kitchen is the door to the cellar. I'm not sure what other room you mean." I can almost see him glancing at his watch; his tone was telling me to hurry up.

That's the cellar? I don't like the sound of that. The thing I have about cellars is worse than the thing I have about attics.

"Does the cellar have another entrance?" I ask, nervous about the answer.

"No. What do you want to go down to the cellar for?"

"I don't; I was just wonder-"

"No, it doesn't." He sighs again. "What, what, what's this other room?" 

Does he have to catch a train or get to the bathroom or something? Perhaps he has a souffle in the oven... The idea of a gruff man being worried about a delicate souffle is cheering me up a little.

"The small one, between the passage and the foyer."

"There's no room there. Just a locked closet."

"It's not locked, and it has a bed and an end table in it; it's very small."

"No idea what you're talking about. There's only a closet in the passage, probably for linen or something. Dunno, it's locked. I've never had a key. Didn't bother to change the lock because... well, don't see the need."

"Oh, well... It's open, and it's a small bedroom."

"Really?" his tone shifts slightly from irritation and haste to be rid of me to mild curiosity and puzzlement. Then he dismisses any form of interest he might have had and snaps: "Dunno. Is there anything else?"

"So, the cellar cannot open at-"

"Been locked since before I became the caretaker, never been open during my time. Can't see the need either." Ron doesn't seem to see the need for many things. Don't cellars usually contain things like important pipes and boilers and things that need to be inspected? Guess this one doesn't. Where does the gas for the stove and the hot water system come from?

It sounds as if Ron is afraid that I might ask him to change the locks or open the doors for me... I might... just to piss him off.

"Okay, thank you," I concede, feeling more than a little lost and puzzled.

"Right-"

"Wait!"

"What now?!" He is not even trying to sound interested in doing his job. So much for "Please do not hesitate to contact Ron should you require any assistance." 

I'll hesitate next time; I'll hesitate big time!

"The clocks. I think they're set to go off at 2am; how can I unset them?" Actually, you arsehole, come unset them for me! I don't say that out loud, of course; I'm too friggin' timid and polite.

"What?" he sounds more confused than impatient now.

"The clocks."

"Clocks?"

"Yes, the grandfather in the living room, the nautical one on the landing and the cuckoo in the kitchen. They went bonkers at two in the morning. Huge noise."

"You must have dreamt it." And the impatience is back.

"No, no, I didn't; they woke me up, loudly and clearly."

"No way. Those clocks haven't made so much as a tick in all the time I've been the caretaker."

I'm starting to wonder if Ron has the right house in mind.

"Do you take care of more than one house?"

"What?" he huffs. "Look. There are a whole bunch of clocks at La Belle Pêche, but none of them has worked in decades. Have you been drinking at all? Artists like the sauce, don't they? Or drugs... whatever. Lay off it. Not good for you."

"I don't... What do-"

"If there's nothing important..?"

I want to yell at him to do his job. I think that being screamed awake by angry clocks is pretty damned important, but his words have frozen my throat shut.

"Next time, I'll record them for you," I croak, suddenly feeling slightly sick. "Goodbye."

I hang up, knowing I'm being a little rude, but I doubt that he'll even notice since he's been a lot rude from the first time I've spoken to him. Guess who is going to get a very bad service review after my stay?

Nothing important?

How's this for important? I walked from a locked cellar that hasn't been opened in decades, my feet covered in the kind of mud and debris that no cellar should probably have in it anyway. I was woken by three clocks that tried to destroy the house with sound. Clocks, he says, don't even tick. 

That's not important?

"Maybe I should just go home."

Instead, I decide to use the available cleaning equipment to remove the evidence of my late-night adventure from all the floors and carpets in the house. Without evidence, it never happened... Right?

Maybe Ron was right; maybe I dreamt about the clocks. Slipping my flip-flops off just inside the backdoor, I can hear them ticking away, undisturbed by the fact that they're all supposed to be broken, never uttering so much as a tick. 

I shiver, suddenly cold.

I try my best to ignore them. Nothing is making sense anymore. Perhaps Ron is deaf, or perhaps he's a very old man that went senile long ago. Being very old might explain his extreme rudeness and impatience. Some old people think they have a licence to lose their manners.

My cleaning expedition takes me past the small bedroom in the passage. I try the knob. It opens. The bed is still there, and so is the despair. I close the door as fast as I can. Was there a teddy bear on the bed the last time I was in there? 

The light had been poor last night, but surely I would've seen it? Wouldn't I? One of those old bears with stiff limbs and bristly fur. This one was wearing a sailor suit, I think. I'm not going to open the door to make sure. What if the next time I open it, there are even more new things in there, and they cannot be explained away by bad lighting?

I know where I can find heat and sun in abundance. I run up the stairs to the studio. It is still open and still filled with sunlight. As I step over the threshold, it wraps me in its warmth and strokes away all the uncertainty I've been feeling. 

I cannot go home yet; my empty canvasses are waiting for me. It's simple; I'll just stay in this room forever. I cross the floor to one of the counters and start unpacking some of my boxes.

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