"This is really good," I tell David before I take another bite of savoury scrambled egg, cheese and toast. "Thank you so much for cooking."

I did not realise just how hungry I was until I took the first bite, and the flavour hit my taste buds, causing me to moan slightly. He'd made coffee too, and every time I drink his offerings, I grow even more ashamed of my terrible attempts earlier. How he could drink that dreg when he makes coffee this good is beyond me. He is probably just a very polite person.

"I'm glad you like it," he smiles and looking into his eyes, I am filled with joy about how extremely fortunate I am to be stranded here in the middle of nowhere in this weird-ass house with a gorgeous, kind specimen like him.

I could've been stranded here with Ron!

"Do you know Ron well?" I casually ask David, not really caring whether he does or doesn't, and he gives me a blank look which is a little confusing and, to tell the truth, also a bit unsettling.

"The caretaker?" I prompt.

"Oh, him! No, only my grandfather deals with him," he says, taking a sip of his coffee. "I spoke to him on the phone once. Didn't really take to him much."

"Really? He is such a ray of sunshine!" I chuckle, and David flashes that brilliant smile of his.

Lightning zips with a bright flare too close to the house, followed by a deafening rumble I can feel vibrating right through me. The noise is making me feel decidedly nervous, and I try to smile at David with lips that are suddenly trembling a little.

"It's just sound, Belle; we're fine here. This house has survived hundreds of years of storms."

It's very dark outside now. When I woke up, the house had been wrapped in white mist, but now I see nothing but black, periodically brightened by lightning, but even then, I cannot make out the trees that I know must be thrashing in the screaming wind. It's as though the house has fallen into a black void, kept suspended by lightning, thunder, rain and wind.

"Don't you have a family to get home to?" He did say that his grandfather is in a retirement village, but he might have a wife and children. There is no way that a lovely man like him, in his early thirties, will be single... I'm never that lucky.

"No," he says, not elaborating at all, and now I'm wondering if there is a sad story in there somewhere. I'm not going to pry, though.

"I guess we're roomies then," I state, trying not to sound pleased that he is single, especially since that "no" didn't have a happy ring to it. "I can give you food and some toiletries, but I'm not sure if I could help you with clothes."

"Thanks, but I have a bag with essentials in my truck."

That is a surprise. Did he plan on spending the night here? 

"Oh," I say, and something in my voice must sound suspicious or surprised or hold the kind of emotion that would induce an explanation because he hurries to clarify.

"I come here often and work until quite late. Sometimes, I take a bath and change my clothes before I go home since it's quite a drive, and I have, on occasion, spent the night if the weather was bad or I wanted to be back here again early. I've never actually worked here when there's someone renting, of course. The bag is just there, re-packed after the last time, which was a couple of months ago."

"Oh," I say again. That does sound well prepared and logical, rather than suspicious, but I don't really know what to say to that.

"Look, Belle," he says, lowering his fork and levelling his eyes on me. "I know this is weird, and I can fully understand that you're not comfortable with this. If you don't mind, I'd like to use the bathroom to wash up and change out of these dirty clothes, but I'll sleep in the truck."

"No!" I exclaim, horrified at the idea of him stepping out of the house into that horrible weather and sleeping in a truck with rain crashing into windows with such force that I'm afraid that they will break. "It's all good."

I eat my food, trying to think of cheerful things like unicorns and warm fires and David's smile, but I'm fully aware that if he left me alone here, I'd fall apart.

"We're not horny teenagers; we can share the house," I shrug, and when I finally look up from my plate, I'm met by his amused grin.

"Well, maybe not teenagers," he agrees, and I give a scandalised laugh, swiping a hand through the air as if to wipe away his words. I am feeling better now, though. If he can make jokes, then we're probably not going to die.

When we've eaten our food, drank our coffee and had some ice cream – the most essential part of every meal – I refuse to allow him to help me do the dishes, and he decides to make a break for the truck to get his bag. I regret my decision to do my share and leave him to run off the second he leaves the house. 

What if he doesn't come back?!

It's becoming second nature to fear the disappearance of rooms and people, and things that were here a minute ago. Listening to the storm, my hands in warm soapy water, I count the seconds. If he stays away longer than 120 seconds, I'll go look for him.

The lightning flashes encourage me to wash the dishes faster; the fear of getting electrocuted makes the water less pleasant to hang around in.

"20."

That's how many seconds it's been since I heard the front door close behind David.

"37."

I hurry to wash the plates after I'm done with the pan, and in no time at all, I have our mugs and utensils nicely stacked on the drying rack. I pull the plug and turn away from the sink to wipe down the serving island while the dirty water gurgles down the drain.

"98."

With the cloth neatly hung from the sink, I hurry from the kitchen, satisfied that it won't look like a freaked-out paranoid woman cleaned up after our dinner. David kindly left the foyer light on when he left the house, but the second I step out of the hallway (the short one I can no longer stand to be in for longer than the seconds it takes to run to and from the kitchen), there is a loud crash of thunder and the wooden floor shivers beneath my feet.

The light dies...

"128... I think..." I'm not sure anymore and can no longer remember how to breathe. It is so dark, darker than it's ever been here before. I raise my hand in front of my face, and I cannot see it. I want to shuffle to the door, but fear of falling again or heading in the wrong direction has me rooted to the spot.

David drew the curtains earlier when he saw how much the storm was scaring me, so even the momentary brightness of lightning is blocked right now.

I fumble for my phone, trapped in the pocket of my skirt. It won't budge, and I keep on plucking, just to snare it in more folds. Taking my phone from this pocket has never been this hard before. Then again, I've never tried to take it out while trembling like a flower trapped in a hurricane.

I finally get it out, and using both hands, I search for the screen. Once I know which side it is, I feel around the edges to determine where the top is so that I can locate the button to activate the screen and produce some light in this endless, thick darkness.

Something shifts near me. I hear it very clearly. The sound of shoes scraping against a wooden floor, grinding dust beneath their soles.

"D-David?"

No answer, only the thunder rolling outside and the nautical clock pausing between ticks as though it is holding its breath.

Did I imagine the sound?

I can hear the grandfather clock ticking far to my right, but it, too, sounds off-kilter and overly loud... It shouldn't be this audible with the noisy storm raging outside, rattling the windows and howling like demons around the house.

Again, the subtle stirring of feet on wood, eerily audible beyond the storm trying to tear apart the house.

My shaking fingers find the right button on my phone, and I press it, bringing the screen to startling life and blinding myself. I gasp, shying away from the bright light, and with that stomach-dropping feeling of despair, I feel the phone slip from my hand and hear it crash on the floor.

The darkness now has an afterimage superimposed on it, darker than the rest of the black. I saw something just now. I'm sure I saw something, or was it someone? I can hear gasping and soft whimpering, and I think it is me, but I cannot be completely sure. There is too much of it going on around me.

Am I really breathing that loudly? Is it just my breath I'm hearing? Falling to my knees, I desperately feel around for my phone, my eyes shedding unseen tears running down my cheeks.

"David," I sob. "Is that you?"

Is it him? Is he here with me? Why isn't he saying anything? What is he doing? Just how big of a fool am I? How could I just trust him so easily and completely? He said he is the owner's grandson, but what proof do I have of that? He could be anybody! Perhaps I did see someone outside on that day I arrived here. Perhaps it was David... watching me.

He took care of me when I fell asleep...

But why did I fall asleep like that in the first place? Was I really that exhausted? Did he drug me? Terror is starting to tangle its nasty fingers in my hair, pricking my scalp with sharp nails, reaching with bony tendrils around my throat, strangling me. I cannot breathe!

I need to find my phone! I need light! I need a weapon!

I can hear gut-wrenching sobs, and trying to shrink away from the sound, I realise that it is coming from me. I'm the one making these almost animalistic sounds of despair. My fingers brush against my phone just as I hear the scraping sound of shoes again.

Why isn't he attacking already?! Why is he stalking me, playing with me?!

"Please..." I whisper, my voice cracking, unable to form proper sounds.

And then the front door flies open with a loud crash, letting in a gust of wind strong enough to cause the things on the small table there to tumble and whip my hair out of my face and spray me with cold rainwater. I didn't realise that I'd crawled this far towards the door.

I rise to my knees, shaking with fear and anxiety, trying to see into the darkness outside. A bright flash of lightning flares up, blinding me again, but not before I clearly see the outline of a figure crouching on the patio, ready to attack.

☼☼☼