Page 43 of Rock Paper Scissors
Robin removes her boots in the boot room—the place might be filthy, but there is no need to make things worse—then she walks through to the kitchen. Her socks have more holes than a pair of fishnets, but waste not, want not. The chapel is even colder than usual, and already smells different from how it did before they arrived. Traces of the dog, along with the woman’s overpowering perfume now permeate the stale air.
She hurries to the lounge that looks more like a library, then pulls the glove off her right hand, and runs her fingers along the spines of the novels that line the shelves. She does this every time she comes here, the same way some people can’t resist touching tips of wheat in a field. She notices the faint smell of smoke, and sees that the visitors burned all the logs she left for them last night. Not that it matters now. At least, not to her. It might matter to them later.
When she grips the banister of the spiral staircase, a million unwanted memories flood her mind, drowning her courage and clouding her concentration.
Your focus determines your future.
Robin is rather fond of inspirational mottos like these. She repeats the words to herself until her thoughts feel steady again, then makes her way up the creaky stairs, ignoring the missing faces among the framed photos on the wall.
The bed where the visitors slept last night has not been made. It still feels strange to have letthemsleep here. But it doesn’t take long for Robin to tuck in the sheets, straighten the duvet, and puff up the pillows. It’s the least she can do: if the visitors are still here tonight—and they will be—they will need their rest. Then she looks inside their bags, and studies their things, because she can and because she wants to.
She starts in the bathroom. Robin finds the woman’s shampoo, then smells it before tipping the contents down the sink. Seeing their pink and blue toothbrushes side by side provokes another wave of irritation, so she grabs them both and uses them to clean the toilet bowl. She scrubs so hard that the bristles look flattened. Then she puts everything back how she found it.
The pots of face cream left on the windowsill look expensive, so Robin applies some to her own cheeks. It has been a while since her skin care routine consisted of anything more than a wet flannel once a day, and the moisturizer feels so good she decides to keep it, slipping the jar into her pocket. She returns to the bedroom then, and takes one last look around, noticing that the drawer to one of the bedside tables is slightly open. She takes a closer look, hoping something might have been left inside.
The way some people blindly trust others has always baffled Robin. At least one of the visitors believed they were coming here for a weekend away, and that Blackwater Chapel was some kind of holiday rental. It’s not and never will be. At least not while she’s alive.
When Robin thinks about the properties people pay vast amounts of money to stay in: hotels, Airbnbs, overpriced cottages by the sea, she can’t help thinking about all the other hundreds of strangers who have slept in the same bedsheets, drunk from the same cups, or shat in the same toilet before. All those people, using the same access codes every changeover day—different hands slipping the same keys into different pockets once a week. Locks are rarely changed, even when the keys to rental properties get lost, so who knows how many people might really have a copy. Anyone who has ever stayed there could come back at any time and let themselves in.
She finds a wallet in the drawer. It seems odd that the man would have left it behind, but animal owners do act strangely when worried about their pets. Robin can understand that. She slides the credit cards out of his wallet one by one, rubbing her thumb acrossthe embossed name. Then she finds a crumpled paper shape between the leather folds. She holds it up to the light and sees that it is an origami crane. It’s a little burned around the edges, but Robin knows that cranes are supposed to bring good luck, and the fact thathecarries it around in his wallet makes her hate him a little less. She puts everything else back as she found it.
There is an inhaler in the drawer on the other side of the bed. Robin puts it in her mouth and takes a puff, but it isn’t nearly as satisfying as her pipe. She expels the rest of its contents into the air, then takes the empty inhaler with her, along with the prescription sleeping pills she has found. After a quick trip to the tower to ring the chapel bell, Robin heads back inside to finish what they started.
AMELIA
Adam starts to run down the hill toward the chapel, but I can’t keep up.
He’s been somewhat preoccupied with his own health and fitness recently, and started taking vitamins and supplements, which is new. His obsession with jogging at least twice a week is finally paying off, and I tell him not to wait; the sooner one of us gets back the better. I keep having to stop to catch my breath. I forgot to bring my inhaler—foolishly leaving it next to the bed in my panic to find Bob—but I know I’ll be okay, so long as I take my time and try to stay calm.
It sounds easier in my head than it is in reality.
If we hadn’t both seen someone letting themselves into the chapel, I might have thought I imagined it. But it was real. Maybe itisthe mysterious housekeeper? Come to check we are okay after the storm? I tell myself that whoever it is will be able to help us. And want to. Because none of the other possibilities auditioning inside my mind are good. When I reach the snow-covered track at the bottom of the hill, I’m relieved to be on a flat surface again. Adam’s lead has increased. He isn’t far from the chapel now, so I hurry on as fast as I can, trying to catch up.
I stop when the bell in the tower starts to ring.
The snow pummels my face. I didn’t see Adam go inside but he must have, because when I look up—shielding my eyes from the relentless blizzard—he’s vanished. Didhering the bell? I remember earlier, when Adam said that the main doors were the only way in, and out, of the chapel. I haven’t seen anyone leave, which means whoever we saw go inside is still there. Anything could be happening. The latest snowstorm seems to have turned the world black and white. I can barely see my own hand when I hold it in front of my face. I try to run faster but I keep slipping and my chest starts to hurt. My heart is beating too quickly, and my breaths are too shallow. My anxiety is made worse knowing that even in a medical emergency, we have no way of calling for help.
When I finally reach the huge chapel doors, I don’t need to worry about knocking—they are wide open and the floor of the boot room is covered in snow. I spot a pair of large, unfamiliar Wellington boots next to the old church bench, and notice that someone has drawn several smiley faces in the dust on its wooden surface now. I wonder if it means something and lift the lid, but it’s empty. When I look up, I catch sight of my reflection in the wall of tiny mirrors. I look wrecked.
“Adam?” I call, but am met with an eerie silence.
The kitchen is empty, as is the lounge full of books. I hurry up the wooden spiral staircase to the first floor, wheezing, and gripping the banister like a cane. I ignore theDANGER KEEP OUTsign on the farthest door, and climb the steps to the bell tower. But there’s nobody there, and the bedroom is empty too. It doesn’t make sense. The pain in my chest isn’t getting any better, so I pull open the drawer beside the bed. My inhaler has gone. I’msurethat’s where I left it, and now panic starts to ripple through me.
I need to find Adam. Back out on the landing I try the other doors, but they’re all still locked. He isn’t here, I’ve already searched every room. Then I remember the crypt.
“Adam!” I yell again.
Silence.
I run so fast that I almost fall down the creaking stairs.
“I’m in here!” he calls when I reach the lounge, but I can’tseehim.
“Where are you?” I shout back.
“Behind the bookcase on the back wall.”
I hear his words but fail to make sense of them.
