holden's holiday home

chapter 1

A light drizzle fell overhead. The clouds rolled in, marking the fantastic exodus of all color. The silver raindrops on the windowpane quivered as I slammed the car door, and again when I clicked the lock shut. I would not be driving any further. The man had warned me that there would be no more road beyond this.

He stood in the distance, his hand on the reins of a mare. She struck her heels impatiently on the gravel and shook her mane. The vast rural expanse imposed a sense of slow motion onto everything, seeming even to slow me down as I jogged toward him. The lonesome, dreary countryside was a stark contrast to the bustling, neon life of the big city. Here, the incessant flashing that had plagued me day and night gave way to a calmer, more monotonous atmosphere. It gave me the feeling that I was being played before audiences in a black and white film, and that I was painted from head to toe in ash. 

I took the reins from the man’s gloved hand. He interwove his fingers into a tight formation with a practiced, assured air that could only have come from performing the movement a thousand times. This done, he bent, lowering his hands near my feet, and helped me into the stirrups with a powerful boost.

I thanked him; he nodded wordlessly. The mare clipped over to the end of the gravelly road, then sank her hooves into the wet mud. 

The rain did not beat my face so much as it kissed me, falling gently on my lips and nose. It was cool, with the wet air clinging to my skin. It was much more pleasant than the baking heat of the city, it being encased, as it were, in a big block of concrete. I inhaled sharply, sighing with relief as I did. I felt already that I had been refreshed, renewed.

The mare trudged on, and I settled myself into the comfortable rhythms of her stride in silent content. The last rays of the sun, fighting through a thick stack of cloud, lodged itself in the dewy grass blades on either side of the muddy path, transforming the landscape into a field of gleaming needles. 

By and by, the grayness completed its conquest; the day and her variety had been strangled to death. Yet there was something beautiful and melodious in the mundanity. A sense of safety accompanied the predictable landscape: here a pond rippling with liquid dusk, there a patch of grass that might be mistaken for an aged carpet of fox fur, and up ahead, a smoky skeleton of a tree that had seen better days. I drank it all in.

To put it simply, I was running away. Away from the obnoxious honks of the bus, because you had cost it two extra seconds at a light that had just turned green. Away from the shouts of the hawkers, whose wares were indiscriminately and eternally on sale, ‘just for you, and today only’. Away from the rude bellows of the police sirens, because someone was always fainting, dying, or being robbed. I was to be reunited with the healing, natural world, just like it had been ordained by Wordsworth or Thoreau. And away… away from…

The urban landscape as I had imagined it was glaringly incomplete. The eye of my mind swept over a blank spot in the mental map, and a pang shook my heart. It was as if someone had torn a hole in it, and scrunched up the missing fragment in a tight fist. 

I shrugged to adjust the weight of my shoulder bag. My toiletries, my essentials, and my clothing shifted underneath a stack of books: Pride and Prejudice, A Tale of Two Cities, and The Great Gatsby. These contained a plentitude of Mr. Darcies, Sydney Cartons, and Jay Gatsbies, all of whom I intended to meet once I arrived at the lodge.

The rain began to patter harder now, and with a silent groan the clouds squeezed and dropped their burden onto the earth. The mare’s steady plodding faltered. All around, the gentle dusk began to fade and a more tyrannic darkness closed in. Slowly, inevitably, the trees took on a menacing attitude, looming over me and nibbling at my back the minute I turned my eyes away. Still, the horizon offered me no confirmation that the lodge even existed. Every moment I battled with the opposing impulses of plunging onward or going back.

With a grunt and a neigh, my noble steed came to a halt. I gave her flank a gentle squeeze, but to no avail. She stood still, her sides heaving. Hot mist streamed out of her snout. I glanced down. Her hooves had sunk into the mud, which threatened with the ever-worsening rain to congeal into quicksand. 

A flash of lightning and a crack of thunder blinded me momentarily. And then the split second was over, and I was draped in darkness again. An icy draught filled my heart. I began to kick harder, pleading with the stubborn mare to move. Too late, I realised that the crowded streets I was used to had not prepared me to be so alone, and so small in the infinite night.

Then the sound came. At first, it was barely audible, but with time, it grew into a low groan that was not quite the growl of an animal, but not quite the rumble of thunder either. I felt the color fade from my face. Suddenly, my dread of being all alone was replaced with the piercing fear that I wasn’t – and more importantly – that I was being followed. 

To my utter relief, the mare whinnied, bucked, and, finally heeding my call, sped into the night. I bent my body low, shying away from the wind. A creeping urge to look behind me pricked my neck, but the horror kept me stiff. I imagined – or I heard – that a snarling, moaning noise tailed closely behind. Faster and faster we went, yet the subhuman sound merely grew louder.

My hands were cold and clammy; rain and fear mingled with my skin, turning flesh into wax. The sound rasped in my ears, sometimes with determination, sometimes with a great sadness. A click-clack click-clack filled my ears, but whether it came from the pounding hooves of the galloping mare or from the thump of my own unbridled heart, I couldn’t tell.

At length, a large, stately house grew out of the horizon, glowing and shimmering in the pitchy blackness of the night. A patch of silver glowed ahead on the road as the clouds glided away – the loyal shadow of the emerging moon. This energised me. Over the streaming, muddy paths we flew, and down the fields we streaked. 

The voice was screeching now. It seemed strengthened – no, enraged – at the prospect of my escape. The air flows wove themselves into an invisible net, holding us back, and the terrible voice flowed through the veins of the wind, howling at us to halt.

I rode and rode, holding onto the saddle as the mare thundered up onto the wooden porch. In one swift movement I shoddily slipped off and pounded on the great front door. The lantern hanging beside it, which had long since been blown out, shook violently. Yet there was nothing, not even the faint, distant sound of footsteps. Desperate, I pummelled the door with voiceless tears. 

Lightning flashed again, and with the last of my courage I wrenched my head back to confront the unwanted company. A tall, slim silhouette of a veiled figure appeared – a cry surged up my throat –

and then –

The door swung wide open, bathing me and the dripping mare in orange light. I spun around.

A man in his early thirties stood in the doorway. He wore a faded brown suit and a bright red tie, and he held a lantern in his hand. He was handsome, I supposed, in a ratty way. He was tall, but his shoulders were a little hunched and narrow. His skin was tight and smooth, and his forehead was big. And across his face was a wide, wide smile, sporting two rows of straight, white teeth. “Welcome to Holden’s Holiday Home,” he beamed.

“Good evening, Holden,” I croaked. “I would like to check in.”

“Ah! You must be Sophie! Right away; please enter. I will take your horse to the stables in the back.” As he passed me, my welcoming host flashed me another white, winning smile. 

My eyes followed him as he took the mare by the reins. When even his glowing lantern had disappeared around the house, I cast another glance at the front path. It was empty, barren, and still, except for the branches of the trees wavering in the wind. Nobody had been there. Even the storm seemed less violent. I must have imagined it; my synapses, overstimulated by the cityscape, had been unused to the serenity of the countryside, and had invented some fictions to keep myself alert. How quickly my feelings had changed! Certain my life was being threatened only a few moments ago, I now knew I was safe, and stepped inside.

I was instantly overwhelmed by a visual feast of interior design. The floor was made out of colorful tiles, and was covered by a rug with an equally gaudy pattern. Two doorways that led into the right and left wings of the house flanked a cramped, steep staircase, which was overlaid with another green, furze-like carpet. The walls were painted in deep sage. An electric chandelier hung overhead, which almost hit me in the head. Framed photographs and gilded mirrors crowded the walls. On a shelf to the side, a cluster of vases and dead flowers foregrounded the lobby’s most striking element: a stuffed beaver posed in a glass box, eternally working at a plastic branch. 

As I stood there, wondering if the beaver was real, the door clicked open, and Holden returned, shaking out his umbrella. 

“My, Sophie!” he said, his face a mixture of compassion and shock. “You are absolutely drenched. Forgive me– you must be dreadfully uncomfortable. Quickly,” and with one pale, slender hand on the mahogany banister, he ascended the staircase. It was two narrow for two people, so I followed behind him. Our footsteps were muted by the carpet.

We stopped on the second floor. He put his hand in his pocket, rummaged for a moment, and produced a single key. Silently, he placed it in the keyhole. It was an old fashioned sort of keyhole; instead of a knob that could be turned from the inside, it was locked and unlocked from either side of the door with a key, and was big enough to look through. Holden turned it without so much as a click, and the door creaked open.

“I must have that fixed,” he muttered to himself. “Far too squeaky, that is. A disturbance.”

Then, he turned to me and smiled. “Here you are. I hope the room is to your satisfaction.”

He held the door open with one arm, ushering me to step inside. It was a quaint little room, with a dresser, a mirror, a large curtained window, and a nightstand, all of which were squeezed into their respective sides by a four poster bed that was most certainly built for a far more imposing room. Set here thus, it seemed that all its grandeur had been stifled into silence. A small lamp glowed weakly on the nightstand, casting a yellow light that only added to the muffled effect. But it looked warm and cozy, and after my exhausting journey, I couldn't have asked for anything better.

“Thank you,” I said. “This will do wonderfully.”

“One last thing, before I take my leave,” my host said. “We here at the Holiday Home are very understanding of our guests’ needs, who are free to do and to roam as they please. However, we do have one house rule: there can be no noise in the evening, as the walls of this old building are rather thin. Out of consideration for my friends I ask that you refrain from doing anything that may pose a disturbance. Is that alright with you?”

“Of course,” I echoed. He must have had other guests that were checked in by now. I had better not wake them, I thought.

“And if there’s nothing else,” he grinned widely. “I wish you a very, very good night.”

“Thank you; good night!” I smiled back. 

With that, he closed the door. As I looked around the room, I heard another small click: he had locked the door on my behalf.

I staggered over to the bed. A large, fluffy towel and a fresh bathrobe were folded neatly at the foot of it. As I dried myself, my eyes fixed on a dark little book on the nightstand. Curious, I reached over and picked it up. On it, in golden, cursive letters, only two words were inscribed: “New Testament”.

A gust of wind squeezed in through the crack of the window, and a chill rolled through my body. Quickly, I put the book back down and dressed myself in the bathrobe.

The large pillows engulfed me as I sank into the mattress, soothing my aching muscles. Then I felt incredibly exhausted, and fell directly into a deep sleep.