The picturesque hamlet of Bellflower resided at the mouth of a long, narrow valley. The village was dwarfed on both sides by the huge, forest covered mountains.
Bellflower was perched on the edge of a vast lake; the endless shimmer stretched off into the muted distance and the water’s calm mirror-like surface reflected the cornflower blue sky and verdant valley walls.
A little over forty houses made up Bellflower. A handful of the dwellings were sat along the lake edge and formed a petite dock where a few boats were moored. The rest of the village occupied a single street; aptly named Lone Road.
The houses along Lone Road were painted in co-ordinated colours. At the top, the buildings were white. These were followed by purple, blue, green, yellow, orange and finally red, at the lake’s edge.
The purple ambulance, which had never looked more at home, made its way down the street and parked outside one of the green buildings. Rose climbed out of the driver’s seat and locked the door before heading down the street to find a shop.
The lane was empty except for a man and woman who were dressed in matching raincoats. The couple were stooped over a map and loudly discussing which way they should go. Rose considered offering to help, though she quickly decided that her incredibly-sparse knowledge of the surrounding area may prove to be more of a hindrance. Besides, it was never a good idea to get involved in a lover’s quarrel.
Rose smiled and nodded at the lost couple as she passed by. The man stared at her in return with barely concealed distain. He did not rescind his glowering until she had ventured at least twenty feet away. Then he turned to the woman once again and continued their impassioned conversation.
The only shop in Bellflower was located at the harbour end of the street. After a short sweep round its cluttered shelves Rose emerged with heavy bags full of food and cleaning essentials. The thin, plastic carries hung from her arms threatening to burst.
As she made her way back to the ambulance she crossed the road to avoid the couple who were now talking to a rather rotund woman. The newcomer was dressed in a green waxed-jacket and tweed skirt. She had grey hair gathered into an immaculate bun on the top of her head. She did not look pleased as the man in the raincoat shook his head and disagreed with where she was pointing on the map.
Rose was so engrossed with the increasingly heated argument, which was rapidly escalating to the point of shouting, that she didn't see the man getting out of the little, green van. His door swung open and collided with Rose knocking her backwards. Her arms flailed in the air as she recoiled from the impact and she accidentally let go of the bags.
As the carrier bags sailed upwards they burst under the pressure of flight. Like highly domesticated fireworks each bag erupted into an explosion of sponges and milk, flour and eggs, toilet rolls and jam. Having reached the apex of their potential, gravity took over and the groceries began racing towards the ground.
Rose watched in horror as the contents of her bags descended toward her. She covered her face and curled into the foetal position, trying to protect herself as best she could, as she waited for the barrage of groceries to hit.
Something very heavy landed on Rose, covering her, as the first sounds of glass hitting the ground and shattering echoed down the street with a deafening crack. She let out a squeal of terror and curled up tighter under the heavy shelter.
After a few more crashes and bangs the noises subsided, but Rose stayed still.
“Are you OK?” a voice whispered softly into her ear.
“I think so,” she replied.
The weight lifted and revealed itself to be a handsome man. His strong, masculine face was youthful and line-free. Despite his youthful appearance it was his eyes, dark and framed with black lashes, which showed his true age and maturity. He was roughly the same age as her. His warm smile, easily as beautiful as Rose's, spread across his face.
“I'm so sorry for knocking you over. I just didn't see you...though I’m not sure how I could have missed such a beautiful woman. You sure you're OK?” he asked.
“You're bleeding!” Rose gasped breathlessly, sounding not at all unlike a Jane Austen character.
She thrust her hand into a pocket and removed a clean tissue. With a delicate touch she wiped the blood from his forehead and stared into his eyes; once again mesmerized by their depth.
Rose mumbled. “Actually, I think it might be ketchup.”
***
Harmony listened to the sound of the ambulance driving away. She looked around tentatively as the fear of being alone in the house mounted to an almost overwhelming degree. She wanted to run after her mother and beg to be taken along with her but pride would not allow her to behave like that. In truth it would be nice to have a break from Rose; she just wished it could have happened in more comfortable surroundings.
She decided to use a lesson her mother had taught her when she was scared at night: “Feel the fear for ten seconds...then do something about it,” was Rose's advice when she had woken from a bad dream.
With that in mind she sat and allowed herself to be scared for ten seconds. Then she summoned up her courage and shrugged off the bad feelings. Sitting here wasn’t going to make her feel any better. No, she needed a distraction from the icky and all-encompassing shroud that fear draped around her shoulders. She got to her feet and looked around for something to do.
“Well. I may as well start somewhere,” she said aloud, as she surveyed the devastated kitchen. She walked over to the big stone sink and, with some difficulty, wrenched open the little door beneath.
Inside she found a large shovel and an old rubber plunger. The plunger would be of little use until the sink was replaced but the shovel could at least help to gather some of the debris up. As she removed the shovel something glinted in the shadowed corner of the cupboard and caught her eye. She reached into the back corner feeling around for the object. Her hand touched something cold, round and hard. She gripped the ball shape and pulled it out.
In her hand was a small, golden doorknob. She turned it over and found two words delicately carved into the shining, metal surface; Latro Gradus.
Harmony stared at the words and shook her head. Nothing that had happened in the last two days had made any sense. The letter, the fog, the ruined cottage, the dream, the illiterate vandals...all of it was farcical.
So she was not at all surprised that there was a golden doorknob, with bizarre words scratched into it, hidden at the back of a cupboard in a derelict cottage.
“I guess that finding the door this opens will be a far better distraction than cleaning,” she said, to the empty room. Little did she know, the room wholeheartedly agreed.
***
Rose got to her feet and gave a coy smile to her saviour. She delicately extended her hand to meet his out-stretched one; a rush of excitement shared between them as their skin connected. Rose silently thanked The Universe for delivering her into this moment. She redoubled her thanks as she glanced at his free hand and noticed that he wasn’t wearing a wedding band.
“Joseph King. Nice to meet you,” he said.
“Rose Ryder. Nice to meet you too,” she replied, not wanting to let go of his hand but relinquishing it with a dazzling smile and a bashful flutter of her lashes.
Joseph smiled back and then bent down. He began to collect the salvageable groceries from the pavement. Rose, who practically floated down to the pavement, joined him and they soon had all the mess in one bag and the items that could be saved bundled into Rose's arms.
“I really am very sorry, for knocking you over I mean,” Joseph apologised again.
“It's fine. Don't worry about it. It's my fault really. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking,” she admitted, flipping her hair in a flirtatious manner. Despite her best efforts the hair-toss resulted in most of her hair covering her face.
“If there's anything I can do to make it up to you...”
“You don't know if there's a builder around here do you?” she inquired, whilst attempting to blow some hair out of her eyes.
“Funny you should mention it but yeah, I’m a builder,” he laughed as he reached out a hand and fixed her hair. They shared another moment as he tucked a stray lock behind her ear and his finger brushed her cheek.
“Well. Then, perhaps, there is something you could do for me...besides taking me for a drink? Only if you’d want to that is?”
“I’d love to take you out,” he replied. His reaction filled with a kind of strong and confident eagerness that weakened Rose’s already wobbly legs. “Are you free now?” he added.
“Absolutely,” Rose responded, at once regretting how quickly she had accepted. She hoped that it didn’t seem desperate. “I suppose we could discuss the cottage,” she continued in an effort ‘cover her tracks’.
“The cottage?”
“Oh. I forgot to say. I need a builder to come and do some repairs to my chalet. It's a little run down,” Rose informed. She engaged her winning smile.
“Sure. Where is it?” Joe enquired; matching her smile in intensity and making her knees wobble once again.
“It's just a few miles up the road. It's called Darkfern Cottage,” Rose answered, trying to regain some of her composure. Joe’s beauty was disarming and she could feel her cheeks flushing red whenever he looked at her.
Joseph's smiled faded. His expression became mixture of disbelief and shock. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, like he expected her to say she was joking.
“Up at Old Nova's place? Are you being serious?” he said, doubt and worry collided in his tone.
“Yes. Nova was a relative of mine.”
“Why on earth would you want to stay there after what happened?” he blurted, his manner implying that the very idea was ludicrous.
“Why? What happened?” Rose asked. A deep foreboding swirled in her stomach as Joe’s face paled from recollection.
***
Harmony stood at the bottom of a very rickety staircase. She found the stairs behind a cleverly disguised door in the remains of the living room. The façade of the door had been constructed to appear as if it were a book case; the reason for which was beyond Harmony though she did think it was a crafty and practical use of space.
Harmony knew she would never have found the opening mechanism had it not been so obvious; the only book left on the bookcase was entitled Open Sesame after all.
One hand tentatively gripped the rotten banister which protruded from the wall. The aged rail was the only provision of support should she choose to ascend. What strength the banister did have was afforded by a few rusty nails crookedly hammered into the plaster.
She applied a little pressure, testing to see if it would give any kind of support should the stairs carry out their threat of collapsing. Harmony decided that the odds were not good. Nevertheless she advanced, intrigue urging her to investigate further.
The climb was slow. She placed her feet into the corner of each step; terrifying creeks issuing on every footfall as if the stairs were in pain.
Halfway up the potential death trap she began to regret her curiosity-driven decision. The stairs beneath her feet gave a shudder and she paused, fear gluing her trainers to the spot. Holding her breath she waited for a few agonising moments, anticipating the stairs to snap and close on her like a crocodile’s jaws. When this ultimately fatal event did not transpire she continued up with far more haste.
She reached the landing without further incident. Her sigh of relief was cut short as a shudder ran up her spine. The feeling that she had just been graced with a lucky escape flashed across her mind. Images of her body lying undiscovered under the collapsed stairs invaded her thoughts. Given the intensity of her imaginings she decided to remain upstairs until Rose returned lest her thoughts become her reality.
The upper level of the cottage, which had not been visible from the outside, consisted of a single, windowless corridor lit by a small oil lamp.
Harmony queried who had set fire to the wick? Given that the cottage had been empty for so long it seemed like an impossible thing. She thought that perhaps one of the miscreant vandals had ventured upstairs and, like her, was too afraid to go back down. She imagined the life of the trapped thief, doomed to live some kind of lonesome existence until a rescuer happened to pass.
Though, with a moment of reflection, she decided the likelihood of this was quite fanciful. She thought it far more probable to be a motion-activated trick lamp that gave off the appearance of a flame.
The light from the lamp barely illuminated the dark, wood-panelled walls that were littered with hundreds of dusty photo frames. The occupants of the photos were hardly visible through the gloom and grime.
Along the corridor three doors also shared wall space with the collection of snapshot memories. All of which, to Harmony's disappointment, had handles already. She started to walk slowly down the corridor checking the floorboards with her feet as she went; reason insisting she should expect them to be as dilapidated as the stairs. However, they appeared to be strong and sturdy, easily capable of handling her meagre weight. Regardless of how solid they acted she was careful all the same.
The damage, which had devoured the ground floor so entirely, did not extend to the upstairs. Perhaps the vandals hadn’t noticed the book’s blatant message that something lurked behind. There was no graffiti on the walls up here, just the dusty old pictures.
Harmony stopped to look at a large black and white photo that had become mottled and yellowed with age. It was of an old woman standing next to the oak tree in the garden. A small girl with long, blonde hair was smiling and waving from the swing.
Harmony looked at the old woman. She was smiling too, but there was sadness in her eyes and a strange look of familiarity in her face…
She turned away from the picture. The visage of an apparently happy time felt oddly painful to look at. An overwhelming sense of loss filled her insides as she moved away. Her mind felt foggy, like she was forgetting something important.
Harmony thought that it was pointless to try to remember something you have forgotten. To her it felt futile to try and force a mind to do anything other than what it wanted. Instead, she fixed her attention on the first of the three doors.
The door was painted with an elaborate mural of a beautiful, red-haired young woman and a handsome man. The couple were lovingly holding hands in a meadow filled with purple flowers. The woman was obviously meant to be Nova but the man was a mystery to her and he didn't appear to be in any of the photos; although admittedly she had only glanced at a few of them.
Harmony tried the handle and the door willingly creaked open. Inside was a small, undamaged, dusty (and positively medieval in design) bathroom. She quickly scanned the room then closed the door again. She felt disappointed that she still hadn't found a likely place for the golden handle. She turned the doorknob in her hand as she moved onto the middle door.
The painting covering the second door differed only slightly from the first. The woman was grey-haired and she stood alone, weeping next to a grave. Harmony felt uncomfortable, like she was intruding on someone else's memories. She wondered why her great aunt would want a constant reminder of such a macabre and horrible thing.
She tried this door also but it was locked, stuck or perhaps swollen-shut with the damp she mused. Or maybe the key she had dropped in the ambulance would fit the lock? She made a mental note to try out her theory when Rose returned.
Her frustration grew as the door refused to budge. She resisted the temptation to kick in the bottom panel and be done with it. Instead she sensibly moved to the third and final door and examined the painting this one held.
This mural was the strangest of all three. The woman was again crowned in flame-red hair. She was kneeling on the ground behind a huge, clockwork gate. In her hand she held a ring of keys. In the very distant edge of the painting behind a patch of trees, barely visible unless you knew where to look, was a pale-faced girl in a purple dress.
Harmony stared at the picture. Shock electrified her skin and twisted at her stomach. How was this possible? How could her dream be painted on this door? Was it even her dream in the first place? Or, had she been in someone else's? Was this a dream now? Was she still passed out in the back of the ambulance? Her mind raced but, in reality, her eyes remained fixed on the painting.
The woman by the clockwork gate, dressed in her sickly, grey gown, stared back at Harmony from the door’s surface. Harmony felt like Nova was willing her to enter, urging her to venture further. Her hand moved slowly to the cold metal handle and turned. The lock clicked open.