Short Story - Weeping Willow Cottage

I pulled my gaze from the swirl of water in the sink and looked deep into the turquoise eyes that stared back at me. I was exhausted. The shadows were already lengthening. I should have been gone hours ago but I’d had to wait for a customer to pick up the painting she had commissioned. The picture, a turbulent seascape of blues, greens, and greys, painted at the bluff just up the road hadn’t excited me the way most of my paintings do but I’d needed the money and the customer had paid me well.

 I ran my hands through my short sandy hair and wondered when the new smattering of grey had appeared. I finished applying mascara to my pale lashes and packed it into the silver toiletry bag which I then took out to the front door where my suitcase was sitting, ready to leave.

I walked out of my house, locked the door behind me and threw my suitcase in the back of my beat-up Camry. I backed out of my drive and turned the nose away from the coast, leaving behind the fresh sea breeze, warm and salt-laden, as I headed inland.

As my car climbed the steep mountainside then headed down again into the gullies of the warm temperate rainforest I couldn’t help but picture my ex. Shaking the image from my mind I focused on the straight, white trunks of the Eucalypts reaching up to the deep green canopy as they danced upon the lush carpet of ferns below.

I was leaving town, staying in a secluded cottage six-hours away to forget what had happened, to immerse myself in my artwork. I was only going for a week but I’d packed enough art supplies for a month.

The cottage had showed up on one of my pointless, mindless, internet searches, it was beautiful, idyllic – old and surrounded by a forest that was held at bay by a cottage garden full of roses. The giant old weeping willow that stood by the front gate sold me on the place immediately and the extremely good rate for the week took my getaway from dream to reality before I had a chance to think twice.

As I left the rainforest behind, bare brown paddocks unfurled, dotted by the occasional stand of trees or granite outcroppings. I envisioned my destination. Gentle sunlight filtering through the leaves of the willow, the heady scent of the roses as I brushed past, the cool shade of the veranda at the back overlooking the soft green grass that spread down to meet the babble of the stream at the bottom of the garden.

Reality hit as I paused for petrol in a dirty, one-street town. The poplars lining the road were tall and bare. It’s the middle of winter and I was going inland, up into the Great Dividing Range. There would be no soft warm sun, no pretty green willow, no roses in bloom. I took a deep breath, I couldn’t believe I’d been so blinded by the beautiful images online that I hadn’t even considered what it would be like in winter. But I was determined, I would make the most of the time alone – I desperately needed the break.

Soon mountains began to grow in the distance, folds like a blanket draped over a sleeping child. The paddocks gave way to Eucalyptus trees, the white trunks I was so used to were fewer and further apart, held at bay by darker trunked trees, smaller and twisted, dull green and dry.

Soon came the pine forests, small, cheerful trees that looked like Christmas trees, soon they were taller than a house, thick and dark, so tall I had to crane my neck to see the tops of the trees, the sunlight didn’t even penetrate to the carpet of red pine needles. Finally came the blasted fields of tree stumps and fallen branches. The bald hills, uneven and dead, after a battle between man and tree.

Before long the twisted native forests were back. The road got thinner, windy and steep. My heart was in my throat as I passed a semi-trailer going a speed I thought was unreasonably, unethically fast. I avoided looking at the drop on my side of the road, my knuckles white on the steering wheel.

The sun set as I continued to wind through the trees. Eventually I came into what could not even be called a village. It consisted of a General store with a rusty petrol bowser out the front, a two-story pub with an expansive carpark and a lovely blue house with a B&B sign on the gate and the porch light glowing over the door.

Misty Valley B&B, just the place I was looking for. Mrs Peabody, the woman who rented Weeping Willow Cottage also owned the B&B. I was to meet her there to pick up the keys and directions to the cottage. Of course, I was about four hours late but I had called to let her know and she had agreed to stay up to wait for me.

I ducked into the B&B. The old lady invited me to stay for a cup of tea but the wind was picking up and the dark, night sky was threatening rain so I was keen to keep moving. It was still going to take me at least half an hour to get to the cottage and it was already pushing nine o’clock.

I followed the hastily scrawled directions. As I drove, I kept my eyes peeled for the turnoff that would eventually lead to my private paradise, the heavens opened up and unleashed a torrent of rain, slowing my already slow progress even more. The wind kicked up a notch and soon the rain was hitting the car almost horizontally.

I finally found the turnoff and headed down the thin, winding road.

My tension levels sky rocketed as leaves and small branches began hitting the car along with the rain. I let out a scream as I swerved to miss a branch that fell on the side of the road. I slammed on the brakes and slowed my car to a crawl, worried that I might hit something but not wanting to stop altogether in case something hit me.

Eventually I spotted the weeping willow that stood by the gate of the cottage. I pulled in and parked, clutching my handbag to my chest, bracing myself for the dash to the front door, knowing that I would have to make two or three trips to get the food, clothes, and art supplies that I’d brought with me. I decided to take what I could in the first trip and then try to wait out the storm, thinking surely it would let up soon. I leaned over to the back seat and grabbed the bag of groceries that I’d placed there, thinking at least if I have that I can make myself a cup of tea.

The wind howled and the willow tree thrashed around like a wild animal. I counted to three, pushed open the car door and ran towards the cottage. Suddenly I heard a loud creak, followed by an almighty crack.

I looked up to my left just in time to see a large willow branch come hurtling toward me.

                                                *                      *                      *

Standing inside the door of the cottage, dripping wet and with what was sure to be a large lump forming on my left temple, I realised there was a light on somewhere deep within the house. I removed my muddy shoes and followed the beckoning glow. I found that it was coming from a loungeroom, bright and inviting. A fire burned merrily in the fireplace. Thanking the old woman silently for driving out here to make sure the fire was going, I moved over and stood by the hearth drying my sodden clothes. It was late and I was exhausted. By the time I was finally dry, I decided to go straight to bed. I would explore the house and bring in the rest of my things tomorrow.

My sleep was fractured, I kept hearing things in the night. I’ve never been the deepest sleeper and I could have sworn there was someone else in the room, sharing the bed even. I woke to sighs and at one point a low rumble that sounded like someone snoring lightly. In the deepest, darkest hours of the night exhaustion finally took over and I slept only to wake to the cold, bright, morning sunlight and the smell of bacon wafting in from the kitchen.

With a pounding heart I tiptoed down the icy hall, listening to clink and clatter of someone making breakfast. I stopped at the kitchen door, my hand on the cold door handle and took a deep breath, preparing myself to face whoever was on the other side. I turned the knob and flung open the door.

Nothing.

An empty kitchen. The stovetop cold.

The smell of bacon disappeared.

I let out a giggle, I must be more stressed – and hungry – than I had realised.

I found the bag of groceries that I had brought in the night before. They were sitting where I had left them, in the loungeroom next to an empty fireplace, swept clean of any ashes, the pile of kindling towering next to the hearth.

I looked around the room, my brow furrowed and my breath visible in the frigid air. I was sure there was a blazing fire when I had arrived last night but now it looked like the fireplace hadn’t been used in months. There was no tell-tale woodsmoke scent, all I could smell was the dust of a disused room.

Confused and thinking I must have hit my head harder than I’d thought, I went about starting a fire. When it was going and the room was finally starting to warm up I decided to get the rest of my things from the car.

I pulled on the shoes I had left, muddy, by the door and stepped out on to the porch. I’d thought it was cold inside but the cold outside stole my breath.

It had snowed overnight, a lot.

I dashed out on to the crisp, fresh snow, wishing that I could pass by without marring the smooth surface. The crunch under my feet took me back to childhood.

Halfway across the yard I stopped. My car wasn’t where I had left it. It wasn’t parked by the gate. I ran the rest of the way to the gate, pulled it open and stood looking up and down the track. My car was nowhere to be seen. The snow was smooth and thick. Wherever my car was it must have been moved before the snow fell.

I’m either going crazy or someone is messing with me, I thought to myself.

I bolted back inside and locked the door behind me. That was when I heard laughter. It sounded like a child giggling breathlessly just in the other room. I heard a bang and a squeal as I walked over to the doorway, then there were footsteps running down the hall behind me. I spun around, no one was there.

By this time, I was shaking. My stuff was gone, I was alone in a house in the middle of nowhere and it seemed someone was trying to frighten me. I ran into the bedroom, searched it from top to bottom and when I was sure I was alone I locked the door and huddled in the corner.

What am I going to do? I asked myself over and over. The cottage had no phoneline – part of the reason I had chosen to come here – and my mobile was in the missing car.

Soon the room began to darken. The sun was setting. I had been sitting on the floor in the corner for longer than I thought. I decided it was time to search the house to make sure I was alone and that everything was locked. I’d work out a way to get back to town tomorrow, for now I had heat and food, and if I could find something to use as a weapon I’d have protection too.

I ventured out into the rest of the house, turning on lights as I went. When I got to the loungeroom I grabbed the fire poker to use as a weapon then gasped as I realised that the fire was still blazing despite the fact that I hadn’t tended it in hours. I tried to tell myself that the wood was just really good quality, long-burning wood, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe.

I searched the house and found nothing unexpected so I went into the kitchen and made myself some food. I should have been starving as I hadn’t eaten in almost 24 hours but strangely I wasn’t. I was only eating because I thought I should.

When I finished eating I went to place the dishes in the sink but dropped them with a crash.

The sink was already full of dirty dishes. I cried out, the sink had been empty when I first came into the room not twenty minutes earlier. I hadn’t left the kitchen and no one else had come in so where had these dishes come from?

I was really starting to freak out now, I decided to go to bed, lock myself in and head straight into town in the morning, even if it meant losing my toes trekking through the snow.

I left the light on in the kitchen and headed back to the bedroom. As I passed the loungeroom I realised that the light was switched off – I was sure I had left it on. Turning it back on I turned and ran into the bedroom slamming the door behind me and leaning against it, breathing hard.

Damn! I needed the bathroom. That meant another dash down the hall. I steeled myself, pulled open the bedroom door and dashed to the bathroom. When I entered the room, I noticed that it was warm and the air was steamy. The mirror was fogged like someone had just stepped out of the shower. No one was there now so I locked the door and used the toilet.

I dashed back down the hall to the bedroom but stopped when I realised the light had been switched off. I was sure I’d left it on.

I stepped into the room, reached out to the light switch and froze.

Something moved on the bed. I could just make out a hump under the covers. I heard a gasp.

I switched on the light ready to attack, but there was nothing there. The bed covers were just as I had left them. I started to think the cottage was haunted and I was getting out of there, first thing in the morning.

I locked the bedroom door behind me and huddled in the corner with the light blazing.

At some point I must have slept because when I woke, stiff and cold, the bedroom door was ajar and the light had been switched off.

I climbed to my feet, grabbed my hand bag and ran straight out the front door.

                                     *                              *                              *

‘I’m sorry Mrs Peabody, but I don’t think we can stay at the cottage another day.’

‘It’s haunted, there was a woman standing over the bed last night and when we turned on the light no one was there.’

‘Yes, and there were muddy footprints in the hall and the kids said they heard someone flushing the toilet and wandering through the house.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Peabody, owner of Misty Valley B&B and manager of Weeping Willow Cottage. “I’m sorry my dears, we haven’t rented the cottage in winter for almost a decade. I had hoped that she’d moved on.’

‘Who?’

‘The young woman who died there ten years ago. The night she arrived there was a terrible storm, a branch fell from the willow tree and struck her, she never even made it inside. So sad.’

                                      *                               *                               *

I pulled my gaze from the swirl of water in the sink and looked deep into the turquoise eyes that stared back at me. I was exhausted. The shadows were already lengthening.

I should have been gone hours ago…