The dude in the mirror is trying to kill her!
Ivy moves into an overgrown cottage in the back of beyond two days before Christmas. She soon discovers that the old place keeps old secrets. The mirror above her mantlepiece is not what it seems. Ash and oil footsteps appear from nowhere, as does writing on a wall.
Is her refuge haunted? Ha, well, she’ll decorate the bejeezus out of it, overwhelm whatever it is with pretty baubles and blinking lights. Not everyone loves Christmas as much as she does, after all.
A good plan indeed … until Gabriel introduces himself.
Old houses certainly do keep old secrets.
I
M |
oss-covered stone
hid Gabriel’s End from the lane, a teetering wall that instantly filled her
with misgiving.
She pulled into the drive; the twisted gates on either side were forever
open by the looks of them. With courage in hand, eyeing the place while
scraping through the thick, overgrown hedges on either side, she cautiously
manoeuvred in. Dark green foliage clung to the low building; leaves spotted in
scarlet. Red Ivy, and not in good trim.
Might be great for Christmas wreaths, though.
She snorted amusement. It fit. Red Ivy. That was her. Ivy, with her red
hair.
Ivy’s first impression, therefore, was of the degree of labour involved to
prune the old creeper. Her labour, with her city hands. She would need tools.
The ramshackle garden shed peeping through a juniper bush promised … well, she
needed to ferret there some first.
‘Needs TLC’ the agent murmured during their one conversation, never
specifying exactly what and where, but quite happy to take her money in full
payment. Buying via the internet possessed drawbacks, but it also removed the
need for physical presence, and she took the risk fully aware.
She loved the name. Gabriel’s End possessed mysterious
connotations and felt as if it belonged to another time.
Clearly the stills on display on the website were taken before the
climber overran the old place, and in better light than this filtered grey. Did
the sun ever shine here? Then again, if it was only the creeper and the
overgrown garden that required care - add to that one unstable boundary wall -
Ivy was quite willing to acknowledge that she received the best end of the
deal.
Gravel sporting moss clumps crunched as she climbed from the little jeep
she had swapped her city car for just yesterday, another internet deal. That
had been the greater risk than buying the cottage, for it meant potentially
shady characters and an overdriven engine, but the old guy who met her at the train
station a few towns away had been an absolute darling. He wanted a sweet little
car for his granddaughter, a Christmas gift, he said, and she needed a bushwhacker
to go with her new life. Both of them walked away happy.
House and transport were registered under her now legal pseudonym; she
hoped it meant she had managed to vanish off the radar. In another life she was
not Ivy, but her mother called her that in their private moments, and she was
therefore familiar with it. No one knew of that past; her mother died when she
was ten.
Christmas was a mere two days away, and this fresh start was her gift to
herself. She would be spending it alone and couldn’t be happier to do so.
Still, a few wreaths and decorations were a great idea. Jingle bells all the
way, and all that.
After doing battle with ivy tendrils, Ivy discovered the weed-ridden path
to the front door. A brief glance at the garden revealed that it needed months
of work, but that suited her. She had years ahead of her in the end of beyond
and intended to create a wonderland.
It would be a lonely endeavour, but so be it. She had no need of company.
And, hey, maybe someone came out of the woodwork one day soon. A girl could
keep an eye out for that.
A huge and rusty hook had been embedded decades ago in the very centre of
the old door, the perfect place to swing a Christmas wreath from. Almost she
shouted out her glee. She had wanted to do that forever.
The key waited under the mat as promised, a huge brass affair that had
her smiling with pleasure. Ivy adored things old, objects imbued with history.
Her smile vanished when she sensed how Mark would see it. A quirk, he
called it when they started dating, himself into everything modern and
minimalist. Old-fashioned, he called it after they were married … and it became
one of the reasons for parting, if only the smallest part. Irreconcilable
differences, according to the divorce papers. No common ground, she snorted.
Hell, given what happened, no common ground at all. She wondered if he’d signed
the papers; she fled the same morning they arrived.
Nothing was ever that simple, of course. A marriage didn’t begin and end
without a host of issues between, but this was a new day, a new country, a new
start, and it was time to move on.
And this year she intended to bloody enjoy Christmas.
Ivy slid the key into its slot and twisted.
The damn thing near broke her wrist.
Shoving at the door and rattling the key, she battled the ancient lock
until the solid wooden barrier finally creaked inward. Hinges and lock
definitely needed some of that TLC. The door, though, was a beauty.
An instant later she shrieked like a banshee on a cold winter’s night.
Cobwebs and Ivy were mortal enemies; the presence of said spectacle usually
meant a spider or three could be in the region. Glaring at the offensive web
that hung like a bead curtain in a hippie spa, she wondered just how long it
had been since someone opened this door.
Peering beyond the cobwebs, she could see little, but had the strangest
sensation. Not that weird feeling as if someone was watching, but rather a
sense of expectation. Maybe being alone for the first time worked on her
senses; she, after all, was the expectant one, all prepared to start over.
Yippee yay.
Backing up to search for a stick to deal with the cobwebs, Ivy looked up.
Above the door, etched into the stone lintel in Celtic type letters, were the
words HERE GABRIEL ENDS and a date. She peered through narrowed eyes,
attempting to decipher the lichen-covered numbers.
1018.
She blinked.
This cottage had been in this spot for a thousand years.
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