It’s still dark when Lydia emerges from the police station next morning, but a deep grey dark rather than pitch black. Dawn approaches. The young officer with blond hair follows her out, swinging a set of keys in his hand.
“Four Seasons, miss?” He tips an imaginary hat as he opens the rear door of the police car. Is he still mocking me?
“I have to go somewhere else first.”
He frowns. “The detective said—”
“I heard what he said. We’ll go to the hotel, but I need to check on a friend of mine first.”
“Who?”
“I’ll tell you on the way.” She climbs into the back seat, and the young man mouths a silent curse before closing the door after her.
*
The roads are quiet as they head north out of the city. High-rise blocks become terraces, terraces become detached houses and bungalows, all sprinkled with the colourful trappings of the season. Gaudy never sleeps. On Lydia’s instruction, the car bears right and then along a winding road lined with wrought-iron gates and homes set back out of sight. “Here,” she says, leaning forward and pointing to an entrance ahead and to the left.
The gravel of the driveway crunches under the tyres, then under Lydia’s feet as she pushes open the door and steps out even before the car has come to a complete stop. “Hey,” the officer calls after her, “hang on.” But she’s already hopping up the rotten, wooden steps to Cecil Sprinkler’s front door. She knocks with bony knuckles, and presses the bell firmly with a crimson-clawed finger.
“Cecil?” Lydia calls towards the nearest window.
“He’s probably asleep,” says the officer in a weary voice, catching up with her. His eyes are sleepy, his movements sluggish. Thanks for the bodyguard, Alex, she thinks, rolling her eyes.
“Cecil!” Lydia shouts louder this time, hammering on the door again.
“Steady.” The officer makes a grab for her hand, but Lydia whips it away in time. “You’ll wake the whole street.”
“I don’t care. We’re not leaving until I see him, so either help or get out of my way.”
The young man looks annoyed, but seems to decide that arguing will only keep him from his bed longer, because he sighs and then calls out, “Mr. Sprinkler? Are you there? It’s Decanten PD.”
“Cecil!” Lydia stabs at the doorbell again once, twice, three times.
“Maybe he’s not home.”
“This man hasn’t left his house in years,” Lydia mutters, leaning to the window on the other side of the door and rapping on it hard.
“What’s so urgent anyway? Does he know something about what’s happened?”
Lydia doesn’t reply. She doesn’t want to voice her fears out loud, that would only make them more real. Instead she crouches down by the door and fishes the slim, metal lockpick from her purse.
“What the hell are you doing?” The officer stares in disbelief as she jams the instrument into the lock and manoeuvres it just-so. “You wanna go back to the station in cuffs?”
“I’m sure you’ve let worse slide.”
“Well, yeah,” he admits, “but usually I get something out of it.”
“I’ll buy you an ice cream.” The lock clicks and Lydia wrenches the handle, darting inside before the young man can try to stop her. She heads down the hall into the living room, eyes peeled for any sign of trouble, anything that looks out of place. But everything from the books on the floor to the photographs on the shelves seems to still be covered by that thick layer of dust. She opens the study door and looks inside. No sign of life. No sign of a struggle.
“I swear if you steal anything, I’m bringing you in,” says the officer, hot on her heels. Lydia turns and brushes past him on her way back to the hall. She looks up the stairs to the dark landing above and steels herself. Every one creaks loudly, as she knew they would, but she takes them quickly and in a moment is on a narrow landing with three doors off it.
She tries the first, a small bathroom with olive green fixtures. Clean, but musty-smelling. Ancient soaps wrapped in a dish on the sink. Lydia backs out and opens the second door into a room with two slim, single beds covered in boxes full of clutter. This must be the spare room. Lydia scans it for anything odd before retreating and moving to the third room.
She takes a deep breath before pushing open the door, and a shock of fear rips up her spine. The silence is oppressive, gnawing at her nerves. She steps forward into the room, fumbling for the light switch as she does so. It clicks, and for a second the warm yellow light is blinding. Then as her eyes adjust, she sees a neat, perfectly made bed with a folded green towel on top and a pair of slippers on the floor next to it. On the bedside table sits an old carriage clock, its hands unmoving, alongside a photograph of Cecil and his wife, again thick with the dust. Lydia stretches out a hand to pick it up, when a loud noise makes her scream and spin around.
On the window ledge, a Christmas ornament, a snow globe on a stand about the size of a cantaloupe, is lit up and playing music, rotating slowly as it does so. Lydia’s eyes dart around the room, to the door, and then back to the globe. White Christmas, she thinks, the object’s hollow, metallic chimes barely recognisable as the warm, comforting tune that she knows.
“What’s going on up there?” the officer calls up the stairs. Lydia doesn’t answer. She can’t find her voice. Instead she inches closer to the ornament, staring at it, the hair on the back of her neck prickling. Inside the glass sphere is a house made of red brick, with a pointed roof and tall, arched windows like eyes.
A creak on the landing sends a fresh chill rippling across Lydia’s skin, but she can’t tear her eyes away from the house. “What did you find?” The young officer steps into the room behind her. “Is he here? What’s that?” Lydia reaches out and picks up the ornament. It’s warm to the touch. “What did I say about stealing?” He moves to her shoulder. “Go on then, give it a shake.”
Every fibre of Lydia’s being is screaming at her not to, but her hands seem to be acting of their own free will. As though in slow motion, they tip the globe back and then jerk it sharply upright again. Instead of snow, thick, blood-red clouds engulf the tiny house, spreading quickly to fill the glass sphere as the eerie music scrapes out of tune, then grinds to a halt.