Dream House Read Online Free Page B

anymore.
    I scream one more time. “NO!”
    . . . and then wake up to see the polished wood of the furniture glowing in the weak sunlight. I am alone. There’s no body.
    It was a nightmare. An absolutely awful nightmare.

    It takes a while for me to accept that the whole thing was all in my head, that it wasn’t actually real—but I can’t stop thinking about it.
    What could it have meant? I didn’t know that little girl, yet I felt such a bond with her; I needed to save her. And if I hadn’t left the room, she wouldn’t have died.
    I should have stayed with her.
    It was my fault!
    Over and over again, I replay the scene in my mind, getting more upset each time but never quite managing to squeeze any kind of meaning out of it.
    Finally, I shake my head in defeat.
    Realising from the rumblings of my stomach that it’s already lunchtime, I walk back through the living room and into the kitchen. The note on the fridge isn’t there anymore, adding yet another mystery to the others already crowding my mind, but I ignore the thought and start assembling a plateful of mixed snacks while I enjoy the view over the back garden and the house next door. Now that the sun is shining, I can clearly see the gate which connects the two properties, and it makes me wonder if I will ever get a chance to meet the neighbours.
    After everything that’s happened, I feel the need to know more about all these strange events. As much as I would like them to stop, I need to understand the situation I’m in—and I don’t feel like I can just walk away from it.
    There’s so much on my mind—and none of it straightforward—that it starts to feel almost as though the air itself is thickening around me, until finally it gets to the point that I absolutely need some fresh air. I dump my plate on the kitchen counter, put on my sneakers, and—still in my pyjamas—prepare to step outside.
    I pause by the open door for a moment to stretch and notice a small pile of newspapers and magazines lying there on the floor: the Evening Hills , the White Hills Advertiser , The Clerical Gazette . . . .
    I pick them up, heap them all together next to the old black Bakelite telephone on the graceful little hall table by the entrance, then let myself out and take the same path as a few nights previous until I find myself standing by the white wooden gate, where I can see the neighbours’ house up close.
    It’s a massive-looking thing, which appears to have three floors above ground and the added space of a tower protruding from its side. The small, sunken windows contrast with the mansion’s imposing appearance, and the green ivy leaves hugging the tower’s walls seem almost to be strangling it, except where they thin out lower down towards the ground, allowing the grey colour of the stone to show through.
    I turn around to admire once again the gorgeous windows of my dream house and sink down until I am sitting on the ground with my back resting against the gate, letting myself bask in all that loveliness.
    Everything is quiet, the only noise that of a faraway train passing by, lending a magical touch to the already perfect scenery—until this idyllic moment is interrupted by a finger tapping me gently on the shoulder. I jump in surprise and turn to see who the finger belongs to.
    On the other side of the gate, a young man—probably in his early twenties—is standing there smiling down at me.
    â€œHey,” he says, while I’m still recovering from the fright.
    â€œI didn’t think anyone was here,” I manage to mumble. “I . . . I—”
    He cuts me off reassuringly. “Oh, don’t worry—I’ve only just got here myself.”
    His grey eyes are mesmerizing, and a perfect match for the stone of the house in the background. His short, dark hair is messy, and even though the broad smile is still there on his