Should I trust them?

The sun, which had been living behind the clouds all day, had already disappeared by four. The ruthless winter day made me shiver, even with the pale blue blanket covering my legs as I worked. The house I was staying in was freezing, and ancient, and I dare say it was colder inside than out. I had been reading and writing in the library the entire day, and everything was completely quiet. My breathing, a wayward branch that clapped against the window glass at times, and the gentle pages turning were the only melodies in this silent symphony. I stopped the pen at five. It was time to face the world again, after being scribbling for hours. I noticed the wind had fallen as I looked through the window, which showed me the world was so dark I couldn’t see the apple trees on the lawn. A lonely crow shrieked in the distance, and a loud owl answered with a melodious hoot.

I looked at the page I had been stuck in for a while. On it, there was only one written line: Should I trust them? I didn’t recall how it got there, though it was clear it was my handwriting. Who should or shouldn’t I trust? I got up. My body was stiff from all the hours I had spent in the same position, trying to figure out a way around the short story I was putting together.

Should I trust them? I thought as I made my way to the kitchen. Everything creaked under my feet, the wooden floor was as old and noisy as the house. I craved to be given some tea in the library, but everyone in the house seemed to have disappeared. I was startled that my husband didn’t have the decency of bringing me a drink that day, as he usually did, but nor he or my parents appeared to be in the house. I called their names out loud, but my voice echoed in the emptiness of the walls. The countryside outside grew darker by the minute, yet I found myself alone and unbothered, in the middle of the dining room. The fires were out, and I found myself lighting a candle to guide my steps through the house.

After boiling the kettle and pouring the hot water into my cup, I let it brew while I looked for the milk. It was missing in action.

‘Shit.’ I whispered to myself.

I crossed the threshold that led to the scullery, the door closing harshly behind me. A shiver traveled down my spine, the wind had returned. Do not panic, I thought. The damned door was always doing things like that, the lock constantly falling into its rightful place, leaving the person trapped inside the room. I ducked to face the fridge, trying to find the white elixir that would fix my tea on its shelves.

Nothing. I was beginning to feel impatient, uneasy. Should I trust them? Behind me, the lock began to tremble. I didn’t stop to think: I knew someone was trying to force the door open.

‘Hello?’ I asked, holding my hand out. It was shaking.

The rustling stopped for a moment. Then it came back stronger. It wasn’t my imagination, there was someone trying to come in. The hairs on my neck rose as I held the knob and undid the lock, letting the door burst open in front of my eyes, a scream of terror rising from my throat. Should I trust them?