Five-Star Cottage

At the edge of the property, I looked back at the cottage. Quaint and inert against the cerulean sky and rolling hills, it seemed far less sinister than when we first arrived.

The moss looked bright and lush under the afternoon sun. Green buds on the rosebushes were already turning pink. The ivy that clung to the brickwork no longer appeared to devour the building, and instead brought the cottage to life.

But still no reply from Jarrad.

I texted him again at the top of the hill. Could he have fallen asleep in the paddock? Surely I’d see his clothes from here.

Back at the cottage, our car was still in the driveway, Jarrad’s boots still absent from the foyer. So I returned to the forest, past the mushroom patch at the bottom of the garden. New heads had already sprung up to replace the ones we picked.

Along the forest path, I called his name, texted again, dialled—it rang out. Courage turned to dread in my belly when I reached the entrance of the cave. It resembled an open mouth, baring its rock fangs upwards like an insatiable creature.

Jarrad was in there for sure. Maybe he was hurt, maybe he hit his head. All this time I’d been wallowing in self-pity when my lover needed me. This was no time for the narcissism of fear, no time for selfish dread.

“I’m coming, babe. Hang on.”

I squeezed my phone and went down.

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