Five-Star Cottage

The wind urged me through the narrow passage. I tried not to think about what I might find at the end of my journey—perhaps a cold and broken body, blood seeping between veins of mould. The wailing continued, and as I reached the cavern, a sudden gust rang a blood-curdling shriek that echoed through the depths.

I stumbled with shock and lost my footing. The ground fell away beneath me, and as I landed on a steep and slippery decline, I realised maybe there was another passage from the entrance after all. It was the one I should have taken.

Down I slid, scrambling for a protruding rock or divot—anything to slow the fall. But the rock face was too sheer, growing smoother and colder with my descent. The tumbling light that fell with me went out. My phone was gone. Again I imagined a broken body decaying in this cave—my body.

The scream of the wind was my scream, abject terror resonating through miles of tunnel under a magnificent southwest countryside.

I bet the people living around here don’t even know this place exists.

I hit the bottom, intact. The ground was soft, not muddy but rich and fertile. Another word Jarrad taught me came to mind: “humus”. It piled between my fingers as I fumbled in vain for my phone.

This was it. This was how things would end for me, lost in this forgotten place. I screamed into the dark, then sobbed until I was empty and fell into an exhausted sleep.

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Ojo