Leave The Lights On by Liv Andersson

Author:Liv Andersson [Andersson, Liv]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crooked Lane Books
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

23

FRIDA’S COTTAGE LOST power sometime after midnight. Thunder roared, a flash of lightning followed, and then I heard the cracking and fall of a tree. Sparks flew outside the window before the room went dark.

I looked down at the paintbrush in my hand and laughed, an eerie sound that cut through the silence like a knife through Jell-o. My phone was nearly dead, the candles were burned to stumps, and now the power was gone. Soon I would be entombed in darkness—other than the momentary glow from the lightning strikes.

I would have to brave the storm and get the flashlights from the main house while I had enough cell charge to get down there. I put my brushes in water, pulled on my jacket, and slid into my shoes. I had no umbrella, but I found a piece of cardboard the contractors had left in the bedroom, and I held it up over my head as I stumbled down the path that led to the main house, the watery light from my phone leading the way. Lightning and thunder were rapid fire now, and I walked as quickly as I dared, avoiding the big trees and anything else that could attract lightning. The wind howled around me. I told myself I was fine. This was just a storm, and I’d endured worse.

The power was out in the house as well. I fumbled with the key and finally unlocked a back entrance into the kitchen. Inside, the rain and wind were just light background noise to my own ragged breaths. I felt myself hyperventilating. I forced shallow gulps of air. Panicking would only make things worse.

I tried to remember where we’d stored the emergency gear. I’d originally put it in the kitchen cupboards, but the contractors had moved everything while prepping for demolition. I shined my light around the laundry room and inside the supply closet—both were empty of supplies. Same with the one working downstairs bathroom.

Damn. The interior of the house was pitch black, and the pathetic light from my phone was just enough to create a spooky tunnel of illumination. I felt my way along the spine of the house, through the living areas and massive kitchen, and into the servants’ hall, which led into the first of the linear additions. Because the roof over this part of the house was still intact, the contractors had left their tools in neat piles, covered with plastic tarps. This add-on had once housed examination rooms and “therapy suites” back when it was an asylum, but under Miles Ross’s ownership, the rooms had served as storage units, each containing a hoarders’ worth of boxes—the relics of one man’s life. We’d thrown out most of Miles’s belongings in this part of the house, but the sagging floors and water-stained ceilings left behind after years of neglect had proven to be beyond redemption. This addition, like the additions that followed behind it, was scheduled to be destroyed. I was glad. I hated this part of the house.

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