The Writing Retreat(26)

But these ideas were dead. Inert. I was digging around in the mud but finding nothing.

I imagined Wren bent over the paper, her lips curled into a sneer as she read my synopsis. From the beginning of our writing group, Wren had been harsh. Her written notes would litter my pages like little bombs: Boring. Get rid of this. She would never do this in a million years. Ursula would call her Sweeney Todd for her ruthless cuts.

I jumped up and slammed the laptop closed. I needed a break. I needed to calm down. An idea would come; I just had to be patient.

Something I’d done, back when I could actually string words together, was to always have a mug of tea on my desk. In the rhythm of writing, it was helpful to be able to pause and sip and consider before jumping back in. Maybe that would help.

Roza had told us to feel free to use the kitchen. There had to be tea there, right? I slipped into clothes and pulled open the door. Light shone from the cracks beneath everyone’s closed doors. They were off to the races and probably significantly further along than me.

Someone had turned the hallway lights off, and I grabbed my phone to use the flashlight. The marble statues cast sharp shadows in its beam. A chill tickled my lower spine. I felt like I was in a video game, walking down this dark and opulent hall, waiting for something horrific to pounce.

I headed to the landing, marveling at how unnerved I was. For someone who loved horror books and movies, I was way too easily spooked. At the top of the stairs, I hesitated. Something was pricking at me. A noise. I stood still. There it was. The faintest of sounds, but they were somehow clear.

Faraway whimpers, like someone was being hurt.

They were coming from the other side of the landing. I crept towards them, passing a hall that went straight back, towards the rear of the house. The sounds came not from down there but from the other wing, across from our rooms. There was a beat of silence, and then it rose up again: a sharp yelping.

I slipped down the hall, chest tight, feet sinking into the plush rugs. This was a double of our own hallway, also flanked by paintings and punctuated by statues.

The cries were louder now, rhythmic and obviously sexual. Oh. I slowed, but then I continued. The hall ended in a red-painted door. I touched the wood and leaned in. It had to be Roza. Was she alone? The now guttural grunts seemed somewhat exaggerated for a masturbation session, but who was I to judge?

But she wasn’t alone. Somehow I knew there was someone else there.

The visual reared up in my mind: Roza writhing, bucking, crying out as a silent, shadowy figure—Ian?—held down her hips, his tongue moving against her, unrelenting, dominating.

Now her groans escalated, quickening, amplifying. I remained frozen at the door, eyes wide, a pulsing in my own groin. It felt like there was something in the sounds, a code to crack. Because they contained passion and pleasure, sure. But there was also something else. A knowing smile at the edge, somehow tinged with disdain. Maybe even hate.

She came with a keening wail.

Then there was silence. Maybe she’d killed Ian, crushed his head in between her thighs as ecstasy flooded through her. Maybe she was sitting up, examining the mixture of skull and brain, still breathing hard but calming every second.

Ugh. What a mess.

The image was so visceral that terror leapt into my throat. I backed away from the door, then jumped as something cold poked into my thigh.

It was a statue of a rearing horse; I’d bumped into one of its hooves.

I turned and fled back to the safety of my room, trying to shake the disturbing images from my mind.



* * *



I woke early the next day. I’d forgotten to close the drapes, and bright sunlight beamed straight into my crusty eyes. I slipped out of the bed and goose bumps pebbled my arms from the chilly air. As I got ready, I thought about the night before. After scurrying back to my room, I’d crawled under the covers and watched calming downloaded shows on my phone until I’d fallen asleep.

In the sunlight, I felt embarrassed about my overreaction. So Roza was sleeping with Ian: So what? It was a little surprising—he’d seemed like a bit of a creep—but they obviously went back a long time.

More shaming, though, was that I’d snuck up to her door in the first place. What on earth had made me act like a curious, horny twelve-year-old boy? I was lucky no one had caught me.

Wrapped in fluffy towels, I sat at the desk. The sky was a bright, cloudless blue. A sparkling layer of snow covered the backyard. I envisioned throwing my laptop through the window, shattering the glass, watching it land with a poof in a snowy pile.

The first writing group session was at two. It was currently 8:30. I had to come up with a novel idea by the afternoon and then write 3,000 of its opening words.

Back home, that would be impossible. But we were living by Roza’s rules now. And after a full night of sleep, I felt oddly confident. The right idea was there, just slightly beyond my reach. I got ready, grabbed a notebook and pen—how awful would it be for that idea to burst into being and then slip away before I could catch it?—and headed downstairs.

Scents of savory breakfast foods filled my nostrils as I neared the dining room.

“Morning!” Taylor was at the table, green/blond hair mussed from sleep, still in pajamas. I noticed she’d slipped her rabbit necklace on and it clashed with her plaid top. Her laptop was open next to her.

“Morning.”

She motioned to the buffet. “Grab some food. It’s delicious.”