Dream House by Marzia Bisognin Read Free Book Online

why all this is happening to me, it occurs to me for the first time that I might actually, seriously, be starting to lose my mind.
    And right then, something even worse happens. Right before my eyes.
    Hearing a tapping noise from the kitchen, I turn round, unable for a second to locate exactly where it’s coming from. And then I do.
    The fridge.
    The magnetic letters on the chrome door are moving.
    With spasmodic little jerks that grow more assured as I watch, a T begins making its way hesitantly towards an E. It’s joined by a Y, which rattles as though fighting to free itself, and an instant later all the letters are twitching and shifting.
    Slowly at first, then with increasingly decisive movements accompanied by delicate clicking, sliding sounds, they start skidding across the shiny surface of the fridge, gradually positioning themselves to form a sentence.
    I watch, spellbound and horrified.
    For you, dear Amethyst , it reads.
    At this point, I’m seized by complete, total panic. I start trembling and spin round, searching desperately for anybody, anything, that might be making this happen.
    But I’m the only one here.
    Or at least, I’m the only human being here.
    Terrified, I race over to the French windows in the hope of finding some sign that Avery is at home so I know that a chance exists of running away and finding somewhere safe . . . but outside, everything is pitch black.
    It takes all of my courage, but I decide to turn off all the lights in the house and run as quickly as I possibly can into my bedroom, closing the door behind me and pulling the curtains shut across the window. Here, enshrouded in obscurity, is the only place I can still feel safe.
    I lie awake in my bed for what seems like hours, unable to relax and jumping in fear at the slightest noise. At one point, I swear I can hear footsteps outside my door, followed by whispers, but I don’t dare move an inch.
    Most of the night passes like this, until finally the new day arrives and the first beams of morning light begin tentatively poking through the curtains of my window.
    I haven’t closed my eyes once, and my entire body feels achy and sore. I can say with some certainty that it’s been the worst night I’ve ever suffered my way through in my entire life.
    But despite everything that’s gone on, despite all the bizarre things that I’ve seen, all the weird stuff that’s happened, they still haven’t managed to scare me off: I’m not going to run away.
    I’m going to wait for the Blooms to come back.
    And as the light forces the darkness away, my body and mind finally allow me to rest, and I sink into a deep sleep.

DAY 8
    11 :30 A.M. Time to get out of bed.
    The air feels a lot colder than usual, and a strong wind is blowing impetuously against the house.
    With a thrill of excitement, I remember the camera that I left filming on the bathroom windowsill the evening before and rush to retrieve it. In no time at all, I’m holding it in my hands and trying to find the video. The display says that it recorded for two hours and thirty minutes, only stopping when the memory card was full.
    After giving the magnetic letters in the kitchen a couple of cautious pokes to make sure they’re not going to start moving by themselves, I clear away the food from the table, covering the bowls with cling film and storing them away inside the fridge. Then I place the camera on the dining table, take a seat, press Play, and start watching.
    For a good fifteen minutes there’s no sign of anybody on the footage and everything appears to be completely normal—but when I get to the sixteenth minute, for a fraction of a second something changes slightly. I rewind and replay it.
    In that brief instant, two events follow one another in rapid succession: the door of the shed opens, and random flashes of light appear, seemingly corrupting the footage. The next frame—like the following two