Dream House by Marzia Bisognin Read Free Book Online Page A

hours—is a mixture of weird sounds and broken images. But not once does Alfred appear.
    I think back to the previous evening—did I actually see him leave? Was he up to something in the house? Maybe his working day was over and he’d set off for home. But then what would have caused the camera to act this way? Is it possible that perhaps he spotted it through the window? And if he did, how did he manage to corrupt the footage without letting himself be seen even once? Or is it just a coincidence?
    I feel more confused than ever, and the only thing that comes to mind is Avery’s comment about the gardener, the warning to keep my distance. He obviously knows something about Alfred that I don’t, and I need to figure out what it’s all about.
    After several days of wearing the same girly pyjamas, I finally slip back into my clothes, then brush my hair and splash my face with cold water.
    I pause for a moment in front of the mirror to stare at a reflection that I’m slowly beginning to feel strangely disconnected from. The dark rings under my eyes are getting worse, and my lips are chapped, but what’s most unsettling is the look on my face. Is this really me?
    Trying not to let my appearance worry me any more than it already does, I walk away from the mirror, checking my breath in my cupped hand as I go: deadly.
    In a half-hearted attempt to conceal it, I eat a yoghurt, too preoccupied now with getting out of the house as soon as possible to dedicate much thought to the problem of my halitosis, and soon afterwards I’m outside.
    I squat down by the gateway at the back, somehow confident that Avery will turn up and stop to talk.
    The wind blowing my hair all over the place, I wait. Without changing my mind. I have to stay here and wait for him. He’s coming—I need to believe that.
    After watching it struggle in the gusts of wind buffeting the earth, I rip a lonely daisy out of the ground and hold it between my hands.
    The last few sunbeams which gave some warmth to the air are now departing, allowing the night to gradually take over the world.
    At last, I hear his voice whisper, “Are you okay?”
    Without wasting a single moment, I tuck the flower into my jacket sleeve and hoist myself up to my feet.
    â€œI need to talk to you,” I tell him as I brush my hands clean.
    â€œWere you waiting for me?” he asks.
    I nod in response, and continue. “The other day you told me to stay away from Alfred. Why?”
    He casts a glance at the shed to make sure the gardener isn’t around, and then, his expression as serious as my own, begins to explain.
    â€œThere are rumours about him in this village.”
    â€œWhat kind of rumours?”
    â€œAlfred has a past. Like all of us—except that his is pretty dark.”
    I let him go on.
    â€œHe moved to White Hills with his young wife about twenty years ago. They were newly married, they didn’t have much in the way of money, so he started working as a gardener for some of the more well-off families in the village.”
    Intently, I follow his every word.
    â€œOver the years, he gradually managed to put enough money aside to be able to afford a family home, on the top of that hill,” he says, pointing at the highest peak visible beyond the cornfields.
    â€œI don’t see it,” I cut in. “Where do you mean, exactly?” But he ignores my question.
    â€œAt that time,” he goes on, “his wife, Lilly, was pregnant. The day she gave birth, Alfred took a day off to be with her. The next day, he turned up for work, and he looked—a mess. Completely done in.”
    â€œWhat happened?” I whisper.
    Without taking his eyes from mine, he continues.
    â€œLilly had died in childbirth.” Avery lowers his eyes. “Then, two days after—after the tragic event, Alfred went missing. People started looking all over town for him, in all the local pubs. But there was no sign