Page 31 of Cackle

She stands up and takes my plate. “Don’t worry. You’re safe here with me.”

She walks over to the sink and sets our plates down on top of all of the other dirty dishes. Mixing bowls, spoons, measuring cups.

“I can help you with those,” I offer.

“Nonsense,” she says. “You’re my guest. Also, darling, I don’t want you walking home in this.”

“Yeah,” I say. I’m assuming she’ll be able to drive me back to my apartment. Should I ask?

“Before you think I’m incredibly rude, I can’t offer you a ride because I don’t have a car. Or a license. Which is ridiculous, I know. But here we are.”

“Did you grow up in the city?” I ask. I met a few people at NYU who’d lived in the city their whole lives and never planned on leaving. A license was unnecessary, a car a nuisance.

“No,” she says. “I’ve never been. I don’t get out much, really. I lead a very simple life.”

“Yeah,” I say, gesturing to the room around us. “Simple life. Simple house.”

She rolls her eyes. “You judge me.”

“I don’t!”

“Someone else built this house. A man with too much money and too much ego. He lost it all and left it to rot. I merely saved something beautiful,” she says, “though I do have a fondness for beautiful things, especially ones in need of saving.”

She begins to fill the kettle. “So, Annie, you should stay here tonight. Imagine the muddy mess it will be out there. To navigate it in a storm or after dark—no. No, no. I’ll make up my favorite guest room.”

Is she asking me to sleep over?

There’s a hesitation, a small anxious creature inside me pulling on my veins, using my stomach as a trampoline. All I’ve done for the past week is lament being alone, and now I’ve made a new friend, who’s offering for me to spend the night in her mansion. Why am I not more excited? Why am I experiencing this strange trepidation?

“What is it?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “It’s really nice of you to offer, but I don’t want to impose.”

“I invited you,” she says. “It’ll be fun. I’ll open a bottle of wine. We can eat cheese and bread and read or watch a film. Or I can make up the room and you can sleep. Or take a bath! I made some new soaps and candles.”

“Made?”

“Yes. Teas, soaps, candles, salves. Tonics. I grow things. I make things with what I grow,” she says. “I told you. Very simple.”

“What you think is simple and what is actually simple are two very different things.”

She pouts. “What do you say? Will you stay?”

“Sure. Yes,” I say, extinguishing my nerves, “if you’re sure you want me hanging around.”

She claps. “Do you like red or white wine for tonight? I’ll get us a bottle, and then we can go somewhere more fun. The ballroom? Music room? Do you play piano?”

“I don’t. And red or white. Doesn’t matter to me. I trust you. The wine from your store was delicious.”

“Oh, it’s not my store,” she says. “Well, not entirely.”

She gave me a bottle of wine and let me take it without paying. Was I wrong to assume she had permission to do that?

“I’ll be right back,” she says. She opens the door to the pantry and steps inside. There’s the unmistakable screech of rusty hinges, then fading footsteps.

Curious, I stand up and look inside the pantry. It’s big, and at the back, there’s a set of steel cellar hatch doors. They’re open, and between them is a dark void.

“Sophie?” I say. “Do you need a light?”