It was, without a doubt, the most vicious cold Lucille had ever experienced. The house shone out from the white static like a beacon of warmth and startling, somewhat painful, brightness. Making it to the start of the winding drive, let alone through the front wrought iron doors, felt entirely infeasible. Black ice littered the streets. Packed, dense snow under her boots cracked and fissured the way the ground did back home. By then it would have taken more effort to return to the train station and so she continued on.
Besides, the letter in her peacoat pocket threatened to burn its way through the fabric with its warmth alone. Bringing it was unnecessary, but there was a small part of her that wholly believed she would need it. To defend the great crime of subjecting others to her company.
Lucille went to great lengths not to look at the bluish coloring of her own hands as she raised a fist to the door, afraid that the contact of her fist hitting the wood would break off the appendage entirely. It did not. Simply made a slight hollow sound that was likely drowned out by the lively chatter on the other side.
Violent shivers racked her lanky frame. She waited.
She didn’t recognize the old man who came to the door. He didn’t seem to recognize her either, saying nothing, only making a failed attempt at recognition once the dense silence between them became too intolerable.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Lucille Levine, sir.”
Narrowed eyes. No glint of an epiphany introduced itself on the man’s face, yet he granted her entry regardless.
“I’m Jered, Margaret’s father.”
A group of children ran between the two, shrieking and giggling. There was a distant sound of shattering glass. Jared didn’t seem terribly surprised, only took off wordlessly after them.
Lucille shoved her hands into her pockets in a desperate attempt to warm them. She still felt god awful. The entryway was dimmed slightly, artificial sconces lined the walls on either side of the room, casting long shadows across the floorboards and ornate carpet. She waited until he was out of sight before walking the length of the corridor and into the main living room. White lights were arranged neatly around a large fir tree—a far cry from the fat, colorful bulbs and plastic imitation from her childhood.
She supposed Ambrose could afford nicer things than that now.
No one seemed to notice her arrival: just another drop in a growing pool of chaos.
Roughly two dozen guests had gathered inside the living room, some speaking over tall flutes of Champagne. A Peanuts cartoon was playing on the television, and a group of children gathered around it, transfixed. It felt like an uncanny tableau. A scene right out of a department store holiday magazine.
She feared, for a split moment, that she had managed to enter the wrong house.
Georgia Hope writes queer fantasy with a southern gothic twist and essays that break down the turbulent relationship between adolescence and academia. Currently a high school senior in the state of Texas, her idea of a good time is exploring haunted small towns with a notebook, camera, and a large cup of iced coffee. When she’s not making her readers cry you can find her gathering more bizarre lore for her next story or having an existential crisis on her Instagram page @georgiainabook.
Featured image by Donnie Rosie on Unsplash.
