A light horror short story by I.M. Gerhi
Stephanie Gordon, an estate agent, is searching for a peaceful home for Luciana Georges, a widow in need of a quiet retreat. After a series of disappointments, she discovers Stillwater Hollow, a picturesque but neglected house in the countryside. She quickly secures the property, navigating business dealings with Nicholas Georges, Luciana’s meticulous and somewhat difficult son.
As restoration work begins, unexpected issues arise, including mold damage and structural repairs. This brings together Julian Lewis, a down-to-earth carpet fitter, and Dee Glower, a skilled but no-nonsense cabinetmaker. Meanwhile, Stephanie juggles professional challenges and potential conflicts with Nicholas, who seems poised to scrutinize her every move.
The sudden appearance of a moving truck announces an early arrival of the Georges family, which will lead to further complications.
At the moment Stillwater Hollow is only available as part of the short story collection Night Light Tales.
Read a sample:
Stephanie Gordon drove out of Roestoke at dawn. So far, this trip had been one disappointment after another, with Roestoke the cherry on the cake—but only if you meant olive instead of cherry and boiled aubergine instead of cake. She had given up on the place.
Yesterday, when she came in from the south, she passed a marshy swampland with stunted trees oozing into town. The town center itself was a sorry gray affair in bad need of a spruce-up. Supper at the recommended eat-out was a bleak pork steak and runny mash, and the sheets of the Bed & Breakfast, The Roestoke Nugget, felt damp throughout the night. She had not bothered with breakfast.
As she drove out of town, it was as if the damp of the sheets had joined her in the car.
That she was also out here on her own, on this particular trip, did not sit right with her.
This particular expedition was on behalf of the Georges family, looking for a semi-permanent second home where Luciana Georges could recover. The widow Georges had suffered a nervous breakdown after her husband James’s death just over a year ago. The city townhouse the couple had shared for forty-seven years was not conducive to a healthy widowhood.
As a transient estate agent that scoured the countryside for bespoke holiday homes and quaint investment opportunities, Stephanie frequently worked alone. It was her normal operating procedure.
Yet, the reasons that prompted the search for this house pulled the loneliness out of the back of the closet and dressed it up as the appropriate outfit for the day.
The road climbed uphill to the northwest of Roestoke, curving through a forest where wisps of mist wafted across the road from the dense tree line. Stephanie instinctively slowed down, having traversed unfamiliar roads too frequently to take any chances. The blind turns made her palms sweaty as she knuckled down on the steering wheel, even though there was no other traffic this early in the morning.
She sighed inwardly as the trees petered out and the road climbed over the hill into the sunlight. As if an angel had pulled open the curtains of a musty bedroom, she was greeted by a glorious picture.
The sun crossed the valley in golden shafts of light, lifting out the fresh green of the grass on the hillsides. And as if it was a sign of hope, a house on the right side of the valley lit up as the rays bounced off the whitewashed facade.
Stephanie stopped the car alongside the road. She would hesitate to describe any scene as picture-perfect. She was too much aware of the possible mold in the basement and rotting roof timbers of even the most charming little cottage.
But this was a scene of such profound rightness that she felt she had to capture it. Not with a camera or with a phone, but with her mind—as a precious moment to hold on to and savor in a world that had become dark and nasty.
It could only have been a minute or two, or it could have been an hour that she just sat there, drinking in the scene. Then the sun rose higher, the day became real again, and suddenly the inside of the car felt stuffy.
Stephanie rubbed her eyes as if waking from a very deep sleep—a dream still half-remembered and fragile, perched on the tip of the mind, but fast fading. The moment might have been gone, but the house was still there.
…end of sample
Stillwater Hollow © I.M. Gerhi