Part One: The Lodge

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Sunday 24th October

After dinner, I was in my room, sorting out my hair and my clothes and constantly checking the blade was still under my pillow. But how to get it downstairs? It's not like I brought a scabbard with me.

I sighed and slid it back under. I'd have to bring it later, just moments before—

There was a knock on the door and my heart leapt.

'One minute!' I called, making sure the knife was secure before turning the handle.

'Hey,' said Lily. 'I don't know if you're busy, but me and Delilah wondered if you wanted to play cards?'

I grinned. Two visits in one day. 'Sure.'

Together, we ventured downstairs and through to the dining room. There wasn't much of a lounge at The Lodge so we settled for playing in there. Delilah was waiting for us, hair falling over her shoulders but everyone else was already gone.

'You ready?' she asked as we took our seats.

'Mmm-hmm.' Lily leaned over and grabbed the cards. 'What game?'

'I don't know...' Delilah frowned. 'Rummy?'

I fought the urge to groan. Rummy. It wasn't a game worth playing. Dad would always win—he'd memorise every card.

I hide my protests as Lily cut the cards, shuffled, and began to deal. Thirteen each. I stared at my hand, not even one run. Still, I played as best as I could—I was in great company after all—and tried not to look too upset as Delilah slammed her cards on the table and did a victory dance.

Lily laughed. 'Sit down!'

'Round two?' She raised her eyebrows.

'Of course.'

'What about Snap?' I tried.

'Snap?' Delilah cried. 'That's a kid's game.'

'Worried you're gonna lose?'

She smirked and Lily began to deal. Snap, in my opinion, is a far better game. It's all skill. Fastest wins.

We played for a long time, transitioning from Rummy, to Snap, to Old Maid, and something called Slippery Anne. I checked my watch. It was twenty-to-ten. Never mind Anne, time was slipping away. I needed to act soon.

By some trick of fate—or maybe the Old Man's divine intervention—a crash and a groan came from the kitchen. My eyes flicked to Lily's. What was that?

I was about to rise from my seat before the doorknob turned and Harriet's flushed face peeked out at us.

'Sorry, this is so unprofessional,' she began and paused to squeeze the bridge of her nose, 'but the dishwasher's packed up and I don't know if—'

'I'd be happy to help,' I said.

Harriet smiled. It seemed a rare thing.

'Thank you.'

Then she was gone, and Lily packed up the cards. 'We should help too.'

'No, it's alright. You guys go to bed.'

'Really?'

'Relax,' Delilah said, 'there's not enough washing up for all of us.'

Lily's cheeks reddened and a look passed between the two of them.

'We'll see you later.' Delilah waved and grabbed Lily's arm, half-walking, half-dragging her out of the room.

I just smiled. It was perfect. As far as I could tell, all the guests were in their rooms and Darren and Anais had disappeared for the evening. The Lodge was empty apart from Harriet and, of course, me.

***

I entered the kitchen and eyed the sink. Not too bad—just a few plates and cups were left to wash up.

As we worked, I did my best not to talk—the less I knew about Harriet, the better—and the fact she didn't say much made it much easier. She was happy to work in silence, washing while I dried.

I stared out the window, gripping the plates so hard I worried they might crack as my brain ran around in pointless circles. The plan would work—it was easy. The only issue, of course, was that I didn't want to do it.

I remembered the rumour. Maybe she was a killer too—poisoning her own father-in-law. Then again, who was I to judge?

By now, I'd adapted the plan so I chucked the towel and turned to Harriet.

'I just need to grab something from my room. Be right back.'

She nodded, not taking her eyes off her work as I dashed out and up the stairs. As I did, my toes clipped the top step and I stumbled, falling onto my hands. My legs were jelly and my arms were shaking as I picked myself up. Could I really do this?

I found the knife under the pillow. Still sharp, glinting in the light, taunting me. I stuffed it back up my sleeve.

No turning back now. For Rachel.

I kept her in my head as I crept downstairs. How was I going to do this? Sneak up from behind? That seemed the kindest way to do it.

Still, my anatomical knowledge wasn't brilliant. I knew from TV that going for the neck was a surefire way of killing someone because, with the chest, you run the risk of them surviving long enough to get help.

That was all I needed. One quick slash. My stomach washing-machined at the thought.

I snuck into the dining room and stood by the door to the kitchen. I could do this. Harriet was a murderer. So she deserved it. It was fitting.

I was overthinking. Harriet would finish the washing up soon and after that, her back would no longer be turned. If I was going to strike, it needed to be now.

Painfully slowly, I pushed the door open with my empty hand. It rolled back silently to reveal Harriet at the sink, scrubbing out a bowl that was once full of soup, and cat-like, I stepped through the doorway, shaking as one foot fell in front of the other. At this rate, there wouldn't be enough power in my arms to even raise the knife.

But raise the knife I did.

She hummed as she worked—I hadn't expected that—it made her more real. I told myself otherwise: that she was cold and unattached; that there would be no loose strings; and no one left to grieve.

I was halfway across the tiled floor when I held the knife out to my side, ready to wrap it around her neck, but before I could, Harriet moved, placing a bowl on the counter.

I froze and tried not to breathe.

She didn't notice me.

Harriet picked up a teaspoon and stared at it, pausing before pushing it into the water.

One more step. Harriet began humming a different tune. Not a pop song, no, something classical. Dance Macabre. It's a song taht still haunts me now.

I raised my trembling hand, watching my reflection in the wet spoon. Then I took a deep breath, and struck. 

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