Page 17 of Where the Snakes Sleep

Before I can respond, he’s gone, slipping through the gap in the wall, and I’m left alone in the overgrown yard, my mind racing with questions.

I turn back to the cottage, seeing it now with different eyes. The warped door frame, the peeling paint, the water stain on the ceiling—suddenly they seem less like simple neglect and more like clues to something hidden.

I limp back toward the house, wincing a little with each step. The morning sun is climbing higher, and I can feel my skin beginning to prickle with the warning signs of a burn. I need sunscreen, I need shoes, I need about a hundred things I don’t have.

Inside, the cottage feels different too. Even the shadows in the corners seem darker. I move through the sitting room, running my fingers along the walls, wondering what Camille meant by modifications. What could my grandfather possibly have done to this place?

And why the fuck did Camille make it sound so unsettling?

Creepy-ass hot French fuck.

I shake my head, then find myself in the kitchen, staring at the cracked tile floor. The fractures in the grout form patterns that I hadn’t noticed before, radiating outward from a central point near the back wall. I kneel down, ignoring the sting in my foot, and examine the cracks more closely.

They don’t look random. They look like they’re following something beneath the surface—some hidden framework or structure. I press my palm against the center of the pattern, and the tile shifts slightly under my hand.

My heart pounds. This is crazy. I’m imagining things because some neighbor made cryptic comments about my dead grandfather. This isn’t the start of a horror movie.

But the tile moves again when I push harder, and I hear something beneath it—a hollow sound, different from the solid thud of the surrounding floor.

“Shit,” I whisper to the empty cottage.

Do I get some tools and pry open a hole in the floor of an old, secluded, apparently mysterious cottage? My first thought is: hell no.

I’ve watched too many movies where opening old things after ignoring the warning of some creepy dude—or decrepit old lady, I feel like it’s usually an old lady—ends in shit I want no part of.

Releasing an ancient spirit hellbent on enacting revenge?

Hell no.

Finding a shrine or some religious artifact that dooms whoever touches it?

Hell.

No.

I stand back up, stepping away from my possible demise. My stomach chooses right then to rumble, reminding me that maybe instead of worrying about things that aren’t real, maybe I should be focusing on the fact that I have no food.

I open the cupboards one by one—just to check—finding nothing but dust and the occasional dead insect. The refrigerator is empty, its interior smelling of stale air and something faintly chemical. I slam it shut, wincing at the noise in the silent cottage.

I lean against the kitchen counter and close my eyes, trying to think. I know there are a few shops in town. And I also know they probably don’t do delivery service.

Great. That’s great.

Everything’s great.

Perfect, even.

Motherfucking—

* * *

The walk back from the village takes twice as long as it should. Maybe it’s my karma for crashing out earlier.

My shoulders are tight from carrying the groceries, and my feet ache with every uneven stone I stumble over. The sun beats down on my neck, and I can feel the sweat pouring down my skin.

I adjust the bag containing the pillow and linens, trying to shift the weight, but it doesn’t help. The items I’ve purchased are basic necessities—bread, cheese, some fruit, pasta, olive oil, coffee. Essentials that should have been easy to acquire. Instead, the trip turned into something out of a bad dream.

If I’d hoped for any version of rural French hospitality, this shattered it. The market itself was a single open room, one aisle barely wide enough to turn around in, with bins of onions and potatoes crowding the threshold and a jumble of handwritten signs explaining specials in loopy, faded marker. The shelves were packed densely with imports and generic brands, everything more expensive than I’d braced for, the local stuff tucked out of reach or labeled in code. I moved slowly, reading every can twice, trying, too, not to block anyone’s way. But it didn’t matter. People stopped and looked. They didn’t whisper about me or anything, but the feeling I got from it was one of being unwelcome.