Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
I frowned. Seriously, what was going on here? Someone must be in the cottage. Or maybe they had just stepped out and they were going to freak out when they came back in and found me—a total stranger—in their home.
I looked out the back window, which was positioned over the kitchen sink. I expected to see someone out in the back yard, but there was no one there. However, there was still plenty to look at—it appeared that someone had planted an enormous vegetable garden out there and a lot of things were ripe for harvest.
I reached under my glasses and rubbed my eyes. The garden had not been there before—I was sure of it! There had been nothing but an empty yard. It must have appeared along with the cottage. But also, how could everything in it be ripe at the same time? And how could the vegetables and fruits—because I saw some strawberries peeking out of their green, leafy nests—not be half-frozen since it was clearly Autumn here in Hidden Hollow?
So many things didn’t seem to make sense, but it wasn’t like any of them was hurting me. I shrugged and left the window. Further exploration of the cabinets revealed a few cans of Campbell’s tomato soup—my favorite when I was a kid—and some instant coffee.
The pantry was pretty bare other than that, but I still had the makings of a decent meal—grilled cheese and tomato soup. Which was what my Grandma used to feed me when I came to visit her.
I ran a hand through my hair. There were just too many coincidences—the knitting patterns and all my favorite childhood foods—this must be my Grandma’s cottage. But where was she? Could it be that she hadn’t really died, but had come back here to Hidden Hollow to live after my mom moved us so far away?
But no—if that was the truth, then the cottage wouldn’t have disappeared, would it? And surely she would have talked to Goody Albright—from the way she had talked about my Grandma, it sounded like they might have been friends or at least close acquaintances.
Bemused, I wandered from the kitchen back to the living room and into the short hallway beyond. It had two doorways—one led into a bathroom with a deep soaking tub. It was charming, even if all of the fixtures—the tub, the toilet, and the sink—were all dusky rose-pink.
It was all very Grandma—she had loved pink and purple and other girly colors and wasn’t ashamed to admit it. There was even one of those old-fashioned toilet paper dolls—the kind with a doll wearing a long, crocheted dress which hides the spare toilet paper roll—sitting on the back of the toilet.
But I wasn’t just looking at the pink toilet or the cute doll—I couldn’t help noticing that the bathtub was filled with soapy, sudsy water which gave off a sweet, floral scent. And it was still steaming, like someone had just drawn a bubble bath and was intending to slip into it at any minute.
“Okay,” I said aloud. “Someone has to be here! Who drew the bath? Who baked the bread?”
But I got no answers and after looking around awhile, I decided I should look at the last room in the cottage—the bedroom.
This was by far the darkest room in the house. Every place else had windows or, in the case of the bathroom, there was an old-fashioned bubble light fixture which shed a golden, antique glow over the tub and sink.
But while the bedroom had a window, it was covered by a shade and also with a curtain, which was drawn across it. It was so dim inside that I could barely see where I was going and nearly bumped into the bedpost of the tall, four-poster bed as my eyes adjusted.
The bedroom was the one place in the house I didn’t seem to feel my Grandma’s presence. The little voice in my head was silent as I looked around. I was feeling along the wall for a light switch when I thought I saw something moving under the bed.
I gave a little gasp and put a hand to my throat. My first thought was, “Roach!”
That’s just what I always think because where I live, we have these huge flying roaches called “Palmetto Bugs.” They’re horrible and they get into your house from time to time no matter how clean you keep it. So that was my first idea when I saw the movement under the bed.
I hurried back to the kitchen and grabbed the broom—which was leaning in one corner, along with a long-handled dustpan. There was no way I was sharing the bedroom with a roach!
I came back to the bedroom and crouched down, the broom in one hand as I prepared to do battle.
“Where are you?” I muttered as I flipped up the bed skirt. “You come out here and—”