toboggan full of supplies. Otherwise, the street was empty.
May Wong’s house was tucked into the hillside on Eighth, where turn-of-the-century mansions and large homesteads looked down on the town. Business at The Gold Digger must be prospering .May’s home was of the Victorian variety, with the obligatory Dawson antlers hung over the entry. The front door had been painted blood red. Jo had read somewhere that a red door protected the occupant of a home from evil. She wondered if May had read the same article.
The path to the door had snowed in and bore no trace of footprints in the new snow. The flag on the mailbox was still up and the driveway was empty. Jo trudged through the snow to rap on the front door, making a hollow, empty sound while the wind hummed. Her second knock was met with obstinate silence.
Jo retraced her footsteps in the snow toward the street. She glanced over her shoulder at the stern, black windows of May Wong’s home to see if anyone was watching, then around at the neighbouring homes. When she lifted the rusty flap on the mailbox, it made a shrill squeaking sound like an alarm. The mailbox was laden with flyers and bills, the latter stamped with that day’s date. She returned the envelopes, took one more glance behind her, and then slipped down the side of the house toward the backyard.
In the back garden, a lone, bony willow stood like a tombstone, while a sagging picket fence told the story of the home’s slow surrender to permafrost. At the north end of the property just beyond, the trees leaned in, like a group of conspirators.
It was snowing again, but not enough to conceal fresh footprints—large ones—leading from the forest up to the back door.
This discovery gave her pause as she considered knocking. The sound of a distant wood saw startled her, making her heart race as though she were planning something ill-advised. She rapped on the door and waited. May had told Jo to come to her shop at eleven. Had she been delayed by the arrival of someone unexpected? The tips of Jo’s fingers were beginning to go numb, and the wind gnawed at her ears below her toque, urging her to try the handle. It turned easily enough.
Jo swung the door open, placing one rubber boot over the threshold. The lights were off inside, and although she’d already tried knocking, she called out “Hello?” just in case. Silence.
The back door opened into a boot room, where a women’s fur coat and parka hung, along with a pair of cross-country skis and a set of modern snowshoes. The room also housed a collection of winter hats and footwear. Just beyond the doormat, a little puddle of muddy water had pooled on the wood floorboards. Jo slipped off her boots and took a few quiet steps around the puddle, through the entry, and into the kitchen. From there she leaned in to a view of an opulent living room with luxurious oriental carpets and rich furs. An impressive set of moose antlers hung over the hearth, yet the walls were also draped with sumptuous kimonos: a strange dichotomy of East meets West. An antique gun display rack boasted two rifles; there was an empty space where a third should have been.
“Hello? Anyone home?” She didn’t want to disturb May if she happened to be with someone. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was not quite right.
Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard squeaked. Jo froze. Her heart drummed a frantic rhythm and the inside of her woollen sweater felt damp. She tried to listen above the melody that the wind was whistling. A soft dirge. She was just beginning to think that she’d imagined the noise when she heard a clear scraping sound, like wood on wood, in one of the rooms above her.
She lost a moment or two as she wrestled between dual emotions: terror and curiosity. Then, she moved stealthily through the lounge to find a dim staircase at the front of the house. As she climbed the steps, the wood floors tattled on her approach. She paused at the landing. The
May Wong’s house was tucked into the hillside on Eighth, where turn-of-the-century mansions and large homesteads looked down on the town. Business at The Gold Digger must be prospering .May’s home was of the Victorian variety, with the obligatory Dawson antlers hung over the entry. The front door had been painted blood red. Jo had read somewhere that a red door protected the occupant of a home from evil. She wondered if May had read the same article.
The path to the door had snowed in and bore no trace of footprints in the new snow. The flag on the mailbox was still up and the driveway was empty. Jo trudged through the snow to rap on the front door, making a hollow, empty sound while the wind hummed. Her second knock was met with obstinate silence.
Jo retraced her footsteps in the snow toward the street. She glanced over her shoulder at the stern, black windows of May Wong’s home to see if anyone was watching, then around at the neighbouring homes. When she lifted the rusty flap on the mailbox, it made a shrill squeaking sound like an alarm. The mailbox was laden with flyers and bills, the latter stamped with that day’s date. She returned the envelopes, took one more glance behind her, and then slipped down the side of the house toward the backyard.
In the back garden, a lone, bony willow stood like a tombstone, while a sagging picket fence told the story of the home’s slow surrender to permafrost. At the north end of the property just beyond, the trees leaned in, like a group of conspirators.
It was snowing again, but not enough to conceal fresh footprints—large ones—leading from the forest up to the back door.
This discovery gave her pause as she considered knocking. The sound of a distant wood saw startled her, making her heart race as though she were planning something ill-advised. She rapped on the door and waited. May had told Jo to come to her shop at eleven. Had she been delayed by the arrival of someone unexpected? The tips of Jo’s fingers were beginning to go numb, and the wind gnawed at her ears below her toque, urging her to try the handle. It turned easily enough.
Jo swung the door open, placing one rubber boot over the threshold. The lights were off inside, and although she’d already tried knocking, she called out “Hello?” just in case. Silence.
The back door opened into a boot room, where a women’s fur coat and parka hung, along with a pair of cross-country skis and a set of modern snowshoes. The room also housed a collection of winter hats and footwear. Just beyond the doormat, a little puddle of muddy water had pooled on the wood floorboards. Jo slipped off her boots and took a few quiet steps around the puddle, through the entry, and into the kitchen. From there she leaned in to a view of an opulent living room with luxurious oriental carpets and rich furs. An impressive set of moose antlers hung over the hearth, yet the walls were also draped with sumptuous kimonos: a strange dichotomy of East meets West. An antique gun display rack boasted two rifles; there was an empty space where a third should have been.
“Hello? Anyone home?” She didn’t want to disturb May if she happened to be with someone. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was not quite right.
Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard squeaked. Jo froze. Her heart drummed a frantic rhythm and the inside of her woollen sweater felt damp. She tried to listen above the melody that the wind was whistling. A soft dirge. She was just beginning to think that she’d imagined the noise when she heard a clear scraping sound, like wood on wood, in one of the rooms above her.
She lost a moment or two as she wrestled between dual emotions: terror and curiosity. Then, she moved stealthily through the lounge to find a dim staircase at the front of the house. As she climbed the steps, the wood floors tattled on her approach. She paused at the landing. The
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