3 - Cold As Death

                                    

                                          
Morning brings forth a bleak prospect; cleaning up all the dust. But, thankfully, my gran's cleaning cupboard has been left alone, and I figure time will pass quickly if I get stuck in making the place liveable. One room at a time.
To keep myself from going insane with all the creaks and wails and other strangely anthropomorphic noises that come along with this old house, I decide to blast some music. Tune out the demons. Wait for mum to return victorious with some groceries.
Thus decided, I crawl out of bed, put in some earphones, and make my way downstairs.
In the crisp morning light that cuts across the hardwood floors in grids, dust specks flicker and shine like tiny floating diamonds. I have to admit, the place has potential when it's not trying so hard to be a nightmare.
My first task is to tackle the kitchen. After all, it's the room we'll use the most. Preparing meals, catching one another up on our days over some dinner, wallowing in self-pity at the breakfast table with a blanket wrapped around our shoulders like a cape because the heating still isn't working— you get the idea. Besides, call me picky, but I'd like the room where food is prepared to be clean as opposed to caked in layers upon layers of dust and grime.
I fetch out an assortment of cleaning supplies like a soldier choosing his weapons before trudging off to war. Except the battle is between me and the stubborn filth that has built up in the months between my gran's death and the will being read.
That's a cheerful thought process, and I squander it and succumb to the distraction of music.
Lost to my task, I hum along to the songs blasting in my ears and let time slip by. I scrub at the counter-tops, throw out all the outdated tins of questionable food lurking at the back of cupboards, and make a load of progress. The water is still freezing, and I think the boiler must be broken, but I get stuck in anyhow.
Outside, the day is shaping up to be another bleak one, but the sun is persistent and every time the grey clouds part, it shines stubbornly and casts the room in a pleasant glow. I can almost pretend it's actually warm in the house, but my skin prickles with goosebumps, and a chill has settled deep in my bones.
It's only when I've gone over the entire room and returned back to the counter-tops, giving them another round of cleaning hell as though I can burn off the grime if only I use enough friction, that I feel it.
A sudden, creeping, icy sensation on the back of my neck. Like a soft exhalation.
Now, I'm no expert, but I'm not sure there should be wind inside the house. And there should definitely not be breathing that isn't mine.
At once, my nerves are razor-sharp, and every shred of my focus hones in on the odd feeling. I go tense, my breath escaping in a rush that fogs up in the cool air. The space behind me goes negative, pressure flips on its head, and I know there's someone right behind me.
A cool hand grasps my arm—
—I whip round with a startled cry—
"—Jesus fucking Christ, mum!" I almost shriek, ripping out the earphones and glaring white-hot fury at my mother.
She looks just as startled, holding a brown paper bag filled with groceries. "I'm sorry!" she says, holding up her free hand in surrender. "I thought you heard me come in!"
"Obviously not!" I complain, sliding a hand down my face and resting back against the counter as I recover and will my heart to slow down before it gives out on me. It's thumping wildly in my ears, beating in symphony to the tinny music whispering from the discarded earphones. "Don't do that! You'll give me a heart attack!"