The country house I have bought was rather small. It certainly couldn't be compared with the large mansions of my former Master. But for me, it was perfect. Many times, I have pictured myself living in such a place. With Emma. Now, I had to put my dreams aside and learn how to live without her. Or at least survive on the memories...

What I loved the most was the land and the surroundings of my house. It was built on the top of an arid cliff, where the winds were dancing with the salty air of the sea below. From the doorway, I could see the lighthouse and the promenade where the people of the village used to have their evening walk. At night, the sound of the waves crashing to the rocks was the sweetest music to my ears. They were the ones to put me to sleep after long hours of uneasiness and torment.

At the foot of the hill, the village quivered with life. The people were bustling with their everyday chores in a perpetual to and fro. Their jolly spirit made me tired and dizzy, and I was making my ways to the valley as seldom as possible.

Although I was enthusiastic at first about my new life, I must admit there was a lot to do in the house. It belonged to a fur merchant who was using it only for the summer. Except for the basement, where the kitchen was, there were no stoves in the house and the wind howled all over. The scarce pieces of furniture were broken. The walls were parched, and the plaster has fallen. The front garden, just like the one in the back, was deserted for years. Weeds and shrubs have crowded in on them.

The house had only one floor, a porch, and a front door painted in blue, now with parched paint. Luckily, the brick was still good.  Dry, wild climbing roses were now decorating the outside walls, in harmony with the weed-consumed gardens.

The kitchen in the basement was ruined and turned into storage for boxes, bottles, and other useless things. There was a small tea room downstairs where the only thing to give it a bohemian look was an old,broken piano. Also downstairs, there was a smaller kitchen, most likely built more recently, with an old oak wood table and a cupboard, just as old, proudly wearing the same sky-blue paint of the front door, where several chipped porcelain dishes were reigning.

The first floor had only two bedrooms with the same scarce furniture and iron beds with matrices full of rags. I discovered the bathroom in the attic, next to another room which also served as storage for old furniture covered in calicoes, now in dirty hues of yellow. I fell in love with that room that smelled like dusty memories. From the window, I could see far into the distance, where the sea met the ivory skies of the dusk. It was to become my writing place.

I've moved into my new house at the end of the winter. It took me a few months to make it habitable. The first thing I did was to break the ground of the front garden and plant flowers and bushes. The front door became welcoming again, once freshly painted in the same color as the sky. Then, I painted the interior walls in white, polished and fixed the furniture. I found a stove fitter who built stoves and fireplaces for all the rooms. I bought almost all the carpets I could find in the stores of the village in the valley. The warmth came into my house and chased the coldness away. Now, it looked cozy and welcoming. I could finally call it home.

Yet, my nature was just as shy and secluded. Every now and then, I went down to the valley only to buy groceries and what I needed for writing. The people of the village were friendly, warm, and... nosy. The Maire, the priest, and the grocer were the richest and most important people in town. The last had made a small fortune and half of the stores in the village were his. Then, there was Mrs. Olivia, the widow of an important captain. She was a chubby little lady, over fifty years old, always on to the latest news. She had three unmarried daughters and every newcomer was instantly considered as a suitor for one of her daughters.

Of course, I didn't escape her full interrogation. Her interest had come down ever since she found out about my preoccupations. Yet, every time she met me at the grocery store or wandering around the village, she would come closer, smiling at me like to an old acquaintance. She used to catch at my arm and didn't let go until we were at the outskirts of the village, on my way home.

"Daniel, darling, you have no idea how much I envy you," she said in a highbrow voice, "for the peace and quiet you've got up there, in your lovely little house... Away from every backbiter in this village... You haven't got a clue how gossiped and talked about me and my girls are by these useless, mediocre people whose only concern is somebody else's life. But there is a catch, you know..." she said, and the tone of her voice turned secretive. "They say it's haunted..."

I could barely contain my laughter.

"What makes you say that?" I asked.

That was all she was waiting for, "The Stan sisters told me. You know they often visit the cliff, searching for healing herbs, branches, rocks, and the likes. They say they can attract the funniest energies. Well, on one of those journeys, they say they felt some strange vibes coming from your house. And you know how sensitive they are..."

Yeah, I've heard how sensitive they were, all right. The Stan twins, Martha and Bertha, were the most famous people of the place. Well over their seventies, the old sisters were equally admired, feared, and ridiculed. Neither one of them got married, pleading that no man would have ever accepted to live in the same house with spirits, ghosts, and other entities, hard to comprehend by a normal mind.

But it wasn't their occupation to bring them such notoriety. Their look was just as unusual as their nature. Each one was the mirror copy of the other. Each one had a blind eye. Martha – the right one, and Bertha – the left one. Or, it might have been the other way around just as well, because no one knew which one was wich. With their blind eyes – they said – they could see the worlds of spirits.

They were tall, thin, and they always wore dark clothes. The bright colors wouldn't attract the spirits, they said. Their completely white hair fell freely down their shoulders, without being held by hats, pins, ribbons or useless, elaborate buns. And maybe because of that, they looked somehow like a frightening Medusa.

Throughout their unusual occupation, they thought of themselves as being evolved to the other people in the village. Yet, they didn't lack their followers or clients. Their fame surpassed the borders of their small home. The only man in the village to deny their gift was the priest. Yet, they didn't cross paths too often because the twins almost never visited the church.

Ever since I've moved in the house on the top of the cliff, I only saw them once. I met them during their evening walk on the promenade. At my sight, they stood stock-still as they were walking arm in arm and looked at me like no one has ever looked before. I even thought that each of their milky eyes, that never saw the light, was studying me better than the sharpest eye. I put on pace, mumbling something I can't even recall. Later on, I laughed for my groundless fright.

Thank you so much for reading this chapter! What do you think of the story so far?