‘I just have to survive tonight,’ Margot told the clay head before her, taped to a wooden stand. Her fingers smoothed the muddy planes of its blank face. It was soothing, like touching her own skin. She could ignore the dark clouds swallowing the twilight and the snow that was about to get deeper.

She was perched on a stool at her worktable in the cold conservatory, surrounded by  stone figures and clay heads. She needed their presence. She had to keep busy. Her phone had pinged an upgraded weather warning. Risk of property damage and power cuts. Risk to life.

She missed her cosy flat in York, a box surrounded by other boxes. She was already regretting investing all her money in buying this ramshackle farmhouse. She had seen its potential as an artists’ retreat. She would fill it with creative people. Kind people. She would never be alone.

The doorbell rang, shrill as a fire alarm. Margot jumped. The stand toppled. The head struck the table. Its soft grey flesh caved in on one side.

‘Damn!’

The bell pealed again. Margot left the head. No time. It was a long way to the door, and she needed to see a friendly face. She reached for her wooden crutches, and rose from the stool on her good leg, the other in plaster below the knee. She negotiated her way through chicanes of stacked boxes in the sitting room and hallway.

Who was braving the icy lane that connected Dairy Dale Farmhouse to the village, bringing the one item she’d missed off her grocery list? So far she only knew Roy, who’d ploughed the lane on Day Two and added her to the village WhatsApp group. He had kind eyes and a friendly smile. And Alice, who’d brought her groceries at lunchtime, and asked too many questions.

‘Is your landline working yet?’

‘No.’

‘Have you sorted your broadband?’

‘No.’

Alice had seen Margot for exactly who she was – a woman well out of her depth.

Margot saw it too in the hall mirror. Her eyes were dark-ringed from lack of sleep. Her brown hair needed a wash. Little lumps of clay clung to her sweater and wool skirt. She had to wear her sculptor’s apron all the time because she couldn’t carry anything anywhere.  

Derek was in her head again. You can’t do it all on your own, Mouse. You’ll need me. You’ll want me back. She’d almost called him after the accident. The bottom step of the stairs had given way on Day Four, trapping her foot, causing her to fall at an awkward angle.

Margot tugged the door open, expecting to find someone freezing on the doorstep, but all she found was what she’d ordered – a pint of milk.

An old-fashioned glass bottle with a silver foil cap had been thoughtfully placed on the low porch wall, saving her from bending down. She peered past her snow-shrouded car, expecting to find taillights retreating up the straight, long lane, but there was nothing to see.

Odd.

She lifted the bottle and discovered a folded square of paper. She stashed the bottle and note in the wide pocket at the front of her apron, then locked the door.

In the Delft-tiled farmhouse kitchen, Margot set them down on the worn wooden counter and perched on a barstool. She unfolded the note. It was indented with old-fashioned type like it’d been composed on a typewriter. The ‘m’ was faint compared to the other letters.

Drink me!

Your friendly milkman

Odd sense of humour. She stashed the bottle in the fridge, left the note on the counter, and sent a message to the village: ‘Who should I thank for the pint?’

 —

The previous owners had left the hall mirror, some furniture in the library, and all the curtains and light fixtures. Margot hobbled from room to room downstairs, closing each curtain, flicking every light switch, blocking out the silent snow.

The conservatory was dimly lit. She retook her seat, picked up her elasticated headlamp and put it on. Ghostly Margots looked back from the glass all around her. She switched on the headlamp, picked up the injured head, and reached for clay to fix it.

Margot had once preferred working with stone. She’d loved chiselling it away to find the shape that lurked inside, until the day she’d realised that she’d become the stone and Derek was the sculptor. He’d chipped away at her until she’d become a self-doubting, petrified mouse.

Sculpting clay meant adding layers, creating shape and strength. Margot usually enjoyed it, but her eyes strayed to her phone. Who would own up to being the milkman?

The doorbell rang.

She flinched. Her thumb, caught in the act of smoothing an eye socket, punctured a hole right through it.

‘Damn!’

Margot grabbed her phone and crutches, and beelined for the door. Perhaps the milkman had seen the updated weather warning, and wanted to check she was all right? Maybe this person could drive her into the village? The pub had rooms. She could be brave again tomorrow.

Margot switched on the porch light, fumbled the lock and opened the door.

A second bottle of milk stood on the wall. Next to it lay a single red rose, its bud  tightly closed. Flakes of snow dusted it like powdered sugar.

‘What the –’

Margot leaned out. She heard no sound. No boots piercing the crust of snow. But she sensed someone was out there.

‘Hello?’

Silence answered like a held breath.

Beneath the bottle, another folded note. She stashed the pint in her apron. The air stirred, fluttering the note as she opened it. Her headlamp lit the paper, sharpening each letter.

One for you.

One for me.

One more. We’ll make three.

Your friendly milkman

Margot shivered, feeling more than the cold. What the hell did this message mean? She thrust the note into her apron. Should she leave the rose? Let the snow bury it? But what if the milkman was watching her? She snatched it up.

Ping, ping, ping!

Margot flinched. Something sharp pierced her thumb. She dropped the rose. Blood beaded her skin. She sucked the wound.

The rose had landed on the porch step. She’d have to go outside to retrieve it. Not worth the risk. She backed away awkwardly on her crutches. She closed the door and locked it, then leant against it and fished out her phone. It had two bars and a stack of messages from the group, answering her question with a chorus of ‘Not me!’ and ‘Not me either!’ along with ‘Glad you got your pint!’

Her hand shook as she put the second pint in the fridge. It clinked against the first.

One for you.

One for me.

She drew in a shuddering breath. ‘It means nothing. Just ignore it.’

Wind gusted against the kitchen windows. Her heart rapped in her chest. Should she message the group? Maybe someone would be willing to collect her?

Should she phone the police?

She checked her phone. No bars. Useless! She shoved it back in her apron.

Another gust and then a sound, like pebbles hurled against glass. Hail.

She couldn’t work in the conservatory with that racket going on. The lights flickered. Her heart skipped a beat. She had to keep busy, so the fear couldn’t seize her entirely.

She would work on the marketing copy for her website.

 —

Margot sank into a chair before the desk in the library and opened the lid of her laptop and a Word document. She switched off the headlamp so she could see the screen.

The lights flickered.

Died.

Her world shrank to a rectangle of blue light, as her laptop switched to its battery.

Her heart turned to stone. It banged hard against her chest.

Margot breathed deeply like her therapist had taught her.

Slowly, doggedly, she started to type. Mistype. Retype. She had to keep going. Keep busy. She pecked at each key.

If she’d switched her headlamp back on and looked up, she would’ve seen – and remembered – the black monster of a manual typewriter on the corner of the desk. But she was too busy, dealing with the rock in her chest.

Her mind whirled like the wind.

Who is the milkman? Why the rose?

The front door’s letterbox clanged. Margot jolted. Was it the storm? She stumbled to her feet and snatched the crutches. She switched on her headlamp, then hobbled through the darkness. The lamp sent out an erratic beam of light.

A note lay on the doormat.

Her good leg shook as she bent to snatch it up. She unfolded it.

Roses are red
            Your skin is like silk
            You’ll be with me
            When you drink my milk.

Margot started to shake. What the bloody hell? She pulled out her phone. No bars. No bleeding bars!

She fled towards the kitchen. Tea. She needed tea to calm down. She had an Aga. She could heat a pan of water. Earl Grey. Black. No damned –

A milk bottle stood on the counter. Filled with water.

It held a frozen red rose.

Margot staggered back, stabbing the floor with her crutches. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. The rock in her chest pounded. Pieces splintered into her bloodstream.

She remembered it then. The black monster on the desk.

 —

In the library, Margot threw herself into the chair. She shoved the laptop aside and heaved the typewriter forward. Her hands shook as she inserted the third note. She cranked the cylinder knob until the paper appeared. In the white gap beneath the rhyme, she hit the keys.

The ‘m’ was sticky, no matter how hard she struck the key. She typed:

Milkman

‘W-who are you?’ she squeaked.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. 

Margot shuddered. She jerked up from the chair, gripping her crutches.

Be Derek, she thought. Better the devil she knew.

Her headlamp spotlit a man in the doorway. He had kind eyes. A friendly smile.

Roy.

‘I have more notes,’ he said. ‘But now you’ve found my typewriter, you’ve taken all the fun out of it.’

His smile turned fierce like he had a different kind of fun in mind now. It pinned her to the spot. The bits of rock in her bloodstream multiplied. Her skin changed to cold stone. Hardened her to a sculpture.

She forced out one word.

‘W-why?’

Roy stalked towards her. ‘I grew up in this house, but it went to my cousin, who decided to sell it. It should be mine. It will be mine. It’ll be a dairy farm again. I can farm.  You can be my little wife. We’ll have a son, Margot. One for you. One for me. One more. We will make three. Get it?’

He was so sure of himself, so oblivious to his madness. All ego.

Just like Derek.

Derek. Anger sparked in Margot’s gut.

It spread like wildfire through her limbs. It burned away the cold, paralysing fear.

This was her life. Her house. Her body.

She took in his wide, easy stance. What was life for – if not to take risks?

She lashed out with the one part of her that was still hard as stone.

Her cast.

The kick landed. Roy squealed, jack-knifed and crumpled to the floor.

Margot leaned back against the desk, dropped her crutches, lifted the typewriter and hurled it at his head.

—

While Roy remained unconscious, she trussed him up with rope from her studio. When she got a bar of phone signal, she rang the police.

They drove through the snow to reach her and hauled him away with all the evidence: the milk, the notes, the rose, the typewriter.  She shook the whole time but declined their offer of rescue.

She closed the door on the police. On Roy. On Derek.

The wind howled. The house creaked.

Margot listened to the heartbeat of her new home, and found she was smiling.

‘I’m fine by myself.’