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„My Incubus Neighbor”

Chapter 1. The First Days, the Rusty Nail, and the Silhouette.

(Courtney’s POV)

The house stood before me like a forgotten promise—peeling paint, overgrown walkway, and windows that stared back with years of accumulated gloom. Grandmother Dorothy's house.

My house, now.

Rain misted down in that particular Millcote way, not quite falling but simply existing everywhere at once, settling on my hair and seeping into the shoulders of my coat as I fumbled with the old-fashioned key. It scraped into the lock with a reluctance that seemed to say I didn't belong, that no one had belonged here since Grandma Dorothy left. And yet, as the door finally gave way with a groan that echoed through empty rooms, something stirred inside me. I felt a small, stubborn tendril of hope unfurl; hope that perhaps, just perhaps, I could bring warmth back to these cold walls.

I stepped inside, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet like old bones stretching after a long slumber. The air smelled of dust and abandonment and something else—something faintly sweet that clung to the edges of my memory. Cinnamon? Cloves? Whatever Grandma Dorothy used to put in her tea. That scent, barely there beneath the mustiness, pulled at a thread of memory: her hands, veined and gentle, measuring spices into a pot while rain pattered against the kitchen window. Me, small and wrapped in a blanket too big for my frame, watching her as if she were performing some intricate magic.

“Well,” I whispered to no one, now. “I'm here now.”

My footsteps echoed through the small entryway as I moved deeper into the house, trailing my fingers along the wall. The wallpaper—once a cheerful pattern of tiny flowers—was faded now, peeling at the seams like skin too tired to hold itself together. I remembered how proud Grandma had been of this wallpaper, how she'd told me the story of papering it herself after Grandpa died, determined to bring some brightness back.

“I'm going to fix it,” I promised her memory, my voice sounding small and uncertain in the hollow space. “All of it. I promise.”

The living room waited beyond, furniture draped in yellowed sheets that gave the impression of misshapen ghosts huddled in conversation. I pulled one away, releasing a cloud of dust that danced in the gray light filtering through dirty windows. Beneath was her old armchair, the one where she'd sat me on her lap and taught me how to card wool, her patient hands guiding mine. The fabric was worn at the arms where she'd rested her elbows, year after year, reading her books, writing her letters, living her quiet, content life.

I sank into it, feeling the springs protest beneath a sudden weight. The house around me felt like a body without a heartbeat—still structurally sound but missing the essential rhythm that made it alive. Grandma Dorothy had been that rhythm. Her laughter, her humming as she cooked, the gentle creak of her rocking chair on summer evenings.

Ehh... without her, this house was just... empty; a vacant space waiting for life to return.

And I had come, fresh from college with a psychology degree that had yet to translate into a job, with dreams that had nowhere else to go. The big city had become too much—too loud, too fast, too indifferent to my existence. Here, at least, I had history. Here, I had a chance to create something of my own. If only I could afford to.

The truth settled over me like the dust: I needed a job, and soon. The small inheritance that had allowed me to claim this house wouldn't keep me in groceries for long. But that was a worry for another day. Today was for reclaiming space, for beginning the long process of breathing life back into these rooms.

I spent the remainder of that first day unpacking my few boxes, each one a small declaration of intent. My clothes in the upstairs dresser. My books on the shelf beside Grandma's collection of well-worn classics. My single houseplant—a stubborn spider plant that had survived my college years—on the kitchen windowsill where it could catch what little sunlight filtered through the perpetual Millcote cloud cover.

The kitchen was where I felt her absence most keenly. This had been her domain, her workshop, the place where simple ingredients became expressions of love. The sink was stained with mineral deposits, the counters filmed with dust. I filled a bucket with hot water and soap and began to scrub, my hands turning red and raw as I worked to erase the years of neglect.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered as I scoured, though I wasn't entirely sure who I was apologizing to—Grandma, for allowing her beloved home to fall into such disrepair? Myself, for the ache in my shoulders and the uncertainty of my future? The house itself, for the years it stood forgotten?

It was while emptying the drawers to clean them that I found it—a wooden recipe box, its lid warped slightly from years of kitchen humidity. My heart quickened as I carefully lifted it out and placed it on the table. This had been one of Grandma's treasures, the repository of family secrets passed down through generations. I opened it with reverent fingers.

Inside, yellowed cards stood in neat rows, each one bearing her distinctive handwriting—looping and elegant despite her arthritic hands. I flipped through them slowly: bread pudding, apple crisp, chicken soup for colds. And there, in the middle, the crown jewel—her famous gooseberry tart recipe, the one that had won the county fair three years running. The card was smeared with flour, marked with a small grease stain in one corner, evidence of frequent use. I traced my finger over her handwriting, feeling a lump form in my throat.

“I found it, Grandma,” I said to the empty kitchen, my voice catching. “I'll make it someday, I promise.”

Beneath the recipe box, tucked against the back of the drawer, was another surprise—a small bundle wrapped in faded cloth. I unwrapped it carefully to find a collection of handmade charms: a twisted sheaf of wheat bound with red thread, a painted acorn, a dried rose preserved somehow against the ravages of time. Folk magic, Grandma had called it, though she'd laughed when saying so. Not magic at all, just old ways of inviting blessings into a home. The wheat for prosperity, the acorn for strength and protection, the rose for love and healing.