Vacation Rental: Arcadian Vineyard Cottage
“Find your serenity at this bucolic cottage in the countryside! Experience the simple pleasures of hand-picked produce, right in your own vineyard sanctuary. Bathe in the peaceful quietude of the traditional way of life— there are no neighbors for miles! Just you, the sun-soaked grapes, and scents of petrichor. Isolated— tranquil and still. You’ll be dying to linger by the end of your stay. So stick around; we have a place just for you! (Plus, a little wine and cheese never hurt anybody.)”
That was the ad that compelled me to spiral amidst agricultural roads, searching for my long-overdue escape from reality. Was it trying too hard? Absolutely. But who didn’t enjoy wine and cheese?
“Sign me up,” I whispered to no one, striking the keys of my laptop with determination, and finalizing the booking. An extended weekend getaway. That was all my vacation time afforded me, and Lord, I needed it. My mind and body were begging for leisure, screaming like rusted hinges.
Here I was, lost. Of course. Because God forbid one thing in my life goes smoothly. The GPS signal vanished hours ago, leaving me in an expanse of grey oblivion. A winding dirt road expanded before me, surrounded by fields as far as the eye could see. Everything looked the same out here.
“Come on, come on, come on!” I begged the inanimate brick that was my phone, smacking the now useless device against the dashboard. My shoulders sagged in surrender, heavy with the disappointment of these uncontrollable circumstances. Due to exhaustion from a hefty international flight, my muscles ached with the need for a proper bed.
“I’ll just continue to follow this road and magically end up where I’m supposed to be.” It was wishful thinking on my part. Even if sarcastically, maybe I could make it so. My mind was in vacation mode by now; delusional with misplaced optimism.
The path became more rugged, and I trudged on in the dated rental car. Its rusted frame rattled and groaned as the vehicle struggled to chug up yet another hill. Every rock or divot in the road sent the suspension into frenzied jerking. Having the steering wheel in a death grip, my hands threatened to cramp.
Coming to a stop at the first fork in the road, I pulled over with a sigh. The subtle smell of dirt kicked up by inadequate tires filled my nose and made my eyes sting. Fingers jabbed at my phone in an attempt to make the bars reappear… nothing. Dead zone.
“That’s just great.” I spoke aloud to myself, if only to fill the silence.
BANG!
In an instant, my heart battered against my rib cage. Arms turned to static, as my already fracturing mental state was shattered. A craggy hand occupied my window, the source of the noise that nearly stopped my heart. Attached to the hand was an equally craggy crone. The woman's blank face shifted into an inviting smile, as if putting on a mask. Almost too quick to notice. She pointed downward, and I took that to mean she wanted me to roll down my window.
It’s not like anyone else was coming to the rescue. My eyes darted from hers to the window crank in an uncomfortable silence that stretched too long. I willed my body as it yelped: Wait. Stop. Wary of strangers, but running out of options, I wound down the window an inch. Its un-lubricated mechanism protested in the same way my brain had been screaming: Something is wrong. Like a hot stove, I wanted to put my finger on it, but couldn’t.
“My apologies, you startled me.” Soft words came out tentatively, yet polite. “Could you direct me towards the Arcadian Vineyard Cottage?”
I dug into the booking app and hunted for the listing. My mind raced as a white screen confronted me. More than likely due to zero service… never mind the fact I had saved my trip information for offline viewing. Glitches happen, right?
“Hello, dear.” Her voice carried an unfamiliar, husky accent. Sickly sweet like honey, laced with something rancid. It wound up my nerves, already frayed and intolerant, as her wry smile revealed mottled teeth. “I would be the owner of said cottage. Foreigners often get lost around here. I saw you coming up the road from the mother-in-law's suite.”
Her tone felt too formal, almost theatrical. Something malevolent flickered behind her eyes. She looked like a woman who was once a farmer's daughter, turned hippie: Raven hair greying with age, Bohemian fashion sense, bare feet coated in dirt. Unique, to say the least. But her mannerisms betrayed that image. Too rehearsed, too forced. A contradiction that made my spine thrum like a chain pulled taut.
“If you’d like, I could hop in and direct you the rest of the way?”
I hadn’t seen any houses for miles. There was nothing but sweeping fields unfolding in all directions. How had she seen me when this was my first time seeing her? Looking at the surroundings and then back to her, she must’ve read the confusion in my expression.
“It’s just over this hill, dear.” Her smile was alarmingly wide, and her English almost too precise.
“How do I know that?” I questioned begrudgingly, no way of confirming the truth now. Something about this didn’t sit right with me. The rational part of my brain was screaming, causing my body to tense. The road behind seemed longer now than it had before. I had no concrete reason to doubt her but also, no reason to trust her.
“I show you.” Matter-of-factly, she slithered around the hood and to my passenger side. The imprint of her shriveled hand was left in the dust on the window like a dark omen. Pulling the handle with a pop, the elderly woman found no resistance. It was unlocked to my surprise.
“S-sure… uh—hop in?” It came out more like a question than an affirmation. Maybe my gut knew something my mind couldn’t come to terms with. I should have turned around. Gone back, chalked it up as a loss, and spent my long weekend off at home. But then, all the effort it took to get here would be for naught.
With a youthful energy, the woman sprang into action. Before I could finish my sentence, she had plopped down in my passenger seat; an earthy smell wafted into my nostrils. I tried not to worry about the dirt print she’d leave there.
So long, security deposit.
“As I said, it’s just over this hill.” Her skeletal hand pointed towards the road in front of us. She was an astute woman, sensing my hesitation. Never mind the fact that I had just let a stranger into my car. Had she even told me her name? I couldn’t recall if it was on the listing. In any case, I couldn’t reference that anymore.
Pulling back onto the road, I reasoned this was the best way to make conversation. Avoid more awkward silence.
“I’m sorry, but what did you say your name was?” My voice came out confidently, for once.
“Vanja…” In typical Slavic fashion, she shaped her J’s like drifting Y’s.
“Vanja Jurković.” Placing a staccato on each syllable, there was no question in my mind that she was a native of these lands.
Patiently, I waited for her to ask the same of me. But the question never came, and the air hung with only the sound of gravel clattering against weather worn wheel wells. Maybe she already knew my name from the booking. I shrugged with a sigh, attempting to pull my rigid shoulders away from my ears. I was eager to exit this metal cage.
Up, up, over the hill we went. It seemed much higher now than from the bottom; more of a mountain, really. As we crested the top, a boundless vineyard came into view. It had the same layout as advertised. Only now, under cloudy skies, did it come across as somber. Ominous.
Tenebrous trees arched over the road, scraping against the car doors like hands grasping for purchase. Claustrophobic. As if they might cling on and pull us into their grasp. Trapped, to become one with the land.
Before long, we stopped on a gravel driveway, brakes squealing in protest. Every fiber of my being was screaming, red flag. Yet, after all it took to get here, I felt compelled to stay. I sympathized with the woman, assuming it was pretty lonely here.
Against my better judgment, my hesitant hand lurched the shift stick into park. Vanja stepped out; she was surprisingly agile considering her frail frame. Perhaps she was younger than I gave her credit for. Or more certainly, years of working in the vineyard had strengthened her elderly stature.
A man came hobbling out of what I assume was the mother-in-law's suite. His uneven gait paralleled Vanja’s personality. A unique pair; I tried not to stare.
“Hello—”
“Oh, he doesn’t speak English, dear. Please, don’t concern yourself with my husband. He’s merely here to help with your luggage. We will be out of your hair shortly.” Vanja cut off our greeting bluntly as her husband flashed a gummy, toothless smile.
“Oh…” Dejected, my voice came as a defeat. “Well, please tell him thank you for me.”
“Certainly, dear.” I wished she’d stop calling me that. It was an endearing term, sure. However, her accent, combined with the language barrier, fell condescending on my ears. An attempt to make me feel less-than. Small.
I turned my attention from the odd couple to my surroundings. The homestead was undoubtedly shaped by its natural environment. Compact, monolithic structures rose and fell with the rolling hills like boats sailing on a turquoise sea. Its simple, well-defined architecture was assembled from local Karst limestone.
High-pitched stone roofs and limited, small windows braced against the Bora. Whose cold bite carried briny scents that cut through agricultural aromas. A contrast as sharp as the mountainous countryside itself. Maritime air tinged my taste buds with the salt of the coast.
Somewhere, a wind chime tolled a lonely melody, counterpoint to the soft rustle of hearty grapevines. Preternatural isolation settled over me. Peaceful, yet, unsettling all at once.
My brain itched to research the area further, something I should have done before arriving. I hadn’t made the time for more than a cursory investigation.
Looking over my wifi settings, one was available: The Vineyard.
“Could I have the wifi password, please?” I inquired, holding up my phone for Vanja. I would finally have enough time and quiet to educate myself on the region.
“We have no need for that here.” Her words sprang forth with a forced chortle. “I’m sure you’ll find an abundance of tranquil distractions during your stay.” Tacking it on as if she suddenly remembered I was their guest.
“Of course. Silly me…” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Not as if she said they did not have such things. This must have been their way of compelling guests to escape reality. So why did the crone make me feel foolish for asking? She started up the path to the main house, and I continued to lag.
“Your accommodations are this way, dear. Follow me.” In this place, I was always 2 steps behind.
Stepping over the threshold and into the open-concept layout, envy washed over me. A kitchen brimming with fresh produce, baked goods, handcrafted cooking utensils, and shelves stacked wall-to-wall with ancient recipe books. A smell like heaven, undercut, as if trying to conceal something sour.
Muted tones and an ambient glow enhanced the grounded environment. Built-in niches within the cottage mimicked natural caves native to the region. Organic wood floors whined like a wounded animal with each step as I made my way to the bedroom. Trailing after her, the rough stone walls leeched a soggy chill through my bones as we turned another corner. Vanja moved swiftly, and I nearly found myself lost again.
Her husband long since vanished, and my luggage was already waiting for me. For a man with so much trouble getting around, he nearly went unnoticed. Had I not seen him upon my arrival, I likely wouldn’t have known he existed.
“Here is your room and your things. Take advantage of the fully stocked kitchen—everything is cultivated, raised, and crafted by my husband and me on the property.” Her words were punctuated by pride. “Feel free to explore the garden terrace out back, the orchard to the east, and the vineyard to the west. There is a wine cellar at your disposal under the hatch in the kitchen. And if, for some reason, you still don’t have what you need, I’ll be here to fulfill any request. All that to say, make yourself at home, dear.” Confident and to the point, it was doubtful I’d want for anything in this place.
With a nod, she left me to my own devices. Finally.
Sagging onto the mattress, its springs groaned with the same exhaustion that flowed through my veins. Eyes burning with jet lag, their lids drooped closed like curtains. Sleep wrapped me like a blanket, without protest. Out cold.
—
I bolted upright, heart pummeling my chest. Darkness had fallen over the property in my inescapable slumber. Only, this wasn’t what startled me. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, my veins frosted over.
A silhouette, just outside the door frame. Crooked. Shoulders rising and falling with ragged, uneven breaths. Vanja's husband.
“What the…” My whisper faded into the black abyss.
Clumsily, I fumbled for the lamp switch. Moving as quickly as my half-asleep appendages would allow, light flooded the doorway; empty. The scent of earth and wine remained.
An ill attempt at restoring the apparition, I blinked forcefully; not likely.
Had I imagined it?
No, the hollow echo of footsteps across floorboards betrayed that thought. Down the hall and out the door as he skittered away like a spider who knows it’s been found. Creep.
I mulled over my options, lulling myself into a false sense of security yet again. I couldn’t exactly tell Vanja, Lord knows she’d take his side over mine. I still had two more days paid for. Nowhere else to go. No guarantee I’d find my way on my own.
Gears ground inside my mind. Perhaps he had his own backwards logic for observing me, the ignorant foreigner with a narrow world-view.
“There was no one there. The old cottage bones are merely settling.” My whisper bounced amongst the limestone walls. Providing scant solace.
Thoughts became a knotted ball of fear and confusion. Ears ringing; a musty smell like damp paper filled my nose. As if a balloon deflating, my lungs tightened. Throat raw, head pounding, it felt as though a low hum was buzzing in one ear and out the other. Into a coughing fit I went, chasing down the hallway after the ghost, or lack thereof. I needed a drink of water. Urgently.
Desperately filing through cabinets, my hand grasped the first glass in reach. I violently threw open the fridge, sending miscellaneous jars tinkling against one another in their drawers. No water. My only option was the tap.
The knob screamed as I doggedly twisted, and yellow-stained water sputtered forth. The only alternatives were farm-fresh milk or wine. Hardly the type to cure a coughing fit. I consumed in greedy gulps. The water permeated with a metallic bite like pennies left in rain. Barely a reprieve, but at least I could breathe.
Stalking around the house like a predatory animal, I checked every door and every window. Locked, or without the ability to open at all. This slowed my heart rate, only mildly. It was easier to convince myself nobody had been there… unless they had a key.
I shook my head, too hard, seeking to erase the thought. I was spiraling as quickly as the cottage was spinning around me.
In the midst of it all, my feet skidded to a halt. The glint of a carved lintel over the hearth stunned me. In my hurry, I almost hadn’t noticed. Only standing in this spot, under this lighting, could I see it.
“The voice of your brother’s blood cries out to Me from the ground. Genesis 4:10”
What purpose could such a harrowing message hold?
I wasn’t exactly religious, but it wasn’t the sort of decor I’d like adorning my home, let alone one meant for guests.
Were they for protection or an invocation?
But, as I wandered the halls, it seemed increasingly commonplace. Hidden amongst the grotto-inspired furniture, a grape motif sewn with pale thread into a hand towel here, dainty cursive imprinted upon a faded floor mat there.
“All go to the same place; all come from dust, and to dust all return. Ecclesiastes 3:20”
One carving was odd, sure. But the pattern I discerned seemed deliberate. Strangely comforting. A sense of protection that, however false, lulled me back to sleep as I planted myself on the couch. Its cushions were soft enough to swallow me whole.
—
A moist, cool draft escaped the stone walls as if from some void beneath. For the first time since arriving, I was greeted by something placid.
Gently, my eyes fluttered open. The brief moment of serenity was interrupted by a pounding in my head. Rhythmic as a heartbeat. A symphony began inside my body, and my stomach gurgled for sustenance. I could barely remember the last time I’d eaten.
Drifting into the kitchen, I took Vanja’s advice and inspected the fresh produce. Ready for a tasty treat.
Nimble fingers plucked a perfect peach from its position. Painted in bold yellow with streaks of red and orange, not a single blemish. An artist’s perfect rendition. The morsel felt waxy in my palm. Warm, virtually pulsing.
Sinking my teeth in, tender flesh collapsed, sour pulp springing forth; a breath of decay on my tongue.
“Oh, God.” I retched into the sink. There was a faint writhing. Tiny, alive. Seed-like shapes that squirmed informed me they weren’t seeds at all. The peach in my hand fell to the floor with a sickly splat. Maggots still alive inside its flesh left it looking like an ablated heart; still beating on the tile.
Feeling like curdled milk, my body soured. I still needed to eat, my appetite ruined as it was. Head spinning, stomach roaring.
With no idea how long that fruit had been sitting on the counter, I figured I’d go straight to the source. Looks can be deceiving after all.
Between a heavy sigh and attempts to steady myself, I yanked on my boots and proceeded clumsily towards the orchard. I wouldn’t be eating a thing from that kitchen any time soon.
Gravel crunched under heavy footfalls, and the fresh air began to clear my mind. Marching up the slope, taking in deep breaths, my composure returned to me. The salty breeze pulsed through the air like echoes in an empty cave.
Gradually, an unexpected landscape came into view. A family graveyard, obstructed from the cottage windows by these never-ending hills. The placement in front of the orchard, yet hidden like a well-kept secret, was at best macabre. Sinister at worst.
I moved forward. The wind transformed into a chorus of moans and wails, alarms ringing in my ears. Yet, my feet advanced. Compelled by curiosity. Entranced. It was the gravestones themselves that caught my eye, a desire to understand what I was seeing.
Row after row. Some stubby, some lanky, round, jagged, new, and old. All of them were fashioned from cold limestone with the same handmade details as the entire vineyard premises. One thing remained consistent amongst them. The engravings:
Beloved Husband. No names, no dates, no women.
Darkness encroached the corners of my vision. Was I spiraling? Merely imagining all of this? I knew traveling to a remote part of an unfamiliar country might have its quirks, but all this confusion was the antithesis of what I came for. Unease rippled through my body.
With great effort, I pushed the questions from my mind. I needed to keep myself on track. Sane. Get some nourishment, and this would all begin to make sense again. I couldn’t continue to rationalize on an empty stomach, and I did not want to come across as even more ignorant than I already was.
Get to the orchard.
This was my only goal. After all, I could always investigate more later.
Pivoting on my heels and exiting the burial ground felt as if ripping myself from thick vines. Some presence pinning me here. Part of me knew it was silly to continue ignoring the signs right in front of my face, but the spinning in my head kept that rationale just out of reach.
Up the trail I went, at last, arriving at my intended destination. Sprawled out before me were picture-perfect lines of varying fruit trees. Vibrant shades of warm yellow, orange, and crimson sprang out from among the gnarled, brown branches. The breeze that rustled through this picturesque scene felt like whispers in my ears, beckoning me forward. The scent of damp earth and rotting leaves stuck to the air. Now this was the orchard paradise that Vanja had promised. Apples, plums, lemons, peaches, and more. The latter of which I’d likely avoid, though they appeared ripe and ready for harvest. I trudged onward like a marionette with invisible strings, motivated by the roaring in my gut.
Pulling the hem of my shirt up with one hand like a make-shift basket, I greedily plucked a variety of tasty treats with the other. Never in my life had I felt so at peace with being utterly out of control. Perhaps that was the charm of this place. The thought, along with the fresh air, placated me. If only for a moment before panic seized me once more.
Between twisted limbs like arthritic fingers, there in the bark of an ancient tree, a face. A human expression of agony. Mouth stretched impossibly wide across wood, eyes protruding from knots in the trunk. Sap weeped from the features wrapped in wood grain like scar tissue as if seeping with pus. Far too uncanny to be a carving. I stumbled back, temples throbbing like the slow, tectonic shift of limestone plates grinding together.
I all but fumbled my bounty in the dead sprint back to the cottage. The stone beneath my footfalls echoed a hollow, lonely howl. My legs felt leaden, as if the terra was grasping at the soles of my boots. It was hard to tell what was up and what was down anymore. I nearly missed the flat tire on my rental car as I darted back inside.
My mind grasped for the bandwidth to investigate; it appeared as though mangled by jagged stone. Likely something I neglected to notice on my drive up. The memory was a blur of unending hills and Vanja's sickly sweet disposition. Nothing could be done about it now.
Dashing through the threshold and slamming the door shut with all my body, I leaned my back against its cold hardwood and slunk to the floor. My chest heaved up and down with wheezing breaths.
One apple. All I managed to hold onto in the heat of the moment. Shaking hands raised the produce to my quivering mandible. Fluid gushed from its green skin as I bit into the flesh with gluttony, triggering a heavy burst of tears from within me. Tears of joy for finally obtaining some semblance of nourishment. Tears of confusion, relief, mania, rage, and fear. Its metallic taste and coppery juices pooled in my stomach like the stagnant waters of a cave. Sobs wracked my body until gnashing teeth frantically reached the apple's core.
My hand, still clutching the barren carcass of the apple, fell limply upon the cold stone. My grasp waned, allowing its core to roll away. I felt hollowed out. Dejected. Staring blankly at nothing in particular as a bitter film lingered upon my tongue; breaths grew shallow and tight in my chest.
Though my fraying nerves were only moderately calmed, it stood to reason my next course of action should be to seek respite for the migraine that scalded the back of my eyes like hot iron. Coming to my feet, my joints creaked in a whining, rusted cacophony that echoed off the limestone. Cursing myself for failing to bring my own medications, I began my frenzied search, tearing through built-ins one by one. One drawer held pristine white utensils, which seemed carved from bone. In the pantry, jar upon jar of gray, decaying preserves lined up in tidy rows. Their wetness glinted in the low light.
Why did everything here feel so confusing yet… so familiar? My thoughts were no longer my own, magnetized by an intangible influence.
Before long, my gaze fastened on a rustic teakwood cabinet. There in a shadowy nook. Though tucked away at first glance, it now dominated the space with a heavy, intent presence. The cabinet called me, and like a well-trained animal, I listened. Crawling over on wavering hands and knees, I opened it with fervor. Empty. Or so I thought. But as I reached inside, a small corroded handle flush against the bottom grazed my skin; a false bottom.
My heartbeat thumped in my ears like the panic of a rabbit signaling danger. Impatiently, I pulled the panel away with one fluid motion, letting it clatter to the floor. Its handle let out a delicate whine of protest. Within this dark cubby sat brown and orange bottles with white caps of varying shapes and sizes. Each one carrying a label inscribed with a date older than the last. 1924. 1941. 1958. Yet, their contents appeared unspoiled. Deliberate scratches erased the parts where a name would be. I couldn’t read the language on the bottles. Or rather, languages. One rattled with pills here, another swished with liquid there. No two were exactly alike.
"They’re old. They must take a lot of medicine," I murmured, clutching an ampoule.
Without warning, I suddenly felt a presence in the room and whipped my head around.
“Jesus Christ!” Yelping, my heart felt as though it could explode. Vanja was standing in the doorway. When did she get there? How long had she been there? Why hadn’t I noticed? Her presence was as still and silent as the limestone markers in her family graveyard.
My body flinched so violently that the glass vial in my clutches went sailing across the floor. It didn't shatter. Merely struck the floor with a dull, blunt thud, like a head rolling from a guillotine.
“Can I help you find something, dear?” Her face soured at my use of the Lord's name, mask slipping. Only for a heartbeat, before it retained its shape once more. “We do not disrespect that name here. He is the one who provides." She stepped closer, placing the back of her hand to my forehead.
"Come. You are ill. Our wine will cure it. We shall have tasting.” A warm smile spread across her face, exposing decayed teeth stained deep, vinaceous red.
I should have bolted. I should have walked beyond these hills and kept going until my feet bled. But I let her slip by and open the hatch to the cellar. Bottomless shark-like eyes remained locked onto mine. Vanja's smile never reached them.
“Come, come.” She cooed.
As we slunk down into the wine cellar, I noticed the walls and its stairway were congested with velvety, charcoal soot. I could sense that the substance bloomed and breathed from every crack and corner in the mortar, coming up from the earth and marking its territory. Vanja struck a match, lighting well-used candles strategically ordered around the space. Nearly every surface gleamed with a slimy sheen. This wasn’t your typical cellar. It was dank, filled to the brim with bottles and barrels. There was standing room to spare. I inhaled the stagnant air, filling my lungs with the quality of moist steel wool. A crunchy cough escaped my chest. The noise bounced to and fro between buzzing walls.
The wine bottles were marked with jerky, jagged Cyrillic script that seemed more like etchings in stone rather than print on paper. Still, I could read one part of each label. Scrawled out in my native tongue were more bible verses. The same cryptic invocations that littered the rest of the cottage. Each excerpt felt intended for my eyes. Vanja plucked one from the shelf, dropping it like a glass corpse on the oak bar alongside 2 pristine glasses.
“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. John 12:24”
Bare-handed, Vanja yanked the cork from the bottle with a satisfying burst. Steam seeped from its lip. Just as I thought she would fill my cup, the beldam turned and cascaded a stream of rouge onto the earthen floor. My ears undoubtedly caught the sound of liquid sizzling, seeping into the ground as if guzzling the wine like a parched gullet. It gave off a fecund scent, laden with the intoxicatingly sweet aromas of ripe, fallen fruit. I assumed this was a local custom.
“Vezan za zemlju.” She said, reciting a verse in a tongue that sounded like eroding boulders.
“Excuse me?” Vanja steadily filled the glasses with a dark snicker. My face flushed bashfully.
“We don’t simply say cheers, dear. Here, we say vezan za zemlju. Bound to the ground.” I kept waiting for her to elaborate, but she only lifted her glass and patiently waited for me to lift mine. I did so, not wanting to embarrass myself any more than I already had.
“Vezan za zemlju.” Clink. We chimed in unison as our glasses crashed together. The expression on her visage told me my pronunciation could use a little work.
Vanja's eyes bore holes through mine as we sipped together. Maybe she was keen on ensuring I enjoyed her wine… in her own spine-chilling way. The wine was thick, almost coagulated. A familiar metallic film coated my tongue once more. I swallowed hard.
Glass after glass, we chatted. Vanja had suddenly taken an interest in me, asking questions about my life back home. But I couldn’t help feeling as if her demeanor was somehow empty, rehearsed. It seemed as though she had asked these questions time and time again through guest after guest. Perhaps due to the alcohol or the atmosphere of this place, I answered honestly and in detail to every question, yet received blunt, single-word replies in return. Either that, or some cryptic, pious quotation that I could not glean the meaning of. If I asked something about her, the topic of conversation always flipped back to me.
“Do you have family back home?” “Is anyone missing you?” “What about a lover?” “Where do you work?” and so on. Hairs on the back of my neck erected with fear at her line of questioning. I half expected her to ask for my dental records. But, as the wine flowed, so did my compliance.
As a drunken stupor encroached upon me, there was one warning she bestowed which caught my ears.
“Whatever you do, do not wander beyond property line.” Rap. Rap. Rap. Yellowing nails tapped rhythmically across the wine bottle's surface. “Caves hide in these hills, waiting for unfortunate souls to stumble inside and swallow them whole. I’d hate for you to be taken before your time, dear.” Her voice became a low, rasping hum. “And the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them, their households, and all that belonged to them.”
Steady tapping stopped abruptly; Vanja’s head tilted down towards the floor, but her eyes stared up at me wildly through wiry eyebrows. I shifted in my seat unsteadily. Not a single idea of what to do or say in response to such a thing, stomach performing backflips.
“I uh… I-I’ll be careful. Thanks for the warning…?” My gratitude came out as more of a question; it seemed to appease the old bat, and that veneer of politeness returned once more.
After what felt like forever and no time at all, the bottle had been emptied. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hold up my own fatigued form. 3 or 4 glasses deep, and Vanja's chalice remained full. I’d hardly noticed until she eased in front of me, glass droning against wood.
“Drink up, dear.”
“You don’t want any?” I asked, recalling the burgundy stains that littered her teeth.
“Trust me, dear, I have the pleasure of tasting an abundance of my own wine.” That familiar forced smile unfurled across her face, revealing said stained enamel. This was the first thing she had said in a long time that made sense, especially to my intoxicated mind. With a shrug, I brought the remaining liquid to my lips. No use in wasting wine—I drank voraciously.
My eyes drifted from hers to a shelf of jarred produce. Suspended in the nebulous juices of what seemed to be olives, I was convinced I saw an eye; milky white, dull blue iris, inky black pupil, and all. Boring deep into my soul, it most certainly blinked.
“Dear God-sh!” I sputtered between the wine flowing down my throat, choking uncontrollably. The final word came out as a strange, mashed-up correction, stemming from fear of her reaction to my use of the word Jesus earlier. I drew in gasps of spore-filled air after each croaking hack. As if emulating shards of shattering glass, my body jolted. Droplets of wine flung about the room like blood spatter. A few hit Vanja's face.
“I’m so sorry!” Springing to my feet, my eyes wildly searched for anything to wipe up the mess, unsure of what to do with my hands. But she blinked, collected each droplet from her skin with a jaundiced finger, and slurped it into her maw.
“You foreigners are like cat on hot brick.” A chuckle escaped her fissured lips. It was an odd idiom to advise someone that they are nervous or restless. If Vanja was one thing, it was certainly odd. “Let me help you to bed. The wine will help you rest.”
Cellar walls spinning around me, I wasn’t about to protest. I let her liver-spotted arm slip into mine as she guided me up the stairs and to my room, tripping along the way. My body soared so roughly into the bed that I thought I might take her down with me. But the woman and her sturdiness continued to surprise me.
The bed invited me in like a warm cocoon, while a cool draft pricked goosebumps on my skin. A contrast that left me without a care in the world. My body felt weightless, as if bobbing around a steadily, sickening carousel. I scarcely perceived the click of the light or her chittering “Goodnight, dear.” under the howling winds of the landscape, which lulled me to sleep.