Dream House by Marzia Bisognin

only to be almost forced back inside the house, so strong is the wind that’s blowing out there. But I push my way through it, struggling to keep walking until I’ve turned the first corner, where the wall shelters me just a little bit from the crazed weather.
    The distant thunder is rapidly moving closer and closer, bringing freezing-cold rain with it, and in just a few seconds I find myself soaking wet instead of bone dry.
    But I can’t go back: I won’t be satisfied until I’ve found out what the hell is inside the damned shed.
    I cross the back garden and arrive in front of the shed. After a moment’s hesitation, I raise my knife and start prying at the thick chain around the padlock and the hasp on the lock, but they’re far too solid for it to be any use.
    I take off my jacket, wrap it a few times around my right fist, and give one of the tiny windows to the side of the door a good punch—it shatters into thousands of fragments which scatter all over the place, and I put my arm through the hole I’ve created, feeling about with my hand for anything that might help me open the door.
    My fingers touch on various useless odds and ends, until finally they come across something flat, sharp, and cold. I slide my fingers along it until they encounter a wooden handle—an axe! Just what I need!
    I wrap my hand around it tightly and start pulling it upwards, in the direction of the window: it’s heavy, but I’ve almost got it.
    And then, suddenly, a violent freezing sensation grips my whole body and for one horrifying second leaves me completely immobile, unable even to move my eyes—and then sends me crashing heavily to the wet ground.
    Barely conscious, I feel warm tears make their way across my cheeks as I lie there on the grass in the icy rain.
    I can’t move, I have no control over my body, and I’m scared. But none of that really matters.
    One thought—one thought alone—keeps going through my mind.
    I am going to die here.

DAY 13
    I DON’T KNOW how much time I spend there, alone, frozen to the ground, before I pass out.
    The only thing that I do know is that I am now waking up to mild, calm weather. I’m very uncomfortable—but I’m alive .
    And I’m glad about that.
    I have absolutely no idea what happened. Or why. I can’t get my head around it. Perhaps I ought to try to just put it behind me. Forget about it. And maybe learn not to act so irresponsibly.
    The only explanation that I can come up with is that Alfred must have found me looking too closely at his precious shed and decided to do something about it. I don’t know how he could have paralysed me like that, and I’ve no way of confirming my assumption, as I didn’t see or hear anybody near me when I fell to the ground—but I do know that it’s the only thing that would make any sense at this point.
    â€œAre you okay?”
    A distant, concerned voice reaches my ears, catching me off guard.
    â€œI . . . I don’t know,” I mumble, still lying on the damp lawn.
    Silence.
    â€œAre you okay?!” the voice repeats, louder this time.
    It takes me a moment longer than it probably should before my brain finally makes the connection that it’s Avery’s voice I’m hearing.
    â€œYes,” I answer, “I . . . just need a second.”
    I collect my strength and sit up straight, turning in his direction. He’s by the gate, wearing a white T-shirt which sets off his neatly combed dark hair. He looks smarter, more dressed up than usual. Is he going somewhere?
    Obviously quite worried, he smiles with relief as soon as he sees me look him in the face.
    Running a hand through my uncombed hair, I suddenly realise with a pang of self-consciousness how I must look, but—trying to conceal my embarrassment—I say bluntly, “I was attacked.”
    His eyes widen. “By who?”
    â€œI have no