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A short ways in there is a large set of gates that reaches almost eight foot high. I pull up next to the keypad and check the piece of paper that I was given by the solicitor. I punch in the code '009922' and the gates slowly open for me.

I pull forwards through the open gates, which close ominously behind me. I follow the winding road through the trees. It has obviously been laid around the older trees that stubbornly refused to move or be uprooted, some of their trunks are wider than my arm span. The rest of the trees are pines, thin and extremely tall, green throughout the year.

Eventually, I turn a corner and two rows of houses comes into view. They line either side of the road, detached family homes with front gardens and driveways. It's like something out of the Stepford Wives, they're made of pale stone bricks with slate roofs and porches. Some even have quintessential touches like porch swings, window boxes and shutters.

It's no wonder that the residents of Arcis don't like outsiders coming into their haven, it's a perfect little oasis in a brutally unforgiving world. The first vibe I get from the place is the near-impossible combination of luxury and cosy, which I guarantee is paired with a low crime rate and high quality of life. I bet this is the kind of place where people leave their doors unlocked and their keys in their cars.

Clueless as to where I'm going, I slow down to read the numbers. The houses on the left are all even numbers, the one I read is 18. I need 21, but this might not be Arbor Close. At the end of the road is a T-junction leading to even more houses. Thankfully, there is a sign post.

I read the signs out loud to myself, "Lupus Close, Luna Avenue, Main Hall, Regulus Manor, Main Street, Arbor Close! That's it."

I indicate left for no one, just out of habit, and follow the signage to Arbor Close. The signs take me veering off, away from the apparent centre of the town, indicated by the likes of 'Main Street' and 'Main Hall'. Arbor Close has larger houses on it, separated much further apart than the ones on the road I first drove down.

As I follow the road along, counting up the numbers of the houses, they become further and further apart. At the very end of the road, with no house opposite it and the nearest house a good 50 yards away, I find number 21.

My aunt's house, or rather, my house, is a grand, old-looking place. It has a Gambrel roof and one of the rooms on the corner even has a pointed tower roof of its own. The wrap-around porch lacks a swing but has a certain charm about it with the ornate banisters and posts that form it.

I pull onto the drive and cut the engine. I take out my phone and snap a picture to send to my dad. I sent it to him with a quick message saying that I've arrived safely.

When I jump out of the car, I notice how much milder the air is compared to the last time I got out to check the map. The trees really provide insulation from the cold April wind. I collect the keys that I was given by the solicitor and walk up the steps to the porch, eager to see what it looks like inside.

The key works smoothly and the door swings open. It smells a little stuffy inside, nothing opening a few windows won't fix. I set down my handbag and close the door behind me. I wander from room to room, memorising the layout and making a mental note of everything that might need some work before selling.

That's if I do sell it.

The one thing my studio apartment is severely lacking is good natural light. The upstairs room on the corner, the one with the separate towered roof, has floor-to-ceiling windows in each facet of the half-hexagonal shape. It's the perfect place to set up an easel. Good thing I always carry mine with me when I'm going away.

I didn't know how long it's going to take me to get the house ready for selling and to read my mother's diaries, so I've brought enough clothes for two weeks and some art supplies. It seems I will be setting up residence here for a while.

I collect my things from the car and put them in the spare room. No one has been here since my aunt passed and it's strange to be in someone else's house like this. Luckily, the food has been cleared from the fridge, probably after she moved to the care facility near Brookesfield City. I don't fancy eating my dead aunt's food, that doesn't sit well with me.

Her bins have been emptied and the bed is made in her bedroom. I find some bin bags from under the sink and start going through the clothes in her wardrobe. Most of it is in really good condition, so I fill the bin bags to take to a charity shop tomorrow morning.

When I'm done, I put the bin bags by the door and head back up to the office I noticed earlier. On a bookshelf I find my mother's diaries. They're each listed with the year, ranging from ten years before I was born to over ten years after. There isn't one from each year, there are only five in total. I open one and flick through the pages. The entries are short and written in her swirling calligraphy that I recognise immediately.

It's strange, holding one of the diaries and seeing the cover unlocks a forgotten memory in my mind. I'm only a child, maybe ten or eleven, and she's curled up on the sofa writing away. I ask her what she's doing and pester her for attention, but she tells me that it is important that she finishes and that I can read them one day. I shake my head as the memory ends, and I put the diary back.

I take the first one, dated eleven years before I was born, and take it downstairs with me. I'll start reading that tonight, but first, I need to get some food. It's five o'clock and I'm going to get hungry soon. On the way to Arbor Close, I saw signs for the main street, I'm really hoping there is some kind of supermarket in this town.

Not knowing how big the place is, I decide to drive instead of walk. I find it odd that all of the streets are empty, but it is a Sunday afternoon. I can see that the lights are on in most houses and cars are on the driveways.

Main street is just how I expected it to be. There are quaint shops with pretty fronts and painted wooden signs. Silver birch line either side of the road, sprouting from cut sections of the pavement. At the end of the street is a mini-roundabout and a large chain supermarket store. I sigh with relief and pull into the car park.

I grab my purse and my handbag and head for the door. I pull one of the trolleys from the line and enter through the automatic doors. The familiarity of the air con, sound of cashiers beeping and the inevitable squeaky wheel on the trolley is comforting.

I start in the fruit and veg section, picking out things I might fancy for my meals. I meet my first actual Arcis resident in the bakery section. He is a very handsome man in his forties. His skin is tanned and perfectly smooth. His black hair is slicked back from his face and he's debating between a roll of sourdough and one of rye.

He looks up, startled as I park my trolley just in front of his. I smile politely and then look for a tiger loaf. I find one I like the look of and put it in my trolley. The man is still staring at me. It's quite comical really, the way that his eyes are open excessively wide, and his lips are parted. I push my trolley past him, wanting to get away from him quickly.

He can't really be shocked that someone new is in town, can he?

I guess it would be a surprise. I did need a code to get in here, it must be quite an exclusive community. I hope I'm not breaking any rules by being here, but it's all in the will if they have any legal issues with it.

"Definitely Stepford," I mutter under my breath and turn down the next aisle.

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