The world beyond the kitchen window is like an ink painting. First, there’s a long stretch of grass and a huge garden area fenced off to keep nibbling creatures from getting inside.
Then, beyond that, trees stand shoulder to shoulder on the back lawn, black trunks, black branches, the hint of leaves crashing quietly together in the sway of a gentle breeze.
And beyond the woods, the ground lifts into a gentle hill, and on its crown—stones. A ring of them. Not tall, not Stonehenge, but old. They look smooth from here, rounded by weather, half-swallowed by earth. The moon sits over them as if it chose the perfect backdrop to show off its glow.
He leans closer to the window. “Not everyone has a miniature Stonehenge in their backyard.”
True story.I stare at the stones, and even from here, I can sense that something is off. I hear them. I’m not sure if it’s an audible sound or if it’s more vibrational.
Either way, they are humming… like the piano.
I pull the window closed once more, and the lock slides into place with a gentle click.
Asher moves to the glass doors off the kitchen and unlatches the lock. He pulls them open with no issue and then steps back. The night is quiet, and he extends his sneaker toward the threshold.
When his foot doesn’t cross to the outside, I assume he’s run into the same force field resistance we encountered at the front door. He tries again from a different angle but gets nowhere. After a short time, he shrugs and closes the door. “Okay, house. I feel you.”
The joint at the hinge of my jaw cracks when I yawn. “All right, well, if we’re here for the foreseeable future, we need to Goldilocks our way to the bedrooms. My buzz is gone, my mind is blown, and if we’re heading into more whacked and wild tomorrow, this girl needs to close her peepers for a few hours.”
Asher grabs an apple out of the bowl on the counter and gestures for me to lead the way.
We leave the kitchen, and the house turns on ambient lights as we work our way back to the main staircase. As much as that should freak me out, it doesn’t.
Maybe my brain is fried beyond responding, but I feel like Asher’s right. The house seems grateful we’re here, and that feels strangely welcoming.
Either that or I’m being lulled into complacency and it’s going to kill me in my sleep.
I vote for door number one.
The staircase hums faintly underfoot as the two of us ascend to the second floor. At the top of the landing, the upper level reaches out both left and right. The long corridors seem to lead to dozens of rooms, but I’m too tired to be curious.
The wall sconces to our right illuminate like runway lights in the darkness. We take the hint and let the house lead our way. There are half a dozen doors alternating on either side of the hall.
Asher raps his knuckles on the first one. “Housekeeping.”
The bedroom is big, but still cozy. The bed is neatly made, topped with the kind of linens you want to flop into face-first. There’s a bay window with a deep window-seat stacked with a pile of pillows in colors that look like fall leaves.
A chenille throw lies over the back of a chair in the little reading nook, long and honey-colored, like the woman of the house might’ve draped it over herself while she read.
I run my fingers over the soft fabric and smile down at the leather-bound book and reading glasses left forgotten.
“Other than the groceries, this entire house feels like it’s a time-capsule. Everything seems frozen in the moment of the last time people lived here.”
“Yeah, it feels like whoever lives here, we missed them by five minutes. Only… given the stale air and musty smell when we first arrived, I think it was a lot longer than that.”
“Agreed. So, where do you think they went?”
“That’s the mystery, isn’t it?”
We move on down the hallway and find a bathroom with a clawfoot tub and a tray with a book on it. It looks very luxurious, and I run my fingers over the smooth, cool enamel. “Whoever lived here, they were big readers. There are books in every room.”
“And not just stacked on shelves,” Asher adds.
I pop my head into a small sewing room with an old Bernina machine that looks like it will sew through your finger bones if you offend it. Beside it, spools of thread are arranged in a gradient of color like a candy display.
We continue down the hall, and I stop in front of a full-length mirror. I don’t pay much attention at first, but when I walk by, my reflection catches.
I back up and take another look. The frame is old wood, hand-carved with little leaves and twisting vines, and stained in a dark mahogany. The silvering of the mirror has gone ever-so-slightly smoky at the edges, enough to lend everything a soft focus.
