It’s not painted shut. It’s not warped.
Thick, square-headed iron nails have been driven through the frame from the outside. They are rusted, bitten deep into the wood. This isn't a recent repair to keep a draft out. These nails have been here for years.
I back away from the window, my heart slamming a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs. I look toward the door, then back at the window, then at the dolls staring at me with their dead, glassy eyes.
This isn't a guest room.
Guest rooms have egress. Guest rooms have ventilation.
A room with nails driven through the window frame isn't designed to keep the weather out. It’s designed to keep something in.
2
MIRANDA
Logic is a failsafe. When the gears grind and the mechanism threatens to seize, you fall back on the schematics.
I stare at the rusted iron nails driven into the window frame. My first instinct—the foster kid instinct—tells me to run. It screams that this is a cage. But then the mechanic in me takes over, forcing the panic down into a pressurized container in my gut.
"Paranoia is not helping," I mutter, stepping back from the glass.
I force myself to turn around and walk to the bedroom door. If this were a horror movie—one of thoseInsidiousflicks with the red doors and the jump scares—this door would be locked too. I’d be sealed in with the porcelain dolls and the suffocating smell of dried roses.
I grip the brass knob. It’s cold.
I turn it.
The latch clicks smoothly, a well-oiled interaction of metal on metal, and the door swings open into the dimly lit corridor.
See? It’s nothing. If they wanted to keep me prisoner, they wouldn't leave the main egress wide open. The window is probably just storm-proofing. This is hurricane country. People nail things down when the wind threatens to strip the siding off the house. I’m letting the atmosphere of this rotting pile of lumber mess with my calibration.
I step out into the hall. The gas lamps hiss, a low-frequency white noise that grates on my nerves. I need to find someone. I need a verbal confirmation that I’m just being an idiot.
"Hello?" My voice gets swallowed by the heavy velvet wallpaper.
Down the hall, a shadow detaches itself from an alcove. It’s a maid, dressed in a uniform that looks like it was stolen from a 19th-century period drama—stiff black wool, white apron, zero personality. She’s holding a feather duster like a weapon.
"Excuse me," I say, walking toward her. My boots sound too loud on the hardwood. "I had a question about my room."
She turns slowly. Her face is slack, her eyes wide and watery. She looks at me, but I’m not sure she sees me. She’s staring somewhere near my left ear.
"The window," I say, pointing back toward my door. "It’s nailed shut. From the outside."
"To keep the damp out," she says. Her voice is monotone, a flat line on an oscilloscope.
"With iron spikes?" I cross my arms. "seems excessive for humidity."
"To keep the beasts out," she corrects herself, though the tone doesn't change. "The swamp is alive at night. Things crawl up the siding. Things that want to get inside."
I blink. "Wild beasts? What, do you have raccoons with lock-picking kits? Can a gator climb three stories of vertical siding?"
I’m joking—it’s a deflection mechanism—but she doesn't laugh. She doesn't even blink. She just keeps staring at the sideof my head with those watery, vacant eyes. The silence stretches, pulling tight like a rubber band about to snap.
"Right," I say, the word sounding hollow. "Beasts. Got it."
She turns back to the wall and starts dusting a frame that doesn't look dusty.
I retreat to my room. The logic holds—technically—but the data is corrupted. The maid acted like she was heavily medicated or terrified. But I can't leave now. I have a dinner invitation, and it’s only polite to attend since I’m already here.
