The Reaping (The Fahllen #1)(22)
Author: M. Leighton

It wasn’t very big. In fact, I looked back from where I’d come and realized that I’d already crossed more than half of it.

I looked ahead. It didn’t appear to get much deeper, so I decided to just go on rather than go back and try to walk around it. I was already soaked after all.

I took another step forward, and another, then another. Each step became more difficult, like something was dragging at my feet. I looked down, but I couldn’t see anything past the glassy black surface of the water.

Or could I? Just then I saw a face rising from the depths.

I stumbled backward, my feet tangling beneath me, and I fell into the cold water. I turned to scramble back toward the shore when something about the face struck me, gave me pause.

Hesitantly, I turned back toward the house, toward the body, and took two tentative steps forward until I could see the body drifting lifelessly just beneath the surface.

The short hair floated in a dark halo around a face so white it appeared almost blue. The features, though bloated from time spent in the water, looked familiar. Then I really saw the face.

It was my father.

In a panic, I looked up, intending to run to the house for help, but I was already there. I was at the top of the steps, standing on the stoop.

I looked behind me, confused, and saw that there was no water, only the black field that I’d seen from the beginning.

I turned my attention back to the house. It was tall, taller than it had looked from a distance. When I looked up, I could barely make out the gable at the peak in the roof. And it was dark, much darker than just deeply shadowed; it was pitch black—the siding, the trim, the steps, the eaves. Even the door I was standing in front of was black. It, too, was tall, almost twice as tall as me, and slender, just wide enough for me to pass through.

I looked to the left and right of the door, hoping to peek inside a window, but there was nothing on either side of the door, just more black siding.

I looked up again. Above the front door was a row of seven doors that spanned the entire length of the house. Above that row was a single door and above that was another row of eight doors. At the top of the house, centered beneath the peak of the roof, was another single door.

I stared at the doors, thinking something looked off. Then I realized that only two of the doors had knobs. The front door had a silver knob, etched with some sort of intricate design, and the single door in the second row had a gold knob. Though I was puzzled, I didn’t dwell on it, supposing it didn’t matter since there were no stairs by which to access the doors anyway.

I walked around to one side of the house. From top to bottom, the entire side of the house was covered with doors, all without knobs. I continued on around the house. The back and the other side of the house looked the same—all doors, no knobs, no windows.

When once more I stood before the front door, I heard the creaking of old hinges. When I looked up, the third story single door stood open.

I blinked and I was inside. I stood in the center of a room, evidently the room where dozens of hallways converged. I turned in a circle and saw corridors spread out before me in every direction, like spokes of a wheel. Dozens of dark hallways lined with hundreds of dark doors. On each door was a different symbol of some sort, geometric in design.

All of a sudden, a deafening creak split the stillness and every single door opened simultaneously, just a crack. Fear lanced through me like a hot knife. The hair at my nape prickled at the danger I felt gushing down the hallways toward me. Something was waiting for me.

I woke with a start. I lay still for several minutes, staring quietly at the ceiling, relieved that I had only been having a dream. At least it was a different dream, I thought. Still, I was unable to shake the feeling that I was trapped—in the house, by the house.

I saw the first pale streaks of dawn peeking beneath the yellow curtains at Leah’s windows. Knowing that I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, I slid from between the sheets and crept out the door and down the steps. When my foot hit the bottom step, I inhaled deeply. The smell of coffee drenched the air. I closed my eyes to savor the scent. I loved coffee. Sweet like dessert or plain black, I loved it all. Dad didn’t let me indulge very often (said it would stunt my growth) so I enjoyed it at every possible opportunity when he wasn’t around.

Though my mouth watered at the prospect of a cup of the brew, I toyed with the idea of going back to bed; I didn’t want to disturb the Kirbys while they enjoyed the quiet of early morning.

I stood on the bottom step, one hand on the newel post, debating what to do, when Derek suddenly appeared at the bottom of the steps. He startled me and I couldn’t prevent the involuntary leap of my muscles

He just stood there, staring at me for several seconds before he finally moved. He extended his hand and I looked down into it. His long fingers were looped through the handles of two coffee cups. A shiver wiggled its way through me. I don’t know how he knew I was there.

Adding that to my ever-growing list of mysterious and/or bizarre occurrences, I merely nodded in gratitude and carefully took one of the proffered cups. When I did, Derek turned and, without a word, walked back the way he’d come. I hesitated only for an instant before I followed him.

He went through the kitchen to a small den that sat off the back of the house, almost like a sun room only with more comfortable furniture. Its pale yellow walls looked like warm gold in the rising sun and the puffy floral seat cushions seemed particularly inviting.

Derek sat in one of two extra wide, deep-seated chairs; I padded barefoot across the cool tile floor and slid into the other. He crossed his legs, resting the ankle of one leg on the knee of the other, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Evidently he had nothing to say. I, on the other hand, had a lot to say, mostly in the form of questions. So many, in fact, I didn’t know where to start.

So I went with simple. “Who are you?”

“Derek. Derek Hrolf,” he replied, not even opening his eyes. “Leah’s cousin.”

“I know that,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I mean who are you?”

After several seconds of silence, he finally answered. “Nobody,” he said enigmatically.

Obviously, this wasn’t going to be easy. “What were you doing at that party?’

“I told you—”

“I know what you said,” I interrupted abruptly. “But what does that mean?”

“You’re dangerous, reckless. Unpredictable. I knew if I didn’t stop you, someone would end up getting hurt.”