A loud, long groan crawled between the walls of Green House, the peeling wallpaper quivering and flaking to the floor. A short, rickety crash echoed like a cackle, faintly bouncing off the ceilings. The window in the upstairs bedroom must have broken free from its ancient hook lock once again. But she didn’t move from the fading yellow breakfast nook in the kitchen. She held her breath, not daring to shut her eyes, even for a split second.
Maybe it will stop moving on its own.
The howling wind had other plans. Mother Nature inhaled long and hard, forcing every nook and cranny to whistle as if protesting against the rude awakening, keeping it from sleep in the early morning.
Lillian shifted in her seat. One hand gripped her thigh through her robe and light blue nightgown, while the other almost crushed a teacup filled to the brim with black tea—and something a little stronger. The drink had cooled to room temperature by then, and supposedly, it tasted like blueberries, but it was more like cough syrup to Lillian. No matter what she thought, it did the trick.
Several days had passed, and she promised herself she wouldn’t go to sleep after nightfall. The lack of rest was prominent on her already aging body. Her thinning skin was the shade and texture to that of paper from the diet and lack of sunshine and slumber. By then, Lillian had learned to avoid a few mirrors in the house, knowing she’d have to face an old woman with blue shackles under her eyes and faded, unkempt hair. At one point, Lillian would have never even thought of going downstairs in the morning without pulling together a presentable appearance but not anymore. Not here. Green House had a way of making her forget what she thought mattered. It was here she’d find an answer. If only she was—
Lillian took two large gulps of tea to give her eyelids an extra jolt of energy. A tinge of pain resonated from her hand clutched at her nightgown. Looking down, she saw a small smear of blood had transferred from her palm to the thin cotton. She didn’t know when, but she had scraped her hand a few days ago, and it didn’t seem to want to heal. She brushed the blood away before a chill crept up her neck. Tiny hairs stood straight, a blast of cool air running up and down her arms, reminding her she was not alone.
She was never alone.
She forced her bare feet to grip the cold, hard linoleum kitchen floor. The house stood still as she tiptoed out of the kitchen and into the sparsely adorned living room. Large, flowing sheets covered the two armchairs to protect them from the dust sprinkling the air from age and decay.
Lillian hadn’t opened the windows in weeks, and the air was thick with must and a faint waft of ash. A large portrait hung above the fireplace so that the subjects could watch everyone in the room. Lillian tried not to meet the steady gaze of the family in the portrait, but as often was the case, she couldn’t avoid them.
“Where are you?” she whispered to the house.
She scanned the still room. The wind had rested, allowing silence to settle into the house. Throwing her glance toward the windows, she took in the few shrubs and leaves littered across the front yard. Even the tall, unkempt blades of grass on the lawn had come to a complete stop, frozen in time.
Lillian’s fingers twitched slightly at her sides. Her breaths were shallow. Her sight took in the entryway to the house: the stairs that led upstairs and the door that lived underneath them.
A pang of guilt pierced her heart like a knife. Lillian sucked in her breath, trapping it somewhere between her chest and throat. The chandelier in the dining room shuddered. A shower of clinks poured into her ears.
“Please!” she cried, squeezing her eyes shut. The bodiless guilt pummeled through her stomach, and a wave of anguish washed over her, the gash in her hand stinging with a vengeance. She wanted to move forward, but she couldn’t. Her head was splitting in two. Visions so quick and so violent were rushing past the insides of her eyes as she tried to sort through them one by one, each one eluding her before she could get a better look. Woods ravaged by fire and water. A small boy tumbling down the stairs, his crutches tossed to the side. The back of a tall, blonde woman, always turned away from her like she had something horrible to hide.
Lillian gnashed her teeth, trying to push it out of her mind. Her head pounded in resistance.
“I don’t want to know!” she screamed, her eyes springing open. She stumbled backward in surprise, realizing she was closer to the door under the stairs than she thought.
The house stood, leering at her from all angles, laughing at her struggle to find—find what? Lillian licked her bottom lip, blowing a piece of loose hair that had fallen in her face, wildly looking between the chandelier, the landing at the top floor, and the door under the stairs.
“I don’t want to know,” she whispered.
Knocked off her feet by what felt like a tremendous gust of wind, Lillian fell and landed on her tailbone. Like an invisible hand had outstretched from somewhere in the dark, Lillian shrieked as a giant shove beat across her chest. For a moment, she thought she’d hallucinated, but then she gasped for air. Her throat was closing. She reached up to her neck and frantically searched for the hands she sensed closing around it. There were none.
The pressure was relentless. The invisible hands clenched her throat, squeezing harder until, abruptly, it stopped. She sucked in as much air as she could muster, her back shoved against the far wall next to the fireplace. Massaging her neck, she looked up, a burning gaze piercing her from the portrait hanging above the fireplace. She broke down in tears, her frail body bruised and throbbing.
“I’m so sorry!”
The wind outside surged, and the house hummed wildly with noise. The crashing and clacking raged louder, and the chandelier clanged more violently than ever. Lillian sobbed, covering her ears with her hands, trying to block the avalanche of sound. Her searing, injured hand proved useless at muffling the repeated slamming of the door under the stairs. A raging fear rose in her throat, and she finally released the urge to scream that had been pent up inside her for days—years, even. Tearing out of the living room, she pried the front door open. She didn’t even notice when two of her fingernails snapped off. Lillian ran, her arms flailing helplessly as she darted away through the darkness.
