The House in Between

It took one flight, two layovers, and a hassle at the rental car kiosk, but finally I’d arrived at the old manor. The house was dark, which wouldn’t have been surprising, had it not been for the realtor’s insistence to meet here at six sharp. I put the car in park and checked my phone, verifying I had the right day and time. I did.

A couple of days, I’d only be here a couple of days, just enough time to sign some papers, and then it’d be done. I pulled an envelope out of my purse that contained a single ornate skeleton key. It was beautiful, heavy, and solid with swirling metal patterns that swept up to form an arch.

Sighing, I stepped out of the car and made my way up the overgrown walkway, weeds and branches brushing against my legs. It had been years since I’d been here. We used to visit when I was a child, but my mother never enjoyed staying long. She said the house gave her a bad feeling. We’d come packed for the weekend, only to leave hours later. She never could explain it.

I never had that reaction. I loved visiting my grandfather, running through the halls, and peeking into rooms that seemed older than time itself. Maybe that was why he’d left it to me; it was a shame I’d never know for sure. When the lawyer called, I wasn't sure how to feel. My grandfather’s estate, the house, all of it left to me. My mother had just shrugged and said her father was eccentric and there was no way of knowing what was going on in his brain.

Brushing aside a few vines that threatened to take over the doorway, I put the key in the lock and barely turned it before the door seemed swoosh open on a breeze. I gasped, my heart beating wildly in my chest. I thought of my mother and her strange feelings about this place, but taking a deep breath, I calmed myself. It was just an old house, probably needed a new lock, that’s all.

Stepping inside, the first thing I noticed was–dust. It was everywhere, clinging to almost every surface, save for the polished wooden banisters along a grand sweeping staircase in the middle of the foyer. It was like my grandfather’s hands had traveled here and only here for several years.

The scent of polished wood and an earthy stale smell I couldn’t quite place seemed to surround me as I took in the space. Sheets covered the furniture, and a rolled-up ornamental rug lay against the wall, leaving the well-worn wooden floors bare.

I made my way through the dining room, kitchen, and a bathroom I wasn’t brave enough to look inside. Cold and barren, that’s what it felt like here, I shuddered. As I passed by the staircase again, I paused. It felt warmer here, kinder; it felt like my grandfather. A sense of rightness hit me so strongly that my legs seemed to move on their own accord.

My hands drifted along those polished banisters as I made my way up the stairs. Each step had me feeling a tug, a warmth in my chest. Some tiny conscious part of my brain tried to warn me that this wasn’t normal, but I couldn’t fight the urge. I felt no fear, though; it just felt right. I reached the top of the staircase and turned left, following that tug. There was something here I needed to see.

At the end of the hall, a door swooshed open. I numbly walked the rest of the way down the hall and entered a study. Floor-to-ceiling books lined the walls with a wrought iron ladder affixed along a rolling track. In the center of the room, my grandfather’s desk-polished oak with intricate carvings that wrapped around the border and down the legs. A crystal ashtray sat to one side, a stub of a cigar still nestled among the ashes.

I smiled. I’d hidden in here once. Tucked myself into a ball right under his desk. He’d scooted me out when he found me, but not before he’d pointed to the books along the wall.

“Do you see those books, Nora?”

“Yes, grandfather.”

“They’ve been in my family for hundreds of years, passed down from one generation to the next.”

“Wow.” I’d looked upon them with wonder, my ten-year-old mind envisioning fairy tales filled with brave knights and princesses.

“Someday, Nora, they will all be yours. This will all be yours.”

The memory faded as I walked towards the desk, pulling out the leather wingback chair to sit. I inhaled deeply; it smelled like my grandfather, the leather, the books, even the cigar. Pulling open the desk drawers one by one, I found each empty–except the last, which contained a red leather-bound journal with gold leafing on the edges.

I ran my hands over the supple leather, turning it in my hands. It was beautiful, painstakingly detailed. On the cover, my grandfather’s name, Silas etched in gold lettering. My fingers traced the letters, and I wondered what secrets his journal might hold. I’d just finished tracing the last letter when the book vibrated and glowed. I dropped the book, pushing away from the desk in shock.

A flash of gold light broke free–streaming from the pages and filling the room. I could barely breathe as I watched the pages turn faster and faster, paper rustling before landing open with a thud. The gold light shimmered around the pages. I leaned forward to peer at the passage, unable to help myself, and felt myself being sucked into that shimmering gold light; I let out a scream that was lost on the wind as I fell, tumbling through time and space.

I landed. Softly. I was back in a long hallway, different from the one I’d just walked through. I gasped when I noticed a figure standing with his back to me.

“Hello?” I called out, voice trembling.

No response.

I tried again, moving to tap him on the shoulder, “Sir, could I ask…” My hand went right through him. I jumped back. He started walking, his spectral form floating down the hall, and instincts be dammed I followed. My feet made no noise on the floors, my body shimmering around the edges as if I wasn’t quite whole.

A memory, I realized, this must be a memory, from the journal? This man did not look like my grandfather, though, but there were similarities. The figure kept moving.

“Thomas,” a voice called.

The figure answered. “Yes, father.”

“Come here, boy.”

We kept walking until we came across what appeared to be a dead end, where another figure waited. The man placed his hand upon the panelling, and I watched, shocked as a door appeared.

“Father, what is this place?” Thomas asked.

“This is to remain between you and me. No one, I mean no one, boy can know of this.”

I gulped, except for me, apparently.

Thomas nodded to his father as they both walked through the door, me following at their heels. The room was large, cavernous; it opened into what seemed to be a vault. Grey stone ceilings, walls, and flooring. What was this place? But then on the far wall I noticed what appeared to be a crack in the wall, a large fissure that seemed to pulsate and glow.

Spectral Thomas and I gasped at the same time.

“What’s that father?”

“It’s the beginning, and the end, it’s the balance between our world and theirs, between good and evil. The house calls to us, requires us to keep that balance.”

The room faded, Thomas was gone, but another stood in his place. A woman this time. Same room, same vault, but the crack was wider, light spilling from it and overtaking the space. The woman knelt, placing her hands against the wall, and whispered something. The crack receded, light retreating. She breathed a sigh of relief.

The room faded again, two men this time, arguing. Different clothes, different era, but each stood in front of that crack in the wall. One turned and stomped away, leaving the other behind. The first watched the other walk away before kneeling and placing his hands against the wall.

Flash after flash, men, women, young, and old. Each stood before that wall. Each giving something of themselves. The crack changed; sometimes it was light, barely opening, peaceful, other times it seemed to pulse and rage.

The visions slowed until a figure I recognized, Silas, my grandfather.

We were back in his study. He looked younger than I’d ever seen him, tired and wary. He pulled open the red leather-bound journal and wrote, pen flying across the paper as if he was finishing up a long conversation.

The scene flashed again, my grandfather, older this time, hair greying at the temples. He was sitting in the study staring at a photograph. I peered over his shoulder, my mother I recognized, and beside her, me as a young child, an enormous smile on my face.

My grandfather set down the photograph and wrote.

“To Nora, when the house calls you home.”

That golden light shimmered and glowed again, and I was sent back into the journal, into the study.

I took a step back. “That didn’t happen,” I said quietly, voice shaking.

I sat down at the desk and closed the journal.

The air seemed to grow colder, my breath coming out in tiny puffs of smoke as I trembled, from the cold or shock, I wasn’t sure.

And then I heard a crack. I could picture that fissure, that crack between worlds, and I knew.

A knock on the door, loud and sharp.

I made my way downstairs, peeking through the window—the realtor.

Pulling open the door, I stared at her.

“Ms. Walters…I’m so sorry I’m late.”

“The house isn’t for sale.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not for sale. It never was.” And with that, I closed the door.

I had a purpose here, and there was something I needed to do. My feet padded along the long hallway I recognized, meeting a dead end, I placed my hand against the paneling.

The house seemed to exhale as the door opened.

I was home.