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