Grit To Grace

One

The sun beaming through the window and down onto his face woke him. His head pounded against his temples. It threatened to burst out of his skull and spill onto the couch below. He let out a groan and sat up, holding his head.

Coffee. He couldn’t force himself to open his eyes yet, much less make his way to his kitchen. He wondered what time it was, though the sun through the window already assured him that he was late for work. He assumed Victoria was already at the tailor to work for the seamstress. If he wanted coffee, he’d have to make it himself. He finally blinked open his eyes and froze. 

Will had no idea where he was. 

In an instant, his worries became much, much bigger than nursing a nasty hangover. He wasn’t on his couch. He wasn’t even in his house. Nothing, from the large black rectangle on the wall to the pink flowery decor was familiar to him. Pain erupted in his chest as each breath started to catch in his throat. He sprang up, his gaze darting around the room in frenzy. 

He jumped when his wild eyes met the figure in the entryway. She wore a mortified expression, her posture rigid as she gripped onto a knife. He lifted his trembling hands up and swallowed.

“Who the hell are you, and how did you get into my house?" She snapped, taking a threatening step forward. She was only five foot three, give or take, but in Will’s eyes she must have stood eighteen feet tall. 

“Miss, please, you’ve got to help me!” He pleaded. His eyes darted rapidly around the room, searching for something, anything familiar. 

“I asked you a question,” she snapped. “Do you have a name, or not?” 

“Will! My name’s Floyd William McClain, I’m Deputy Sheriff in Black Hill, and I—"

“Wait a second, slow down. You live where?” 

“Black Hill! It’s about forty-five miles southwest of San Holedo,” Will rushed to explain. “I don’t know how I got here, but I need to get back home!” 

“Black Hill? As in that cheesy tourist trap outside of town?” She raised a skeptical brow and lowered the knife a little. “Alright, I get it. You must be a new actor or something. And you’re decent, I’ll give you that. But my house is off-limits, especially to actors and staff. And if you broke anything when you came in, I swear to whatever God you believe in, I will press charges.” Her voice never lost that threatening tone, which only made him more confused and upset.

“Tourist attraction? What in the name of–What are you talking about? I told you, I live in Black Hill, I’m Deputy Sheriff there. I ain’t lookin’ for trouble. I just wanna go home,” he reiterated. She studied him for a long minute, silent as he fought back the panic rising in his throat. 

"You look like crap. I’ll tell you what. I’ll get you a cup of coffee, so you can calm yourself down, and then we’ll figure something out from there. Okay?” She didn’t give him a chance to object before she spun around and walked to the kitchen. Will glanced around, then cautiously followed her.

The woman got to work turning on a large rectangular machine. Fear shot through him. It was unlike any of the coffee pots that he had seen. She pressed a few buttons and it coughed and sputtered until hot coffee was pouring into a mug. 

She leaned against the counter, eyeing the man from her spot.

“So, Will," she began. “I can't do much for you beyond this. That town, Black Hill. It doesn't exist anymore. At least, not in the way it used to be. Someone built a replica, little historical museum. But it serves as nothing more than a cheesy tourist trap and attracts school field trips.”