At the Seams

Chapter 20: The House

Chapter 20: The House

Mary and Karn cross the expansive meadow in silence. Mary doesn't try to measure distance, as her body never tires. She doesn't try to measure time, as it is always dawn in the meadow.

As she passes beneath the towering trees, Mary spies massive hives that appear made of silver crepe paper. The stunning silver and black bees fill the air—gathering, returning, working, flying out again. Here and there, Mary spies the darting blue of the prehistoric moths. She sees no other life, but finds this fitting. What else is a conscious mind than busy bees on top and piranha below the surface?

Mary’s trepidation intensifies as she and Karn close in on the misplaced farm buildings. The comforting hum of life disappears—no flowers or bees exist in this part of the meadow. The windmill looks ordinary, even inviting. It flaunts an old-school design—only a dozen feet tall, built of wood, hexagonal at the base and tapering upward, and finally, three wide, wooden blades affixed to the front. The structure is bright white, with the edges of the hexagon, the top, and the edges of the blades painted red. The blades drift lazily in the slight breeze, making a comforting whump! whump! in the unnatural quiet. On one side of the windmill, Mary spies a small red door with an old-fashioned brass knob. The door is impeccable, the knob polished, but Mary wonders if she would fit through and how cramped the inside of the building would be. Still, the little building calls to Mary.

With a shudder, Mary focuses on the windmill’s antithesis, the house. Massive, dilapidated, and repulsive, the wretch writhes fretfully in Mary’s vision. Mary can hardly consider it. From across the meadow, the house appeared to be white. Now, Mary can see it bears colorless, neglected wood, reminding her for all the world—with its pocks, cracks, and splinters—of ancient bone. The house is two stories, a massive cube with a simple, black shingle roof. The windows, vacant of glass or decoration, yawn like mouths spewing rotten breath, or sucking life from the meadow. Eight gigantic Doric columns support a second level balcony. Beneath the balcony, obscured by the shadows, Mary makes out an open doorway. Her heart shrivels when she imagines walking through that gaping hole. "What is this place?" she asks.

"The windmill," Karn says, "is our destination. It's the doorway to the next level."

"Oh thank God I don't have to go in that house," Mary breathes.

One corner of Karn's mouth lifts in an intense smile. "Does the house scare you, Mary?"

"Yes," she says immediately, her eyes frisking the deteriorating abode.

"Why should it? It's your house."

Mary looks from the house to Karn's demented half grin. "Mine?" she says with a tremor.

"Like the piranha that bit you," Karn says, suppressed laughter thickening its words, "who else's would it be?" Karn gives Mary a moment to consider her strange, inner home. "You will have to go in there, Mary. It's the only way through."

Mary shakes her head, her eyes wide, her face aghast. "Why?" She cries, the word a desperate plea.

Karn's smile widens. "Because, until you do, the little red door in the windmill won't open." Mary stares at the grinning little imp. "Go check it if you don't believe me," it offers. Mary does. Locked.

"There's no keyhole," she says.

"The house is the key."

Mary turns to consider the doorway into the house's shadowy interior. Her terror ebbs, recedes into a strange chill that sharpens and focuses her mind. "Come forth," Mary hears, a whisper only, floating to her from beyond the closed door of the windmill behind her. "I'll go," Mary says. "You're not coming, are you?"