House of Doors

By Hunter Morrison

January Constantus, her parents, and a handful of soldiers lose their way in enemy hills. They find refuse in an isolated house owned by a mysterious woman. While hiding there, January learns the difference between running away and remaining to conquer your fears.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J Z Morrison Press
• Release date: May 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476017204

Book preview

House of Doors

by

Hunter Morrison

SMASHWORDS EDITION

******

PUBLISHED BY:

J Z Morrison Press on Smashwords

House of Doors

Copyright © 2012 by Jill Zeller

Cover art by http://depositphotos.com

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House of Doors

Chapter 1

Wearing a tan coat billowing in the wind like a sail, she strode toward us in heavy boots. As she neared I could see that she was very tall with hair the color of the beach sand near our house, wound tightly into a long pony tail.

Shifting his rifle, Patrick moved in front of us, as if to protect us from the woman.

Ma'am, we will need to--

Silencing him with a wave of her hand, she sighed impatiently and motioned us to follow her inside. I almost started to laugh at the expression on Patrick's face, but one look from Father sucked the joy from my mouth. I stuck my tongue out at his back as I followed him up the stairs. I wished Mother had seen, but she clambered up behind Father, reaching a pale hand for the back of his jacket.

We stood in a bare marble hall, clank of soldier gear, my mother's suitcase clunking, Alice's clicking hooves echoing up a staircase winding into unseeable heights. Clank, clunk, click.

The pony-tailed lady didn't seem to mind that I had brought Alice indoors, not wanting to leave her alone outside with dark coming. From somewhere two people appeared, a rotund, bald man with no hair wearing a stained white apron, and a woman. This woman was old, but her sun-brown skin lay over her muscles like silk; Her silver hair was shorn short, and she wore gold-rimmed glasses. Seeing Alice, she advanced, and held her hand out for the rope.

Clutching it to me, I shook my head.

Father tapped my head. Give her the goat, Jones.

My full name is January Melissa Constantus. It was a sign that Father was relaxed and happy, a rare state of being, when he called me Jones. But even so I was not about to let this harpy take my Alice away.

The lady in the coat intervened, coming between the crone and me. Jones, meet Cherie. Cherie is my caretaker. She will take care of Alice for you.

I was doubtful, but everyone was looking at me as if I were to blame for everything, including the war. I handed the rope to Cherie and it made me scowl.

Cherie was not amused. Bringing this filthy animal into my lady's house. Were you raised in a barn, girl? Her voice was edgy and sharp. Rolling my eyes, I looked at Mother to see how she took this insult, but she was staring at Father, her green eyes wide with fear and longing, her freckled face weak and white.

She was raised in the Sea Counties, and has forgotten her manners. Father leaned his weapon against the wall, pulled off his helmet and rubbed the bridge of his nose. A soldier is never supposed to put down their weapon, but Father was long past caring about regulation. The other squad members called him the Professor, even though he was nothing of the kind.

Cherie huffed, pulled Alice who gave out an unhappy bleat, toward a doorway at the back of the house. A coal of anger warmed me, and worry for my friend the goat, whom I had found weeks ago wandering alone through a charred field.

Without a word, other than introducing me to Cherie, the lady turned and started up the stairs. I wondered how many other bands of lost soldiers, separated from the battalions, had bivouacked here. No one followed. At the landing she turned and motioned us up and showed us our rooms, like a porter in a fancy hotel.

Mother and Father were in the first room together; next door Patrick, then the Twins, then Maisha. The Lady gave me a room to myself at the far end of the wing from my parents, as if she knew how much I wanted to be far away from them, especially Mother. Our rooms faced west, I thought, looking down on a kitchen garden where I saw Cherie shutting the gate to a paddock where she had interred Alice with a bundle of hay and a bucket of water. I was only partially relieved to see this. To the south was a long garage, to the north a barn and pasture, and directly west, a stone wall arcing over an iron gate where a path led down the hill into the dark wood below.

Mine was a large, sunny room with a twin bed, braided rug, desk, wardrobe, furnishings not unique or fussy or modern; woods oak or walnut, bedspread the color bread dough. A rug of woven gray and red lay on a brown wood floor. A serviceable room. Not one you would want to spend a lot of time in. Not a single book.

Before she left, after opening the drapes and pulling at the corner of the bedspread, the lady paused at the door and looked at me. Her blue eyes narrowed, as if she were trying to think of what she would name me, as if I were a pet.

Then she was gone.

The Twins found me in my room. The Twins had names,