The Door (Part One)

By Lizzy Ford

Novella.
There’s only one rule: Never lock the door

Gianna believes manual labor to be penance for the mistake that changed her life. Nothing can be worse than serving probation under the supervision of a bitter, elderly woman, known as the Caretaker, running a bed and breakfast in the middle of the Arizona desert.

Then the strangers begin arriving. They appear every night at sundown at the end of the driveway and vanish early in the morning, armed men and women who don’t quite look or act normal and never travel in vehicles, despite the property being twenty miles from town. Where they come from baffles Gianna, as does the single rule the Caretaker gives her. The front door must remain unlocked and the house accessible to the dangerous visitors no matter how unusual or frightening they are.

When one of them arrives wounded, Gianna helps save him and unknowingly makes a powerful friend, one from a very faraway place. In fact, from another world entirely, the world that starts at the end of the driveway. Before she can learn more, Gianna is left alone with the strangers and must choose whether she’ll take over the Caretaker’s role as hostess or return to New York and risk jail time for violating her probation.

Frustrated with her life, Gianna defies the Caretaker and locks the front door instead.

Her world will never be the same.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lizzy Ford
• Release date: Jan 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781623782542

Lizzy Ford

I breathe stories. I dream them. If it were possible, I'd eat them, too. (I'm pretty sure they'd taste like cotton candy.) I can't escape them - they're everywhere! Which is why I write! I was born to bring the crazy worlds and people in my mind to life, and I love sharing them with as many people as I can.I'm also the bestselling, award winning, internationally acclaimed author of over sixty ... eighty ... ninety titles and counting. I write speculative fiction in multiple subgenres of romance and fantasy, contemporary fiction, books for both teens and adults, and just about anything else I feel like writing. If I can imagine it, I can write it!I live in the desert of southern Arizona with two dogs and two cats!My books can be found in every major ereader library, to include: Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBooks, Kobo, Sony and Smashwords.

Book preview

1

You’re sure this is it? I asked, getting out of the car. I shielded my eyes against the scorching sun and squinted at my destination – a sagging, two story farmhouse with a faded sign in front that read, Old West Bed & Breakfast. The house’s paint was chipping, its porch neglected and the long driveway gravel and dirt.

It’s the only place on this street, grunted a police officer in desert khakis as he hefted my suitcase from the trunk of his car and placed it on the ground.

We didn’t have gravel and dirt roads in New York City, where I’d spent my whole life. We didn’t have trees – aside from the Park – but this … this was a different kind of world entirely. We were in the high desert according to the police officer who picked me up from the airport and brought me here. The desert was a great, sunbaked expanse of dirt and sky, edged by purple-blue mountains in every direction, and filled with shrubs and cacti, few of which were taller than four feet, with the exception of the saguaro cacti. The nearest town was a ten minute drive on dirt roads followed by another forty minutes on paved roads.

I had been exiled to the middle of nowhere.

This can’t be happening. I’d been repeating the words for almost nineteen months. The first time I was sure I’d entered a dream or parallel reality was when he tried to rape me and almost succeeded. The second time – when I accidentally killed him with his own knife.

The third: when the judge on my case cared more about running for office under a No Excuse For Crime platform and used my case of involuntary manslaughter to make a public statement about how he meant to clean up our borough in the City. The fourth instance occurred last week at sentencing, when he’d given me the choice of six months in prison for manslaughter or a year on probation doing community service across the country. My case, and banishment, were unheard of, according to my defense attorney, who had been unable to change the outcome of either.

And then there was today, the final chapter in my nightmare of a life. If I had known I was going to be hours from a Target or mall, I’d have thought more than two seconds about my decision to bypass jail.

I tugged on the locket hanging around my neck the way I did whenever I was upset. It contained the last picture of my father, who had died ten years ago from cancer, and my favorite picture of my mother.

Remember. If you leave the property, your ankle bracelet will alert every cop and Fed within southern Arizona. The police officer reminded me. Here’s my card if you need something.

Releasing the locket, I accepted his business card, numb to my new reality. Thanks, Officer … Santos, I said, reading his name. "You’re really, really sure this is it?" The rundown bed and breakfast didn’t look anything like a halfway house or rehabilitation center, which was how my temporary place of living was alternately described by people at court.

Yep. The caretaker is elderly. Sometimes she has problems getting around, so if she falls or something, remember: don’t leave the property. Call me or 911. He circled the car as he spoke and opened the driver side door. I’ll wait until you’re in the fence to activate the bracelet.

Thanks, I mumbled, unable to take my eyes off the house that looked more depressing by the minute. Maybe prison wouldn’t have been so bad, if I weren’t claustrophobic. I’d been put on meds every time they took me to jail. At least here I could breathe.

Oh, and watch out for snakes and other unfriendly visitors.

Figures. My eyes went to the ground around my feet. Okay.

Gripping the handle of the suitcase, I took four steps until I was securely on the property. The bracelet vibrated at my ankle, a sign it was on, and I drew a deep breath.

I couldn’t bring myself to walk for a long moment, not until the sounds of Officer Santos’ car driving away had faded. It was so quiet here, unlike New York, where there was always some kind of background noise. Usually, it was traffic.

Turning all the way around, I frowned, unable to imagine who in their right mind would come to this bed and breakfast. The dust trail left by the officer’s car was visible for miles. A simple fence ran along the property’s edges. It was allegedly about a hundred acres, large enough for me to walk around and get some exercise without tripping my ankle bracelet. The May sun was uncomfortably warm, but I kind of liked how dry it was. With any luck, this environment would clear up the last of my teen acne.

The worst part is over, Gianna, I told myself with another deep breath. One year of chores for an old lady, and I’m done with this mess.

A year didn’t seem so bad after all I’d been through. At nineteen, I was supposed to be finishing up my first year of college with my friends. I’d end up two years behind, unless this place had good internet and I could go to school online.

I pulled my suitcase down the long driveway and was sweating by the time I made it to the porch. I paused before the front door, staring at it. It was tall, heavy, aged wood, far wider than the kind of door that belonged on a farmhouse, with huge, bronze antique hinges. If I had to place it, I’d guess it was a medieval castle door. It had to have been special for someone to install it on a normal looking farmhouse.

Too hot to spend much time examining the strange door, I fanned myself and knocked. I waited, imagining the owner to be slow because of her age.

When she finally opened the door, though, I was still surprised by how old. The tiny, African-American woman barely reached my shoulder in height. Her sharp eyes were nearly swallowed by deep wrinkles, her frizzy white hair unkempt and she wore a bathrobe and slippers.

Hi, I said, raising my voice. I’m your new … uh, helper.

I can hear just fine, she replied in a quiet voice. She squinted through glasses to look me up and down critically. Is that how they dress now? she said, clearly displeased.

I glanced down at my black leggings and sandals. I wore a loose, off the shoulder tunic style shirt. Yes, ma’am.

Awful. She turned and walked into the interior of the house.

I trailed uncertainly and sighed as the cold air conditioning hit me. The interior of the house was in better shape than the exterior and filled with well-maintained antiques from the Civil War Era and late eighteen hundreds. Dark woods, a ticking grandfather clock, and narrow staircase whose walls were packed with antique plates and platters were all visible from the foyer. The old farmhouse’s décor hadn’t been updated in a hundred years, if not more. Wooden floors were covered with round, faded rugs.

I closed the door behind me and instinctively reached for the lock.

Don’t! she said sharply.

I jerked, not expecting the tone. Don’t what?

There’s one rule here, girl. Never, ever lock the door. It’s written beside the lock, or do they teach kids your age to read anymore?

Blinking, I realized she was right. There was a faded post it note taped beside the bolt. You never lock the doors? What about robbers or strangers or wackos? I asked.

This isn’t New York, you damn Yankee. I honor my Southern hospitality here, she said sternly. I welcome all sorts here. It’s what I do.

I dropped my hand. It didn’t sit well for sure, not after a lifetime of learning common sense safety for living in a drug and crime riddled section of the City. I’d never been called a Yankee either.

Then again, this woman was clearly set in her ways, and we were miles from anything. It wasn’t like living in an apartment building near the Projects.

Come along, she ordered. Leave your bag there.

I obeyed. I sensed she didn’t like me and wasn’t certain why. Well, aside from the murder rap. She appeared small, sweet and grandmotherly but had the manner of a drill sergeant.

She walked me through the house and a large kitchen filled with antiques like everywhere else and out a back door onto a smaller porch.

Your duties will be outside mostly, she told me. You can start with the gardens. There’s seed and equipment in the shed. The house needs painting, the roof repaired and the gutters cleaned.

This can’t be happening. I listened. I’d never done manual labor a day in my life. If I didn’t kill myself the first time I picked up a hammer, it’d be a miracle. I surveyed the property behind us filled with shrubs, short mesquite trees, and cacti. The shed appeared in as good of shape as the rest of the house. Um, what garden? I asked.

It’s along the side of the house.

I stepped down creaking steps that sagged beneath my weight and went to the side of the house. You’re … you’re not joking by chance, are you?

That whole area will be a vegetable garden and small orchard, she called.

The area beside the house was at least clear of desert flora. I knew nothing about dirt or soil or whatever it was called, but this was an expanse of rock or sand or clay maybe? There was a lot of dust and nothing else. My eyes traveled up the side of the two-story house to the roof. Was a garden even possible in the desert?

Maybe being drugged up and in a cell wasn’t so bad. I went back to the porch, feeling overwhelmed and about to cry after my long day of travel.

I’ll also need your help inside from time to time when we have visitors, the old lady added.

Okay, I said. Do you have internet so I can research how to do all this stuff?

Of course not. You’re here to work, not surf the internet.

My face grew warm beneath her disapproving look. Um, I didn’t catch your name.

Caretaker. It’s all anyone calls me. She returned to the interior of the house. Come inside and see your room.

I trailed. She led me upstairs. I lugged my bag with me, up the carpet covered wooden stairs to the second floor, which was much larger than I expected. There were two dark, long, narrow wings, and she went down the right wing. We passed no less than ten closed doors before she came to one at the end.

Your room has its own bathroom, she said and pushed open one door. The rest of the guestrooms share a common bath.

Thank you, I said, not expecting the small kindness after her rather chilly reception.

Put your things away and change into work clothes, she said brusquely and moved past me down the hallway.

Yes, ma’am. I opened the door, silently praying the accommodations weren’t as antiquated as everything else in the house. The room was large with twelve feet tall ceilings and enough space for a small sitting area near the windows. Antique dresser, tables and wardrobe were offset by a modern sleigh bed of dark wood. Quilts covered the bed, and I set my purse on it, gazing around with some relief. The bathroom, too, was a combination of old décor and new plumbing.

It was nicer than my room in New York.

Tugging out my phone, I was relieved to see I at least had a strong signal here. I texted my mother, who had