Page 62 of Fire and Bones
My eyes take in nothing but darkness.
My ears hear only the angry sea.
The sound crystallizes into footsteps, heavy and gritty.
A figure appears in the far distance, a black cutout denser than the night from which it emerges. He or she walks toward me. Unhurried, steady. Darkness obscures his or her features.
I hold my breath.
Then Ryan is there, his expression saying he’s piqued.
What’s happened to you? he asks.
I don’t understand.
You aren’t with me.
I’m working a case.
Ryan’s feet spread and brace. Behind him, the sand crumbles.
There. Go there. He points at something over my shoulder, his finger unnaturally long.
I swivel. See a house silhouetted in eerie moonlight.
I’ve no wish to approach it, but feel compelled to follow Ryan’s directive.
Drawing near, I note that the structure is old and weathered, its wooden exterior the color of dirt from a grave. Its carved front door is painted bright red.
I turn the knob and push the door inward.
Air rushes out, damp and rotten. Angry at being contained against its will?
Then I’m inside, wandering from one gloom-shrouded room to another.
The place is unique, I think. Like a brothel, only less tasteful. Red velvet. Tarnished brass. An overload of tassels and fringe.
As I cross a wide threshold into a large empty chamber, a figure crawls the triple panes of a big bay window.
I open my mouth to scream.
Realize I am seeing my own reflection.
Without warning, I’m descending steep stairs, a tiny woman beside me. Her feet get tangled in her long skirt.
Help me, she pleads.
I don’t know how.
It’s in the bag, she says.
Then I’m on a two-lane blacktop.
Rain is falling hard.
A storm drain runs alongside the road, clogged and overflowing. I watch puddles merge to form a shallow lake on the pavement, its surface pockmarked by the deluge of drops.
When I glance up the whole street is submerged.
