Page 3 of Keep Me

In front of me is a long hallway, and I take each step slowly, listening for people or voices in the house. I pull my phone out of my back pocket and pull up the camera app to have it ready. When I get a picture of that typewriter, Aaron is going to eat his words. This will be nothing more than a funny story someday.

There are closed doors on either side of the long hallway, but none of them look like the kinds of doors that would lead to a large library like the one we saw in that photo of the typewriter. So, I keep walking slowly while listening.

At the end of the hall, I step into a giant entranceway with a grand staircase that leads to the second and third floors. The height of the ceiling in this part is massive, and I’m struck silent as I stare upward at it. This place is like nothing I’ve ever seen.

And if it wasn’t for the warm smell of spice and musk, I wouldn’t believe this is a residence.

My phone buzzes in my hand, drawing my attention from the ceiling and grand staircase.

I glance down to see a text from Aaron.

Get the fuck out of there. Now, Sylvie.

I roll my eyes and swipe the message closed. He’s always so paranoid. Such a rule follower. He used to be fun, but the last year with him has been painfully boring. Every day is so predictable it makes me sick. I’m going to prove to him right now how fun and spontaneous I can be. I’ll snap a picture of that old typewriter that his great-great-whatever wrote some dumb old classic novel on, and that’ll show him.

When I glance up again, I spot an open door on the second floor. In the room, I spot a shelf of old books.A library.

Pocketing my phone, I carefully tiptoe up the stairs. I don’t hear a single sound in the rest of the house. If anyone is here, they’re probably sleeping or in the shower or something. They’ll never know I was even here.

There is a single stair that creaks as I settle my weight on it. With a wince, I freeze and wait for the sound of footsteps, but there’s nothing. Quickly, I finish my climb, reaching the top and slowly creeping into the large room. The ceilings in this room are far taller than I expected. Each wall has a tall ladder attached to a slider. For a moment, I can do nothing but stare at the massive space.

As my gaze casts downward, it catches on something on the other side of the room. Resting on a large ornate wooden table is a huge vase full of flowers next to a dusty old typewriter.

“Gotcha,” I whisper as I quickly tiptoe through the room. The floor in here has a thick rug that muffles my footsteps.

I slip my phone from my back pocket and open the camera app. Aiming at the typewriter, I take a multitude of shots from various angles.

“Eat your words, Aaron,” I whisper.

Then, while I’m at it, I take a few shots of the library too. It’s so old-fashioned looking, like something out of a fairy tale. I don’t know anyone who owns this many books, and if I did, they wouldn’t store them in a room like this.

There’s a creak in the house, and I quickly spin around, watching the door.

Fuck.

Time to go.

With my phone clutched in my hand, I make my way toward the door I came in through. There’s no sign of anyone on the second floor, so I book it for the stairs. My heart is pounding, and adrenaline is coursing through my veins. The long hallway ahead leads to the exit. Just a few more feet and I’ll be outside, sprinting toward Aaron’s car in the rain, laughing about how wild this was.

Reaching the bottom step, I leap to the right.

An enormous hand wraps around my arm, hauling me to a stop before I can make my escape. I let out a scream, turning around to gape at the impossibly large man scowling down at me with my arm still gripped in his fist.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man bellows in a deep Scottish brogue.

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

“What are you doing in my house?” he continues.

“I—I” I stammer.

Get it together, Sylvie. This was your idea. Don’t let this giant oaf intimidate you.

“I was looking for my friend. She was here, but now…she’s not,” I reply, forcing my voice to remain steady. He’s still holding my arm, his fingers pinching it so tightly it’s starting to hurt.

“Your friend?” he asks.

I jerk my arm, trying to pull it free, but he won’t let go.

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