Page 127 of The Staircase in the Woods

It had all this hatred, and nothing to do with it.

It needed people.

People to hurt.

So it put out staircases. Doorways. Windows. All in places where only a few might find them. Distant places where the portals would be safe. In forests, on beaches, in meadows. Bait for the ever curious. And when a person went in, the house had them. It could mine them for their own pain, making more rooms just for them. Torment, though, was not enough. The house learned that once it hollowed them out, it could fill them back up—with itself. And then it could set them free again, put back into the world. There they would return, sharing their hurt, sharing the horror, and making more of it for everyone. The more that went around, the greater the house became—

And the larger, too.

This, then, is where hate lives.

This is its home.

75

Matty’s Clue

The story Nick told, he told as if he were possessed. It fell out of him—this tale of a house born when its owner killed his family, then himself, then the house. And how from it was born a cursed entity, a demon in the dark void. One that put out traps—like the staircase. An anglerfish dangling its glowing bait. Someone curious comes along and,poof,away they go.

And then it disappeared. It didn’twantmore than one person to come in. It was better if they were alone. Like Matty. Like Nick.

This time, when they all came in together—

It had a harder time getting hold of them.

Nick, now relieved of the story, looked dizzy and sick. As if he had touched some foul source. He was pale, sweaty. His eyes, furtive and darting. He muttered, “I had to get close to it. It wants us to know it’ll get us eventually. It’s close. So close.”

Fuck that.

Lore snapped her fingers. “We—we know more about it now. Right? It was born—or reborn or whatever—in the late forties, on the heels of World War II, and it was forged in that pain. And it’s why we don’t see any rooms in here from before that point, right?”

“Or rooms that aren’t American,” Owen added.

“Right! Yeah.” More finger snapping. “What else?”

Hamish shook his head. “I dunno how this is helping us, Lore. Nick looks sick now…”

“I’mfine,” Nick said bleakly. It was a lie, plainly. His lips looked gray and wormish. He shivered. Owen put an arm around him, and to Lore’s surprise, Nick leaned into it. Those two were not often close. It was nice to see.

Lore knew they needed to find a solution soon. Or what Nick told them—the warning from the house—would be spot-on. It would win. It would get in them eventually. Like erosion—all it took was time. It would, hit by hit, work them like a speed bag. Soon as there was one little rip in their fabric, it would climb inside.

She kept on babbling. “We know it’s worse when you’re alone. We know the rooms shift only when you go through them a certain way. The crawlspace is a constant; the rest of the house is variable.” She realized now that the little girl in that story kept herself safe by climbing into the crawlspace. Some sort of fail-safe put in place by the house? Here she was thinking like a programmer again. But all things, in their way, were programmed, weren’t they? Programmed by nature, programmed by nurture?

“We know it hates us,” Hamish said.

“That it wants to take us over,” Owen said, all too knowingly.

“That the people here aren’t ghosts, exactly,” Lore said. “They’re like copies. Memories. Some from houses that perished. Others from…” At this, she shuddered, thinking of her mother. “Our own heads.”

“The house wants power,” Hamish said.

“Power,” Owen said. “That’s another thing. It has power—electricity, I mean. And running water.” He pointed to the pipes and junction boxes here in the crawlspace. “Though where it comes from, I dunno. Or if it’s even real.”

There.

That was it.

A spark, struck in the darkness of Lore’s head.

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