Page 62 of The Staircase in the Woods

The tank was long. Were Owen to stretch out his arms in cruciform, the tank would be roughly the distance of fingertip to fingertip.

The water, brackish.

A little astronaut—not a deep-sea diver, but weirdly, an astronaut—stood at the bottom, a tiny escape pod opening and closing, puking up a weak flurry of greasy yellow bubbles each time.

And next to it—

Was a penknife.

A Schrade Old Timer penknife.

Angled blade open and pointed down, stuck in the aquarium gravel.

A small trail of blood arose from it, diffusing as it drifted.

Owen’s heart caught in his throat, and he blinked and took a step back—

And the knife was gone.

You’re just seeing things,he told himself.You’re tired. You’re hungry.And this place is—it’s just messing with your head.It’s messing with all our heads.

—

It took Lore a minute or two to realize—these books on this bookshelf, they were just curated bullshit. All the books were new, untouched, unopened, unread—few novels, no poetry, almost all of it was, like, books about architecture and books about pedestrian art and books about fashion, and all of them pale and few of them offering much color, and she was sure now that whoever put these books here did it because of the way they looked and because of what the books said about the owners of this—

House? Was this a house?

Was it just a room?

Were these rooms connected at all—physically, or thematically, or what?

Nick wandered over near to her. He shot her a bored look, and she shrugged at him. They didn’t exchange words as he walked to the two doors in the corner, and her middle cinched up.He’s going to leave us,she thought. He lied to get them here for one purpose: to find Matty Shiffman.And why did you come here, Lore?she asked herself, having no answer. Still. Nick seemed now like a bullet fired from a gun—it would not be turned away from its trajectory, not until it hit what it was aiming at. She admired it. Sheunderstoodit, more to the point. Because though Nick hadn’t been like that through much of his life,shehad been. Lore always saw the target and went for it. Never distracted, never dissuaded.

Except, lately…

She killed that thought before it had babies.

Nick opened the first door.

Darkness awaited him.

No lit room. Just the dark.

Lore thought she could see something in there—the geometry of furniture. Not sure what kind, or where. A bedroom? She couldn’t be sure.

Nick gave her another look.

She said nothing, just shook her head a little.

Don’t go in therewas the message.

He sighed and gave one long look into the dark before closing the door.

Then, the next door.

This one Lore couldn’t see, so she idly walked behind Nick—not too close up on him; she didn’t want to seem over interested (though why that was, she could not say), hovering behind him as he opened it.

This room: lit, but poorly. A small bathroom. Grimy subway tile shower behind a filmy curtain. A toilet in the corner. A white sink, above which hung a mirror that was shattered from the center out, as if it had been struck.

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