Page 77 of The Pansy Paradox
Something stirred the photos he’d scattered across the ground. The caved-in porch creaked, although the breeze wasn’t strong enough for that. The wind barely chased the wisps of hair from Pansy’s face. But it, or something, was strong enough to snatch those photos and whirl them around.
He swore, loudly. Pansy jumped, her eyes wide. A moment later, she dived for several flying toward the house. Henry chased down the others that were heading toward the silo, of their own volition, or so it seemed.
He grabbed for one, the group photo, and it felt shaky in his grip, as if invisible fingers were intent on plucking it away. He shoved it deep into a cargo pocket and secured the zipper. He pursued the other photos as far as the silo, catching a few before the rest slid beneath the door.
Pansy approached, a handful of photographs crushed against her chest. “Some went into the house, but I didn’t think I should go in alone.”
“Or at all,” he added.
“Or that.”
“What was your mother’s rule?” he asked, working to catch his breath. “Never go to the silo alone? I’m beginning to understand why.” He gestured toward the door. “Does this open?”
“It did three months ago.”
Henry placed a hand on the door and shoved. The screech tore through the air, the sound inhuman. No, the sound was human. Somehow, that was worse.
Inside, no torn photographs littered the floor. No tiny rodent tracks. No cobwebs. Dust motes floated in the air, bathed in a light source he couldn’t quite detect. Henry took one step back, then another, and slammed the door shut.
He surveyed the countryside. The hair on the back of his neck and along his arms prickled. The sensation of being watched flooded him, although he knew if he spun, he’d find nothing. Then his umbrella shuddered again, this time in warning.
“I think,” he said, voice low and cautious, “that it’s time we left.”
The housing development didn’t beckon. At least, that wasn’t the word Henry would use. It did, however, tempt him in a way that was disturbing, much like that sandstorm in the Sahara. Still, no reason to venture past the gate. He already had readings from the day of Pansy’s exam. The fence was intact. Besides, what he wanted was here, at the entrance, in this liminal space.
In the shadow of the Camelot Lots sign, Pansy helped him set up the equipment. With a little luck, he might be able to triangulate the location of the covered bridge. Some quick readings, and then they’d head home—or rather, back to Pansy’s house.
Head down, he tweaked the settings and sent a few innocuous bursts of data to Enclave headquarters. Even here, at the entrance, it was too quiet. No birdsong, no hum of insects, but what felt like a breeze washed over them, full of dry static and stale air.
Then Pansy yelped.
Henry leaped to his feet. By the time he had his umbrella unslung, Pansy stood with hers at the ready. She used the tip to point toward the far end of the development, toward the fence that bordered the cemetery.
A hole had emerged there, distorting the chain-link. The gap was at least four feet tall and just as wide. Its jagged edge was like a circular row of silver teeth.
All the better to eat you with, my dear.
Through the hole, on the other side, was nothing. No headstones or ancient oaks, no lush green of the cemetery, nothing but an endless, gray expanse. The urge to investigate tugged at him. Because this phenomenon was worth noting, inspecting, studying.
Henry stepped forward only to have Pansy’s hand come to rest on his shoulder.
“No,” she whispered. “Don’t.”
He turned to look at her, but she was staring straight ahead, her gaze locked on that mass of nothing.
What had gone wrong in King’s End, and why hadn’t anyone reported these findings? Certainly, Rose Little understood. Those rules of hers were exact, if somewhat inexplicable. If what happened all those years ago cursed those involved, someone could have filed a report, no matter how vague. His father, for one. His father would never neglect duty in such a way.
Unless, of course, there was no other option.
The wind picked up, like a hand at the smalls of their backs, pushing them forward. Henry felt the rightness of it. They—no, he—needed to investigate. All he had to do was break contact with Pansy, get a running start, then he’d be there at the chain link.
Yes. Of course. It made perfect sense. The images swirled. He could almost taste the discovery. This would be a breakthrough. This would save the lives of agents all over the world. And he’d be the one to do it.
The buzz, buzz, buzz of a cell phone shattered these thoughts and pulled him into the present. Henry inhaled, his breath ragged, and yanked the burner phone from his messenger bag. His heart pounded, only now recognizing the precipice.
When he glanced up, the hole was gone.
Pansy, at least, had the presence of mind to answer the phone.
