Round Robin

Hello, readers. The gals at Romance The Write Way have decided to collaborate on a bit of fiction. Who doesn't love FREE fiction? So pull up a chair, grab a drink, and enjoy the first installment of our Round Robin. We may even have a title for it soon. lol.

Regan


Round Robin
Installment #1

I stood beneath the tall cedars across the road from Woodbury Manor, a large ornate house dating from the nineteenth century. Gothic in its appeal. I tried to envision what it looked like inside. Floor to ceiling windows with billowy brocade curtains, four poster beds that required steps to ascend, and fireplaces that dwarfed rooms. I imagined they had a housekeeper, a silver haired matron who kept a tight fist on a giant ring of keys. Especially the key that unlocked the tower room, and the secrets I was sure were hidden there.


Candlelight flickered in the tower window, casting animated shadows over the sheer curtains pulled across the windows, and adding untold layers of mystique to my fertile imagination. I was determined to find the truth.


According to my roommates, Maya and Angela, the people who lived in this house were siblings who had shacked up. They kept their handicapped son locked in the tower room. Very V.C. Andrews. I couldn't rein in my curiosity. This was a story waiting to happen. My stomach rumbled. A story I badly needed in order to pay rent and buy myself something to eat.


The residents of Cliffside came from the town of Derry, a few miles up the coast. Derry was destroyed during a deadly storm. To avoid a similar fate in their new home, the survivors of Derry built their homes upon a high bluff. The plan backfired. The face of the overhanging cliff upon which the houses were built sheered away during the earthquake of 1842, tumbling houses and their occupants into the churning seas below. The only house left standing after the tragedy was Woodbury Manor. This last bit of information I had garnered from the microfiche system at the small public library.


I could hear the ocean now, slamming against the rocky crags ominously.


I pulled my cable knit sweater tighter around me and cinched the belt. A high wind whistled through the branches above. A shiver ran through me, as much from the thrill of what I was about to do as from the cold.


I scurried across the street, like a frightened woodland animal. Fallen leaves swirled around my feet as I ran. I nearly collided with the statue that stood in the middle of Woodbury's vast front yard. The statue was a depiction of a man, hawk-eyed and broad through the shoulders. A billowing great coat, with the collar standing high around his neck, cloaked him. In one hand he grasped a lantern, held aloft against the darkness, while the other held fast to the pommel of his saddle. The horse he straddled was immense, and lean muscled. It reared back, its front hooves dancing in the air as if seeking purchase. The base of the statue had settled over the years, and gnarled roots from a large oak, only feet away, twisted their way around the horse’s legs.


A cold chill ran up my spine, and I back pedaled furiously, trying not to lose my balance. “Get a grip,” I whispered to myself.


There was a tree near the window with knotty protuberances scaling the bottom half of the trunk, followed by long sturdy branches midway up. Strong enough to hold a person, or two. I was fairly certain I could climb to the window and peek inside. My stomach fluttered. Would I find a madman at the summit of that tree, or a broken spirit chained to a bed, like something out of Jane Eyre?


When I got to the bottom of the tree I bent and tightened the laces on my tennis shoes. It wouldn't do for my shoes to unlace mid-climb. I began my ascent. The rough bark bit into the tender palms of my hands, and I cursed. The wind chose this moment to kick into high gear, whipping my hair into my face with a vengeance.


When I reached the bottom branch I looped my arm around it, hefted myself up by the top knot, and swung my leg over it. I squinted against the wind, peering back the way I had come. Down seemed very far. My spontaneity would be my undoing. Another branch was just within my reach. I stood carefully and wrapped my arms around it. Finally, after repeating the process for what seemed like forever, I found myself sitting just outside the tower window.


The sheers were flapping furiously in the wind, and I could see nothing through the partially open window. No specter stirred. My arms shook from exertion, and fear that whatever or whomever was inside that room would hear me. I leaned in closer. There was an unmade bed next to the window, and further into the circular room I made out a desk. Around it on the gleaming parquet floor were tottering piles of books. Some of them looked like they could be antiques. What I had thought to be flickering candlelight was really the lamp on the desk, the bulb flickering as if it were about to expire. I strained to get closer to the window, until my face was pressed against it, and I could see the entire room. There was a large table laden with scattered papers and more books. A few odd pieces of furniture were stacked in the corner. An old globe on a stand stood sentinel.


Above the table were a collage of photographs, what looked to be charts, and typewritten papers that I couldn't read from where I was.


Curiosity piqued, I decided I had to get closer. No one seemed to be inside. I could do this. Piece of cake. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. My fingers fit easily under the edge of the window. It opened noiselessly. One leg swung easily over the windowsill, but I teetered precariously as I tried to get my footing. I unhooked my other leg from the branch and slid easily into the room. My heart beat double time, and I froze, listening to my own blood thrum in my ears. No one sounded the alarm. I was safe, at least for the moment. I tiptoed across the room.


The collage pages were lists, some with check marks beside them. Read Great Expectations, check. Visit the Mayan temples, check. Climb Mount Everest, no check. Learn chess, check. There were a dozen of them. It was like a personal journal pinned to a wall. Reading them felt more intrusive then breaking and entering. There was no madman here. I hurried to the window, swung my leg over the sill, and froze, catching movement in my peripheral vision. I turned towards the movement, wary.


There was a man standing in the doorway to the room, the very picture of the statue in the yard. His eyes were wide with astonishment. He held a razor near his cheek, as if he’d forgotten it was there. Shaving cream covered one side of his face. We stared at one another for a few seconds before I remembered myself. I turned and looked at the tree, measuring. Just a few feet away. Both my hands were braced behind me on the windowsill, my back to the room-and the man. Suppose he decided to push me?


“Stop!” He demanded his voice deep and warm, like thick, dark chocolate. He sounded alarmed.
My heart was skipping in my chest. If I jumped I could latch onto the branch closest to me. Better that then take my chances with the inordinately large stranger who’d just caught me sneaking around his room like a petty thief. I let go of the windowsill, preparing to jump, praying that I would make it.


But he caught me. His arms snaked around my waist and dragged me back into the room. His breathing was ragged against my ear, and I could feel his body heat through my sweater.


“Holy shit,” he cursed. “Are you insane?” I could smell spiced apples on his breath, underlying the sharp tang of Zest, and shaving cream. He turned me around to face him. I’d gone limp with fear at that point. I was dizzy. He gave me a shake. “Who are you and what, precisely, are you doing in my bedroom?”