Under_The_Whispering_Door_by_TJ_Klune

CHAPTER
4
He expected the inside of the house to look like the outside, a mishmash of
architectural atrocities better suited for demolition than habitation.
He wasn’t disappointed.
The light was low, coming from mismatched sconces bolted to the walls
and an obscenely large candle sitting on a small table near the door. Plants
hung from the vaulted ceiling in wicker baskets, and though none of them
were flowering, the scent of them was almost overwhelming, mixing with the
powerful smell of spices that seemed embedded into the walls. The vines
trailed toward the floor, swaying gently in the breeze through the open
window on the far wall. He started to reach for one, suddenly desperate to
feel the leaves against his skin, but he curled his hand at the last moment. He
could smell them, so he knew they were there even if his eyes were playing
tricks on him. And Mei could touch him—in fact, he could still feel the ghost
of her fingers on his skin—but what if that was it? Wallace had never been a
man of leisure, stopping to smell the roses, or so the saying went. Doubt,
then, doubt creeping up on him, sliding over his shoulders and weighing him
down, fingers like claws digging in.
A dozen tables sat in the middle of the large room, their surfaces gleaming
as if freshly wiped down. The chairs tucked underneath were old and worn,
though not shabby. They too were mismatched, some with wooden seats and
backs, others with thick and faded cushions. He even saw a moon chair in
one corner. He hadn’t seen one of those since he was a kid.
He barely heard Mei close the door behind them. He was distracted by the
walls of the room, his feet moving him toward them of their own volition.
They were covered in pictures and posters, some framed, some held up by
pushpins. They told a story, he thought, but one he couldn’t follow. Here was