Free In the House of Mirrors by Tim Meyer

inside me beckoned me to get out of my car and follow him. Regretfully, I complied with that something.
     
    3
     
    The house that stood in the middle of the woods was not a run-down shack, which would've been very appropriate considering its surroundings. Instead, a two-story Gingerbread house, which may have been a church at one point in time, shadowed over me.
    I crept beside the house and put my back against the vinyl siding. I glided toward the front yard feeling like a detective in an old black and white movie from the fifties. I hoped Olberstad wasn't inside yet. Luckily, I was quick enough. I caught Olberstad walking across the dirt lot, toward the front door.
    I heard him knock. I turned the corner to catch a glimpse, but that position left me too open, so I stayed hidden behind the corner of the house. I listened. A man's voice answered the door.
    “ What's the word?” the unidentified man asked.
    “ The Veil,” Olberstad replied, then I heard the door creak as it opened. Olberstad stepped inside and the door slammed behind him.
    I could've turned around right there. Hell, I probably should have. Never in a million years did I think I would have the balls to do what I did next. It was pure spontaneity that propelled me forward. I turned the corner and trotted up the steps that led to the front door. I let out a deep breath, then rapped my knuckles on the blood-red door.
    A viewing slot, about eye level, slid open and two eyes appeared. They squinted at me, as if the eyes were expecting someone else. “What's the word?” he asked, sounding aggravated.
    “ The Veil,” I responded.
    At first the man did nothing. I thought maybe I had given the wrong word, but I heard Olberstad speak it with such clarity that there was no way I could have misunderstood. His eyes remained there, unblinking, for what seemed like forever. Finally, the peephole closed and the door squeaked open.
    I stepped inside, clueless as to what I was about to witness.
     
    4
     
    The man behind the door observed me as I passed him, entering the lobby. His suspicious eyes combed me over, from head to toe. I was clearly out of my element. He was garbed in a long black robe; I was in jeans and a Carhartt sweatshirt. The man behind the door—who had long, scraggly black hair and was probably only a few years older than myself—scoffed and turned his back on me. I shrugged and continued down a long corridor, where I heard people talking in soft tones.
    There were a few folks clinging against the walls, talking about things I didn't quite understand, mostly because they were holding conversations they obviously didn't want others to hear. Not everyone donned black robes like the doorman had. Most, however, wore dark clothing. A girl—she couldn't be any older than nineteen—was wearing a black cut-sleeve tee-shirt with some metal band's emblem on the front of it. She had one arm completely covered with tattoos. Her face contained more jewelry than Lynne owned in the entire four years I dated her. I tried to look away as I strolled by her and her friend, but I couldn't help it. She wrinkled her lips and rolled her eyes when she caught my gaze.
    I moved away from the two drearily dressed individuals toward the end of the corridor. I could see it led to a much larger room. I passed through the doors and into the open area, and instantly knew what this place was when I entered it; a church. It had ten rows of pews, split down the middle by a long roll of red carpet which led to the altar. The altar was lavishly decorated in devil-worship memorabilia. A small statue of a goat-headed man rested on a table where sacrificial ceremonies were held. Behind the altar, a giant inverted pentagram was painted on the wall. Banners sporting images of hellfire and demons hung from the rafters. My knees suddenly felt weak, as I made my way down the aisle.
    I quickly scanned the room, looking for any signs of Marty Olberstad. I didn't see any trace of him. There