Part 36: The Foyer, Reprise

In partnership with

Previously in the Vines Inquiry— Harlow, guided by a (vision? hallucination? was she actually there??) of her mother, escaped the subterranean pool. Shooing the guilt of possibly dooming the matriarch, Harlow ran up the stairs towards the ground floor, dragging a broken foot behind her.

Her heart raced as she limped up the stairs, coughing up lungs that were still clogged with chlorine steam.

Harlow made it to the top of the staircase, away from the pool, away from the cats, away from her mother…and found the manor wasn’t letting her go that easy. A hallway with three branching paths taunted her, dared her. She put her ear up against a door, listening for a purr or scratch, but no sound made it through. Not even the thrum of the ocean like when she would listen to a shell on the down-island shore.

The whole place felt like a trick—like getting all gussied up for prom only to get stood up. Of course, no one in their right mind would stand up Harlow Voorhees, but Carlisle had been proven less sane than most these past few days. 

She had three choices, and so had none. Harlow picked one of the doors and pushed it open slowly, so that the mountain lion could…get her…at its leisure…

“What am I doing?” she said. “I am Harlow Voorhees!” 

She shouted it. A proclamation of, what? She didn’t know, but she and the house were going to find out together.

She was Harlow. She was scared. She was strong.

Turn Your Ideas Into Profit with a Book

At Lulu, you’ll find affordable, high-quality print-on-demand solutions that make book publishing easy, allowing you to grow your brand and audience while keeping 100% of your profit.

Create Your Free Account Today

Even amidst the centuries-old walls, the portraits of a local dynasty, it felt relevant. It felt solid. Her foundations were down-island but they were there, dammit. If the Vineses wanted to play their little end of the world game, then fine. She’d play too.

“You think I’m trapped in here with you?!” Harlow shouted, her voice echoing down the hall as she did her best Rorschach impression. “You’re in here with me!” 

She was lying to herself. An imagining. Self-proselytization. What was imagination, but with certainty?

Faith. 

“Are you listening?! I am the Final Girl. Laurie Strode, who? Sidney Prescott, when? Karla Wilson made some points, but I’m hitting threes from half court!” The house answered only in steady silence. Harlow continued, quieter, to herself. “Okay, I like that energy, babe, but they are still rabid mountain lions. They can’t understand English…probably.” Listen, Vines cats; you couldn’t be too careful.  

Shouldering the devastation that no one had witnessed her quoting Watchmen, Harlow stiff upper-lipped it and moved on to the next door. She kicked it open with her good foot.

Let’s play the game. Let’s get out of this house alive.

Her other foot felt increasingly mushy, each step like a spoon hitting the bottom of the jelly jar; squish, crack. Squish, crack. Every stride Harlow took threatened to be the one that would down her, but she had to keep moving. Her pursuers certainly were.