The Hidden Door – A Serial Story

The Hidden Door – A Serial Story

The Arrival

Off the coast of Washington lays a small island. On the island a large mansion, built by a millionaire before the crash of 1929. When this millionaire lost all his money, the bank took the house and everything in it. Eventually, a private corporation bought the island and mansion. They turned it into a private school.

I remind myself of these details as I stare out at the distant island, waiting for the promised boat. Fired from my previous job and desperate I had taken the first job offer that had come along.

“Look, Cassie,” I muttered to myself, “it’s a private school, not the lair of a serial killer.”

“Well,” a deep voice answered me, “there is some suspicion about the previous owner but no bodies have been found.”

I spun around to see a tall, blond adonis. He even had the bright, blue eyes rimmed with dark lashes. His eyes crinkled as he smiled at me saying, “And of course, the previous owner died years ago, so we can’t ask him.”

I grimaced, then smiled sheepishly, “Sorry, new job,” I explained.

“No worries,” he laughed lightly, “Would you be Mrs. Cassandra Delfian?”

“It’s miss, actually,” I corrected.

Carefully loading my luggage into the motorboat, the adonis took my hand and helped me into the white seat. Once settled, we roared off.

The boat was so noisy we didn’t attempt talking, which made me wonder how I didn’t hear him arrive. Soon, we arrived at the island. Once he pulled up to the dock and tied up the boat, he helped me out and pulled out my luggage.

“Why don’t you head up the path to the school?” he suggested. “I’ll put your luggage in your room.”

I stopped, then turned to him, “I think I’ll help, I don’t even know your name.”

He laughed, making me smile a little, “And still you stepped into my boat.” Stepping closer, he continued thoughtfully, “And I could be that serial killer that so worried you.”

Resisting the urge to step away I asked, “And are you?”

He just laughed, “Miss Delfian, I think we could be great friends.” Then stepping away he picked up my luggage.

Trying again, I asked as he walked away, “And you are?”

“Not a serial killer,” he called over his shoulder as he stepped onto the path entering the forest.

Grabbing my laptop bag, I followed him.


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