GHOST PORTAL (#1 GHOST PORTAL series)

ONE

Her head throbbed, her mouth was sticky, and her lips were chapped and stuck together. She rubbed at her temples, recalling she'd hit her head, but unsure how—on a rock in the grass, or on the threshold when she'd been yanked over it?

Yanked over it.

She sat up at once, ignoring the dizziness induced by such a brutal motion. And it was brutal; a nasty taste swelled in her mouth and the throbbing seared across her forehead, making it difficult for her to remain conscious.

But she had to; she was in foreign territory, and needed all her senses to cooperate, all her body parts to be on the same page. And on that page right now was get up, get out.

She couldn't see anything, but figured that was due to her raging migraine. She set both feet firmly to the ground and after expelling a large breath, she heaved herself up. Wobbly, stars dancing in her eyes; but she was standing.

Darkness engulfed her, and a stuffy staleness burst into her nostrils.

She was inside the house.

No matter how much she blinked, expecting to adjust her eyesight, no images came to life in front of her. No forms in the obscurity, no outlines of furniture, no hints of doorways. No life at all; everything was dead.

The windows were boarded up—she recalled seeing that from the outside in the moments before she'd ran into the forest. And she'd noticed them again as her feet were suspended in air and she was dragged inside the house she'd been spying on, watching from afar.

It was no longer "afar". She was in it, breathing in its choked oxygen. If one could call it breathing—every breath she took was suffocating her, wrapping around her lungs, squeezing tight.

She wheezed. "It's dust," she whispered to herself, picking up on particles as they slithered up her nostrils. The place was covered in it, she smelled it now; but what was dusty? What was even in this house?

She hadn't lost her backpack when she'd been hauled inside. It still clung to her sweaty back and she let out a sigh of relief.

She removed the straps from her shoulders and crouched to the floor—which reeked of more dust—and felt around for the zipper. She unzipped, and dug inside to find her salvation—a flashlight. It'd be temporary, but it'd be enough to help her navigate and find the door and get out of here. She smiled, thankful that she was always prepared.

The smooth, cool surface of the flashlight sent a few reassuring waves through her as she stood up and flipped the switch.

The sudden light had her closing her eyes and cursing, but she lifted the thing and directed it straight ahead of her, desperate for a visual.

She opened her eyes and found that she'd been seconds away from colliding with a massive, ancient-looking staircase. One of those you'd see in a Victorian movie, with bronze banisters and flowery designs and carpeted steps. Except this carpet was singed in places, badly burnt, stained, ripped—not a single step was intact. The banisters weren't shiny when reflecting the light; they were matte, heavily coated with dust, causing her nostrils to itch again at the sight of the layers accumulating on the surface. Cobwebs hung near the beginning of the stairs that reached straight upwards, no curving or bending to arrive at the upper floor. The webs weaved around the railings, all the way to the top.

With a chill, she twisted to her left, finding a large doorway, also decorated with cobwebs. The frame was a warm, cherry wood shade, but splattered with dark spots and dented in the corners. Beyond it, she spotted a few pieces of decrepit furniture. An olive green couch with its seams pouring out, heaps of fuzz coming from the fabric. A turned-over coffee table, set up as if to hide behind it to protect oneself from bullets. A bookcase against the far wall, empty but for a few more thick cobwebs.