The drawer with the scarf popped free. For a sliver of a second, Merritt thought the blasted house was going to listen to him.
But the drawer merely skidded off, using its handle like a clam’s tongue, and raced for the stairs, leaving the dresser blocking Merritt.
“HOUSE!” He shoved the dresser down and vaulted over it. “I mean it! Give it back!”
The drawer toppled down the ward-frozen stairs.
Merritt’s eyes stung as he grabbed the banister and charged after it, nearly tripping on the steps.
The drawer scooted through the reception hall and into the dining room.
Panic suffocated him. Notthescarfnotthescarfnotthescarf.
“Please!” he shouted, bursting into the dining room as the drawer slid into the breakfast room. “It’s all I have of her. I’ll do anything! I’ll leave! Back to New York!”
He dove into the now well-lit breakfast room, smashing his ribs into the floor. His fingertips brushed the drawer, but it slid from his grip. Merritt hit his shoulder on the table as he stood and ran after it, into the kitchen.
“House, stop—”
The windowsill separated from the wall, and the drawer tossed the multicolored knit scarf into the separation, which swallowed it like a mouth.
For a long moment, Merritt didn’t do anything. He stood there, near the three-legged stool, chest heaving, eyes wide. Staring.
Then he bellowed like a Viking and lunged for the window, slamming bodily into it.
“Give it back! Give it back!”
He dug his fingernails into the sill and tried to lift it, but the house didn’t budge. Grabbed the ward around his neck and pressed it to the glass, but the house still didn’t move. The spell was over. There was nothing to undo.
Vision tunneling, Merritt turned toward the cupboards and flung them open, rifling through them. A jar hit the floor and shattered. Empty flour sack. Spoons flew into the air, matches and an acid vial, an old lamp, a meat mallet—
He took the last thing and slammed its head into the windowsill, trying to break it off. And while a meat mallet was not made for hammering wood, he did a decent job of it.
The wall shuddered and rebuffed him, sending him flying back. He landed hard on his hip, and the meat mallet arced from his fingers toward the hearth.
Wincing, Merritt pushed himself up, eyes going to the nearly empty vial of sulfuric acid.
Acid used to light the chlorate of potash on the ends of the matches.
He grabbed both, then snatched up the empty flour sack. “You want to challenge me?” he seethed. “Fine.”
He dipped the matches, lighting them. The flames caught easily on the flour sack.
Which he then threw into the empty cupboard.
Fire licked the cupboard walls. For a heartbeat, it seemed it wouldn’t catch.
Until it did.
The entire house bucked. Sounds of shattering glass and warping metal penetrated his ears. The floor rumbled and split, sending a gush of marsh water up into the kitchen, dowsing—and mudding—the cupboards.
But the house didn’t stop there. Because why would it?
The great chasm in the kitchen jerked apart, widening, and swallowed Merritt whole.
Merritt groaned. Cold seeped through his clothes and into his skin. His head and back ached, and . . . No, he was still breathing. Just took a moment to remember how.
His hand brushed moist, dark soil. His other brushed the ward still secure around his neck. He lay supine, staring up at the hole in the floor of his kitchen. Wondered why it was still open at all. Maybe his ward prevented the house from closing over him. Maybe the house was reeling from its own injuries.
Maybe Merritt didn’t care.
Grunting, he pushed himself to sitting. His pulse thumped painfully beneath his skull. Prodding his hair, then his neck, he checked for injuries. Just bruises, he guessed. Bad bruises, but bruises had never killed him.
None of it had ever killed him.
Propping his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head into his palms. Focused on his breathing. In, out. In, out. He sat like that for a long time, trying to tamp down the anger and the hurt. Just when he thought it was finally done, that he was finally cured, it came bubbling up again. Something always brought it up, and he hated it, because it never hurt any less, even so many years later.
He breathed until his throat wasn’t tight anymore. Until his lungs felt a little lighter. Then he stood slowly, testing for other injuries, fortunately finding only bruises. He’d fallen about . . . eleven or twelve feet.
Good news, his house had a root cellar.
At that thought, he glanced around, searching for bodies. Human, rat, or other. But there was nothing here but dirt, roots, and some dripping water.