Waking Up

Havermouth, Present Time

A frog creaked it’s call from somewhere nearby, joining in the chorus of crickets that buzzed into the night. Aislen could hear the whispered rush of the river, smell the wet earth of its banks. Her head ached and her mouth was parched, the sound of the water tormenting her. Not at her father’s house, she thought groggily. The river was too far from there to be heard like this. She had a bad feeling that she knew precisely where she was.

She pried her eyes open, wincing at the glare of the red-toned bedside lights. Her hands were handcuffed together, and the cuffs threaded through the bars of the bedhead.

She was in the river house, but not as it had been, she thought as she looked around her. The river house of her teen years had been dusty, hung with spiderwebs, long abandoned, with no power. The wallpaper had been peeling from the walls, and there had been the strong smell of mildew from carpets moldering from a leaking roof.

She lay on a wrought iron be