The Glass House Novels & Stories

This house was too big, too silent, and too filled with memories that weren’t mine. “The glass room is at the back,” Xavier said quietly, breaking the silence. I only nodded. When we arrived, I nearly lost my breath. The room was beautiful in a way I couldn’t describe. Its walls were almost entirely glass, letting the morning sunlight stream in unhindered. Vines curled into the corners, flowers bloomed in soft colors, and a round table had been neatly set with a white cloth. There was warm bread, fruit, and steaming tea. I stood stiff at the doorway. “It feels like another world.”

Inside, the broken greenhouse sat silent. Empty echoes lived there. Stretching out, the structure sat low, made of glass and chipped white metal, time wearing it down. Dirt layered thick on the windows, years piled up like dust. Through splits in the glass, vines forced their way in, thin branches clawing into the rooms. At the entrance, the attendant came to a halt, glancing at the house. Nothing left for him to do. Bones shook with each beat inside my chest. There would be no turning back now. A slow breath filled my lungs before the gate creaked forward. Footsteps followed cracked stone, leading straight to the glass-walled room ahead.

This house looked like a hotel to me because it was massive and most of the exterior was made of glass. The gates were made of gold and see through glass. The only reason a wealthy man would use a see through glass gate is reason number one: to show off his house and number two: because he is confident that the glass cannot be penetrated so he can show off his house without any worries. “Honey, don’t embarrass me,” Rick whispered in my ears as I recollected myself and realized I had been drooling at the house since we got there. “Oh sorry,” I said with flushed cheeks because I was slightly embarrassed. I tucked my hair behind my ears and looked down on my shoes shyly.

He held her gaze for one long, breathless second, then stepped aside, letting her pass. Naomi walked back toward her kettlebells, her mind racing, her blood singing. She had spent five years under glass, a decorative object kept safe and entirely suffocated. Now, surrounded by iron and the smell of chalk, she felt the glass finally shatter. She was breathing real air, and for the first time, she was looking forward to the fire.

Cameras flashed immediately like thousands of fire flies but that didn't get my attention. My dad threw a step and I threw mine, absent mindedly. We walked into the glass house that stretched and I paused. The flashes from the cameras intensified and the crowd stood up on their heels. I gaped at the amount of people present and turned to my dad who gave me a reassuring nod. I smiled at him and my eyes caught something behind him. It was a glass shaped flower, with a little painting of white and red that made it pop. My mouth dropped and I blinked twice to be sure of what I was seeing. It was still there, it wasn't a dream just like my gown wasn't a dream. I to

The last thing I saw, right after the sharp pain stabbed into the back of my neck, was the icy, emotionless face of my brother, Sean Lawson. When I regained consciousness, I found myself trapped inside a huge glass box. My hands and feet were bound so tightly that I could not move at all. "Sean, you know I have claustrophobia! Please let me out!" I kept screaming, my voice breaking as I begged. Sean did not even look at me. Instead, he gently wiped the tears from Wendy Roberts' eyes.

This is what I can tell you about what the glass is. It is not absence. People think it is absence — a switching off, a going away. It is not that. You are still there. You register everything. The weight, the cold of the sheets, the sound of the garden outside continuing its complete indifference. You register the specific quality of him — the unhurried thoroughness of a man who has decided something belongs to him and sees no reason to pretend otherwise. You register all of it. What the glass does is hold it at a distance that makes it survivable. Like looking at something very bright through smoked glass — you see it, you know what it is, you do not let it burn you. You file it. You note

"The house is only fifty yards away. Everything is ready." The house was a fortress disguised as a billionaire’s retreat. The heavy, steel-reinforced glass doors hissed shut behind us with a sound that was far too final, a pneumatic thud that seemed to cut off the rest of the world entirely. Inside, the floors were polished concrete, the walls were exposed rock, and the windows looked out over a three-hundred-foot drop into the churning turquoise water of the Mediterranean. It was a high-tech bunker with a five-star view.

The massive crowd surged forward, carrying cameras, microphones, and livestream equipment as they followed me around to the side of the building, where a wide open lawn lay. I stopped, turned to face the crowd, and pointed toward the floor-to-ceiling window on the second floor. "Everyone, look up. That's Amanda Sutton's office. As for what's happening inside… I'll leave that for all of you to judge." Instinctively, everyone raised their heads only to fall completely silent the next second, for in front of that enormous floor-to-ceiling window…

"You look perfect. Go have a nice dinner." Shortly after, I got into my car and drove to the venue. I made it clear to Nathan that I didn't want him to pick me up. I wanted everything to go according to how I had planned it in my head; I wanted his jaw to drop when he saw me walk through the door of the restaurant. The Glasshouse was warm, smelling of roasted garlic and wood smoke. Small candles flickered in amber glass holders on every table, casting a soft, golden glow over the customers. Outside the high windows, the dock water was black and quiet, reflecting the long, glowing line of the bridge.