Witch Door Novels & Stories

Dorian said. They moved around the north face of the building and the window was there, second floor, a narrow casement with an old iron latch that his father touched and it swung open without resistance and Dorian looked at the drop from the window to the ground and looked at his father and his father made a gesture that said after you with the specific economy of a man who understood this was not his moment, it was his son's. Dorian went through the window.

I knew the bathroom window on the first floor had a faulty latch that never closed properly. I could climb through one of the open windows to pack some of our things. "Stay right here," I told her, stepping off the porch steps and sinking knee-deep into the fresh snowbank. I trudged through the heavy drifts around the side of the building until I reached the small rectangular window. I reached up, shoving my fingers under the wooden frame, and gave a hard, upward jerk. The old wood groaned, the broken latch giving way with a loud snap as the window slid open. I hoisted my weight up, using my broad shoulders to squeeze through the narrow opening. Then I tumbled awkwardly onto the cold tile of

There was no balcony, just a thin brick wall and a drainage pipe that looked about as sturdy as a drinking straw. Tap. Tap. I stood up, careful not to scrape my chair against the floor. I tiptoed to the window and pulled back the cheap blinds. A face was grinning at me from the other side of the glass. Daxon. He was hanging on to the sill with one hand, his black hair plastered to his forehead by the drizzle outside. He looked ridiculous. And terrifyingly hot. I unlatched the lock and slid the window up. "I have a door," I hissed. "Normal people use the door."

We reach the side of the house without incident. I press the rear of my body against the wall, panting, listening. A TV is on indoors. Someone laughs. The sounds of life continuing, oblivious. Dexter attempts the window above us. Locked, but the lock is residential grade, inexpensive. He spends a few moments retrieving a thin tool from his pocket and has it open in seconds. "After you," he says again, and this time I don't argue. I haul myself in through the window into what looks like a laundry room. Warm air inside scented with fabric softener and something baking. Homey. Human.

Less confining and tolerable. Nico and Agatha have their individual rooms upstairs. I guess they have wooden beds too. I wonder how they can call that place a sanctuary, and it’s not even safe from wild animals. The cottage doesn't have a door, just a doorway with a few strands of silvery wind chimes to let them know someone has come inside. The windows are made of wood attached to the top of the window frame, but the rest are swinging freely. They pull up the flap every morning, supported by a dried tree trunk to keep it open, and pull it back down at night.

A wedding. These weren't monsters. They were people. That somehow made everything worse. "Most of the club's out on a run," Dax explained, leading me past the main room toward a hallway. "Dutch is in Pittsburgh on business. I wanted you to see this without an audience. He stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the end of the hall. He keyed a code into a digital lock a high-tech security measure that felt out of place in such a rustic building and pushed the door open.

No one does. “I’m leaving!” he announces to no one in particular. “None of you can stop me!” I snort. “No one’s trying.” Jack cracks up beside me. “Please let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.” Edison tries to slam the door, but it’s got one of those soft-close hydraulic hinges—the kind that slowly pulls the door shut with a whisper and a sigh. The look on his face when it fails to match his dramatic exit is priceless.

Plus point for one of the most successful and wealthy realtors of New York City! They went over to the stairs which lead to the entrance of the house. Now the couple had seen many wonderfully made doors before, but facing in front of them was overwhelming. “As you can see, everything you see here is big. I mean look at the size of this pivot door!” he babbled, swinging open the dark-brown pivot door made with rift white oak—ten feet high, 5 feet wide, and 4 inches thick with a vertical rectangular piece of bulletproof glass at the handle side of the door. Such a sleek entrance for such an astonishing house. The three of them went inside and Mr. Andrews looked around while Mrs. Andrews couldn

He was quite pleased with his unexpected accomplishment. "Shall we go?" Dianne instructed Nicolas that they should get inside the house before the cold afternoon wind started to penetrate their bodies. The two climbed the porch steps and approached a large door located in the center of the building. The door was brown and made of Mahogany wood, while the floor, clearly visible from the outside, was made of granite. Dianne approached the smart lock on the door and pressed the buttons on the touch screen with the pin number she had memorized from the message Keenan had sent her this morning.

~Katia~ The heavy mahogany double doors of my penthouse didn't just open; they were vaporized. The wood fractured with a deafening, explosive crash that shook the entire living room, the brass lock ripping out of the frame and clattering across the hardwood floor. Jude’s head snapped toward the sound. Julian Windsor stood in the doorway.