The Fall Read Online Free
Author: Bethany Griffin
despise myself for showing my fear.
At least we have the torch. Though I am farther down the tunnel than Roderick, I can feel the warmth of it, and I can still see the flickering above me.
âI didnât close it,â he insists. I believe him. âAnd Madeline? It wonât open.â
I crawl up next to him, and we both push with all our strength. It doesnât budge. I sigh. âWe have to follow the tunnel.â
It is what the house wants. And despite my horror of closed-in places, I am curious. Who . . . or what . . . scratched this passage out of the hard-packed earth and stone? Father had warned us about dangers in the cellars and cavernous places under the house. On Roderickâs dare, I tried to steal the keys once, when Father was in bed with one of his fits, but he caught me before I reached the door of his bedchamber. It was the only time Father ever screamed at me. But this time the house is obviously watching, and it wonât let us come to harm.
As we creep along, the earthen ceiling presses down so that I have to lie on my back, twisting my body back and forth.
Roderickâs shoe touches my face.
âSlow down,â I warn him. My skirts bunch up around me, slowing my progress.
The air is very still. My hands are dusted with particles of dry earth, and I imagine they are clogging my throat. I choke.
Pebbles rain down on me.
âSorry,â Roderick calls. âI was trying to get a handhold, to keep from slipping down on your head. The dirt is crumbly.â
This tunnel could cave in on us at any moment.
If Roderick and I are buried beneath the house, at least our parents wonât be able to send him to school. Thatâs probably why heâs being so brave, pretending not to be afraid of the only place heâs ever known, because heâs about to be sent to a new place.
I twist, dislodging my skirts, and scoot forward. Within a few feet, the tunnel opens to empty space. I fall, landing on my feet with a painful thud.
âRoderick,â I call to warn him, but heâs already sliding down, so I dive to the side. Not fast enough. He mostly lands on top of me. At least he holds up the torch with both hands, protecting us and our only source of light.
As it is, the light from the torch barely dissipates the murkiness of this space. Roderick walks around the perimeter of the room, running his hands over the walls. I stand in the same place where I fell and watch him. The walls here are made of overlapping metal plates, and in the center of the room is a large, square stone.
As Roderick moves, the torchlight shifts, illuminating the openings of other tunnels, all around us. For a second I see red eyes staring in, but when I blink, they are gone.
âRoderick?â I move closer to him, and to the light.
âThe air feels different in this spot.â The oppressive atmosphere of the chamber makes his voice thin and reedy. âI see a door.â
Roderick holds up the torch, examining an iron door set in the stone wall. When he pushes, it screeches forward a few inches. He turns sideways to slide through, and I do the same.
Now we are truly in the vaultâwhere dead Ushers are observed, and then put to rest, deep under the house. Entombed in solid stone.
I put out my hand to touch a stone sarcophagus, but my fingers are covered with greenish dirt. I pull back, hiding my hand in my skirtsâas if there is anyone here to care about touching sacred objects with filthy hands.
âI dare you to get in one,â Roderick whispers.
All day, he has had more bravado than me. Being the brave twin is my only claim to any sort of importance in this house, where Mother loves Roderick best and Father spends most of his waking hours wandering through the rooms staring at nothing, ignoring us both.
âThat one.â Roderick points at a grim-looking box that sits up on a trestle. Made of some sort of ceramic, the surface is cool to
At least we have the torch. Though I am farther down the tunnel than Roderick, I can feel the warmth of it, and I can still see the flickering above me.
âI didnât close it,â he insists. I believe him. âAnd Madeline? It wonât open.â
I crawl up next to him, and we both push with all our strength. It doesnât budge. I sigh. âWe have to follow the tunnel.â
It is what the house wants. And despite my horror of closed-in places, I am curious. Who . . . or what . . . scratched this passage out of the hard-packed earth and stone? Father had warned us about dangers in the cellars and cavernous places under the house. On Roderickâs dare, I tried to steal the keys once, when Father was in bed with one of his fits, but he caught me before I reached the door of his bedchamber. It was the only time Father ever screamed at me. But this time the house is obviously watching, and it wonât let us come to harm.
As we creep along, the earthen ceiling presses down so that I have to lie on my back, twisting my body back and forth.
Roderickâs shoe touches my face.
âSlow down,â I warn him. My skirts bunch up around me, slowing my progress.
The air is very still. My hands are dusted with particles of dry earth, and I imagine they are clogging my throat. I choke.
Pebbles rain down on me.
âSorry,â Roderick calls. âI was trying to get a handhold, to keep from slipping down on your head. The dirt is crumbly.â
This tunnel could cave in on us at any moment.
If Roderick and I are buried beneath the house, at least our parents wonât be able to send him to school. Thatâs probably why heâs being so brave, pretending not to be afraid of the only place heâs ever known, because heâs about to be sent to a new place.
I twist, dislodging my skirts, and scoot forward. Within a few feet, the tunnel opens to empty space. I fall, landing on my feet with a painful thud.
âRoderick,â I call to warn him, but heâs already sliding down, so I dive to the side. Not fast enough. He mostly lands on top of me. At least he holds up the torch with both hands, protecting us and our only source of light.
As it is, the light from the torch barely dissipates the murkiness of this space. Roderick walks around the perimeter of the room, running his hands over the walls. I stand in the same place where I fell and watch him. The walls here are made of overlapping metal plates, and in the center of the room is a large, square stone.
As Roderick moves, the torchlight shifts, illuminating the openings of other tunnels, all around us. For a second I see red eyes staring in, but when I blink, they are gone.
âRoderick?â I move closer to him, and to the light.
âThe air feels different in this spot.â The oppressive atmosphere of the chamber makes his voice thin and reedy. âI see a door.â
Roderick holds up the torch, examining an iron door set in the stone wall. When he pushes, it screeches forward a few inches. He turns sideways to slide through, and I do the same.
Now we are truly in the vaultâwhere dead Ushers are observed, and then put to rest, deep under the house. Entombed in solid stone.
I put out my hand to touch a stone sarcophagus, but my fingers are covered with greenish dirt. I pull back, hiding my hand in my skirtsâas if there is anyone here to care about touching sacred objects with filthy hands.
âI dare you to get in one,â Roderick whispers.
All day, he has had more bravado than me. Being the brave twin is my only claim to any sort of importance in this house, where Mother loves Roderick best and Father spends most of his waking hours wandering through the rooms staring at nothing, ignoring us both.
âThat one.â Roderick points at a grim-looking box that sits up on a trestle. Made of some sort of ceramic, the surface is cool to