by Tim Pratt
Read by Marguerite Croft
Originally published in Faultline.
We talked, in our tiny apartment, with the kitchen so small we couldn’t even pass each other on the way to the refrigerator, with our pipes that howled and clanked when we tried to turn on the hot water. I’d just gotten a promotion, and though it meant less teaching and more administrative work, there was also more money coming in. The housing market was good, for buyers. There were a lot of great places to choose from, but none we liked more than the labyrinth house.
“I don’t see the downside,” my husband said, leaning against me companionably in bed. “Really, the whole thing is just more space, square footage we’re not even paying for. The labyrinth could be extra storage, even.”
“What if there are bugs? Rats?”
“Then we brick up the entrance. Looks like it’s been done before, so we can do it again.”
We bought the house. We moved in. We didn’t go into the basement often, just to do laundry, and we didn’t go into the labyrinth at all. Not at first.
I’m not sure when my husband started his explorations. I didn’t find out for a while.
There are a lot of things from those first months I don’t remember.
Rated PG. We guess.