The House

“So, you will go into the house, even though I suggest against it?” asked Piper.

“I told you already,” answered Flynn.

Piper threw out his arms, spreading scattering the raindrops back into the air. “What did you even bring me for then?”

Flynn didn’t turn to look at him. He did not take his focused eyes from the house. Not that anyone saw his eyes behind the cowl he used to block the storm. “I brought you to tell my family where I disappeared to if I don’t come back,” Flynn said.

Piper was having a lot of trouble standing in one spot. The rain was cold, the lightning grew closer with each strike, and the house was something unsettling even in the broad daylight.

“You know what they say about this place,” Piper said.

Flynn gave a nod. “No one who has entered says much of anything, far as I am aware,” Flynn answered.

“The reason is not a good one,” Piper shot back.

“Still seems all accounts are second hand. Hard to tell what is happening inside the house,” Flynn said.

Another crack of lightning lit the sky. The house in question sat further back on a hilltop. There were no special adjournments lining the home. There were no beautiful shrubs winning prizes from the housewives of the block. This was an old house; older than anyone’s memories.

“I don’t get the point of this. What have they taken from you that matters this much?” Piper asked.

He asked so many times and got the same generic answer.

“That is not the point,” Flynn said.

Piper slapped at his face in frustration and used the moment to wipe away the rain.

“There is nothing I can do to talk you out of this?” Piper pleaded one last time.

“Tell my family if I don’t come back,” Flynn said, turning to him.

Flynn’s eyes were determined. His shoulders were set. There was no way he was turning back now. Piper knew the former solider for most of his adult life. Once Flynn set his mind to something, he rode it out until the bitter end.

“I will tell them,” Piper resigned himself to the duty.

Flynn did not make a dramatic gesture of goodbye or make any last comment. He took off along the wet, soggy road toward the House of Color. Piper wished him luck, but, in his mind, he was making the speech he would tell Flynn’s wife.

The White Room

Flynn sloshed along the hill, the mud sucking at his dirty brown boots. Piper was right when he said, ‘It is better to turn back’. Flynn was not interested in being right though. Flynn was only interested in getting back what was taken from him.

Flynn stopped at the door to the house. There were no instructions on what happened once you entered. There were only rumors and gossip about what was even on the inside. The only thing agreed upon by everyone were the colors. Flynn lifted his scarred hand and tapped on the brass handle connected to the wooden door. It opened under its own volition. Flynn scanned the open doorway, looking for someone or something, but seeing nothing.

He was already this far and there was no turning back. He stepped into the dark corridor and the door shut behind him with a click. It did not slam but, all the same, Flynn felt the sense of entrapment.

Lights flickered on, transforming the room into the present time. Pristine white walls, not a speck of dust or cobwebs, white floors, white ceilings, and a small, knee-high man with sharp eyes, pointed ears, and tiny teeth greeted Flynn.

“Glad you took the time to join us, Flynn,” the small man said.

Flynn replied with a grunt. What did one say to such a man in such a place?

“The name is Olyante. Bit heavy on the tongue, I know. You can call me Oly if you please,” Oly said.

Flynn did not please to call the creature anything. He wanted what had been taken from him and then he wanted to go home.

“Before you start, you should know the rules,” Oly said.

As he moved across the floor, furniture, as crisp and white as the room, appeared from thin air. Oly stopped in front of a front cushioned bar. Behind the bar appeared a rather unremarkable middle-aged man. He was staring forward, eyes on nothing, as if he had no life within his body. Oly drummed his fingers across the white top of the bar and the man pulled a drink from nothing and handed it to him.

“What do you prefer to drink?” Oly asked.

Flynn glanced around the room. Where Oly moved through the room, the furniture faded back into nothing. Only the bar, with Oly sitting at it, remained as a fixture.

“I prefer only to get what you have taken,” Flynn replied.

Oly’s face scrunched, and he shook his head. “You have to know the rules,” Oly replied. He tapped the bar again and a second glass appeared. “Come drink with me.”

Flynn had not touched a drop of alcohol since after the incident. When his daughter was born, Flynn had been off in some bar. He couldn’t remember the first year of Amenna’s life. Even now, ten years sober, he only recalled vaguely what she looked like as a child.

“I would rather not.” Flynn clenched his fist.

Oly shrugged, took a sip of his own drink, and said, “You will have plenty of time to face those demons later.”

Oly put his glass back onto the counter. As he stood, it disappeared, along with the somber fellow behind it.

“Let us have a seat here then,” Oly said and sat into nothing. As he came to a seated position, a white chair appeared below his bottom. On the opposite side, an identical chair appeared, waiting for Flynn to join him.

Flynn was not any keener to sit in this chair, but he figured Oly was not likely to give up until he gave in. The cushion enveloped Flynn’s thighs and massaged at his back as he sat.

“Enticing, huh,” Oly said, a smile of pearly whites running along his face. “Most things here are much more alluring than one would assume,” he laughed.

Flynn shifted uncomfortably in the chair. The massage was nice, but the idea of something living in the chair unsettled him.

“Where were we?” Oly asked.

Flynn let his own encompassing thoughts spill from his mind. He needed to focus on the house and what he came here for.

“I want back what you have taken,” Flynn reminded Oly.

Oly shook his head. He did not need any reminders. It had been Oly or someone else from here who took from him. “There are rules you must follow,” Oly said, bringing up his earlier statement again.

“What rules?” Flynn asked through clenched teeth. He did not have time for games. Even now, it may have been too late. Oly may have been stalling him until his mission ceased to matter.

“Simple rules. The House of Color comprises seven rooms. Each room has a test for any who enter. You cannot leave the room until the test is complete. If you fail the test, try to run through the test, or refuse the test, then you are trapped forever. You cannot move backward after a test. If you decide to enter the first room, you must pass all seven tests before you can exit the house. You cannot skip a test or do tests out of order. Any attempts to cheat a test will result in automatic failure of the test. If you pass the test you move onto the next test. If you beat all tests, then you will be free to leave the house if you so choose,” Oly regurgitated lines he had spoken hundreds or thousands of times before.

Flynn thought about the rules. Oly was right, they were simple. And yet, if you failed them, the resulting punishment was a lifetime in the house.

“Do you still want to enter?” Oly asked.

Flynn had no doubts. What was taken was too important to be frightened away.

“How do I start?” Flynn answered.

“Each room is a different color. Each color corresponds with a different test. You must start in the red room. You will work your way to the violet room. If you make it there, I will see you again,” Oly stood, his chair disappearing from below him. “You follow the red door,” he said, pointing to a door that had not been present moments before.

Flynn was done with the conversation. He already hyped himself for the situation before entering the home. He told Piper what he would do here. He came to get back what they stole. His fingers reached out for the red doorknob on the red door. He let them encompass it and then he turned the knob. The white room disappeared from behind him. The house shifted and Flynn walked through the door.

The Red Room

Without warning, everything turned from white to red. Unlike the white room, however, this room was full of decorations. Red paintings, red ceramics, red furniture, all lined the red walls and carpet. Flynn took a moment to capture his bearings. It was hard to make anything out with all the fixtures being only slightly different shades.

“The usual?” a dark-skinned man in a red suit asked.

Flynn spun his head to get a better look at the new visitor. He was holding two glasses of dark amber liquid that stood out starkly against everything else in the room.

“I told your friend already, I am past that point in my life,” Flynn replied.

The dark man nodded, “I am aware. I will leave it here in case you change your mind.” He placed the two cups side by side on a table. He did not further press the offering. Instead, he stood there blankly looking at the wall.

Flynn did not move either. The smaller man in the white room expressed there would be challenges forthcoming. Flynn wondered what the red room would bring him.

“Remember the time Piper got so drunk he hit on the Innkeepers wife and almost took her home?”

Flynn whirled around to the dark-skinned man again. He wore a smile on his face, but his body was so stoic it was off-putting.

Flynn decided not to entertain the man’s comment.

“Do you remember how Piper stumbled around? How you were always taking care of him? You were always the responsible one, never a chance to cut loose. What kind of friend was Piper anyhow?” The dark-skinned man talked to Flynn, but he looked at the red wall beyond him.

Flynn tried to ignore him again. What did he honestly know about Piper or him? It was not important. He came here to pass the tests given and get back what was taken from him.

“Did you take it from me?” Flynn asked the man.

No reply.

“One night, I bet you don’t remember, with Piper was a night you finally let yourself go. You convinced yourself it was only a one-night thing. How long did one night last? Ten years? How long did Piper take care of your wife once he sobered up?” The dark-skinned man was relentless.

Flynn’s skin prickled at the mention of Piper and his wife. It had always sat stagnantly in the back of his mind. It sat in the back of many people’s minds across the town.

“Where is it?” Flynn put a little fire into his words.

“Did you ever get over the fact your daughter may have not even been yours? Piper always did have such a distinct nose. Couldn’t you always see his nose in her face?”

Flynn was across the room before he realized what happened. The dark-skinned man did not flinch as Flynn grabbed his collar.

“Shut the banter,” Flynn spat.

The dark man’s eyes did not shift to Flynn. They continued to stare only at the red wall beyond.

“Remember how you used to forget about it? Remember how the drink used to coddle you into a gentle slumber. You slept so well in those days. You didn’t think about the pain in your mind or your aging body. Even Piper was a great friend again when you let yourself go. All the way until that fateful night you were happy, weren’t you?”

Flynn squeezed tighter, “let it go.”

“Where does this story end? Did your wife choose you or was she trapped by you? You quit your drinking and she was forced to still take care of you like a child. Piper grew out of his ways and you stumbled into bed every night, even after you stopped swilling the booze.”

Flynn’s heart hammered in his chest. He always suspected Piper and his wife were something more, but he pressed it down. He pressed it so deep he convinced himself it wasn’t true. Now, he saw the image repeatedly of Piper’s eyes looking into those of his wife. They always pitied her for having to deal with Flynn. Flynn, who had once been the responsible man, but had let himself go after the war.

“You know nothing about me,” Flynn said, tears stinging his eyes. He tried to convince himself as much as the man he held.

“I know what helped you forget, Flynn.” The man’s eyes did shift for a moment to the amber liquid on the table beside them.

Flynn let his own eyes wander to the whiskey. It had always been his drink of choice. It was strong and to the point, like he was. Flynn perceived it in his mouth. It had been so long since he let the stuff pass his lips, but even now, after all the time passed, he still savored it. His mouth watered. His grip loosened.

“Let yourself go. There is no one here to hold you at fault. The house takes everyone, and they know this. They will never fault you for giving in. Matter of fact, won’t they all be happier? Piper and your wife can be together, finally. You can let go of all your pain and sorrow. There will be no more flashbacks to the horrible things you saw and did. There will be no more images of your sweet daughter’s face with Piper’s nose. It will all be gone, and you can live out the rest of your days in complete and utter peace.”

The words echoed around in Flynn’s mind. They were words of truth. Flynn needed one drink and it would relax him. He may even still be able to complete what he came for. Hadn’t the stuff always helped him through the times when he was most scared? When the flashes of death and destruction took over his mind, hadn’t the whiskey always chased them away? When he was drunk, he never thought of the bloody corpses or the dead children lining the streets. The loud bangs outside his window never bothered him when he was in a stupor. The dark-skinned man was right, the whiskey was an agent of good. It had always helped him.

Why had he even stopped anyhow? He had been so much happier with it as a companion. Flynn let the man go. The man made no reaction, as if he were never threatened in the slightest.

Flynn hands shook as he bent down. Sweat covered his face. The room had been turned into a fire. Flynn hovered over the whiskey, sniffing the aroma. He never wanted to stop. The choice had been made for him. He was selfishly taken away from the thing that helped him the most. How had that even been fair?

Flynn reached out touching the cool glass. The whiskey inside would be just as cool, and it would relieve his parching throat. Flynn let his fingers grasp it and readied his arm to pull it in to his mouth. Everything about him wanted nothing more than to take that first drink. After that, he would be better. He would beat this house after that. Flynn lifted the glass, and the liquid swirled around smoothly. It was calling to him with each wave. There it was, his salvation and only a few inches from his mouth.

He closed his eyes, imagining what the first sip would taste like. How much better would his body feel? His mind would rest easier. He would think clearer than he had in so long. This house would not stand a chance against him afterward. Flynn opened his eyes and took in a deep breath. The cup was a mere inch from his lips. Every sense in his body was on fire with the desire to throw his head back and take it all in. It would be so easy to let go and give in.

Piper’s condescending voice popped into his ear. “Always was destined to fail. I told her. You would fail her, and I would be there to pick her back up.”

Flynn paused with the glass upon his bottom lip. Why had he come here? What had been the purpose? It had not been to forget or to give up. He came looking for what was taken from him. His hand shook so bad it threatened to drop the glass to the floor. He reopened his eyes and scanned the room.

It was all red. Everything was the same all around him. It had not changed, and he had not changed. He was still the same man who entered and if he put down the glass, he remained.

“Finish it,” the man said.

Flynn looked down at the whiskey over his nose. It was almost complete. He could end it all. Instead, he opened his fingers and let the glass fall to the floor. It made no noise at all when it hit the red carpet. The liquid did not spill from the glass, even as it lay on its side. Flynn stared at it and then stood.

The dark man clapped his hands together. “Well, congratulations, Flynn,” he said, pointing toward a new door.

“You have managed to make it to the orange room.”

The Orange Room

The orange room started off as pure chaos. Flynn dropped to the ground. He had not left the home, not to his knowledge, but the surface below him was nothing he would have expected to find inside a house. He gripped the grass between his fingers. He was sure it was real. He smelled the sourness of it and sensed the dampness from the morning dew. It was wrong though. Instead of being green, like normal, it was orange. Everything around him was orange, but it was all wrong.

He rolled over, hearing explosions from somewhere in front of him. He looked into the expanse of a bright orange sky filled with dark orange clouds. He was uneasy. What had happened? Why was he not still in the house? Had he already failed? Flynn heard another explosion, closer this time, and sat up. Memories of his past crept like fingers into undefended parts of his mind, making it hard to think.

Bits of orange dirt rained down from the surrounding sky. Flynn’s ears rang from the noise.

“Get down, soldier,” said a voice from beside him.

Flynn looked to his side, seeing a young cadet in an orange uniform, holding an orange gun at his hip.

“Are you shell shocked?” the man asked when Flynn did not reply.

Flynn stuck his pinky into his ear, wiggling it around to create some relief. It did not help. The soldier crouched down beside him.

“Get into the bunker,” he said, yelling this time.

Flynn let the man hoist him. Flynn smelled the powder of cannons and smoke. He took a moment to gather his bearings. He knew this place. In his reality, it had not been orange, but, otherwise, it was the same. He had spent two weeks of his life, here, in this death pit. Now, when he looked, he saw hundreds of bodies littering the orange ground.

“No time to mourn,” the solider beside him said.

Flynn knew he was right. The cannon balls did not care if you were sad or scared, they killed. Flynn shook the confusion from his mind. His feet followed the young soldier toward the bunker. A cannon ball slammed into the ground, sending a wall of dirt twenty feet into the air. Those gathered around it flew back to never stand again.

Flynn’s spine tingled. His breath caught in his throat.

“Why am I here?” Flynn asked.

The young soldier stopped pulling him along, allowing Flynn to take a few deep breaths; it did nothing to stop the spinning.

“Same reason we all are here, I suppose,” the soldier answered.

Why was the young man not as scared? Flynn looked for the stripes of an officer on his shoulder, but the solider was a fresh recruit, as he had been.

“We are here to serve our country and protect our families,” the soldier added.

Flynn remembered the speech well from the generals. The young soldier spilled it out as they would have.

Flynn heard another explosion followed by the familiar sound of rifle shots.

“Here is an extra gun,” the soldier said.

Flynn took the blood soaked, wooden rifle. Whoever it previously belonged to would have no further use of it. Flynn hated the touch of the stock in his hands. He was drawn back to the war. He hefted the rifle looking at it like it was some diseased limb.

“Keep your head down,” the soldier said and started off toward his left.

Flynn supposed he would follow the young man. He had no other direction to go and no other purpose. He was still trying to figure out how he got here. The soldier took him down further into the bunker. More young men crowded here. Some were injured, others sat with blank stares plastered on their faces. Flynn remembered the numb fear of battle; the kind of fear that paralyzed the body and made it impossible to think or move. At the moment, he knew real fear, the adrenaline pumping fear. He was so close to death and if he died, then he would fail. Or maybe he already failed.

He closed his eyes, blocking out the surrounding orange pressing in upon him. He saw the faces of the small children he had killed during the war. The real war had been so chaotic Flynn never focused on what he shot. He shot to stay alive. The children died by accident, but that would not make their mothers and fathers forgive him. They died with gaping holes in their tiny chests.

Flynn hunched over with stomach pain and relieved the contents of his stomach onto the ground. He coughed, wiping the spittle from his lips. The cold eyes of the children stared back at him, even with his eyes open. That was what he saw for years after the war. Those cold, staring, accusing eyes that never blinked.

Flynn was weak with exhaustion. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and rest, but the young soldier continued, and Flynn felt it was imperative to follow.

“Shoot when I do,” the soldier said.

The soldier lifted his head above the bunker line. He looked for a clear target for his rifle bullets. He ducked after a moment.

“We shoot in burst toward your two o’clock,” the soldier said.

Flynn lifted his rifle to his shoulder. It was much heavier than it should have been. The burden of death tended to weigh one down. Flynn only nodded his reply. He never wanted to return here. He would have rather been anywhere else in the entire world. Now that he was, he fell into being that young man; the young man who was told what to do and jumped to do it.

Seconds passed that were like hours and the soldier raised his gun over the lip of the bunker and shot in a burst. Flynn jumped to do the same without a thought in his mind. When the first round left his gun, it was already too late. He watched the bullets move through the air, seeing each individual one as though they’d been slowed down. He saw the smiling face of his daughter as she played with her dolls. He could do nothing to stop the bullets as they tore into her chest. Each one made her jump and jerk backward. Each one stripped her of the life she had loved.

Flynn jumped from the bunker and the soldier followed him. Flynn ran toward his little girl. She was sprawled out on the orange grass bleeding orange blood. His mind knew it was wrong. It was not her he had killed. It was not his child he killed. Flynn slid across the grass, uncaring of the explosions and bullets.

He cradled his daughter’s head, but when he looked into her eyes, it was no longer her. It was the skull of a child that had been long dead. The skull of a child he killed many years ago. Flynn dropped the corpse and scrambled back.

“Back to the bunker,” the soldier said, gripping his shoulder.

Why did this man care so much? Why not let him die? He deserved to die. He had done so many evil things, there was no way he deserved to live.

“Leave me,” Flynn yelled, pushing the man away.

The soldier did not budge. “You are coming back with me,” he demanded.

Flynn was not going back. Flynn felt paralyzed. His body was not his own anymore. Anything that happened now was happening to someone else. Flynn had died on that battlefield years ago. He left every good part of him there on the blood-stained ground.

The soldier got behind Flynn and started to pull him by the arms. He was a determined man, but Flynn did not help him. The soldier grunted and strained, but Flynn was already dead in his mind.

The explosion landing ten feet behind Flynn was enough to send shrapnel from the bunkers cache of bullets into the back of the soldier’s head. The bits of skull and flesh splattered Flynn’s face. The soldier’s body went limp and fell to the side. Flynn was still sitting on his backside and staring out into the orange abyss. He reflexively lifted his hand to wipe away the remains of the poor lad’s face. Tears streaked down Flynn’s cheek. Another death caused by him. Flynn took a few shallow breaths and dared to look behind him. The soldier’s head was no longer noticeable as a body part. The shrapnel had exploded his head like a melon dropped to the hard ground. Flynn lost the contents of his stomach for a second time. This time when he hit the ground, he did not have the hand of the soldier to lift him.

Instead, Flynn buried his face into the orange grass, and he cried. He cried for everything he had done during the war. He cried for the young men on the other side, he cried for the children, and he cried for the man beside him. Flynn did not try to stop himself from giving in to his emotions. He played that game for many years after the war. Pretending it didn’t happen never made it go away. It came in his dreams, it came during church, it always found a way to come to him.

Flynn heard the war continue around him, but, for him, it was over. He had done what he did and there was no changing it now. He rolled over to his back, opening his eyes again to the surrounding orange. This was not the war. This was the house. Flynn would not let the house win. Not like the war had won. He could not change the past. He had been a stupid boy, and he had done stupid things, but he still had a chance to change the biggest part of his life to this point. Flynn stood; he had to get what he came for. It was all that mattered.

Flynn found the yellow door behind the corpse of the child’s prone body. He did not bother looking back to the battlefield. That was the life of someone else.

The Yellow Room

Flynn was in his childhood home, except something wasn’t right. The items in the room were the same, but the color was different. The yellow brushing every surface told him he had not left the house.

“Pancakes?” The long dead voice of his mother asked.

She looked pleasant this morning in her yellow sun dress. The food she held in her hands was yellow pancakes on a yellow plate and yellow juice. Flynn held his hands before his face. They were his hands, but hands he had not seen for decades. These were the hands he had long before the war and long before sorrow.

“Sit down,” his mother insisted.

She was his loving mother in every detail except one -the yellow eyes. They were not alarming and would have seemed normal, if it had not been the fact Flynn knew his mother’s eyes had been brown.

“Come on, boy.” She pushed him gently on the shoulder to get him moving.

Flynn let her guide him to the yellow table and pulled out a yellow chair. As he sat, she placed the plate before him.

“Syrup?” she asked, pouring before he answered.

Flynn felt the overwhelming sense of youthful ease. Everything was provided for him and there were no worries. He could eat breakfast and then do his chores. After, he would have the full day to play outside or visit his friends in town. He got caught up in it. His pancakes were gone before he even realized he started eating. Syrup ran down his chin.

His mother laughed and came over with her wet washcloth, “let me get that for you, darling,” she said.

Flynn let her take the sticky liquid from his chin. She gave him a smile, showing her motherly love.

“I am glad you are here,” she said.

That made Flynn pause a moment. He remembered this was not his childhood home; no matter how much it appeared to be. This was still the house. The house took the most important thing in his life and now, he was here to get it back.

“Why am I here?” Flynn asked.

His mother’s expression changed to one of sorrow and hurt. “What do you mean?” she said.

Flynn hated to see his mother’s face that way. After so long of not seeing it at all; he only wanted joy to be there between them, but this was not his mother.

“I have struggled against my past in the last two rooms. Here, what is the struggle? I don’t remember anything bad from my childhood,” Flynn said.

His mother’s face changed back to a smile. “Well, that is because your father and I would never allow anything bad to happen to you,” she said.

Flynn knew that was true. His mother and father made sure he wanted for nothing. They had not been rich or fancy, but they provided him with a good life.

“So, why am I here?” Flynn asked again.

He did not want to offend his mother, even if she was not his real mother. He wanted the answer. He still had something he needed to do and being here was stopping him from achieving that goal.

“You lived a hard life, son.” Her hand roamed over his head, pushing her fingers through his short hair. “There is no reason for anyone to live such a life. It is unfair that a burden so large was put on your shoulders. This time will be different for you. This time you can make different choices and things will be better for you.” She stopped rubbing his head and grabbed her towel, spinning toward the yellow stove.

Flynn patted his hair back down to his head. He was being given a second chance? Is that what his mother was insinuating? He was being allowed to start from the beginning? This was before the war. This was before the country even dreamed war would be a necessity.

Flynn’s mother started to wash the yellow plate his pancakes had been on moments before. She looked back over her shoulder toward him. “Go out and play,” she said.

Flynn looked out the window toward the yellow world beyond. There was the old barn that had once been red. Inside, he supposed his father would be tending the horses. Beyond the barn would be a dirt road winding into the town. In town, he would find his friends already playing jacks or ready to go into the woods.

Flynn wanted nothing more than to join them there. He could forget every worry. He could let his biggest problem be the dirt upon his shirt and his mother’s scorn at having to clean it.

Every night he could go to bed without the dreams. Flynn paused for a moment. What had those dreams been about? He could remember nightmares, but no longer recall their cause.

“Hurry before the sun starts to fall,” his mother encouraged him.

Flynn pushed himself away from the table. There would be plenty of time to worry about dreams later. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to ride his bike into town. Flynn pushed through the swinging door to the outside. He turned and saw his yellow bike leaning against the yellow house. He stopped for a moment. That wasn’t right. His house had not been yellow, and neither had his bike. He tried to remember what he had been doing before he got here. Where had he been before his mother served him pancakes? Flynn closed his eyes and strained to recall, but his memories were fleeting. He remembered a house that he entered looking for something. What was it he had been looking for? For some reason, he forgot.

“Could you help me with something before you run off?” his father’s voice called.

Flynn looked up, letting his thoughts ride off on the wind. He ran over to his father.

“What?” he asked.

Flynn’s father turned away from what he had been doing. Like his mother, Flynn’s father’s eyes were a bright yellow. They scanned over Flynn and then turned back to the project.

“Need a little help to lift this hay into the cart. Need to take it down to the sheep pens before the weather turns,” Flynn’s father said.

Flynn helped his father with tasks like these almost every day. Or he had helped him. There was an odd sensation that he was not supposed to be here. There was something else he was supposed to be doing; something important.

“You still with me, partner?”

Flynn shook his head again. Something was strange here. He walked toward the hay, ready to help his father.

“Won’t it be nice to get into town and play with your friends?” his father asked.

Flynn was half-way to the hay when he paused again. His father had always been a decent man. He never hit Flynn or pushed him too hard. There was one thing Flynn’s father had never done though, and that was encourage him to play in town. Flynn’s father always needed an extra hand and wanted Flynn to learn the farm.

“What was that?” Flynn said.

Flynn’s dad’s face contorted a bit, the yellow eyes roaming around.

“This isn’t my house. This isn’t my farm. You’re not my father,” Flynn said.

He stood back upright.

“What are you saying? What would your mother think?” his father asked.

Flynn looked toward the house. He remembered those yellow eyes. His mother did not have yellow eyes. His mother was dead. So was his father. This farm had been plowed to the ground decades ago.

“I love you and mother, at least the real you and mother. There is something I have to do though,” Flynn said.

He could not quite remember what that something was, but it was important.

“I want out of here,” he demanded.

His father or the man who looked like his father, was panicked. His mother’s look alike ran out from the house. She was coming at him quick. Flynn remembered her words from the table.

“You can start over,” she had said.

Flynn did not want to start over. Flynn wanted to get back what was taken. Then, he remembered what he came for. His mother was within arm’s reach when he recalled the most important thing in the world to him. With the realization, the yellow world melted, and Flynn found the green door.

The Green Room

Flynn opened his eyes to an expanse of green. There was no doubt this room was inside the home. Where the last few had been rooms that encompassed his life, this room was filled with the same old décor as the first two rooms. The only thing standing out as odd was the large hardwood floor surrounded by chalk lines. A lean, older man stood in the middle of the floor with a sword in each of his hands.

“Do you know how to fight?” the man asked Flynn.

Flynn shook his head. This was a challenge he could do. He drilled with the sword for countless hours while in the army. They woke him every morning at dawn and worked him until the last rays of sun bled out of the day.

Flynn stepped forward and held out his hand. “Throw me one of those and we will find out,” he answered.

The old man smiled and tossed one of the swords lightly into the air.

“This is a duel to the death. There are no points. There are no rules. There are no time-outs and if you want to win, you must kill the other man. It is simple,” the man said.

Flynn let a smile cross his face. There were no mind games here. This was much more up his alley. Flynn stepped forward, weighing the sword in his hand. It was much smaller than the one he used during the war, but it would still slice a man’s flesh wide.

“Do you understand the rules?”

Flynn did not answer; he only lunged forward to express his agreement. The older man, clad in green, respected Flynn’s ability and side-stepped rather than trying to parry the sword thrust.

This left Flynn momentarily off balance and vulnerable to a killing blow. Flynn dropped to his knees and the sword’s created wind passed over him. He did not watch the sword, but, rather, he rolled forward, coming up in the other man’s guard. Flynn hit the man in the chin with an uppercut and knocked him back. Flynn advanced forward and drove his pommel into the man’s neck. The man gurgled and his eyes bulged. There was only shock at the fact he would soon be dying on his face.

Flynn stepped back, creating enough distance to use his sword, but was surprised as the tip of a blade entered his upper shoulder. The green clad man had not stayed put, even in dying, he was trying to take Flynn with him. The sword bit at Flynn’s skin, creating a burning pain that could not be described.

Flynn trained many times to never look at a wound during battle. So, he did not let his eyes waver from the other man. Instead, he drove forward, ignoring the sword now ripping through muscle. His own sword point met the man’s sternum and Flynn pushed with all his weight. He felt the tiny bones cracking beneath the pressure of his blade and then, the sick popping noise that meant his sword drove through both flesh and bone. The other man grunted and mistakenly looked down at his wound. Flynn let go of his sword and grabbed the man’s sword. He pulled it free from his shoulder with a scream of pain. He still did not look at his wound. There was still more to do to ensure the man was unable to continue. Flynn moved forward, grabbing the weak hands of the other man. Putting his good shoulder into the push, he shoved the sword the rest of the way into the man’s chest and through his back. The other man knelt. Green blood spilled from the man’s mouth and covered his green shirt. Flynn stepped back, not enjoying the man’s death, but it was a necessity to his own survival. This test had been easier for him than any other. Did that mean he was nothing but a killer? He could not fight his demons, or his past with this much vigor, but he could easily shove a sword through a man without much thought.

The other man crumpled to the floor and died. Flynn was emotionless. He had to get back what was taken from him and if that meant killing then he would do it.

“Glad to see you are warmed up,” another voice said from behind him.

Flynn turned and the man who had been dead on the ground moments before stood in front of him. Flynn stupidly glanced over his shoulder to see the corpse was gone, but the blood remained. When he turned back around, a bolt from a crossbow whizzed through the air aimed at his head. Flynn had no time to dodge completely, and so, he turned to take the impact on his upper arm. The bolt hit its mark and tore through his muscle and fat like tissue paper. Flynn let out a deafening scream.

“We are glad you joined us, Flynn. It is a shame you made it no further, but we will make sure your item is well taken care of,” the man said.

Flynn balled his fist. The pain was tremendous, but he was not about to let the house defeat him. Without reloading, a second bolt appeared on the man’s crossbow. This time, Flynn tensed his body and readied himself for the release. When it did, he stood and charged, zigzagging out of the path, heading straight toward the man. This time, it was the man who was not ready, and Flynn crashed into him shoulder first. Flynn regretted not choosing a different method of attack. His shoulder flared with extreme pain and he paused to regain his composure.

During this time, the man struggled to his knees. Flynn called all his strength forward and punched the man in the jaw with his good arm. The man slumped over, down but not dead. Flynn picked up the crossbow. There was no bolt left to shoot the man. Instead, he drew it over his head and came down with it over the man’s face. He did this several times before he was sure the man would not be getting back up. He then turned, hoping to find the pathway open for the next door, but all he saw was green everywhere.

“You could not have expected to kill me and move on,” the man said.

Flynn did not have to look back to know the body disappeared.

“What do I have to do then?” Flynn asked.

“That is not part of the game,” the man answered.

Flynn was frustrated with the game. He killed the man twice in fair and unfair combat. He deserved to find the next door.

“How am I supposed to know what to beat if I don’t know the rules?” he asked.

The man shrugged. “That is not my problem,” he said.

A rifle appeared inside his hand. Flynn had no chance to outrun a bullet. He would be filled with holes and he would die. Flynn looked around for any coverage that may save him, but the room was not filled with furniture made for stopping bullets.

The man held the rifle to his shoulder. He braced it there, steadying his body to shoot. Flynn threw the crossbow as hard as he could. It flew true and hit the man in the leg. He stumbled back and Flynn ran forward. He had no real expectations of getting to the man, but he had to at least try. He stumbled forward as the first shot cracked into the green room. Flynn tripped on a crossbow bolt that missed him earlier. He gripped it in his hand and jumped back to his feet. The rifle was ready for a second shot and Flynn would be dead, but the man hesitated seeing Flynn’s weapon. The man took a step back, but Flynn jumped into the air and came down with the bolt point first. The second shot did fire and ripped through Flynn’s already searing shoulder. The man’s life was forfeit, as the bolt tore into his throat. With a gurgle, the man fell over dead. Flynn hit the ground hard, expelling every ounce of breath inside his lungs. His shoulder was useless now. His body was cold but sweat dripped from his brow. He would die and there was no doubt about it. He killed the man for the third time, but he doubted it mattered. He would not be able to kill him forever and eventually he would die himself.

“Are you ready to go again?” the man asked.

Flynn sighed.

“Can’t we be friends?” Flynn asked sarcastically.

Flynn tried sitting, but his body did not have the strength left.

“Is that what you wish?” the man asked.

Flynn lifted only his head and looked at the man in green. He was holding a spear in both hands. Flynn could not fight him again.

“We can call it a draw,” Flynn laughed.

Not with real humor, but the wound was making his mind foggy.

“We could,” the man replied.

“Would you do that, having the advantage?” Flynn asked.

The man shrugged. “Would you do that with your pride?” the man retorted.

Flynn laid his head back down. It was too much effort to keep it lifted. He had seen already how the man in green would finish the job. A spear would take a while to kill him, but at least he was going out having provided a good fight.

“My pride is nothing compared to what I lost already,” Flynn said.

He meant every word. His pride meant nothing if he failed.

“If you mean that then I accept,” the man replied.

Flynn lifted his head with tremendous effort.

“You will let me live?” Flynn asked.

The man shook his head yes.

“Well, then you have a deal,” Flynn said.

The man nodded. He dropped both spears to the ground.

Flynn gave a short thought to using the last of his life to grab those spears and shove them into the man’s chest, but he opted out of that thought. He would take the truce and bleed out on the ground.

“Good luck in the blue room,” the man said.

Flynn did not have the strength left to lift his head. He was dizzy, then he hit the ground hard. When he opened his eyes, he had gone through the next door.

The Blue Room

The blue room was small. It had barely enough room for Flynn to reach his hands out before him without touching the walls. In the center of the small area was a blue table and on the table was a blue handgun with one blue bullet sitting next to it. Flynn studied the gun and then, tried to find a path to a bigger portion of the blue room, but there was nothing else. Flynn stood there for several minutes trying to figure out what the test was but failing to do so.

“What do I do?”

There was no one there to answer his question. Another person would not have even fit inside the room. However, a moment after the question, a picture showed on the wall. It was Flynn and his small family. In the middle, he stood in his soldier attire. He had his left arm around his beautiful wife and, in the middle of them both, was his young daughter. All of them wore blue and all of them looked happy. Flynn could not remember ever taking this picture and he doubted it was real, but the house wanted him to see it for some reason.

Flynn did not get long to study the photo before it melted down the wall, being replaced by one of only him and his wife. In this photo, they were still dressed in the same blue outfits, but their daughter was missing. His lovely wife was also turned away from him, looking down. He was left alone, even though she was there standing beside him. Flynn watched the photo melt away again. This time, it was replaced with a gravestone of his daughter. His wife knelt beside it and he was off in the distance holding a bottle in his hand. This was not a real picture, but it stung. The gravestone read the dates that would have been transcribed on that piece of stone. Flynn’s nails bit into his palm.

The photo faded away and was replaced by one of his daughter’s dead body in her bed. This, he saw in real life the night before. He had held her in his arms as she coughed the last breaths from her tiny lungs. She contracted consumption and there was no cure. He prayed to every god, but no one listened to him.

When he had cried himself to sleep, he awoke to her missing. At first, he had been elated to think he had been mistaken about her death. She would surely be at the kitchen table now with her mother, but that had not been the case. Only a note found him at the table; a note telling him of the house and what it took from him.

The tears streaked down Flynn’s cheeks. His eyes flickered to the gun. Would he ever get her back? Would it matter? He came for a corpse. His daughter was dead. His wife left the home in the middle of the night. He had no idea where she was now. Both left him and he was alone. What was he fighting for?

The photo melted away to his daughter playing with her toys. This was a photo that had to have been taken many years ago. A photo taken during the times Flynn forgot. He had not been drinking, but he was gone all the same. His wife sat in her chair watching his girl. She complained many times about his absences, but he never grasped what it did to them. He was not drinking anymore, and he thought that was all that mattered.

The photo faded and showed his wife with Piper. This was a photo of what was to come. She would leave him now. There was nothing to hold her to him. He let the one good thing about them die and there was nothing to do about it.

Flynn ran his hand over his face. He cried his tears on the battlefield and had none left to give. He looked back down toward the gun. It was blue, and he imagined it would still feel like real cold metal. He guessed the bullet would cause him real death too.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Flynn said.

There was no one there with him. In each of the other rooms, there had been someone there to guide him, or talk with him. Here, he was alone, like he would be for the rest of his life. Flynn swallowed past a lump in his throat. What was the point of living? Even if he did make it through this house, what would it gain him? Could getting back his daughter’s body bring her back to him? Would that mean his wife would love him again? Had she ever loved him?

Flynn backed up a few steps, his back hitting the wall he slid down. Level with the gun, he saw there was a small engraving next to it on the table. It was a simple saying: a single shot can end it all.

It was a true saying. A single shot could indeed end everything. It could end the dreams, the hate, the regret, and the pain welled inside of Flynn’s body. It was an easy way out of it all.

His hand shook with the thought of death. No matter what he had done in his life, he was never a coward. He never ran from anything in his life. Would he start now? Would the house beat him? Flynn took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, not looking at the gun. There was nothing else in this blue room. It was him, the gun, and the temptation it brought with it. Everything else was sliding out of his mind like a distant memory.

Flynn tilted his head back and rested it on the wall. He did not need the pictures on the wall to see all the trouble and pain he caused during his life. He destroyed his father’s dream of continuing the family farm by running away at sixteen. He ruined families while in the army. He ruined his own family after the war with his drinking habits. After that, he ruined his marriage to his loving wife. Now, he was ruining the one thing he thought would fix it all. He was failing at the last goal he set for himself. His hand reached out, grabbing the lip of the table. There was one viable option. It was what the house left him with. He grabbed the bullet and fumbled with it, dropping it to the ground.

He moved his head from the wall and looked for the bullet on the floor. It was a small room, and the bullet was right beneath his curled leg. He grabbed it, holding it before his face. It was blue all around the shell. Even the engravings on the bottom were a different shade of blue. Flynn rolled the bullet around in his fingers for a few moments. This was his way out.

Flynn reached forward toward the table and grabbed the gun. It was much heavier than he would have assumed by its size, or maybe that was the weight of his memories and sorrows weighing it down. He flipped the gun, looking at it from a different angle. He shot a handgun only once before. His wife claimed that having one protected the house from robbers and unsavory people. The only time he discharged it was when a pesky raccoon wouldn’t stay out of his trash cans and he grew tired of picking up the waste bins.

Flynn brought the gun closer to his face. Biting his lip, he undid the catch, letting the clip fall into his hand. He placed the gun into his lap and held the bullet in one hand and the clip in the other. This would work and he would be okay. He pressed the bullet into the clip and then, pulled the gun from his lap. He shoved the clip back into the handgun. It felt no different, but now, it was deadly. Now, it would be able to do the job it had been made to do. Flynn pointed the gun toward the wall and his hand shook. He knew what the blue room wanted him to do. The house wanted him to end everything and give up on his goal. The house was probably right. What was the point? He put his free hand onto the handle of the gun. The house could go fuck itself, Flynn thought.

He unloaded the single bullet into the blue room’s wall. The deafening roar of the gun made his ears ring. His hand still shook, and he squeezed his eyes shut. The room did not fight back. The house accepted it failed to complete the task. When Flynn opened his eyes, the room was no longer blue.

The Purple Room

Flynn stood, brushing off the imaginary dust from his pants. Everything around him was purple, but it looked like the home he shared with his wife and daughter. He stepped forward toward the front porch. He did not know what he would find here. Would Piper be sitting in his chair? Would his daughter be playing at Piper’s feet? Or would he find his daughter was still dead and gone? The house wanted to break him, and, by his count, he had made it to the last test. This one would have to be the hardest. He mentally prepared himself and walked toward the door. He grabbed the purple handle and turned the knob, entering the replica of his home.

There, on the floor, playing with her dolls was his lovely daughter.

“Daddy,” she said, jumping to her feet. She wrapped him in an embrace, sending chills across his spine. The warmth of tears rolled down Flynn’s cheeks. Was the house ripping her away from him? He prepared himself, but she continued to hug him and then stepped away.

“Where did you go?” she asked.

He chuckled at her enthusiasm and inquisitive nature. “I am home now and that is all that matters,” he replied.

She hugged him again and then ran back to her dolls. Flynn watched her play for what may have been hours. If he never moved again, he would have been the happiest man in the world.

“Oh, you are home, dear,” said the voice of his wife.

Flynn turned to her. She was wearing a purple dress and a purple necklace hung around her neck. She came to him and wrapped her arms around him, giving him a kiss.

“We missed you,” she said.

Flynn smiled. “You have no idea how much I have missed you both,” he said.

“I have made supper. Are you hungry?”

Flynn watched as his daughter jumped from the floor. “I get to sit by daddy!” she giggled.

Both women in his life gave him another hug. Flynn’s worry and pain fled his body. Was this another trick? What kind of test was this? Did it matter? When had he ever been this happy?

“We can both sit by your father. How does that sound?”

Flynn loved the idea. He scooped his little girl into his arms and squeezed her tight. He would never let her go again. They all walked to the kitchen together and sat around the table.

“I made your favorite, Flynn,” his wife said.

Flynn looked across the spread on the table. She was right, there was roast, potatoes, carrots, onion, and gravy all lining the table.

“I could not have asked for anything more,” Flynn said.

It was the truth. There was nothing in the world that would make this better for him. He had everything he ever wanted or needed right beside him. He could not knock the smile from his face.

“I love you guys,” Flynn said.

Both women laughed. “We love you very much, too,” his wife said. This was echoed by his daughter.

Flynn watched them both eating their food and noticed his daughter no longer looked sick. His wife looked genuinely happy to be with him. Flynn put food onto his plate, letting himself forget he was still in the Color House and this was still some kind of test.

The food was the greatest thing he ever tasted. He told his wife as such and she blushed at the comment. Flynn ate the entire plate in silence, watching his family as they enjoyed a meal together.

Flynn could have lived in that moment the rest of his life. His wife had other plans. She cleared the table and took Flynn and his daughter into the sitting room. There, she played them the most beautiful music Flynn ever heard. He leaned his head back onto the chair and closed his eyes. Here was the moment of peace Flynn always imagined. This was the moment he thought of in his mind as he grew as a young boy. His wife and his daughter were everything he would ever need. Nothing weighed him down here in this room. Not his past and not the future. Nothing could ever bother him again.

The weight of his daughter settled across him as she curled onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer to his chest. He heard her slow breathing as she fell asleep against him. Flynn let a smile fall across his face. His wife stopped playing a few minutes later and stood from her piano bench.

“Put her to bed, Flynn,” she said, walking over to him and caressing his smooth chin.

“I will, a moment longer,” he said.

His wife chuckled. “You will have the rest of your life here with her. Every night forever can be this. I want you to know you never have to leave us again and we will never leave you.”

Flynn hesitated at the words his wife spoke. They sounded off.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

She laughed. “I mean you can live in this moment forever. You can stay here and never leave. There is nothing to go back for, Flynn. You have everything you need here in this room and you can keep it forever. You will never lose us again.”

Flynn looked down at his sleeping daughter and then back to his smiling wife. The room was still purple and everything in it was too. Flynn’s heart sank. This was still the house. No matter how wonderful he felt and how much joy coursed through him, he was still stuck in that house.

“I have to save our daughter,” Flynn said.

His wife shook her head. “You can’t save her out there, Flynn. In here, she will never die. In here, you will never lose her or me.”

She was telling him the truth. She would never leave him if he stayed. Could it be that simple? All he had to do was fail the test and he could live here in this room forever. He would never have to leave, and he would never need anything else ever again. There was no need for him to go. He looked at his daughter and watched her chest move up and down. The last time he saw her, the breathing had ceased. The last time he saw his wife, she was a crying mess. Was she still at their home? Had she already packed her things and gone?

Flynn tried to push that from his mind. The woman standing next to him was as close to his wife as any model, but she was not his real wife. She was still a fabrication of the house. This little girl in his lap was still a copy of the little girl he lost the night before.

“I’m not sure if I can do that,” Flynn said.

His wife, or the copy, looked disappointed.

“Sure, you can, Flynn. Allow yourself to be happy,” she said.

What did it even mean to be happy? Flynn had not been happy since he was a child. He had happy moments throughout his life. The first time he made love to his wife. His daughter’s birth, even if he was not present for it. Those were happy moments, but when had he last been happy? He did not recall.

“I don’t think I can allow that to happen. Not yet. I must complete what I came here for. There are other people depending on me,” Flynn said.

His wife was hurt by his words. He saw it in her eyes. “I will not force you to stay. The decision is yours. I hope you end up making the right one, Flynn.”

Flynn hoped he was making the right decision too. He stood from the chair and laid his daughter onto the couch beside him. He had to go. He needed to finish what he started. He did not make it to the door to leave before Oly stepped out and the room changed back to white.

The White Room, Again

Oly flashed his sharp, small teeth in a loose lipped smile. “Well, congratulations, Flynn. No one else in the history of the Color House has made it this far. You are one step away from completing your journey and walking out of the home with everything you came for. Not that it will change much.”

Flynn stepped forward. He wanted this to be done. He wanted to get his daughter and then go back home.

“You know that, right?” Oly asked.

“Know what?” Flynn said, stopping the search of the room.

“Your daughter is still dead. It doesn’t matter if you get her back from us. She will still be dead out there in your world,” Oly said.

He knew when he entered the house, but he wasn’t willing to let them have her.

“I still want her back,” Flynn said.

Oly shrugged. “I understand you want her back. We are offering you that. All you must do is stay in the house. There will be nothing different from the outside world, except you will always have your family and everything you desire.”

Flynn remembered the way his daughter felt in his lap. He remembered the way her hair smelled after his wife bathed her. There had been no difference when he held her in the purple room. She still weighed the same and her fragrance did not change. The only difference was she was still alive. His wife loved him in the room too. Everything had been what he always dreamed it would be.

“What do you choose, Flynn?” Oly asked.

Flynn took a deep breath.

The Choice

Flynn walked out of the white room with his daughter’s body draped across his arms. He saw his wife waiting for him with her own arms wide open. Her purple dress blew in the wind. Her smile fanned the flames burning inside his heart. He let his own smile crack. His daughter slid down from his arms.

“Mommy,” she hollered, running toward her mother.

Flynn had done it. He smiled, knowing everything would be alright.