Marrow House
The old house at the hilltop lets one visitor in each winter, but never through the front door.
No one entered Marrow House by the front door.
The front door was painted a glossy green and fitted with a brass knocker shaped like a hand. It opened easily. That was the problem. Everyone who tried it found themselves standing, not in the hall, but back at the iron gate with snow in their sleeves and the taste of pennies on their tongue.
Jonas knew better.
He waited until dusk, when the windows turned the color of weak tea, and walked around to the kitchen garden. There, beneath the dead vines, he found the cellar hatch breathing steam into the cold.
“All right,” he said to the house.
The hatch opened.