The Space Between by Erik Tomblin

feared, as long as he took one step at a time and kept his head lowered a bit. He couldn't help but laugh at himself as he crept toward the second floor bathroom, hunched over and shuffling his feet along. He was far too young to be in this situation, or so he'd thought. Perhaps he'd underestimated the damage done to his body last night.
    The water pressure was a godsend, not to mention the adjustable showerhead. Isaac let the hot, pounding stream beat against his back as he stood there, his head bowed and eyes closed. He could already feel his muscles loosening up. Drops of water flew from his lips as he sighed with relief.
    Once he felt as if he could move comfortably, Isaac washed his hair, using the lather to scrub his body as well. It hurt a little as he reached for his less accessible parts, but overall he could tell the shower was doing wonders for his infirmities. Once he was rinsed off, he continued to let the tension wash away until the water raining down upon him began to drop in temperature.
    He toweled off with caution, sitting down on the toilet seat to reach his legs and feet. He was even more careful getting into his fresh change of clothes, not wanting to go down in a flash of agony as he tried to slip a leg into his jeans. A smile broke out upon his lips after he was dressed; as ridiculous as it seemed, he felt a twinge of pride for getting through the ordeal without making things worse.
    He gathered his discarded clothes, left the bathroom, and paused at the railing. He could drop the clothes into the foyer to save himself the extra burden on his way down. After realizing he would just have to bend over to pick them up, he decided against it.
    Isaac turned and walked further down the hall toward the bedroom. As he reached the door, he purposefully kept his eyes averted from the space where he had imagined another door the night before. There was a slice of a second when he thought he saw a shimmer in the corner of his eye, but he blinked it away and hurried into the room, closing the door behind him.
    He folded his dirty clothes and placed them at the foot of the bed after stripping away the drop cloth to reveal strikingly white sheets, turned down under a faded patchwork quilt. The bed was a pale oak finish, and he guessed the dresser matched but he didn't bother finding out. He eased himself back onto the mattress, slowly stretching his legs out in front of him. He lowered himself back, letting his arms carry the weight of his upper body until it was flush against the surface. After adjusting the pillow under his neck to reduce the stress on his back, he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.
    There was the slightest musty smell coming from the quilt under him, and Isaac wondered if Mary Jane Crosson had stitched it together late one summer, decades ago. He turned his head into the pillow, the smell of bleach and detergent strong in his nostrils, overpowering the scent of history. He quickly and quietly fell asleep.

Seven
    His eyes snapped open and the panic from disorientation flooded his nervous system. The lighting in the room, the texture of the ceiling, even the firmness of the mattress under him were all unfamiliar. It was the pain shooting up through his neck that brought him back. The house, the barn, the mysterious vanishing door: it all rolled over him in a flash of memories, as if previously covered in his mind by a sheet suddenly ripped away to reveal what lie underneath.
    Isaac clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth as he rode the pain out. He forced himself to relax, and it was not long before he felt well enough to ease up onto his elbows. Even though he'd just aggravated the muscles again, he could tell the shower and nap had done a world of good. If he took it easy the rest of the day, he should be back to normal after a good night's rest.
    Moving his weight to his right arm, Isaac checked his watch. It was eight minutes past one. He could be in town before two, which hopefully wouldn't