Fable of Happiness (Fable 1)

Urgency made me walk faster, ticking off a mental checklist of things to do. The veggie patch needed weeding, the celery needed harvesting, and the cucumbers re-stringing. I also had the shit job of fertilizing, which included raiding the septic tank, scouring the woods for animal scat, and enduring the stench in the sun.

But at least those chores were outside.

I preferred those over the indoor ones.

When winter hit and boredom found me, I methodically cleaned Fables from top to bottom. Every inch of that monstrous mansion was buffed, waxed, and dusted, hoping that this year, I might achieve the impossible and clean away the dregs of disaster, despair, and desolation that existed within its walls.

My hands curled into fists.

Today really wasn’t my day.

Not only had I sleepwalked and suffered from lust that crippled my balls and thickened my cock but I’d also slipped into old habits.

This house wasn’t Fables anymore.

This house was mine.

And if I had my way, it would never remember why it had such a title or why I’d spent one spring chiseling out the engraved name from all the keystones above the wooden doors.

This place was nameless now.

Just like me.

Exhaling hard, I shoved my thoughts away. Thoughts were bad. Actions were good. I had a shit ton to do and didn’t need my mind delaying me any longer.

My legs worked on autopilot, taking me home. Birds sang in happy tunes, chipmunks argued in the undergrowth, and my valley gave no hint that the predator from this morning remained.

Good.

I didn’t fancy taking on another bear. My encounter with one that first autumn, when I still had so much to learn, had almost meant my death. I’d almost lost. Almost.

My fingers trailed over the scars he’d left behind on my torso. He’d wanted to claim the house as his own. I’d said no. We’d...argued. He’d left, and I hadn’t seen him since.

I often wondered if he was still alive or if the seasons had claimed him like they’d tried to claim me.

The shadow of the house welcomed me back as I stepped over the threshold into the kitchen. With a practiced toss, I threw the soaked boxers into the sink and kept striding toward the stairs that led to the dorm—

Wait.

I spun around.

The door.

It’s wide open!

I never leave it open.

Ever!

You didn’t latch it this morning.

You were too eager to bolt.

Maybe the wind blew it open?

I scowled outside at the calm trees and soft breeze.

It hadn’t been windy all day.

There was no way the heavy door would’ve opened on its own.

Intruder.

What kind of animal? What weapon would I need?

My eyes dropped to the floor, searching for tracks.

Claw marks.

Pad indents.

Slither hints.

I ducked to my haunches, running my fingers over the tile.

I stopped breathing.

I couldn’t move.

Not a paw print but the barely-there tread of a shoe.

Fuck.

Fuck!

I shot up and backed away so fast, I bumped into the kitchen island.

A shoe?

What the fuck was a shoe imprint doing on my tiles?

My heart rate exploded.

I couldn’t catch a proper breath.

Undiluted fear and the hottest, blackest rage snarled in my stomach.

Human.

There was a motherfucking person in my house.

My house.

Not theirs.

Mine.

I’d kill them.

I’ll rip them limb from limb.

Pushing away from the island, I bared my teeth at the dusty footprints and hunted.

CHAPTER SEVEN

WELL, I’D CONFIRMED IT.

I’m alone.

The bedrooms had been decorated with scrumptious furniture, rich bedding, intricate sconces, and delicate works of art, yet I hadn’t found the slightest hint in any of the twenty suites that someone slept there.

Each bathroom was untouched with fresh towels hanging off chrome rails, soap still wrapped in tissue paper, and taps so perfectly polished I could see my reflection in them. And just like the dining room and its shattered mirrors, each bathroom housed empty frames where reflective glass used to live. No debris existed, so meticulous attention to cleanliness was obvious, but the oddness of missing mirrors sent chills down my back.

Who had done such a thing?

Why?

Did they still live here?

No water marks in the showers, no laundry on the floor, no books on the side tables, no usual clutter of habitation. If someone did live here, they didn’t sleep in the house.

So...where?

Who keeps this place so clean?

My head swam a little, either from the heat, confusion, or dehydration. I’d somehow stumbled into a mystery that I doubted many people knew about, and my questions weighed me down. Curiosity scratched me. I’d hoped I’d find someone to explain the randomness of this home and the apparent attempt at sheltering it away from the population.

It hadn’t wanted to be found.

It’d been hidden away for a reason.

And that reason was driving me crazy.

Sighing heavily, I left the last bedroom—this one decorated in navy and cream with a four-poster bed and a mountain of pillows artfully arranged—and stepped back onto the landing.

The skylight above, complete with its clumps of wildflowers, showed the sun had slipped into later afternoon. If I was going to make it back to my Jeep tonight, I needed to leave now. I’d already left it far too late.