CHAPTER FOUR.

It seemed like all the doors in Golden Lake University—no matter what they kept away or welcomed the students into, were either chestnut-coloured and tawny—a shade affiliated to brown, or had a strikingly and almost indistinguishable hue resembling sallow orange. Harold had noticed that.

He stood, facing the lecturer's door which was sealed shut—or appeared so. The reddish-brown door—obviously of excellent quality, was tall, too; lanky and sturdy, like a mammoth preventing Harold from access to the other side. 

Harold's neck revolved left and right, and his eyeballs shifted in their chambers as he watched the now-familiar hallway for any shadows and whispers; signs of the presence of people—students. There were no reasons in particular but he felt like being imperceptible and out of sight of anyone, like a pilferer. 

He ousted his hands from the searing heat of his pockets and tapped the stalwart door a few times—in quick successions. 

No answer.

His fingers slid slowly from the polished surface of the door—like driblets of rain running down a window, and rested on the cold doorknob. 

His lecturer was either not on seat or was absorbed in something else, perhaps a magazine, and didn't hear Harold's knock. 

He thought of turning back then returning later but there was something propelling him, driving him; an impetus that seemed to have possessed him since he'd stepped foot into the university, and he couldn't help but push the door ajar. 

A thump from the left part of his thorax hammered on, pushing red blood through his arteries, as he slid through the open creak he'd created.

The door's metal hinges which were gleaming with rust whined like a bruised mice, but as Harold got into the room fully, it fell silent, leaving Harold to the muteness and peace that seemed to sheathe the room. 

An upholstered, Morris chair sat on the opposite side of a thick, leathered table that had a plastic vase with bogus flowers in it on one side, and dispersed book from the centre of the desk spreading to the opposite side. 

Harold's lecturer wasn't on seat, obviously, and although he wanted to, he couldn't leave the room. For all he knew, he was a puppet at the mercy of an invisible puppeteer who hopefully, wasn't mere providence. 

A marigold-coloured radiance shimmered into the book-crammed office through a small window—behind the Morris chair, whose draperies was parted.

The scenery that played before Harold's eyes as he watched the sun sink below the horizon as birds—corvines and lyres danced in the gilted clouds, was sensational and magnificent. A view he wouldn't trade for anything.

Harold sighed as he felt calm and untroubled, and as queer as it sounded, he felt at home—in the office of his lecturer who probably had vile schemes for his roommate. The landscape and absolute hush of the room; but for the subdued tick of a wall clock, was having its effect on him and taking him to a level of tranquility that could only be found from floating on the clouds, then the corner of his eyes caught something located behind a stack of old books. Something that will change his life forever and perhaps, take him closer to his destiny, or far away from it into the cold hands of death.

≈≈≈

Harold rearranged the dispersed mound of books upon one another, this time, away from a lose brick in the wall. Strains of dust that had previously been on the borders and fringes of the yellow-paged books; in layers, fluttered off them as Harold moved them, and they glided in the air, obeying gravity as they did.

He sneezed twice as he carefully placed the last book on the top of seven others, then he glanced at the dim rectangular hole that was burrowed into the wall. 

He froze for a few seconds as he heard footsteps shuffling on the outside and even his heart seemed to stop beating at that moment. The last thing he wanted was for his lecturer to come in and find him that way. He could possibly lose his studentship if he was spotted in the position he was in, and he knew it, but whatever was driving him; controlling him to be precise, wasn't backing down.

When the footsteps abated like ocean waves pulling away from a beach, he pushed his middle finger into the dark hole and flicked it left and right. Nothing. 

A couple of nanoseconds passed then Harold felt a metal string poking from the inner sides of the wall.

Harold was shocked! 

Before then, he had hoped that the hole meant nothing and was just a scant mark voicing that the erstwhile school building needed some minor overhauls. Definitely, he'd have ended up feeling like a fool for entering his lecturer's office and infringing on his privacy if he'd found nothing, but that was much more preferred and desirable to losing his spot in the school which seemed like what will happen at the end.

Harold Girard retrieved his middle finger from the hole and pushed two fingers in this time around; his thumb and pointy finger, to clench the thin metal string better—which was what happened. 

He pulled it to his left and right, nothing, then he yanked it forward; towards himself and what he heard—and saw next, caused his heart to squeeze and his toes which were sheltered in his snowy pair of sneakers to curl.

A squarish aperture opened just large enough to fit a grown man behind Harold who was kneeling and still facing the wall—at the front of a slightly dilapidated shelf of books. It made a sleek sound like a roller skate pealing down a pavement, as it delved. 

Harold turned round and saw it with an amazed expression plastered on his white face.

He scurried to the hole and peered into it, curiosity taking absolute charge of his brain. Unfortunately, it was pitchy and sable and his eyes were just as useful as a blind man's so, he put his left foot into the hole and it dangled for a few seconds in the dark hole that had warmth like one gotten from freshly baked bread.

Harold Girard's heart began to pummel as he turned to the closed, tawny door. He could either return to his dormitory—to rest, and relish the remaining of his evening although he doubted its feasibility. Not after what he'd seen; discovered. He could also continue down the hole and see where his luck—and fate will lead him. 

He chose the last-mentioned alternative and after some rash decisions and headstrong encouragements, he cautiously lowered himself into the gaping blackness with a ladder which as he could feel, was suspended from the top and perhaps, to the floor underground—if there was one. 

With shaky fingers, Harold stealthily sumbereged himself down—into the hole, and the welcomed warmth crawled up his body with every inch with which he went down like an internal heating system installed in his legs quaked spasms of friendly heat towards the other parts of his body. 

The ladder stopped a few metres above the ground and Harold had to jump off the ladder to the ground which was quite a brave move as he didn't know how deep he still had to go.

His feet thumped on the craggy grounds and echoed loudly before settling. There was no denying it, Harold was scared. Terrified. But still, he couldn't stop. He had to keep on moving. 

With his hands on the wall—working the same way antennas will for insects, Harold walked on, away from the ladder and came to a...