Would you read this book?

Would you read a book that started like this? Or is it the most boring thing that ever boringed.
Honesty please, there is a second idea that starts with the same 2 paragraphs, then goes a completely different direction.

Liz woke alone in a stranger’s bed, every part of her hurting. She tried to remember getting hit by a train, but her all she could come up with was an airport bathroom. She’d been on her way home...

No, that wasn’t right.

She’d been on her way to Sam’s new house in New York. She‘d felt lousy the whole trip, gotten sick at the airport, and then she must have fainted. Actually fainted. How embarrassing.

Which brought her back to waking up in a semi-dark, seemingly enclosed space. Instinctively, Liz had opted to lie still, lest she attract unwanted attention, but her eyes were wide and darting to ever corner of her periphery. Her … bed, she assumed because of the obvious cushioning, was either in a tiny little room or in an alcove off of a larger one. Best she could tell, the head, foot and left side of the bed fit right up against a wall lined with … books? Maybe? Small rectangular objects at least.

The space to Liz’s right was open, which actually made her more nervous than the alternative. What or who was over there? She debated whether or not she should chance a peek, finally deciding to let it be. It was either an unfamiliar empty room, or a crazed psycho kidnapper. Either way, looking probably wouldn’t help. Anyway, she was starting to panic. The haze of unconsciousness had lifted, subtly turning dreamlike curiosity into urgent dread.

Something had happened between the fainting and this room and Liz had no idea what it was. She vaguely recalled gaining consciousness at various points. There had been music and pain and the most wonderful smell.

People had been talking.

Sam had been talking.

Sam! Sam is here! Liz surprised herself by letting out a squeak at the thought. Her throat was hoarse, almost dusty from lack of use; she hadn’t made a sound in such a long time. How long had it actually been?

Deciding it was probably safe, Liz turned her head toward the emptiness to her right. Gaps between drawn curtains showed that it was clearly daytime. But what day? Other than an old oak desk and a small television mounted to the opposite wall, the room was unremarkable, offering Liz no hint of her whereabouts. She sat up slowly and waited for the room to stop spinning before taking a look at the closest wall. The rectangles were, in fact, books. A lot of science fiction titles she didn’t recognize, and a few mainstream thrillers. Liz prayed she wasn’t about to live one.

Liz took a few moments to flex and stretch before allowing herself to peel back the flannel blanket and stand. It took several minutes of swaying and tottering to get herself sorted, but her legs were eventually able to support her weight well enough to pace around the room. She had been lying there a while.

Once in motion, Liz didn’t relish the idea of lying down again, so she decided to take a chance and venture forth. To her surprise, the door opened easily, allowing Liz onto a small landing with two other doors and a downward staircase. Finding no one, Liz descended the stairs and ended up in a well-appointed kitchen. She opened the fridge automatically, but thought better of it. She wasn’t even hungry.

Her search of the lower level yielded minimal result. Living room, den, dining room, kitchen—lots of rooms with no one in them. Liz estimated it to be a four bedroom home, though she hadn’t opened any door that wasn’t wide to her. Part of her was afraid of what she might find, the other part just felt it was wrong. She thought it reasonable, however, that she should be allowed to explore outdoors and took her self-guided tour out through the kitchen.

The backyard was a baseball diamond at least of long, lush grasses interspersed with towering trees, their frequency subtly growing toward the edge of the property and blending into the surrounding forest. It looked like a cozy spot, and Liz resolved to return after checking out the neighborhood.

But there were no neighbors. Liz had walked around one side of the building, through another small yard edged by trees, and onto the expansive front lawn. More trees, more grasses—very little else. Not even a road was visible, just a long dirt drive winding into the woods.

On the opposite side of the small yard, the house had been expanded to converge almost entirely with the forest. The walls were glass, if the roof was any indication, but thick vines completely shielded the inside from view.

Normally, Liz would not have had the energy to climb a tree nor probably even the desire to do so. However, curiosity combined with the restlessness of days spent asleep and she decided to climb past the top of the house and take a peek through the roof. Upon reaching the last climbable branch, she was disappointed to find that there were another five or so feet before visible contact with the roof. She was just about to climb down and admit defeat when the light of a reflection caught her eye. Leaning away from her anchor, Liz tentatively reached out to the wrought iron lattice. It appeared the vines here were sparse and loosely packed, more easily moved than those below.

Two large bookshelves, a canopy bed, and some cardboard boxes, partially unpacked, were the most Liz could make out through the grimy glass. There were posters on the walls with some familiar faces and homey looking knick-knacks strewn about at random.

Actually, that black dragon looks just like the one Sam got me for Christmas last year. And the pattern of those books…

“AH!”

Suddenly, Liz was on the ground. As she’d maneuvered to get a better look, her foot had slipped and she’d fallen—much harder and faster than anticipated. One moment she had been ten feet up, hanging between tree and trellis, and the next she was lying on her back, nursing a bruised tail bone. Back inside the main hallway, en route to an ice pack, Liz remembered the room. The room filled with suspiciously familiar things. Tail bone forgotten, she took off in what she thought would be the right direction. It took three tries, but she eventually found the right door.

Immediately, Liz knew the room was hers. Maybe not hers, but certainly filled with her things. The posters and books were the same: old and ratty. Someone had taken the time to put up and arrange them as she would have. Her favorite knick-knacks were present, most important prominently on display, the lesser probably still in a box. Even the color scheme was exactly what Liz would have picked for herself, had she any concept of style. It was all reds, blues and purples.

There was a dresser, armoire, desk, and a fairytale canopy bed—none of them her own. Though Liz did recognize the book cases. She rummaged through the desk and shelves and found that her stuff was all there, put away in someone else’s house. She did not find, however, anything of a personal nature. Her journals, for example, or her old mix tapes. High school yearbooks, photo albums, and a box of notes passed in class: also missing. Liz left the room a mess, not really caring to clean it up, lost in thought as she was.

Where the hell am I? Why is my stuff here?

Liz found herself in the kitchen, unconsciously having decided to get some water.

What if this is Sam’s house? I mean, I know her family invited me to live with them until I was on my feet again, but not here, in the woods. No one said anything about moving. Do they expect me to be okay with this?

Liz already had a glass out, though she couldn’t say from where.

Why would they move here anyway? Are they kidnapping me? Is that what this is? After all those years of friendship, they’re holding me for ransom?

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Liz told herself.

“But neither does anything else,” she responded.

Liz raised the glass, now inexplicably filled with water, to her mouth.

Besides, Dad wouldn’t pay. They know that.

Oh yeah.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”