The grandfather clock continued to chime, and the sound rang clear, striking the pale yellow marble of the walls.
“It’s midnight,” Emery murmured almost absently. “The clock shouldn’t work.” He gave a strange little shake of his head. It chimed again and he tensed. “Hate that sound,hateit.”
He looked over her head to something behind her and blinked, but the cloudy cast to his gaze spoke of his seeing something from the past, or perhaps the future. Sophie only knew he was gone in that moment. Something or perhaps someone had captured his head and heart, leaving her with a shell, a mere body.
“Emery? What’s wrong?” Her gaze darted between him and the grandfather clock, confused.
“Shadows…always shadows.” He kept staring out the window next to the huge door. “Told you they were there. I told you…but I didn’t tell her. I stopped you from telling her.”
Sophie thought about asking him what he was talking about, but she sensed he wasn’t talking to her, wasn’t even seeing her.
The electric lamps lighting the gilded hall dimmed to a lower setting simultaneously. Shadows blossomed, growing pregnant from the loss of light.
“Emery?” Sophie tugged on his hand, apprehension coiled tight in her stomach. Emery seemed to be frozen in place.
The clock, which continued to chime its full beats, suddenly went silent save for the heavy ticking—counting hours, days, measuring the ghostly sense of the Lockwood house. A clock that wasn’t supposed to work. Unable to resist, she turned her head toward the massive grandfather clock, eyes locking on the gold pendulum that swung back and fourth behind the clear glass.
Her grandmother’s voice intruded on her mind, a whisper of ghoulish tales and scary stories. Granny Belinda, or Bells as everyone called her, had been born in Boston, and swore her roots dated back to the days of the Salem witch trials. And on more than one night Granny Bells had sat in her great wing-backed chair by the fire, a soot colored cat in her lap, and told Sophie stories.
“You must take care, Sophie. When the clock strikes twelve, ’tis the witching hour.”
“What’s so bad about that?” six year-old Sophie had asked.
“’Tis the time when you’re most vulnerable to darkness, to the evil that can steal your soul. The witches ride their black-winged horses, helping the devil claim wandering souls.”
Sophie blinked, and the strange lethargy of watching the pendulum swing was broken at last. She looked up at Emery, saw his mouth moving as though he was whispering. She drew closer, standing up on tiptoe, still clutching his hand. Finally, she stood close enough to hear the words leaving his lips.
“Fenn, listen to me…you can’t make me go. I’m not leaving you behind.”
Emery repeated the words over and over, a hurried, breathless mantra. Horror filled Sophie, swallowing her like a black cloud. Her heart clenched. He had to be having some kind of relapse. She needed to get him out of the past. She had to rescue him. Without a second thought, she wound her hand back and slapped him.
He collapsed, crumpling on the stairs behind him. Sophie eased down next to him, cupped his chin.
“What are we doing down here, Fenn?” he asked. The look on his face was that of a young boy, frightened and hurt. He raised a hand to his cheek and touched the reddening mark. “Did you hit me?”
Sophie winced. He didn’t recognize her, still caught up in the flashback.
“Why did you hit me? I’m frightened; he won’t let us go, you heard him. We have to escape!” Emery pushed away from the step and got to his feet. He leaned heavily on the polished walnut railing and gazed at her, wounded mistrust in his eyes.
“The clock chimed, Emery. It triggered some sort of flashback. You have to snap out of it. Fenn’s not here.” Sophie’s brows drew together when he ripped his hand away from hers. She hated losing physical contact with him. In the few short hours since she’d known him, she’d grown accustomed to his touch, to his hand enveloping hers and the safe feeling that came from being surrounded by him. Being bereft of him left her hollow.
“Don’t lie to me, Fenn. You can’t convince me this is a dream. I know he’s going to kill us.” Emery’s voice was low but his tone was clipped.
Outside the snarling thunder continued. Rain began to pelt the roof and ping against the windows. Sophie glanced over her shoulder, seeing the heavy clouds packed tight, like hundreds of clenched fists punching the air over the treetops. When the next thunder rolled, the mansion shivered beneath her feet.
Suddenly Emery grabbed her arm, spun her to face him and pinned her back against the stair railing. His eyes were wild, almost glowing.
“I heard them talking. I know they said someone allowed them into the grounds. Who was it?”
“Emery, stop! I’m not Fenn.”
Emery’s eyes fogged again, confusion blurring the anger on his face. He released her, panting.
“Leave me alone.” He started to climb the stairs as though to escape.
Sophie ignored his command and started up the stairs after him. He was too pale, too upset to be left alone, clearly still stuck in some delusion. She put a palm on his shoulder but he recoiled at her touch, stiffening and whirling on her like a wounded animal.
“Get out! Leave my house now!” He waved an arm at her, as though to ward her off, and Sophie stumbled down a few steps to escape the wide arc of his reach. He pursued her. In less than a minute he’d caught her arm and propelled her out the large wooden door.
