A keypad.
No screen like the ones on the door to the records room, this one is an old type with only buttons.
I quickly open my phone notes and find the collection of numbers next to the NW letters.
With slightly shaky hands, I press the code into the lock and pray this will lead me to Marlowe.
When the final number is inputted, an audible click makes the mirrors frame open slightly and jaw drop as the wet, musty air from behind it hits my face.
I pull the frame further away from the wall and turn my phone torch light on before taking a deep breath.
“Please don’t be a dead body. Please don’t be a dead body,” I repeat to myself before I get the courage to shine the light into the space.
No dead body in sight. Only a dark stone tunnel that goes so far, the light from my phone doesn’t reach.
I stand in indecision. It feels like that stupid movie moment again, where you are screaming at the screen for the person to turn around. To save themselves.
Yet here I am building up the courage to check where this thing leads.
I have no clue how and why Marlowe has the code to this secret passageway, but it is important enough to ignore every natural instinct to run away, and head inside.
My chest clenches but it’s not at the tunnel, it’s at the sudden sound of shuffling feet behind me. I spin but press myself into the wall to shroud myself in as much darkness as I can. My eyes shifting to every hiding place to find the culprit.
There isn’t anyone in this corridor, but then the sound of a door softly closing in the hallway beyond the one I stand in, makes my decision for me. I don’t know who it is, but the stuttering of my heart feels like the universe is trying to tell me I shouldn’t find out.
I slide into the secret passageway and click the frame back into place, but only after checking there is a keypad on this side to get back out.
I take a grounding breath of cold musty air and push further into the tunnel, my Uggs sometimes slipping on the slick stone beneath my feet. I should have worn trainers and most definitely had my knife on me, but I didn’t think investigating hidden passages behind locked mirrors would be on my bingo card for tonight.
A shimmering, muted, silver light twinkles in front of me and the old stagnant air changes into something a little fresher. Just as cold but less heavy and thick.
I think this tunnel leads outside. Itsoundslike it does. The air shifts, cooler, freer, and then the walls widen until moonlight spills ahead of me, silver and soft through the lattice of trees that rise like sentinels around the opening.
I step out into the forest, blinking against the pale glow. The trees are massive, their branches weaving a canopy so thick it feels like the stars are fighting to be seen. I glance around, trying to find my bearings, andwhen I turn back, I see the main building behind me, its turret reaching for the clouds as if it’s trying to pluck the stars from their hiding place.
Wait.That’s my turret.
My room window catches the moonlight, arches and lead lines sharp and distinct even from here.
I look back toward the forest and freeze.
This is the exact spot I saw the light that night. The one that bled through the trees when the screams jolted me from sleep.
“What the hell were you doing, Marlowe?” I whisper, my voice swallowed by the dense stillness.
The forest here is thick, impenetrable, almost, but off to the side, a narrow path cuts through the undergrowth. The brambles and mud are trampled down, forming a rough trail that snakes deeper into the dark.
Against every whisper of common sense, I follow.
The path doesn’t stretch far before the trees open into a clearing, and the sight before me knocks the air from my lungs.
Hidden beneath the canopy stands a small, time-worn church. Its grey stone walls are veiled in moss and shadow, the roof sagging, but the stained-glass window, somehow untouched, glows with fractured colour beneath the moonlight. I can’t make out the image from here, but the hues shimmer like something alive.
I take a hesitant step forward, ready to explore, when the low groan of an engine cuts through the quiet.
Headlights flicker weakly through the trees behind the church, two dim orbs moving slow, deliberate. My gaze snaps to the doorway, where a cloaked figure slips into view. I can’t tell if it’s male or female. Just a shape, heavy and still, watching.
All instinct screamsrun.
