“Did you know about this place?” I ask as we walk at a brisk pace in the direction of the stairs.
Marcus shakes his head. “I don’t even know how we got here, or how to get back.”
The last part is mumbled beneath his breath, like he hadn’t wanted me to hear it.
He nudges me up ahead of him, staying close against my back as we ascend to the top. I do glance back once, just to see if the shadows are still behind us, but the passage is empty, the angels still and solemn. Once again, the drapes appear to be no more than a cluster of shadows collected across the wall.
Neither of us speak as we resume our trek back in the direction of the main part of the house. None of the corridors look familiar. Every bend is a strange path that leads somewhere else in the house.
“Marcus.”
“We’re close,” he promises, fingers firm around mine. “I remember this painting.”
The painting is of a bald man in a bowler hat screaming while his face melts. It’s a horrific depiction I don’t remember. But I’d been too busy trying to escape him. I hadn’t been studying the artwork.
I do, however, keep a catalogue returning. I tell myself it’s so I never wind up in that strange room with the winding shadows, but deep down, I know that isn’t true.
The voice, the coiling tendrils, they came from that … crypt. From that thing in the wall. Maybe if I could go back and study it, I might understand why I’m the only one who can see it. At least, I think I am.
“Did you see it?” I ask, glancing up into the face of the man focused on his task.
“See what?”
“The mirror in that room.”
Marcus’s head tilts to mine. “What mirror?”
“It was up against the wall at the top of those stairs. You didn’t see it?”
To his credit, he seems to give it some genuine thought before shaking his head.
“I only saw the hole you were about to walk into.”
“Hole?” That didn’t seem correct. It was definitely solid. I think, at least. “Did you see the shadows?”
Marcus stops walking and faces me. “That place was covered in shadows.”
It’s my turn to shake my head. “Coming out of the mirror.”
His brows furrow. “There was no mirror and I didn’t see any shadows coming out of one. I saw a hole, and you, about to walk into it.”
I shouldn’t. Honestly, I should let it go. He’s beginning to look at me like I’ve lost my mind. But I have to know.
“Do you hear scratching at night … from inside the mirrors?”
He’s quiet too long. Too still. His eyes are a steady focus of someone carefully gathering their thoughts before voicing them. Even when his chest and shoulders lift with his deep inhale, I know he thinks I’ve lost my mind.
“Are you hearing scratches from inside the mirrors, Lenora?” he asks instead.
It’s a trick question.
He doesn’t so if I am, obviously, I need a doctor. A professional who will pack me full of drugs until I’m a zombie who needs to crawl just to get to the washroom. I can’t do that again.
“At night, I sometimes hear something…” I mumble.
His observation remains steady, but he replies softly, “The house shifts in the colder months. It makes the walls creak. Sometimes, the mirror edges rub.”
Of course.
