I’ve lived in the city my whole life, a place constantly filled with noise, even in the middle of the night. Yet here, there’s absolutely nothing. No dogs barking in the distance, no annoying pop music coming from a nearby store, not even wind howling through the cracks of the windows.
But in the silence of this room, with the door still closed, it feels like there’s someone here with me.
The feeling of being watched intensifies. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I can feel warmth radiating from behind me. I turn quickly, but all I see is the earthen wall. Heat rises from below, so I lean down, placing my hand on the soil. It feels strangely warm and supple. Almost like it’s alive.
I shake my fingers, but loud banging startles me, making me shoot up off the stool. It clatters to the floor, harmonising with the deafening thuds now reverberating through the cellar. It sounds like walls being hammered down nearby, the forcemaking little bits of dirt fall from the ceiling. I protect my eyes from the debris when angry screaming joins the racket.
And then all the sounds stop as abruptly as they started. The silence falling over the cellar is so chilling, it makes me shiver.
As I stand there, startled and confused, a thought slowly crawls through my mind. It starts small and innocent until it anchors itself into my brain, confident and convinced: the thought—no, the knowledge—that this job might be much more than I initially signed up for.
II
Iam freezing, thirsty, and ravenous by the time Bayard comes back to walk me to the kitchen for dinner. Actually, “dinner” is a complete overstatement because all there is on the table is a heel of bread, a piece of cheese, and a glass of water. Even though I’m relatively hungry, I’m not particularly bothered. It’s not much different from what I usually eat at home. Still, today, I’d have liked a bit more.
The kitchen is just as dark as the rest of this desolate building and I’m too weary to strain my eyes to properly look around. I start dragging my body to the table when Bayard shoves a piece of old-fashioned soap at me.
“You don’t eat?” I ask while I attempt to wash the filthy cellar bits off my arms at the comically large kitchen sink. I’m doing a terrible job of it, trying not to drench my uniform in the process.
“I take all my meals in my quarters,” he replies curtly.
“And the other staff?” I ask, heading over to my plate.
“Other staff? There is only me,” he says without elaborating. When I glance up, he’s standing stiffly on the other side of the kitchen, looking like he’s never been comfortable a single second of his life.
“And me,” I add.
“Yes, and you,” he says.
Did I just hear an ominous note in that statement, or is my hunger making me imagine things?
“Eat. Then return to your quarters.” He turns on his heels and walks out of the kitchen.
The bread is so dense and dry, it rivals a cleaning sponge, and the cheese isn’t much better off. I wash it all down with the water, wanting to get this meal over with as fast as possible. Then I drop the now-empty dishes in the sink and find my way to the main stairway leading to the living quarters.
There’s just one small problem. Even though I tried hard to memorise the layout of this place earlier, I seem to have failed miserably. Because now, I’m utterly and completely lost.
I find myself in a non-descript hallway. Dark wooden floorboards stretch endlessly in both directions. The narrow stone walls crowd the sides, rough-hewn and uneven, making the corridor feel claustrophobic. Lights that look like flickering torches dimly illuminate it in regular intervals. They don’t look electric or smell like wood fire, so I approach one to see what exactly it’s made of. If I had to guess, I would say they’re gas lamps. Odd.
I pick a direction and follow it for what seems much too long, even for a building this size. At this point, I almost feel like I’ve been walking in a circle. The tiny medieval-style windows come and go as I continue, showing the exact same thing no matter how far I walk: overgrown woods.
When the corridor finally turns, I expect more bare stone. Instead, heavy tapestries line the walls, stopping me in my tracks. I’m pretty sure these weren’t here before.
I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I might have accidentally found my way into the forbidden area of the building, the one that I should under no circumstances evergo to. What had Bayard said again? The west wing is strictly prohibited! Or was it the east wing?
This is probably the moment most normal people would turn around and follow the rules their employer so carefully explained. But, of course, I’m not a normal person, and with my curiosity driving me forward, I continue to follow the tapestries until I reach a door.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I open it and step inside. I’m not entirely sure what I expected to see on the other side, maybe some kind of grand chamber, with a giant canopy bed and a suit of armour in the corner, but it certainly wasn’t this.
The room is completely wrecked. Like someone dragged random furniture from a dump and then trashed everything meticulously. Every single thing inside is broken. Remnants of curtains hang in front of a large filthy window that barely lets sunlight in from outside. There are piles of what looks like shredded wood, cloth, metal, and other unidentifiable materials all over. It smells odd. Not bad, exactly, but before I can place it, I hear muffled sounds nearby. I freeze on the spot, my instincts screaming at me to hide. But there’s nothing left whole enough to crouch behind.
I stop breathing, straining to pinpoint the sound’s origin. I realise, thankfully, they’re originating from the room next door. I move toward it, careful not to make the old wood creak below me. It’s more of a challenge to squeeze through the piles of broken furniture without making any sounds. Difficult, but not impossible, and I manage to get closer. As I put my ears on the wall, its cold surface makes me shiver. Trying to concentrate as intently as I can, I hear words coming from a deep voice.
“I underst… No, I do not…” it says quietly, followed by a pause and then footsteps.
I only pick up short snippets, but I can tell that it’s just one man speaking.
“I shall see to it. Do not worry, master.” The voice is clearer now. But before I can hear more, it starts to break up again, seemingly because the speaker is moving away from my vantage point. “…not know this human. Bayard requested…”
