But the world no longer looks the way it did before. Even in near darkness I can see things distinctly, almost as if the outlines are drawn with beige coloured highlighter. The glow makes the objects stand out from each other between the monotone shades of the wood.
But something else feels very different. The insistent feeling of someone watching me. The breathing of the walls. The floor’s flesh-like warmth.
It’s all gone.
And suddenly I’m sure. This castle is nothing but ancient rocks now.
Then I remember the purpose of this test, and I take a moment to push out my senses.
I close my eyes, trying to focus on other things beyond sight. I feel cold only dressed in this wrapping robe. The draft pulls at my legs, and my body shivers this far away from any hearth.
But then I hear something. The once completely silent castle starts to reveal its secrets.
At first, there’s only the breathing of the wind between the cracks in the walls, the chirping of birds as loud as if I was standing at an open window.
Then I hear whispers.
Whispers coming from inside the walls.
There’s so many, I can’t make out a single word.
But one stands out, much louder than the others. I turn in its direction. In the far corner before me is a small rodent cleaning its face with tiny human-like fingers. When it notices me, it freezes for an instant, then runs back into the wall, leaving a strange reddish glow behind it, like a ghost of a rat lingering there for a moment before vanishing into oblivion. It smells strangely appetising, but the impression disappears as quickly as the animal.
I start to walk down the corridor as quietly as I can, listening intently. I try to push out my senses. I want to see it all. Feel it all.
Then, there’s something new. At first it’s very faint. So faint, I can barely register it. But soon, a strange smell, akin to boiled onions. Clothes left too long in an attic. I follow it, descending to the lowest floor of the castle.
Then another scent appears, soft and fresh, reminiscent of the floral shower gel my mum used when I was little. I follow it until I hear the sounds of metal on metal. The hissing of fire on a cooker. But this is not who I was tasked to find. I focus again on the stench. It draws me lower and lower.
The scent gets stronger. Rotten Brussels sprouts. Unwashed groin.
Then, jagged breathing, like a dog with a broken nose. The combination between the smell and the sound makes me want to gag. But then, a new sensation appears. Something stirs within me.
A beating heart. Fast and dissonant. When I reach the cellar, Bayard is standing, no, crouching, at the closed entrance to Lazarus’ maker’s tomb. His body is pressed against the wall, trousers pooling around his ankles. He’s rubbing his body along the stone, babbling nearly unintelligible word, his flaccid skin shaking in desperation.
“Master, please master, I need…“ he moans.
Eugh, this is just—I want to look away, but he turns and glares at me from across the cellar.
Then, red rivers flow along his neck, thick and bright. They pool on the collar bone and disappear beneath his starched collar.
“Wh-what the d-devil are you….” he stutters, pulling his pants back up.
I close my eyes. I don’t want to see this, but?—
“Mr. Bloom, you have shirked your duties long enough. You will finish every task at once and then…” Bayard’s so angry, he can barely press out his own words. “Then I’ll fire you without pay.” His face reddens with every word.
Blood leaks beneath his skin.
“What were you doing?” I ask calmly.
“How dare you speak to me like that?”
“Like what?” I cross my arms.
Rivers swelling into a flood.
I feel something new in my core, but I can’t quite place what it is.
