I cast daggers at him. “How dare you put your hands on me like that. This is your house now, is it? I must ask permission from you to gain entrance into rooms which clearly belong to me?”
He matches my gaze, unabashed by my words. “You would do well to listen to me, Mrs. Prelude. Mr. Prelude would be very upset right now if he were here listening to this.” He brushes his hands together, as if disgusted after touching me. He straightens his jacket. “This tour is over. I have other matters that command my attention.”
“Fine,” I say, annoyed. Like a bulldozer pushing debris along, he trails me back the way we came. I can find my way around my own house without any help, thank you very much indeed. I’ll just wait until the old chap goes downstairs and continue my investigation into the cabinet and anything else I please.
As I return to the master bedroom, sans butler, I look back as I close the door. Mr. Reynolds pulls a sliding door across the hall which I hadn’t noticed when we went through the entryway the first time. He pulls a key from his pocket again and locks it, then tugs at the handle to ensure it’s secured.
So that’s how we play in my house, is it?
4
Although I can’t remember my husband’s name or appearance, we will certainly discuss the future employment of this Henry Reynolds, a.k.a. the butler. If I have my way, he’ll have the sudden notion to polish his resume. I can’t even pretend to know the arrangement between my husband and this man, if they tolerate each other or are great chums, but I know this: I am the wife, and a happy wife means a happy life.
I’ve never resorted to such dreadful tactics in my last few hours of memory and hope I’ve never acted so unbecoming before, but a lady has to do what a lady has to do. This is my house, too. The rain continues to tick on the roof, pulse against the window in a lovely cadence. My temper abates. Apparently, I have a short fuse. I’ll have to watch that.
For the first time in my short-remembered life, my stomach growls. Mr. Reynolds had said dinner wouldn’t be long. Hopefully, he isn’t downstairs poisoning my stew. Perhaps I’m safe, since this Robert would notice me missing. I go back to the bay window. There is a nice bench built into the wall. I pull the drape back in defiance so I can see outside again. The weather is rather dreadful. Lightning streaks across the sky. The tree limbs I see along the road are swaying, trying to uproot themselves and fly away. I wish they could take Mr. Reynolds with them.
It is turning dark now. The swollen heavens are marked with a purple bruising as clouds limp along above me. I lay my head against the window, enjoying the cool dampness of the evening, the soothing impressions of rain against my ear. Thunder booms in the distance. At least, I think it’s thunder. A similar sound comes again, but after a moment of reflection, I realize it wasn’t similar.
It was identical. I cock my head to the side, listening for it once more, but nothing comes. Thunder can sound similar in degree and length and is usually distinguishable, but not this one.
I rise from my comfort. My legs, though sore from lack of use, gain strength each time I move them. It is a good soreness.
A more disturbing thought shocks me, but to dwell on it now would be most burdensome. I brush it aside.
Leaving my room, I cross the balcony and make my way down the stairs. The grand foyer is connected to a large sitting room. The furniture here reeks of high class and luxury. A leather Chesterfield sofa occupies the center and the room still doesn’t look small. Two leather armchairs are positioned in front of a large window on one side, overlooking a garden I couldn’t see from upstairs. An oval coffee table made of iron with a hardwood top sits in front of it. This would be a fascinating place to curl up with a good book. I’ll need to inquire about this. Mr. Reynolds is standing near a window on the opposite side, concentrating on something I can’t see. His hand is parting the curtain, and it’s clear he doesn’t notice my presence.
“What was that noise?”
Startled, he releases the curtain. He lowers his head and mumbles words I can’t understand under his breath. I’m sure it wouldn’t be appropriate for the ears of children, if I had any. He looks back at me, a momentary frown morphing across his face.
“It’s a bad storm.”
“I beg your pardon, but that noise was not the storm.”
“It’s nothing for you to be worried about.”
“I have said nothing about worrying about it. I asked what it was.”
“I can’t have you—"
“I want to know.” I raise my voice. “There is no—"
“Enough!” The volume and force of his tone ensures we are past idle disagreement. It is outright anger. “I can’t tell you what the noise is.” He sighs and digresses. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Mr. Prelude gave me explicit orders not to worry anyone on the grounds about such things.”
“Anyone? How many people are here?”
“Five. Two maids, a cook, and one other butler besides me.”
“I am telling you now, Mr. Reynolds. I don’t appreciate your tone. I will be speaking to Robert about how you’ve treated me as soon as he comes home.”
He looks at me and smiles as if I’ve given him a compliment. Could it be Robert and him are good friends who go way back? Mr. Reynolds wants to suggest this is so. I’ll find out.
“Dinner will be soon,” he says. “I’ll have Maddie make you a tea. We’re having your favorite meal, roast and potatoes with salad. Thought it would help brighten your day. You’ve been through so much.”
I almost feel bad for my outburst, but not quite. Roast and potatoes sound delicious, but I wouldn’t know if it’s my favorite. Dinner couldn’t come soon enough; I’m famished. In the next room, I hear the clinking of dishes and silverware. Light is coming from a large dining room. I can see the end of a massive table, so wide it must have taken several men to cart inside. A white tablecloth drapes the end.
A maid rounds the table, catches my eye and smiles. A heaviness hangs in the air from the disagreement, but the pleasant smell of simmering roast wafting through the house draws me forward and dinner is served. It is scrumptious, tender and juicy. The potatoes are fresh from our own garden. The table can hold 14 people, counting the ends, but Mr. Reynolds is the only other member of the staff who dines with me. Apparently, the odds aren’t in my favor. How tragic. With dinner, the tension dissipates.
After a few mouthfuls I find I can’t continue. “How long was I in a coma?”
Mr. Reynolds gives it thought before answering. “Hard to say. Quite some time.”
“More than a year?” My heart elicits the fluttering of thrashing wings, like a caged canary sharing a home with a snake.
“I don’t rightly know. Mr. Prelude would be a better person to ask.”
I don’t know if I believe him. Why would he lie, though? In my mind, I’m uncomfortably sitting on a fencepost wondering about his honesty, but see no point in climbing down on either side. “I’ll do that.” I place my knife and fork down, unable to continue, then lean back in my chair.
“What are you doing?” The features of his face are sharp, like jagged rocks at the bottom of a steep cliff, waiting for me to crash into submission.
“I’m finished, thank you. It was a lovely meal.”
“You’ve hardly eaten anything. Look, you barely touched the potatoes,” he says, pointing with his knife.
“I managed a bite or two,” I say, feeling more like a scolded daughter than a wife of well-to-do means.
“This won’t do a’tall. You must finish your meal, Mrs. Prelude. It’s been a long time since you’ve had solid food in your system.”
He isn’t giving up and I’m too tired to fight. I’d rather crawl away from the table when he isn’t looking and find the way to my room.
After stuffing the remaining potatoes into my mouth, I stand to my feet. Chomping as I’m walking, I wish I had taken one more swig of English tea before barging out of the dining room, but it’s done now. As I climb the stairs, I feel a heaviness b
loating within me. It pulses behind my eyes, like I haven’t slept in a month. I stop when I reach the landing, amazed by what had just happened and why alarm bells weren’t clanging in my mind. Mr. Reynolds is a butler with an authoritative streak in him a mile wide, but he shouldn’t have been dining with me. Not that I’m a snob or that I think I’m a higher-caliber individual, but his role wouldn’t allow for such bold rudeness. I still can’t recollect my previous dining experiences here, but this one felt wrong. Yet he had lifted fork and knife just as I had, sat and dined without a second thought, and even had the audacity to bully me into finishing a meal when I preferred to leave scraps.
I cross the balcony, almost to my room, cross the threshold and close the door. It’s strange there isn’t a lock on it, but I can’t worry about that now. I’m alone, away from Mr. Reynolds. My salvation is a small chair in front of a triptych powder mirror. I shove it under the doorknob. It sits at an awkward angle, but should stop, or at least delay, him if he should attempt to enter uninvited.
I climb onto the bed, eager to rest my head on a pillow. I shouldn’t be this exhausted, should I? After all, I’ve been in a coma for who knows how long, but for the life of me, I can’t keep my eyes open. Was something in the food or the tea? The thought makes me shudder; but why would Mr. Reynolds do such a thing? A brief rumble from the heavens is the last sound I hear, solidifying what I heard earlier definitely wasn’t thunder.
5
A beam of light is above me. It stings my eyes and I have to shield them with a hand to even notice where I am. I’m lying in a hospital bed, alone. A bedside lamp is clamped to the railing; it stares at me with point-blank, penetrating light. I find the switch and turn it off, relieved to have the room to myself.
The place is a mixture of faint gray and ghoulish shadows. A fluorescent bulb above flickers, as if some child is vigorously working the light switch. There are cobwebs in the corners and small, sporadic pools of pink residue on sections of the floor. My flimsy sky-blue hospital gown wasn’t made for its ability to keep one warm. It’s a thin garment, severely lacking, sewn with what must have been the last bits of thread available. At least it is a full over-the-body gown. The frigid air sends my jaw clenching, teeth chattering. The vent is right over me, bringing the knife of winter to my throat.
A distinct noise, like glass steins meeting for a toast, echoes from across the room, where several glass cabinets reside. The contents inside are masked by shadow. Where the sound originated is a mystery. I pull my arms from beneath the sheet and look them over. No signs of injury there, or on my legs. I feel fine, so why am I in a hospital? Kicking back the useless covers and sliding out of bed, I feel a suffocating dread overshadow me. The chill in the air is past unbearable.
Goosebumps cover my arms and my heart is beating so hard it beckons me toward the exit door. I dash through it. It closes behind me of its own accord. The cold floor engulfs my bare feet, climbs my legs, sending shivers up my back and down my arms. Turning the first corner, I hear the door to my room ease open behind me. The hinges moan as someone slowly pushes it ajar.
Was someone in my room and I didn’t notice? My heart hammers anew, driving a twisted spike of fear deeper into my core. Whoever it is, I sense they mean me harm. I don’t know who it is or even what they look like, but the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. It’s a feeling I can’t explain other than to say I thoroughly know it. I must get away. Darkness floats as phantoms through the corridor. A green scum, mixed with red splatters resembling blood, permeates the walls. The combination marks wicked trails now and then. I fear I’m going in the wrong direction, rushing headlong into danger instead of fleeing from it.
The blackness betrays me as I gouge my foot on a bedpan lying on the floor. It rattles in the night, as loud as a wailing siren, announcing my location to every resident on this floor. I hobble on, my toes still stinging from the blunt force. Double doors are ahead of me and I blast through them, looking over my shoulder for any sign of my pursuer.
I’m bewildered by what I see as the door closes. A small bottle is lying in the middle of the floor, on the path I just tread. It wasn’t there seconds ago. A spotlight shines upon it from above, while gloom surrounds it. An unknown, heavy hand of terror restricts my breathing, squeezes air out of my lungs as I wheeze to summon it back inside.
I press onward, forcing myself to look away from the bottle and continue into the unknown. There is an elevator ahead. Deep inside, I know I must leave this floor; my life depends on it. When I press the call button, it doesn’t beam with light and I don’t hear the gears turning. I have to keep going. Whoever is following me can’t be too far behind. The hallway expands and there is a sitting room on the left. In my haste, I stop dead in my tracks as I see a familiar item sitting on one of the chairs.
A small, glass rabbit with attentive ears, perhaps a foot tall, is staring at me. The entire chair has been turned, facing my direction, as if someone was expecting me to come this way. Part of me wants to linger here, but another part understands the danger hunting me, down the corridor from which I came. There is something about this rabbit which holds my attention, though. A familiarity or a pleasantness I can’t derive. I force myself to tear my eyes away. It is hard to do so, but my life is at stake. My legs won’t respond, stalks stuck in mud, but I pull them from the mire and force myself forward again. I must find the exit.
Past the sitting room is another hallway. Three other paths which lead to unknown places, one of which could mean my demise. An undiscernible noise comes from behind me once more. I glance over my shoulder only to see my worst fear. What I believed to be a bottle the last time I saw it, now isn’t a bottle at all. The terror in my heart returns, its grip now crueler than before. Upon an unwilling closer inspection, I recognize it as a vial. It is sitting on the floor, leaning against one wall. A haunting blue liquid swirls inside.
It’s following me. It makes little sense, but that doesn’t lessen the reality of my fear. It must not catch me.
I take the path on the left, a straight corridor of heavenly light. I’m running as fast as I can. Before long, windows line both sides with curtains pulled across so I can’t see inside. Further down, a lone window on the right has the curtain drawn. The room is dark inside, but the vial is there again, sitting on the sill, waiting.
Waiting for my arrival.
I come to a halt, turn around, and race back the way I came. At the intersection, I rush straight across. The floor here has standing water, only a few inches deep. It is deathly cold against my bare skin. I high-step my way through splashing water as if I’m a girl dancing in the rain, a maniac of motion. There is a door on the left. It is unlocked. Inside is a waiting room, but no one is here. Chairs line the perimeter of two corners with a reception desk on the other side. Square tables hold magazines.
There is something waiting for me, though. The same vial with the haunting blue liquid is standing upright on a table. I run to the next door by the reception desk. It’s locked. There is another on the next wall. The vial is lying on the floor, daring me to come near. I skirt around it, desperate to get away.
A garbled voice comes over the intercom, “Come out into the—". Static consumes the remaining words and the meaning is lost. The phrase sounds familiar, but I have no time to think upon the words. I try to run through the door, but something is slowing me down. My hurried pace turns to a crawl. For some reason, I can’t look down to see what is impeding my progress.
I push the door open and grip the frame, pulling myself through it, stretching muscles I didn’t know I had while gritting my teeth. Sweat erupts like a chain of miniature volcanoes from the pores in my forehead. I cross the threshold. My forearms are burning. The room is well lit. Once I close the door behind me, I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake.
This is a dead end. There are no windows or doors to ensure my escape.
I have another, more urgent, problem. For the first time, I see the bottom portion of my body, where m
y legs should be. They are trapped inside a giant block of cement, just below the knees. A pungent sterilized smell permeates the room.
I try to take another step, but topple over, hitting my head on the floor. The room is spinning. A fluorescent light turns in circles above me, like a ceiling fan with one blade. If I can rest here a moment, I’ll find the strength to keep going. I have no time, though. Using my arms, I drag myself to the end of a bed. My feet are like an anchor dragging behind me. I inch underneath, bring the bedspread down to hide myself.
Sweat covers my body. I stink of fear. I hear the click of the door latch slide against the strike plate as the handle turns. It is a slow motion, as if someone is merely peeking inside to check on a sleeping resident. The room is silent except for the thudding in my chest. The waiting is terrifying. I try my best to lie still.
Something is climbing up my knee, crawling on my thigh, drifting across my stomach.
I don’t have the strength to lift my head or move my arms. It keeps coming, slithering up my skin as I lie helpless on the floor. As if transfixed, I’m held by some power I can’t see, paralyzed by fear while my heart beats as wildly as the caged canary trying to escape its serpentine cellmate. My mind races at some horror I know is coming, but can’t fathom before it happens.
At the rim of my field of vision, I see the vial moving of its own accord. I scream in terror. It’s at my neck. As it nears my mouth, I press my lips together and shut my eyes.
6
Harrowed Dreams Page 2