She looks over the edge of her book. “There is the media room down the hall and a bathroom. Plus, a three-car garage past that. Upstairs, there are several bedrooms and baths.”
I remember I have the keys to that lair now. A smile creeps upon my face.
“There’s a billiards room up there.” I can see the excitement in her eyes again.
“Fond of billiards, are you?”
“It’s a gentleman’s game, but it’s interesting. I’ve played a few times.” She glances at me with a hint of worry in her eyes. “Never here, though. I’ve only put the balls and cue sticks away.”
“You haven’t anything to worry about. Maybe we can play someday.”
I’ve caused the color in her face to drain again. Goodness me, she is a worrisome girl.
She stands, as if an imaginary bell has chimed. “I must be going. Thank you so much for the reading time.”
“Remember, we’ll do it again tomorrow.”
She is out the door soon after, off to scrub some corner of the mansion. I’ll learn more soon enough, but for now, it’s time to discover what is hiding upstairs.
I return to the grand hall and make my way up the stairs carefully in these heels. The keys on the ring have several shapes, but the larger ones won’t fit the lock. I try several of the smaller ones too, but none of these turn the tumblers, either. I lean my book against the door frame. Three left and worry spreads into my throat. The second to the last turns and releases the lock.
I slide the glass along its track. The third door on the right holds the porcelain figurines. Perhaps like the sofa downstairs, another look at them might stir a memory. Upon opening the door and flipping the light switch, I’m stunned by what I find.
The spot where the cabinet sat before lies empty. This wasn’t a dream, was it? I inspect the cherrywood floor. There isn’t a trace of dust or dirt or any impression into the wood. I run my hand across a section of the floor and my other hand along where the cabinet had been and inspect both. I can’t tell a difference. Had I been mistaken about the room? The bed looks the same. The same quilted blanket, the same shape and placement of the window. It’s the correct room.
Someone took this away in the night. It must have been the reason my door was locked. Why would someone go to such lengths? What could be so harmful about a cabinet of figurines? If I wasn’t supposed to see them, why was I allowed inside in the first place? Then I remember Mr. Reynolds stating the room should have been locked. Maybe there are other clues here.
I check the closet and find nothing, not even a hanger on the rod. The next room holds another bed, but nothing else. Then there is a bathroom, with a clawfoot tub and separate shower, pristine and clean. The study is next. A large desk sits in the middle of the room with a plush leather seat behind it. A map is pinned to the wall. There are red circles around cities, arrows pointing from one to another, a long list of names near the margin. It must have something to do with the war.
I feel like a blithering idiot for not even asking the name of the city I live near. On the other hand, Mr. Crestfield never offered it.
“Mrs. Prelude?” Speak of the devil.
I close the study door and move into the hallway, then dash into the bedroom across from it. Mr. Crestfield is now in the hallway. I don’t know if he saw me in the study or not.
“What are you doing in this part of the house, madame?” His tone is more than inquisitive; it borders on accusatorial.
“Discovering, Mr. Crestfield.” I come into the hall again. The light is low, but his eyes hold a certain mystery about them, like he’s wondering if I’ve figured something out. I open the door to the bedroom which held the figurines. “Tell me, there was a cabinet in this bedroom last night and now it isn’t there. What happened to it?”
He glances inside, then back at me. “I don’t know, madame.”
I look at him as if I know he’s lying. “I haven’t been in this room in ages.” Another topic I’ll discuss with Robert when he comes home.
“I have an issue I wanted to discuss with you, Mrs. Prelude.”
“What is it?” I make my way along the hall, back to the balcony. Mr. Crestfield follows.
“Mr. Prelude would have an awful fit if he discovers Maddie has spent some of her day reading.”
“What I request from Maddie is none of your concern. I’m the one in charge here, Mr. Crestfield. I thought you would have known that though after what you observed with Mr. Reynolds.” I turn around and face him. He doesn’t look worried in the least.
“I say this because I want there to be harmony in this home, madame. I’m trying to avoid... problems.” He coughs over the last word, as if saying it was as sure as catching plague.
“Oh, there aren’t any problems, Mr. Crestfield. All is well.” I grab the book sitting against the door frame. Mr. Crestfield’s brow furrows as I place it under my arm, as if he’s trying to determine the title. “I would like to be alone for a while; please ensure no one disturbs me.”
“Yes, madame.” His voice seems to crack, and he stands next to the railing until after I shut my door.
I clutch the keys, curious about the lock, knowing one of these could open it. It’s time to discover which one. I muddle through the ring, testing each, but find none of the keys fit the lock to my bedroom door.
How interesting.
11
I go on with my book. Several pages later, my eyes grow heavy. It has nothing to do with the story. I’m enjoying it, but the events of the morning have bothered me. Relieving Mr. Reynolds, worrying about Robert and the upcoming discussion of the staff, Mr. Crestfield’s inquisitive spirit, and this erratic war outside have worked my mind into a frenzy.
Like a ball of unraveling yarn, I can’t keep up with all the details. My identity is still a mystery.
I look up into darkness. The air is thick and I feel claustrophobic. Reaching out, my fingers stumble upon a wall, then a doorknob. A red exit sign, the color of coppery blood, hums above me. Turning the knob, I find a familiar green hallway. More small pink pools dot the floor. As I venture into the open, a sixth sense warns me of danger, like a deer sensing the presence of man.
A window is before me. The rain sluices through the night air, streaks down the glass. Looking to my left, I see an intersection. A menacing shadow lit by the backdrop of lightning, against the far wall makes me swallow hard. The form stands sentinel, poised and ready for action.
He has been waiting.
Waiting for me.
It looms larger against the wall, coming in my direction. I can hear the footsteps of large dress shoes echoing through the corridor.
The shadow is carrying something small in his right hand. I glance in the opposite direction. The corridor seems to run forever and I along with it. The danger is so real I can taste it. My heart is pounding again. A series of doors are coming up, scattered along each side.
I try the knob on the first one. It’s locked. I look back the way I came but the lights which guided me before are unlit now. Shadows swirl behind me. I can’t perceive any details, but I know he is coming. Rushing across the hall, I yank the next doorknob. It doesn’t budge, either. Bouncing like a ping pong ball, I scurry to the other side again. One of these doors must open, but I’m zero for three when I find this one locked, too.
The man is so close. I run again, as fast as my feet will carry me. There are a set of double doors where the corridor ends, which I didn’t notice earlier.
It was more than not noticing them; they hadn’t been there.
What kind of place is this? I bust through these to find another red exit sign bleed in the shadows underneath a flashing, white fluorescent light. I turn down the next corridor and find two people, a man and a woman wheeling a gurney in my direction.
The looks on their faces frighten me, like the choices they must soon make will mean the life or death of the person they are wheeling away. As they come closer, I can almost see the face of the passenger.
; From behind, I sense a gruesome presence. I twist around in fright. The shadow has caught up to me. A hand latches onto my wrist, yanks me in a direction I don’t want to go. I see a dark tattoo of a chess piece, a rook, along the bottom of his wrist.
In his other hand, he is holding a vial filled with blue liquid. I scream at the man and woman who have now passed me, wheeling the gurney away. They have elected abandonment, choosing the life of another over my own. I wrench my hand toward the place where his pointer finger and thumb meet. My hand flies free. How did I know to do that?
I’m running again. I can’t remember if I’ve been this way. Where am I? The air is cold now, frigid. My teeth are chattering. The night air morphs my breath into smoke. I burst through a set of double doors. The man with the vial is waiting for me on the other side. I collide into him. His stance is solid, his frame bulky. I’m trapped in his fierce embrace.
He’s dragging me backward somewhere. I see the double doors growing farther away. He’s hooked his forearm under my chin and I can’t breathe. I’m kicking my feet, reaching for a wall, graze it with the tip of a finger. I’m sliding like a sleigh upon snow, being steered toward a winter wonderland of doom.
He cradles my legs in one arm, my neck in the other, then throws me onto a bed. I can’t move my feet. Something has them set in place. I look down and see a block of cement holding me captive from thigh to foot.
“NO,” I yell. “NO!”
He twists the vial open.
12
My eyes are difficult to open, as if someone has stitched the lids shut. A noise draws me out of a deep realm where I fear my last breaths are being inhaled. The latch slides across the metal strike plate as my door is being closed. Tears from the past are now crusted matter in the corner of both of my eyes. I claw it out and feel the pebbly specks scrape against the soft corners.
The lock on my door engages. I was lying on the floor, but I shoot to my feet like a hyper-strung jack-in-the-box. The chair in which I was reading is across the room. I notice my book isn’t there. I look around, on the floor, but I can’t find it.
“Mr. Crestfield?” I cry aloud. “Mr. Crestfield?” I try the knob, but already know I’ve been caged again like a miserable animal. “You must let me out. Mr. Crestfield, do you hear me?”
“I can’t do that, Mrs. Prelude.”
I pound on the door. “What is the meaning of all this? Why are you locking me in my room?”
“There are enemies around the house. Stay in your room; it’s for your safety.”
“Soldiers?” Maybe his motives are pure.
“I don’t know, madame. There have been reports on the radio.” His next remark makes me question the validity of the danger outside. “What made you choose that book in the library?”
I freeze, wondering what that has to do with anything. Brooding in silence, I can’t think of a rebuttal. Maybe there really isn’t any danger and he’s just a wicked man, wanting to torment me. “Mr. Crestfield, you know I will have you ousted from my house as soon as I am able. Now, I will not throw you out if you open the door this instant.”
“The book, Mrs. Prelude. Why did you choose the book?” His voice is low, but jittery like he’s the one hiding in a locked room.
“It’s none of your business.”
“I cannot open the door, Mrs. Prelude. You will need to stay in your room until it’s safe outside. I shall come back and check on you in a little while.”
“Mr. Crestfield,” the anger in my voice strains my words, but I can’t hear him any longer. “I just wanted something to read.”
He is gone, though. What was his question? Nothing more than a ruse to confuse me. Something strange is going on in this house and I must get to the bottom of it. The butlers are against me. The maids might be, too. Maddie doesn’t seem like the deceptive type, but I must question everything at this point.
I go to the window again. The grandfather clock strikes three in the afternoon. Leaves cling for their life to the branches as a gust of wind rockets through the closest tree outside. Placing my hands flat against the glass, I try to open the window again. It won’t budge.
Locking me in this room makes little sense. Then I hear the distant quakes of a devastating impact, feel the foundation of the home rattle. Was Mr. Crestfield really protecting me from something? Did he want to keep my mind on something else instead?
I could break the glass, but I’m not quite ready to commit to climbing out. The second floor is a steep drop and I have nothing with which to lighten the fall. Besides, someone will have to let me out of this room at some point. Wait till Robert comes home. He’ll be a raging bull to anyone who locks his wife up like a prisoner. Won’t he?
The explosion rattles my nerves. I sit at the bench window and gaze at the lush forest. There is something beyond the green curtain, there must be. It could be an overactive imagination, but so much has transpired over the last two days, I can only fathom a life void of trust and love or worse in my future.
A tear creeps down my cheek. I wipe it away. I don’t have time for such luxuries as pity. Sorrow must take a backseat to instincts. The truth is, I’m alone. Yes, there are people in the house with me, but they aren’t here for my welfare. They aren’t my friends or allies. I don’t even know if I have any friends. I can’t remember my age or anything about where I live or who I am. Thank heavens I never found the photo albums Maddie had mentioned; I might have had a nervous breakdown staring at page after page of memories I don’t remember. I’m a stranger staring at my own face.
A branch moves in the woods. Not the gentle swaying of leaves, but the far-stretching effects of a bough so something can pass. It snaps back into its normal position, but I can’t see what caused it. I’m confused, but I’m not going outside the mansion.
Several shrubs shake near the front of the forest. I draw the curtain most of the way, but leave enough space to look through with one eye. More movement rustles several branches.
I can see dashes of a black hat, a patch of red, possibly a uniform.
Several dark rods protrude beyond the realm of shrubbery.
Gun barrels. They are pointed toward the house.
We’re being surrounded. Maybe we should have left the mansion when we had the chance. I didn’t understand the danger, didn’t realize the severity of our situation. Now, we’re about to be overrun.
Mr. Crestfield mustn’t have known how close they were. He must let me out at once.
13
“Mr. Crestfield!” I beat upon the door. There isn’t a response. “You’ve got to let me out. We must hurry. Men are surrounding the house.”
Only silence claims the other side. Did they leave me here? That makes little sense; it would be a dereliction of duty. I continue to pound on the door, but it’s no use. There isn’t anyone within earshot of my strepitous activity. I stop and lay my ear to the door, listening again, wanting to hear signs of life. I am finding I don’t enjoy being alone very much at all. It’s the silence when you don’t make your own racket that unnerves me.
The thermostat has kicked on. I can feel the air coming from the vent above. I stare into that darkness, wondering if there is another way out of my predicament. In the closet, I press against portions of the wall. Shouldn’t mansions have secret rooms in abundance? Does this one? I pull at shelves, do inspection knocks along empty corners, hoping blindly in the ravaged land of desperation for anything which will grant me passage.
The air is becoming frigid and my eyelids feel heavy. I’m alarmed by my drowsiness, as if it’s manufactured. With all of the danger outside, the men in uniforms, my heart pounding, worry surging through my mind, adrenaline coursing, just coming out of a period of sleep, it doesn’t feel right. As I continue to pull at shelves, draw curtains of clothes to blank walls and inspect the floor for trap doors, I become slower in my movements, as if I’ve aged fifty years.
I cradle myself against a bare wall. In the ceiling, I see another vent and wonder. What might be
affecting me in the air supply?
14
I’m in my bedroom, the very room in which I’ve spent so much time. Rain is still plinking on the metal rooftop, licking the length of the window. A hot cup of tea sends vapors into the air. I’m not thirsty though. As I breathe with my mouth closed, my nasal passage whines with each inhalation.
I sit up from where I lie on the bench window. I stand and stretch the tiredness from my arms. Are the soldiers still huddled in the woods? The rain is coming down so hard I can’t tell. As I yawn, something catches my eye about my bed. The same sheets and blanket drape the mattress. They are ruffled where I have lain and undisturbed where I have not.
My eyes are drawn to my pillow. I cock my head and wrinkle my brow. Something is… different. A giddiness replaces my worry, as if a measure of hope has unlocked a chamber of my heart and drizzled me with energy. I clutch the pillow, a lump of comfort, off the bed.
I hear footsteps outside the door. Someone is coming up the landing. It can’t be the soldiers. I don’t hear more than one set.
Holding the pillow, I squeeze the corners, inspecting it. I’m burning with an unwarranted curiosity. It’s keeping a secret from me. It’s a preposterous thought, but I know it to be true just the same. I clutch at the corners, run my fingers along the edges, push with both hands into the plush center.
I feel the secret hiding there. My hands are trembling, excitement and energy have made me clumsy and I drop it on the mattress. Looking around for something, anything, to bust the pillow open. A pair of scissors glint in the light on the dresser.
I drive them into the soft center and stab it several times, sending stuffing flying into the air. I pry two fingers into the interior and rip a bigger hole so I can fit my entire hand inside. The item is small, yet hard. The form feels familiar.
Harrowed Dreams Page 5