15
I wake, still in the closet. The air is no longer circulating throughout the room. Rain is falling outside and for a moment I am lost, but then the present begins pouring in. I’m jolted back into reality, remembering the soldiers outside with their guns and my frantic search for a hidden door to hide from them when they invade the house.
They will take it over; how could they not? There is an assault being mounted on our land. It’s taking over our town. My neighbors, who I probably knew very well before my accident, but now can’t picture at all, will be killed. Our world will change. I could become a prisoner of a different type, laden with chains of a different sort.
It could all change in an instant. Nothing is certain in this life, least of all our fragile existence. I still hear nothing except the rain dotting the roof. Where could Mr. Crestfield be? What of the other staff? I poke my head out of the closet, my personal sanctuary, and find my room unchanged. The door is still closed. I test the knob and find I am still locked inside.
The light in the room rubs me in a soothing way, like a hand sliding across a golden lamp. There is a strange familiarity in this place, like I’ve been here before, not in this room, but in this moment. I sense it from the corner of my mind, trying to recollect the meaning. It is a simple experience, but I can’t draw the correct conclusion.
A flash of lightning stings the night and plunders my memory. I remember rain licking the window, just as I see it happening now. There is a pair of scissors on my dresser. They have been there the entire time, but now I’m fascinated with them. The pillow is sitting on the bed, just as I had left it. Curiosity consumes me as I approach the bed. It melts into excitement as revelation ushers me to a profound discovery.
I press one hand into the center of it and feel what I expect. A hardness rests there, like a lump of cancer inside an organ. I clutch the scissors like a knife and plunge them into the center of the fabric. As I continue to stab it, feathers float into the sky. I place two fingers inside and rip the opening further. My fingers grasp the center, pulling at the object inside. I draw it out.
It’s a key. A small one. My thoughts link together in the past as I turn toward the door.
A puzzle itches at the back of my mind, but I don’t understand the picture I’m putting together. I test the key against the lock. The tumblers turn inside. I grip the knob and turn it gently.
Freedom.
The balcony is dark. At first, I stand just beyond the door and listen. The soldiers could be inside the home already, but a cursory inspection finds no one. The staff must have abandoned the house and me along with it. How could they be so cruel?
I tiptoe to the railing, my bare feet ensuring silence. The chandelier is on. As I descend the steps, I touch the wall for support. At the middle landing, I pause, wanting to ensure I’m alone before I reach the main floor. Retreating from here is easier than at the very bottom. The main doors are locked, a comforting sign.
I hear the rain above. The sitting room with the leather furniture and coffee table is empty. The dining room is dark. Before venturing further into known regions, I turn around to the other side. Crossing the foyer, a large office space is crowned by a stone fireplace. Embers are still faintly glowing in the pit. Someone had been relaxing here some time ago. Was it Robert? It couldn’t have been the staff.
At the front of the room is a window, facing the same direction as the one in the master bedroom upstairs. The curtains are drawn and I creep to the end, just enough to look outside. I can’t spot any uniforms or guns in the distance, but I also don’t have the advantage of height anymore. Intuition tells me the danger is still there. There must be a reason for their lingering. Hiding in the brush, waiting for reinforcements before storming the castle, most likely.
I cross the foyer again, past the sitting room and into the dining room. No light escapes from this area and without windows, I am fumbling in the dark. The conservatory is to my left, the kitchen to the right. I lurk into the kitchen, feeling along the wall, searching for a switch. Light here won’t be seen by the company of men outside. I want to give them as little information about my whereabouts as possible.
The faint aroma of fresh bread lingers, making the place feel homey. The staff hasn’t been gone long. Have they retreated to the house behind the mansion? I wonder if my time would be better spent there. My fingers stumble along the switch and I flip it on. A large brick oven stands against one wall along with a stainless-steel confectionary oven. An oversized dishwasher is farther down. There is a large countertop island where cooks could roll out enough food for an army and still have space to spare.
A swinging door leads to another place I haven’t seen. There is another switch near this door and I flip the light off as I leave. Light spills from a vast window outside. The manicured lawn surrounds the cottage, which is a distance of fifty yards from the patio. A large iron-wrought gate, cloaked by ivy to keep prying eyes away, runs the perimeter of the property. A spacious walking garden spans at least an acre back here. It’s a wondrous sight.
There is a door which leads to an enclosed patio. It runs the span of the mansion. There are tables and chairs, along with a breakfast bar replete with abandoned drinks. A coffee maker, with the pitcher beading water and steam coming from the cover, shows someone was here recently.
Where has everyone gone? Who was inside the office resting by the fire or out here enjoying their coffee? Why did they trap and then abandon me? It could be they are still in the home, but not likely.
I’m still hidden underneath the overhang and haven’t ventured outside to the patio. Everything I’ve observed has been through the vast window and even now, I’m off to the side, out of view from prying eyes.
I wait. If the staff is cowering inside the cottage, there is no use in joining them and cramping their quarters. I don’t see any vehicles. There is a door which must lead to a garage at the end of this room, but it’s in full view of the outside world. While I could crawl on my belly and stay hidden, if anyone was searching the grounds or the mansion, I would give my presence away as soon as I open the door.
Then I see the body.
It’s laying half the distance to the staff’s cottage. It looks to have been one of the maids. I immediately think of Maddie and burst into tears. I cover my mouth, trying to limit the outburst. The body is lying face-down on the ground; it could be anyone. Maddie is the only maid I have seen, but if they are anything like the butlers, then their dress will be coordinated, too. There seems to be dark matter next to it, a pool of blood no doubt.
Could a member of the staff be a killer? Has Mr. Reynolds come back for revenge? The line of thought is troubling, but now something else is troubling me more. In shaky large letters, penned by hands wrought with worry, a handwritten note in distinct black marker has been plastered against the window of the cottage.
Sniper among the grounds. Stay inside.
Large trees line the perimeter wall. I think again about the body lying in the driveway. Fifty yards is a long space to run and an impossible feat to make without injury if someone is looking down the barrel of a rifle, scouting you as prey.
I step away from the window even further. My head could be the next in the sights if I linger in the open too long. When the shot rang out, they must have been on the grounds and near the patio. Now, they are trapped in the house. They must be frightened, huddling together terrorized and waiting for the next attack. I’m cut off from them, alone and unable to be a part of their plan to escape. Unless, they’ve already escaped. Maybe they aren’t in the cottage at all and are on the open road somewhere, away from this horrible danger.
I wish I had seen more details about the home when I looked earlier, but it’s not worth risking my life over now.
Escape, at least for me, seems unlikely at this point. I venture back into the shadows, not knowing how to cope with the dead body I’ve seen, heartbroken with disappointment at the state of my abandonment. No wonder the staff had been
quick to leave. When Mr. Crestfield came to my room, he had said he would be back to check on me, but that had been before a sniper had killed the maid. I feel the worry inside me boiling over. My hands are shaking and I can’t stop the tears from flowing.
I must stay strong. There isn’t any point in crying over my predicament. I’ve survived a coma, come so far in a short amount of time. Surely I can stand being alone for a little while longer. At least the soldiers haven’t breached the house.
As I make my way in the darkness back to the kitchen door, I discover that isn’t so at all. Light stabs at the pitch black surrounding me from underneath the door. The kitchen light is on again. The very one I had turned off before venturing into the hall leading to the patio. Someone has been tracking my steps.
16
I retreat to the hallway where the window displays the deadly world outside. There aren’t any curtains hung on it, which would prove helpful right now. Staying low, I inch along to the next door and venture inside. Closing it behind me, so the sniper in the woods won’t catch me in the crosshairs. The reality of the danger just outside my door makes me wonder if Mr. Crestfield understood it himself. Had he downplayed the threat in order to calm my nerves? It is clear in my mind that the soldiers have already taken the town. Maybe they are now going house to house, imprisoning or killing the residents.
Goodness, Penny, get a hold of yourself. Now able to stand erect, I’m presented with a group of doors in a part of the house I still don’t recognize. This hallway is quite spacious, the width you would expect to find in a grand hotel. Beaming candle-shaped lights are mounted on the wall instead of overhead. The first door is large. There isn’t a lock on it and I venture inside.
I’ve entered the middle of a dark hallway. Low lighting on each side reveals that both hallways turn a corner. I choose the left and sneak around the bend. The room is enormous. The ceiling must be the height of two stories. A railing connects stadium-style seating where seven rows of plush red chairs, eight seats per row, ensure the view of the stage twenty feet away isn’t hindered.
Wishing I had stumbled upon this room sooner, I touch the soft fabric of the chair. My mouth is hanging open in amazement, but tears are still upon my cheeks. Between the corpse outside and the town’s invasion, the joyful impact this room should effect upon me is drastically dampened. A dazzling mixture of outlier emotions have rendered me awestruck. It’s an incredible sight, but I also have a potential killer stalking me. I can’t linger here in the open. I shuffle down the remaining stairs to the landing, where the path is level until I reach the stage, white dots guiding me along the path. Ascending the steps, I find a dark blue curtain near the back. I enter from the edge and duck behind it.
A light is on inside already. Finding it is both surprising and comforting. There is a path which leads down a small set of stairs. Along a red brick wall are two doors, one on each side. Through a glass, I can see the stadium seating in the auditorium. Bright bulbs bloom to life, eradicating the gloom.
My mouth is dry. Whoever is tracking me has not been fooled. I exhale and release a load of tension, thankful I made haste to get behind the stage curtain.
A man in a red-and-white uniform appears from the opposite hallway I came down. He looks into the stand, trying to locate me. I cringe at what he carries in his right hand, a long-barreled rifle. I’m frozen by fright, unable to look away. Could he have killed the maid? He’s climbing the stairs, looking along the rows, eager to find his prey.
Turning, I open the other door across the hall and find another large room. When I close the door, I’m terrified to find no lock. Several rows of lifelike mannequins are fitted with various costumes, some glittering with fake jewels and bright colors, others with drab grays, floral blues, full and half masks with windows for the eyes and full headpieces of dragons and horses. The room is deep, with row upon row of mannequins, all set in the same direction, facing three separate triptych powdering sets with bright bulbs that line the edges of each. None of the sets are lit, but large paneled overhead lighting runs the length of each row. There is another closed door on the other end of the room and I have an idea.
I open the other door wide and come back to the rows of mannequins. If this doesn’t work, it could cost me my life. The weight of this predicament is too much to bear. I want to fall to the ground and sob, but I can’t. Remaining calm and composed is my only option; to do otherwise could spell my end. I clench my teeth while taking a deep breath. The heaviness of being hunted has my shoulders tense and my neck throbbing.
I move silently to the back of the room and find clothes racks behind the army of dummies. Hundreds of artificial people are wearing masks or full headpieces of various fictional or fantasy characters, donning costumes of both person and critter. I slide a few clothes along the racks, making noise and stop upon a full dress in the vein of Joan of Arc. How fitting.
I shimmy it over my head. None of my body is showing, except my hands, and I slip on a pair of black gloves that are laying among boxes of fake pearls. I steal a horse’s head from a mannequin standing by itself in the corner, then plop it over my own. My breathing is constricted inside, but I can see well enough. I enter the second row from the back of the mannequins, hoping I don’t look out of place.
The waiting is the worst part. This could be the worst idea I’ve ever had, which is truly unfair, since I don’t have a long memory with which to compare my actions. Trying to steady my breathing is working just as much as telling a newborn to recite the alphabet.
I don’t have to wait long. I am staring into the middle powder mirror and only moments after being settled, I catch sudden movement out of the corner of my eye. The soldier enters the room in a calculating jaunt. His head is covered, black and cucullate. It appears he’s walked on set as a ruthless man of war. Unfortunately, he is playing himself today. I try to swallow, but my throat is parched. Beads of sweat are collecting on my forehead. The air was hot before I lobbed this giant cotton helmet over my head, but now it’s sweltering.
The soldier comes into the center of my view and stops. He sees the open door I left for him; all he needs to do is continue on. He’d better hurry; I could be getting away. He’s apprehensive to leave and worse, the open face of the hood, dark and foreboding, stares at the army of mannequins. The cowl scans back and forth as if studying each headpiece, mask, and body.
He slides a round into the chamber of the rifle. I want to bolt for the open door, but I’d never make it. He’d shoot me dead in an instant. I steel myself, trying not to tremble and give myself away among a group of objects which have no innate fear of death.
He moves forward to the first row of mannequins and shoves the nearest one. It collides backwards into the second row and like a chain of dominos, topples several others backwards which has effects into the fifth row. The loud noise reverberates across the room and out the two open doors.
None of the disturbance is near me. I’m on the opposite side. I haven’t given myself away, which boosts my confidence. One advantage I have over this man is his laziness. Only someone looking for a knee-jerk reaction among the lifeless would disturb the entire lot. His methods make me question the validity of his uniform. I hesitate to call him a soldier anyway, with the hood he is wearing.
He hurries across the room to the open door and steps out, finally taking the bait. I hear his footsteps become fainter along another path, then stop. Silence deafens the air before I hear movement again, footsteps reverberate louder. He’s coming back.
What did he find on the other side of the wall that would make him return? I realize my error as soon as the thought hits me. I never checked what was beyond the door. In my haste, I should have at least ensured there was one more door in which I might escape. What if there isn’t a way deeper into the mansion, but a dead end? If the soldier was certain of my entry into the auditorium, which must be the case from his painstakingly thorough search through the stadium seating, then he must know for certain I am in thi
s room somewhere, since I had stumbled upon an impasse.
I want to make a mad dash for the exit, but there is no time. The whomp-whomp-whomp of footsteps are rocketing closer and faster to the open door. I dare not move my head from how I’ve had it since standing here.
My worst fear is now realized. He’s returned, and he’s staring at the mannequins in my direction.
17
The soldier is still wearing the cucullate garment over his head. The one advantage with an over-the-head costume is he can’t see my eyes or neck. As I remember, there are a large assortment of mannequins who are also wearing such pieces. Their weakness? The intolerable sweat pouring down my face. My palms are also sticky in the gloves. I’m sure if he comes close enough, he will smell my fear. A closed room such as this will magnify living smells, which will overpower mundane odors such as dust.
He takes a step along the perimeter closest to the side in which I’m standing. I’m in the seventh row from the front. His inspection this time is much more thorough than before as he stares intently at each mannequin, waiting for one to quiver. He pushes one, but much more gently than before. The stiff figure wobbles back and forth. It must not topple over. There isn’t a way for me to replicate a falling dummy. I’d be a dead giveaway, no literal pun intended, at least not until he shot me so.
It weaves back and forth like an agitated android who has short-circuited, then wriggles into a standing position again. He moves to the next row, again hunting movement, again looking for life among the dead.
If there is one weakness in my disguise, it is the gloves. I can’t recall any of the mannequins donning a pair.
He steps to the next row, still holding the gun at his side. He grabs at a headpiece three mannequins deep from the end. Ripping it off, the dummy dives toward him with an outstretched arm, as if trying to retrieve the stolen garment.
Harrowed Dreams Page 6