Smoke and Mirrors

by Alice Nuttall

Smoke and Mirrors

  By Alice Nuttall

  Copyright 2014 Alice Nuttall

  “Is this the place?” my brother James asked.

  “Satnav says so,” I replied.

  “It’s bigger than I thought it’d be.”

  I nodded, gazing out of the car window at the hunting lodge. It was a long, low, red-brick building, with ivy smothering the walls and peering in at the leaded windows. Circling the building was a wide stretch of grass, with a ragged old football goal leaning sad and alone. Beyond that, the dark, coniferous rustled and sighed in the light evening breeze.

  It wasn’t the sort of place we could have afforded on our own. Luckily, Mum and Dad had been so keen to get us up to Scotland that they’d offered to pay for our rooms, turning a long, gruelling drive into a pleasant road trip.

  Climbing out, I grabbed my overnight bag from the boot and started crunching my way up the gravel drive. After doing his usual routine of triple-checking that the car was locked, James followed.

  We pushed open the front door and walked into a dark, wood-panelled hall. There was a desk in the corner, with a computer that seemed out-of-place against the old-fashioned décor, and a placard that read ‘Reception – please ring bell’. Opposite, hanging on the wall, was a glassy-eyed stag’s head.

  James wrinkled his nose at the creature. “I hate those things.”

  “What did you expect at a former hunting lodge?”

  “It just seems a bit sick, that’s all.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and stared into the animal’s blank face. “Poor old Bambi.”

  “It was Bambi’s mum that got shot, remember?” I walked over to the desk and pressed the bell.

  There was the sound of footsteps, and part of the panelling swung backwards. A middle-aged woman stepped into the hall, all pastels and pearls, and smiled.

  “Good evening!” she said. “Welcome to the Lodge. How can I help you?”

  “We’re the Andersons,” said James. “James and Elizabeth.”

  The woman sat down at the desk and wiggled the mouse. Leaning forwards, she peered at the screen. “Anderson…Anderson…ah, yes, here you are. Two rooms?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s my brother,” I added.

  James gave me a look, and rolled his eyes. I pulled a face at him. It wouldn’t have been the first time someone made that mistake. James and I didn’t look remotely alike. He had the dark hair and stocky build of Mum’s side of the family, while I was skinny and pale, just like Grandma Jean, Dad’s mother.

  “You’re in rooms twelve and fourteen, just up the stairs.” The woman reached into a drawer and brought out a large, leather guest book. “Would you mind signing in here?”

  “Not at all.” James took the pen she offered and scrawled his name across the page, and I did the same.

  “Here are your keys,” said the woman. “I’m afraid the rooms aren’t ensuite, but the bathroom’s just along the landing, and you’re the only ones here tonight. There’s a games room downstairs, and a television, if you fancy watching some films…”

  “Thank you.” James smiled at the woman, and picked up our bags, heading towards the door at the end of the hall.

  I took the keys and scurried after him, glancing over my shoulder at the woman as I went. “Thank you,” I began, and then stumbled, almost dropping the keys.

  The woman was staring along the hallway, watching James as he pushed open the door. The smile still stretched across her face, but there was something different about it. It wasn’t pastel-soft any more, but sharp and strange.

  I’ve seen fake smiles before, smiles that didn’t reach a person’s eyes. I’ve seen them on waitresses at the end of a long shift, on strangers who just want to be polite, and once on an ex-boyfriend, a smile that sent a spiderweb of cracks through my heart.

  This smile wasn’t fake. It slid up the woman’s face and sparkled in her eyes. But it wasn’t a pleasant smile, I thought. Not pleasant at all.

  “So she’s got a creepy smile,” said James, as we reached the top of the stairs. “Some people aren’t blessed with your photogenic looks.”

  I shoved him in the arm. “Shut up. I’m telling you, that was the smile of a serial killer.”

  “You’ve been watching too many slasher films.” James unlocked the door of room fourteen. “See you downstairs in the games room?”

  “Yeah, just give me a few minutes to freshen up.” We might not have been going all the way to Scotland in a single day, but it had still been a long drive, and I felt distinctly crumpled and grubby.

  “I’ll put a film on. You might’ve made it down there by the time the credits roll.”

  “Fiver says I’ll be there before you.”

  “You’re on.”

  Picking up my bag, I opened the door to room twelve and stepped inside.

  The room was a little small, but comfortable enough. The outsized four-poster bed dominated the rest of the furniture, a dressing-table and chair, which looked like they belonged to a doll’s house in comparison. There was a cloying, floral smell in the air, which seemed to seep from the flower-patterned wallpaper.

  And hanging on the wall, directly opposite the bed, was a huge mirror.

  I froze in place, staring at myself staring back at me.

  It wasn’t that I hated mirrors. I knew I wasn’t exactly a supermodel, but I’d long since come to terms with my ironing-board chest and slightly horsy face. Mirrors didn’t bother me, not in the daytime.

  Night was a different matter.

  I’ve always had this thing about looking in mirrors at night. In the house where I grew up, the upstairs toilet had had a long mirror on the wall. Once, in the middle of the night, I’d got up to pee, stumbling into the room half-asleep, and accidentally glanced at the mirror.

  The face that had looked back hadn’t been mine.

  I’d screamed, flattening myself against the wall, and the figure in the mirror had done the same. Dad had come running in, switching on the light, and I’d seen myself in the mirror, face white, eyes wide with shock.

  Dad had given me a cuddle, put me back in bed, told me that I’d been dreaming, and that things in mirrors always looked strange in the dark. I’d almost managed to believe him.

  Even so, I’d made sure never to look in a mirror at night, not before I’d turned the lights on and reassured myself that yes, it was me standing there, the way it was supposed to be. The mirror in my bedroom was inside the wardrobe door, easy to shut away. When staying with friends, I’d been known to cover mirrors with towels or turn them to the wall. It was silly, but it helped me sleep. If I couldn’t see the mirror, it couldn’t see me.

  But this mirror was huge, too big to cover with a towel, and it was screwed to the wall.

  Backing out of the room, I crossed the corridor and tapped on the door of number fourteen. After a few moments, it opened and James poked his head out.

  “What’s up, Beth?”

  “There’s a mirror opposite my bed,” I said.

  James sighed. He knew about the mirror thing. “Towel?”

  “It’s too big.” I chewed my lip, feeling silly and pathetic and about five years old. “Can we swap rooms?”

  “You are a complete nightmare, you know that?” James said, but there was affection in his voice. He disappeared back inside the room, and I heard a rustling sound as he stuffed clothes back into his bag.

  James reappeared, handed me the key to room fourteen, and plucked the other key out of my hand. “Who’s the best big brother ever?”

  “You are,” I said with a smile.

  James crossed the corridor and went into room twelve, shutting the door behind him. I went into room fourteen and looked around. It was smaller than
my original room, and the bed wasn’t nearly so grand – just a normal single, no four-poster. But there was no mirror. Instead, a large, dark wardrobe sat in the corner of the room. The mirror was probably on the door inside, like mine at home.

  I smiled as I dropped my bag and sat down on the bed. Wardrobes weren’t a problem. I’d always wanted to visit Narnia.

  Kicking off my shoes, I flopped back on the bed. God, it had been a long journey. James and I got on pretty well, but even the closest of siblings run out of things to say to each other on a five-hour drive. We’d shared the driving, and some of the scenery had been nice, and we’d found a pretty good pub for dinner – but even so, I was worn out.

  My eyes had been roaming around the room as I thought about our day. My gaze swept the wardrobe, and then stopped, hooked in place.

  There was a doll’s house on top of the wardrobe. Not a sweet, dainty, well-kept doll’s house, the kind that belonged in an old-fashioned place like this. This house was blackened, blistered, with gaping holes in the walls and dead, blank windows.

  A burned-out doll’s house, I thought in disbelief. Who burns a doll’s house? Who keeps a burned doll’s house?

  My fists clenched. For a second, I was tempted to cross the corridor again, to knock on James’ door and say that I’d changed my mind, I’d take my chances in room fourteen. I’d finally found something creepier than a mirror in the dark.

  Then I shook my head. For goodness’ sake, I was nearly thirty. An overactive imagination was all well and good, but when it had you begging your brother to switch rooms because you were scared of a bit of charred cardboard…well, that was the point where you needed to pull yourself together.

  Sitting up again, I reached down and grabbed my bag. It looked like I’d have a use for my towel after all.

  “You could’ve warned me about the doll’s house,” I said to James as I walked into the games room. It was a huge room, with rows and rows of bookshelves, a TV in the corner, and a pool table standing in the middle of the carpet, where James was already setting up a game. We were the only ones there. I wondered if we were the only guests in the entire Lodge.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got another phobia.”

  “Who puts a burned-out doll’s house in a guest room?” I said, picking up a cue.

  “Where would you put it?”

  “In the bin. Or at the bottom of a lake.”

  “Maybe she wants to get it mended one day,” said James, leaning over the table to make the break.

  “Who?”

  “That lady at the desk.”

  I snorted. “Or maybe it’s a trophy from one of her victims.”

  “She’s not a serial killer.”

  “So you keep saying,” I said, taking my shot. “When she’s buried us both under the patio, don’t you come crying to me.”

  Behind me, there was the sound of someone clearing their throat. As my stomach sank down to my boots, I turned around and saw the woman from the desk, carrying a tray with two glasses and a crystal decanter full of port.

  The woman gave me a smile – an entirely friendly smile – and set the tray down on a nearby table. “I thought you two might like something to drink,” she said. “I’ll let you get on with your game, but please do give me a shout if you need anything.”

  “Thank you,” said James, while I blushed and stared down at the carpet. Still smiling, the woman bustled away.

  Turning back to the table, James began to line up another shot. “Well, if either of us are going to be horribly murdered, my money’s on you.”

  I pulled a face at him. “Shut up and play.”

  The game didn’t take long. James backed himself into a difficult corner, and I stepped in and cleaned up, switching the cue from my left hand to my right as I worked around the table.

  “Ambidextrous freak,” James said affably, as he poured us each a glass of port.

  “I’m the freak?” I retorted. “Most righties can at least do something with their left hand.”

  “I can do plenty of things with my left hand,” said James. “Knock over coffee cups, knock over beer glasses, knock over vases full of flowers…”

  “Why do you even have a left hand? It’s basically useless.”

  “It’s just there to look pretty.”

  I took the glass he offered and curled up in a big squashy armchair, sipping the port. It was probably good. I’d never been a very good judge of posh alcohol. If it was drinkable and got me tipsy, I was usually happy.

  James wandered over to the bookshelf with his glass and began browsing through the titles. After a few moments, he gave a low whistle.

  “You know, you might be right about that woman. Look at these books.”

  Getting up, I joined him, peering closer at the shelf. Many of the books were thick leather tomes, encyclopaedias and dry old philosophy books, the kind of things that people buy to look good but not to read. Interspersed between them, though, were some books that looked old, battered, well-read.

  A History of the Third Reich. Goering: A biography. Mein Kampf.

  I groaned. “Oh, thanks, Mum and Dad. So she’s not just a serial killer, she’s a Nazi serial killer.”

  James elbowed me. “Maybe she’s just really into her twentieth-century history.”

  “Or maybe she’s Hitler’s granddaughter. She’d be about the right age…”

  “Maybe she is Hitler in a cunning disguise,” James said in a dramatic voice.

  “Nah, she can’t be. No Austrian accent.”

  Grinning, James finished off his port. “Well, I’m going to bed. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us tomorrow.”

  “If we don’t get stabbed in our sleep.”

  “If, as you say, we don’t get stabbed in our sleep.” James set the glass down on the tray, then glanced sidelong at me. “You’re not really scared about this, are you?”

  I wrinkled my nose at him. “Come on, you of all people should know when I’m joking.”

  “I just don’t want you sitting up all night petrified, that’s all.”

  “Aw, you’re so sweet.”

  “Nothing sweet about it,” said James, walking towards the door. “You’ll be no good for driving tomorrow if you don’t sleep. See you in the morning.”

  I headed up to my room not too long afterwards. I’d finished my port and flicked through one of the slightly less fascist books, but couldn’t find anything to hold my attention – and, like James had said, I’d be useless for driving if I didn’t get a good night’s sleep.

  Locking the door behind me, I glanced at the towel-covered lump on top of the wardrobe, and shook my head. Honestly, what kind of person put such a creepy thing in a guest room?

  A mad-eyed Nazi enthusiast, apparently, I thought as I changed into my pyjamas. Well, I suppose it takes all sorts.

  Switching off the main light, I crawled into bed and closed my eyes. As soon as my head touched the pillow, I could feel sleep creeping up to carry me away. The journey had been even more tiring than I thought.

  The overpowering floral scent kept niggling at me. It was too strong, too sweet, and it made the air feel thick and heavy. I considered getting up and opening the window, but I was already drifting, and the thoughts kept slipping away.

  Ahead of me was a dark corridor, grey and gloomy. I walked forwards, tracing my hand along the wall. The paint felt rough, almost a sandpapery texture. My feet didn’t tap against the floor, but made a strange shuffling sound.

  I was looking for something, or possibly someone. I knew that much, but I couldn’t remember what, or who. I knew it was important, though. I had to find it, or them, before something happened

  There was a window to my left. I stopped and peered through it, pressing my fingers up against the glass, except it wasn’t glass. It gave a little under my touch, and it felt thin and flimsy, like cellophane.

  Outside, there was nothing.

  No, that wasn’t quite true. I could see grey shapes, like distant mount
ains, but nothing clear, nothing I could focus on.

  I felt a sudden chill of fear sink through me. Although I couldn’t see anything, I had the sure feeling that there was something out there, something moving in the dark. I could still smell that heavy, thick scent, although it was different from before, not so sweet.

  Moving away from the window, I reached the end of the corridor and turned right. There was a door, half-open, and I stepped through.

  Beyond the door was a living room. It was twee, fussily decorated, the kind of room you’d expect to belong to an old lady. But there was something wrong about it, I thought, something off. The furniture seemed crudely made, the details too big somehow. There was a table set for tea, complete with cakes and sandwiches. The cups were the size of soup bowls, the teapot larger than my head.

  I walked over, and picked up one of the cakes – or tried to. The cake was solid as clay, and stuck fast to its plate.

  Not right, I thought, but I couldn’t work out why.

  Things seemed to shift and flow, and I was walking up a flight of stairs, my feet still making the scuff scuff scuff noise against the floor.

  Whatever I was looking for, it was upstairs. I knew, without knowing how I knew. At the same time, I felt a sick, dragging feeling in my stomach

  Whatever I was looking for, it wasn’t good.

  At the top of the stairs was a door. As I drew closer and closer, the feeling intensified, pressing at me from all sides.

  Don’t go through the door don’t go through the door don’t go through the door…

  I went through the door.

  Inside the room, there was a bed, a dresser, a wardrobe – all slightly too big and clumsy, like the furniture downstairs. There was a shape lying in the bed.

  Don’t look at it, I thought. Don’t look at it!

  But my feet were moving on their own. Walking over, I pulled back the covers.

  Underneath the crudely-sewn blanket was a doll, but a doll like no other I’d ever seen. It was huge, the same size as me. Its hair, which had fallen over its face, was a shock of yellow wool, but each strand was half as thick as my wrist.

  The room was familiar, although I didn’t know why. I still had no idea what I was looking for, but as I stood by the bed, I realised where it would be.