The Spiral

by Charlotte E Hart

  The original door rattles as I start what seems an endless journey to the other end, as if he’s trying to open them from the outside.

  “Open the fucking doors,” he shouts, apparently furious all of a sudden.

  “I can’t. I told you. They’re stuck,” I reply as I continue my quick step up the side of the room. He doesn’t stop rattling them. In fact, the sound of him kicking the doors starts heightening my fear as I speed for the other exit.

  I can hear my own breaths as I edge the windows, trying to avoid contact with the frost that seems to be emanating from them. It terrifies me, sending anxieties about more ghostly apparitions, so I close my eyes slightly, focusing them entirely on my end goal, which is that door and escape.

  “Open the fucking doors, you bitch,” he shouts again, his kicking getting louder and louder as I keep edging my way to the end of the space. I half stop, frowning at his tone and wondering what the hell reason he has to call me a bitch. “This is not… nice.”

  Nice? Nice? He’s right it’s not nice. If I wasn’t quite so concerned about the odd happenings in here I might well go back and tell him all about not nice.

  A soft humming starts as I near the ornate doors, and then I hear a lock clicking. It takes me a few blinks to realise that I did actually see the key in the door turn of its own accord. This can’t be real. I did not just see that, did I?

  “Jack, what the hell is happening in this house?” I scream back to him, planting myself against the wall and bracing for whatever might occur next. The wind whistles into the space instantly, the thick red curtains lifting from the ground again beneath its squall. The whole wall side of them lifts, creating a sailing wall of chiffon and velvet to crash around the area. “This is not real. It’s not.” I keep chanting it to myself, flicking my eyes around the floor and praying to God that the patterns of ice don’t start stretching any further in my direction. “Someone’s locked the other door. I saw the key turn in front of my eyes. Who else is here?”

  The battering of the door at the other end of the room stops, leaving me with no other noise than the soft humming that continues and the flapping curtain’s heavy material as it bobs about.

  I’m here, Maddy.

  I jump immediately, throwing myself into the corner of the room for some degree of comfort against her voice.

  You know who I am.

  I don’t. I don’t know who she is. I don’t even know if her voice is real or not.

  It’s enough for me to slide down the surface of the wall, lowering myself into a crouch and covering my ears in the hope that maybe it’ll all go away. Or that maybe if I shut my eyes tightly enough it’ll stop, that this voice will leave me alone.

  You felt me. I want him back.

  I don’t know what that means, and it makes me shake my head, physically shake it with my hands to try to rid myself of her inside my head.

  Open your eyes, Maddy.

  No. No. I won’t open my eyes. I’m not opening them until all this stops and goes away. I’ll just sit here, ignoring whatever is happening. Perhaps if I do that long enough she’ll stop bloody well talking to me, whoever she is. It’s not real. Not real.

  He’s mine.

  “I didn’t hear that. I didn’t. You’re not real.” The temperature drops again, making me curl my naked body into itself further as I inch closer to the wall, but the noise of the curtains stops instantly.

  Tentatively, I open my eyes a little, squinting into the room to see if anything’s changed. The frost is still there on the floor, but the curtains have calmed their stormy tirade, and the white light seems to have dispersed to only small flecks of it around the mirrored wall. I watch it bounce about, nervously scanning the mirror for a sight of a ghost. There’s nothing there, nothing again other than the frosty patterns beginning to dissipate back towards the huge mirrors.

  “Stupid,” I mumble to myself, looking at the doors that Jack was kicking at. “Are you still there?” I shout up to him, hoping he is. “Try the door again.” No sound comes back in my direction. He’s ether not there, or he’s not answering me. “Jack?” Still nothing.

  I sigh out a breath, wondering what to do as I shiver against the wall. This is all plainly absurd. It’s a freak weather thing, obviously. It’s nothing more than a storm. I try to ignore the fact that the key managed to turn itself in the lock without my help, also discounting the fact the doors seemed to purposely slam in my face. It’s just an oddity, that’s all. And it’s over now anyway. Finished.

  Chapter 14

  Madeline

  I crawl my way back up the wall and head for the closest door, hoping that by some miracle, the lock didn’t actually turn and it was just my imagination running wild. Ghosts. It’s insane.

  A hissing noise erupts in the room the moment I go to touch the handle, making me swing round and back up to the wall again. White light explodes around the space, almost blinding me with its assault on my senses. I raise my arm, trying to protect my face as it gets brighter and then draws back to the mirror, giving me a chance to see again.

  “What the hell is going on?” I shout out, shivering in fear.

  Scrawled writing begins on the fogged surface of the mirror. Letters and numbers, dates, times, but it all disappears again so quickly I struggle to see its meaning.

  I need you, Maddy.

  More words appear, jumbled and messy, almost as if it’s another language until the surface clears and then I see one I recognise. There, bold as brass and dispersing by the second the name Lewis is scrawled. I gasp, my feet faltering backwards in disbelief. And then, as soon as it disappears, the beginnings of another word. I start forward again, still hugging my frame but intrigued by whatever is about to appear. Why would Lewis be written there?

  Slowly more letters appear. First an S, then an E, then an L, until finally the name Selma hovers and then disappears, too. Selma. And then an H, O, M, and E. Home?

  I stare, dumfounded by the last trace of an E as it all completely disperses, bringing with it a warmer feeling that washes around the room. I rub my shoulders, wondering what the hell I’ve just been a part of while desperately trying to dismiss it. There was writing there. Real writing. I didn’t imagine it. Storms don’t create writing. Wind and frost don’t make letters appear in the mirror. I just stand here, still staring at the mirror and trying to understand the meaning of any of this.

  The door suddenly bursts open, the slam of it against the wall making me leap away from the noise.

  “Why didn’t you answer?” a frantic looking Jack says as he storms in, axe in his hand and sweat marring his brow.

  “I did, and then you stopped shouting.” I respond bluntly, frowning at his perplexed expression. He left me to deal with all of this—left me alone in the middle of this damned ballroom with nothing but the skin on my bones to protect me.

  “I’ve been shouting through that door for twenty minutes,” he says, walking closer, which only causes me to back away from him and his offering of all too late help. “Fucking Scottish oak wouldn’t budge.”

  Has he? I didn’t hear him. All I could hear was her voice, and then the wind.

  I narrow my eyes at him, watching the way his hand grips the axe, and then swing them back up to his eyes for clarity in the middle of this strange drama. He appears to believe himself. He looks almost apologetic for not getting in quicker.

  “Who’s Selma?”

  His frame immediately tenses, his eyes looking anywhere but at me for a second or two before they’re replaced with his normal self-assurance, arrogance even.

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t ask you for a question. I asked who she is, which you clearly know.”

  He takes two steps away from me, two long strides backwards, before turning on his heel and beginning to walk straight out of the room again. My feet are so quick to have me in front of him he hasn’t got a chance.

  “No. Whatever just happened in here happened for a reason, I want to know what it is. W
ho’s Selma? You called me by her name. And I can hear her.”

  “It’s not something I’m discussing with you, Madeline,” he says, sidestepping me and heading out of the room.

  Fine. I’ll just go up to that third level of the stairs and find out then, shall I? Locked doors are absolutely not keeping me out, because that’s all I found when I got up there earlier. I go through that in a ballroom, something he most definitely has an idea about, and then he’s not prepared to discuss it with me?

  I’ve turned, hurried past him, snatching the axe from his hand as I go, and picked up speed before he has a chance to even gauge what I’m up to.

  “What’s the problem with the stairs, Jack?” I call, skidding around the corners to get to the long hallway. I hear his pounding feet behind me as he chases me down, but he’s not going to get to me in time. I want to know. Now. And if it takes a bit of taunting to get what I want then that’s what we’ll do. “What happened, huh?”

  “Madeline, no,” his voice calls, a sense of desperation now coursing through that arrogant tone. Screw that. I’m going up those stairs and he can follow me or not. I’ll smash the doors in to find out what’s hiding in this house. Something’s not right here. It’s freaky, as is he now I think about it regardless of his clear beauty.

  My knees propel me into the circular space then onto the bottom step, lurching me onto the next two before he’s even caught up. The vision of him sliding around the corner as I turn back to see how close he is, is one of utter rage. I half stop, twisting my body back towards him to ask the question again, my left leg still moving up the stairs.

  “Who’s Selma? And why shouldn’t I go up these stairs?”

  “Come down,” he snaps, his hands barely containing the need to grab out at me.

  “No, I want some answers. She wrote Lewis’ name. Why? This place is bloody insane. Or maybe you are.” Violence springs across his features, the kind of death stare he had when he held a gun to his own head.

  “Get off the fucking stairs.”

  “Make me.” He snarls at me, his features contorting into a look of disgust and hatred, his legs pushing him closer to me. “All there was were locked doors on the third floor. There’s definitely nothing wrong with the structure. Stop with all the damned lies now.”

  “Get out of my fucking house. Leave.” No. I have nowhere to go now anyway.

  “Really? That’s the best you’ve got? Screw you, I want to know.”

  I turn again, my legs driving me upwards to the top, and I’m counting as I go. Round and round the long, wide steps, turning slowly and letting my feet move along the pristine carpet. He’s not following me, but I can hear him pacing below as the numbers fall from my lips.

  “Come down, Madeline, now,” he calls, fury etched into his words.

  The sound echoes up the stairway, chasing around the space as if it’s haunting the area. It makes me smile, reminding me of the woman in the ballroom and her melancholy tone. She was warmer in her manner, regardless of the temperature she created.

  “Selma?” I ask into the air quietly, wondering if it might be her name. It’s not implausible after all. I did just have a chat with a ghost in the mirror.

  I’m not even nervous about her answering. Maybe I’m going mad, too. Or maybe I just want some answers as to what the hell is happening here. I should be going to kill Lewis, but for the time being nothing seems as important as this. It’s like my mind has to know. Has to. She wrote Lewis’ name. I saw it there clear as day, and then she wrote Selma. Is it her?

  I stand on the step that leads off to the second floor, glancing along the corridor, unsure where to check first or whether to keep going upwards. There was nothing on this floor earlier, just some empty rooms full of luxury furnishings and nothing else.

  My hand scuffs the wall, knocking on a protrusion of elaborate plaster work as I let it slide around the oak bannister. I hardly feel the impact as I listen and watch for a response.

  “Selma? You there?” I call out again. There’s nothing coming back, so I keep climbing and counting the never ending spiral, more interested in those locked doors further up. “I’m going up, Jack. You should start talking before I find out for myself,” I call down, peering through the middle of the spiral to see the floor below. He’s not there, not that I can see anyway, and his feet seem to have become silent, too. Maybe he’s climbing behind me and I can’t hear him on the carpet. I turn to look backwards, searching the space, but all I can see is the elaborate bannister as it cascades back downwards. “You coming to get me, Jack?”

  There’s a low rumble of something somewhere beneath me. I couldn’t say what it is, or where it came from. “Selma? Hey? If that was you in there I need to know what you want.”

  Great. I really am talking to ghosts now. I believe in them, or this one, it seems. I shake my head at myself, letting the axe swing loosely in my hand and chuckling a little as I look upwards. Nothing’s happening. It’s just silent apart from my breathing and the continued landing of my bare feet on the carpet. Mmm.

  I look upwards again, scanning the huge circular galleried landing that’s coming into view as the stairs begin petering out in front of me. There’s balustrading acting as a wall over the open gallery area, creating a balcony for the entire circle as it stretches the four sides of the third floor. It’s stunning, a true masterpiece of craftsmanship and opulence, matching the downstairs to perfection, regardless of the grime and dust covering everything here, but the continued turn of the stairs is disorientating, making me question positioning and clarity in the house.

  I finally land at the top, now a little unsure of my purpose as I look at the axe in my hand. Breaking into rooms is not my forte, not something I’ve ever entertained before this madness.

  “Selma?” I whisper, perhaps because the climb has somehow made me recognise the stupidity of all this. Ghosts? Maybe I didn’t see that stuff downstairs. Maybe it was just my imagination and now I’m simply being foolish.

  I turn, looking back down at the vast spherically shaped wood on the ground floor around the spiral, hoping for something sane to present itself in this strange house. There’s nothing there but the table waiting for me. No warming set of arms to hold onto, not that that’s what I could call him really. It’s just me standing here, alone. “Jack? Are you still there?”

  Nothing.

  Well, I’m here now. And I’ve got this axe.

  My lip purse at the thought of doing damage as I turn away from the area, twisting my body towards the first door I tired earlier. So much damage over the last few years. My body, my face, my home and possessions. My friend. I lift my fingers to my face, tracing the outline of my eye and wishing the residual bruising away. My new house, my new life, destroyed before it began by the man I ran from. And now this—this house full of strange pain and hurt. Why is everything always broken? Why can’t life be plain and ordinary like I wanted it to be? A safe new life, that’s all I wanted. One filled with contentment and ease. And yet now I’m standing here with an axe in my hands, ready to break through doors to find answers to questions from ghosts. Ones like:

  Who is that man downstairs?

  And why do I even care?

  My back hits the balustrade, making me realise I’ve been wandering aimlessly in thought. What am I doing? I look at the axe, its dark wooden handle looking awkward in my grip as the end of it glints light back into my face. I’m just little Mads. Cute Mads. Mads who potters about, making a home out of dreams and hopes. This axe looks as ungainly in my hand as the gun did earlier.

  Maddy.

  My head rises from the axe, unsure who said my name, or if anyone actually did. I sweep the space, looking for the body attached to the voice, but there’s no one there. No white images or mirages. No billowing curtains. No frost creeping along the floors. There’s only more silence and the long stretch of stagnant beauty all around me.

  Do it.

  That wasn’t spoken out loud; it was all in my head, like
a little voice nagging at me to finish something, to take control of something and make it my own. I look at one of the doors lining the landing from where I’m stood, breathing in some courage to do damage. I’ve never damaged anything. I’ve spent my life putting things back together, rebuilding them—my relationship, my face, my life. That’s what I do. I don’t destroy things or tear them to pieces. I mend things, keep them knitted together even if it is pretence.

  Do it.

  I feel the pressure building inside me. It’s not sadness or regret. It’s not anger or infuriation either. It’s indignance. Sheer exasperation at how pathetic my life has been, how disastrous the last years of my life have become. Cute Mads has no place in my life anymore. She’s hopeless, a waste of time and effort. What did she achieve by putting things back together? Nothing. Nothing but more hurt and pain. She grovelled in the dirt he provided and waded through life’s misery while he took the glory for the home she tried to keep making. She was right to die. Right to be put in the ground so that Madeline, the one holding this axe ready to own every part of her life, could go and regain her strength.

  Screw it.

  I storm at a door in a rage before I’ve thought more about it, waving the axe above my head madly and hammering it down at the handle with as much power as I can muster. It ricochets off the metal, bouncing back at me and knocking me backwards. So I swing it again, the last few years-worth of hate and hurt and torment firmly levied in my next attack. The blade lands heavy into the frame, a dull thud sounding in the air this time rather than the metal tang of the handle. I heave on the thing, sawing it back and forth to remove it.

  “What’s in here, Jack? Where the hell are you?” I scream out, years of anger suddenly pouring into my voice as I search for answers. Answers for what, I don’t know. Me probably, me and my pathetic response to Lewis’ hands coming at me. “Selma? Tell me what the hell you want from me.”