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“Then we take this day by day,” he says simply, then turns and heads back to the foyer, leaving me behind. “Come,” —his voice travels behind him—“I will have someone bring dinner to your room. Rest will help more than you realize.”
It’s a kind gesture, but the unease creeping up my legs does not dissipate. The house feels like it is listening. Whatever laid in the dark was holding its breath, readying itself to attack at any moment. My fingers itch with the need for a weapon.
I survey the surroundings again as I catch up to him.The house remains silent as Dr. Lazarus leads the way up the grand staircase and to the upper hallways. We hadn’t secured the rooms up here. But I don’t ask why. I will be out of here soon.
As we pad through the halls, Dr. Lazarus is pensive, that storm-like intensity returning to his features. When we reach my door, he nods once and then leaves without ceremony. Looking at his retreating figure, he reminds me of a ferryman, escorting the dead across the river Styx, with a few more human qualities.
And I hate to admit, the precise ritual of the house was intriguing and—fun? I stand there for a moment, hand on the latch, wondering if I should run. It was wild to already be smitten with a place, but here I am. It was a great landing spot for someone of my circumstances.
There is nowhere to go but the sea.
Eventually I push the door open and collapse onto the bed. The pillows are stuffed with airy feathers, the sheets smell of a sweet flower, and I inhale deeply, anchoring myself to the tangible.
Did I want to sleep? It was the only thing I could think of to do, yet sleep feels too close to that dark place. I am alive, awake. And I didn’t want to step foot into that shadowed world again.
Blowing a feather from my face, I roll off the bed and wander to an armchair by the hearth and curl into it. The flames lick the stone, their warmth pricking at my cold fingers. Staring into the fire, my thoughts slow then drift and I sink into a hypnotic state watching the fire twist into shapes that almost resemble faces.What happens to a person when they lose their mind? Do their memories ever come back to them? Or should I settle with the truth that I’ll likely be filled with an emptiness for the foreseeable future? Maybe if I reconciled with this now I would be okay.
A loud knock startles me from my ruminations. Before I can rise, the door opens and an older woman steps in carrying a silver tray. She keeps her gaze fixed on the food, not quite looking at me. The tray rattles slightly in her hands.
“Hi,” I whisper. Who is she?
“I suspect you are a vegetarian,” she says in a clipped voice. “The meals we tried before did not agree with you. This should be gentler on the stomach.” She sets the tray down with more force than necessary. Soup sloshes in its bowl.
“Thank you. I am very grateful for your hospitality,” I say, hoping to coax her eyes to mine. They do, briefly, then dart away.
“Goodnight. Breakfast will be in the kitchen. If you don’t come down, I will bring it to you.” She turns and leaves without offering a name.
I look over the tray. Soup, fresh greens, a jug of water that rocks gently from her earlier movement. The swaying liquid reminds me of the sea. Calm one second, menacing the next. My gaze locks onto the movement and my mind begins to fog, that drifting sensation tugging at me again.
A memory rises, sudden and strong. I am in a valley surrounded by towering trees. The sky is overcast. I lie on a blanket, the air heavy with the scent of pine. A dog hops onto the fabric and curls at my feet. Up ahead, a tall man walks toward me, his features blurred by the low sun. Broad shoulders. Tousled hair. Something in me lifts at the sight of him.
Then the scene snaps away, leaving only the ache of its loss.
What happened to me? I shake the feeling and reach for my food. The soup is rich and warm, heavy with herbs and comfort. I devour it, then the greens, until the hunger finally loosens its hold.
Maybe staying the night won’t hurt.
After I’m done, I get up and trace a path along the wall and discover a small hallway that leads to another door. My hand trembles as I reach for the knob. The door opens on a soft creak.
A small library unfolds before me. Leather bound tomes line dark shelves, papers strewn about the floor or tacked against the wall, and a scattering of paperbacks breaks the messy pattern.
Moonlight streams through stained glass, bathing everything in muted colors of silver and blue.
In the center of the room rests a velvet chaise lounge draped with neatly folded blankets. A single leather book sits open on the seat, its pages upright like someone had thrown it aside and forgotten about it. Beside the chaise lounge is a small table with a single candle and a box of matches. Reaching for the small matches, I strike one and breathe life into the candle wick.
Under the warm glow I see that the book is filled with handwritten pages, beautiful looping script sprawling across most of them.
Before the chaise is yet another hearth. Cold, but ready. I kneel, stack wood, and coax a flame into animation. The action, strangely ingrained. Soon the fire snaps and crackles, flooding the room with golden light. It strikes me odd that a house of this size in this modern age still leans so heavily on outdated practices. No electrical switches nor the modern comfort of a simple lamp.
As with the other rooms, the shadows seem to flit by, plastering themselves to the stone walls. Were there passageways behind these walls? Could there be skeletons?
Ignoring the unease the thought brings, I sink onto the chaise and slip beneath the blanket. Heat seeps into my bones and my muscles loosen. Soon the world outside the flames feels far away.
I flip to the first page of the leather book, then to the last. The final pages are mostly blank, save for a single line written in that same steady hand.
Words are the only thing that traverse heaven and hell. Heed its warnings.
A shiver travels through my frame as I stare at the sentences.
