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“Let’s go inside and find him.” She gave me a warm, reassuring smile.
“Yeah,” I said, and headed back toward the front of the building.
We climbed the steps together. Imogen reached for the door handle. Her fingers brushed the knob. The door creaked open. It hadn’t been locked, or even closed properly. I tried not to take that as a bad sign.
Everything was going to be fine. Silas was waiting for me to rescue him, that was all. He wasn’t harmed. He was totally and completely fine.
“Hello?” Imogen called out.
I startled at the sound. I put my finger over my lips and shot her a look that I hoped conveyed be-quiet-idiot-or-the-bad-guy-will-know-we’re-coming. She shot me a look back that said fine-I’ll-be-quiet-but-sheesh-you-don’t-have-to-be-so-harsh-about-it. There was an entire language to be spoken between bouncing eyebrows, squinting, and scowls.
Silas had taught me the language of scowls.
I gestured for Imogen to follow and crept down the hall. She stuck with me, one step back, and always by my side. There were no doors down the corridor before we came to a T. The sign on the wall readMuseum,and pointed to the right. In the other direction was likely Kurnbottom’s private quarters.
I looked to Imogen who shrugged back at me instead of offering an opinion. I chose to check the museum first. We turned right and followed a twisting corridor to an open room with unadorned wood paneled walls. There were no displays, no anything but a single white table in the center of the room.
Imogen leaned in and whispered, “This isn’t much of a museum. It’s only the one, empty room.”
Edwina Aldea had talked about the museum, as had Kurnbottom. No one else in town knew it existed, seemingly because it didn’t. So why did Aldea believe it did? Why would shelend her most prized possession to Kurnbottom? Why would she trust him? I was still missing something.
I approached the table, to be sure nothing was there.
Deep red stains covered the white table top. Tightness crept across my shoulders and up my neck. The stains weren’t fresh. The color had seeped deep into the wood in layers of use, all months or years old.
“I hope that’s strawberry syrup,” Imogen whispered.
It wasn’t.
I’d seen enough bloody messes to know there was nothing else this could be. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that none of the stains were fresh enough to belong to Silas.
I checked the walls in case for any hidden doors or anything else of interest. There was nothing. I headed back into the hall and down the path we had not yet explored.
There was a kitchen, covered in dust. The sink was full of grimy dishes so old and crusted together they appeared to have been sitting there for years. A tiny table sat in the corner, with no chairs.
Beyond the kitchen was a small room with a fireplace and a beanbag chair. The seating was a strange choice for anyone above the age of ten, let alone a man over one hundred. This room did appear to be used, as it was less dusty, and a fire flickered in the hearth.
Kurnbottom was here, somewhere, no question.
At the end of the sitting area was a staircase. I poked Imogen in the shoulder and pointed. She nodded.
On the third step, the wood whined beneath my foot. I cringed at the sound and paused. I listened to see if we’d been caught. The fire crackled. Imogen sucked in a sharp breath. There were no other sounds.
I adjusted to stick more to the side of the stairwell the rest of the way, testing every step before putting any weight on it, and pausing to listen.
The natural light coming through the windows waned, seemingly as if the sun had decided to fully set as we reached the top of the stairs. Yet the large, open room we found ourselves in had no windows at all. I blinked quickly for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.
In the center of the room was a mattress on the floor with no pillows or blankets.
Imogen leaned in and whispered, “I don’t know how anyone could actually live in this place.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Across the room was a single door. We approached slowly, cautiously.
Imogen grabbed onto my elbow. She was trembling. I squeezed her shoulder, hoping it would help.
We made it to the door. I reached out and turned the handle. Light blazed through the darkness—flashing, strobing, blinding.
