CHAPTER 4 “Faces in the Mirror”
“Faces in the Mirror”
The door latches behind me with a soft click, too deliberate for comfort.
I remain still, listening. But it’s as if the silence inside the house is alive. Watching.
Pitch black darkness welcomes me as I step into the foyer, the floor beneath my boots creaking with every step. Groaning like a beast in pain. My skin pulses, my nerves going haywire as I descend into the dimly lit space.
The entrance hall rises around me like a cathedral built by forgotten hands.
The ceilings are impossibly high, ribbed with age-blackened beams that drip cobwebs like lace spun by the dead.
Faded tapestries hang limp on the walls: half-rotted scenes of saints and serpents, their woven faces worn smooth by time and dust. Ever so carefully, I stride further inside, treading lightly so as to not alert anyone of my presence.
My stomach grumbles, insides screaming to be fed.
“Dreaming of food won’t help you in this case, Elena,” I mutter under my breath. “Better go see if there’s something to eat.”
Frowning at myself for having a whole conversation out loud, I descend into the dusky hall. An audible gasp escapes me and my jaw drops to the floor at the spectacular sight that greets me.
An impressive open space reaches all the way to the top of one of the towers, its high walls decorated by enormous paintings spanning the entire length to the ornate ceiling.
Ones of forest beings and nymphs, others with bears dancing around a bonfire, the colors so vivid that it’s as if at any moment, the many creatures will come twirling out of the canvas and sweep me off my feet.
A grand staircase looms ahead, its banister claw-carved and glistening faintly with rot, absent of any carpeting.
The wood worn with age. Motes of dust dance in the air like ash, disturbed by a wind that doesn’t exist. A chandelier above sways ever so slightly, though there is no breeze.
Its crystals tinkle faintly: an eerie, delicate chime. Likes bones brushing in the dark.
And the walls... the walls breathe with the cold.
To my left, a corridor yawns open, swallowing the light. To my right, a parlor. Velvet drapes drawn shut, yet shadows move behind them. Something else fills the loud silence: a whisper—but not a voice, not words, no. Something older. Like the creak of time shifting in its grave.
The house doesn’t feel abandoned.
It feels...paused.
Held in place by some unseen hand, as though it has been waiting.
The air, it tastes of forgotten dreams and mildew. Beneath the layers of dust, the scent of rosewater lingers, clinging to the walls like a memory that refuses to die, but then the sweetest aroma attacks me as I stand gawking at the magnificent chamber.
Notes of thyme and paprika invade my nostrils, spreading over me, and I inhale as my lids lower, the delicious scent igniting the many receptors on my tongue as images of roasted boar and seasoned potatoes fill my mind.
My feet move, taking me to a lavishly furnished kitchen, with rich charcoal tinted cabinets and plates filled to the top with—
Food.
Impossible.
I stand still as a statue, gawking.
The kitchen is enormous, carved in more shadows and stone, its vaulted ceiling ribbed like the belly of a cathedral or some ancient temple.
Dark wooden beams stretch overhead, strung with dried herbs that crumble as the air stirs around me.
Dozens of candles, unsnuffed and burning low in twisted scones, cast a golden, flickering light that bleeds across every surface.
But it’s the food that draws my eye. And my unease.
A long, central table of polished blackwood groans beneath its burden.
Silver platters reflect the firelight like still water, heaped with feasts that should have rotted centuries ago: pheasant glistening with fig sauce, a juicy ham studded with cloves, bowls of sugared plums, and bread still warm enough to steam when torn.
A pear rolls lazily off a porcelain plate and thuds to the stone floor.
No dust.
No flies.
The room, unlike the rest of the house, is untouched by time.
Copper pots still hang in perfect rows above the grand hearth, their surfaces polished to a mirror sheen. The fire cracks low in the grate, though no one has tended it. A great black iron oven stands at the far wall, its doors ajar.
Inside, a pie still bakes.
Still baking.
I can smell the cinnamon. The dark, rich fruit, the buttery crust. Just beginning to crisp. And yet, the windows are dark with grime. The corners of the ceiling are webbed with long, thick strands of cobwebs.
Everything should be dead here.
I approach the table, drawn by fascination and dread.
My fingers hover over a wine goblet. The liquid inside ripples gently, as if disturbed from within, but I don’t touch it.
I shouldn’t touch it, and yet something urges me to act brash.
To foolishly believe in whatever illusion of safety has been cleverly laid out before me.
The kitchen is still. Too still.
Too expectant.
A feast has been laid. But for who? What guests, when there is no one here but me?
I shake my head, still doubting my own sense of wrongness that is soon overshadowed by renewed awe and my ever growing hunger when I spot a nearby tray of meat overflowing with carrots and lamb chops.
As if on cue, my stomach grumbles, agreeing with the foolish idea that’s already taken root in my mind.
“So much food, I suppose the owner won’t mind if I have some.”
A plate of carbonara draws my attention. I go to it, suspiciously inhaling the mixture of parmesan and prosciutto coating the home made pasta. I grimace as I imagine the heart burn that would sure torture me until the early morning should I even attempt to consume such a hearty meal.
A second tray filled to the brim with glazed ribs and sweet peas stands not too far away, its meaty aroma dissolving into the air. I lean in, sniffing the food, then frown at the endless streams of honey I see dripping from a piece of meat.
A third bowl of beef broth with vegetables and potatoes draws my eye, the portion appearing fitting for my stature and healthy appetite. Excited, I go to grab a chair, and suddenly I’m feeling like Goldilocks from the classic children’s tale.
Snorting at the comparison, I try pushing the piece of furniture, but to no avail.
“Why the hell is this thing so heavy?”
I go to push it again, but it’s no use, as if the entire thing is made from a ton of bricks. Immediately, my overactive mind is conjuring up images of some giant plopping down on it as he devours stray travelers that wander uninvited into his ostentatious abode.
A smaller wooden chair leaning against the wall catches my eye, and I hurry over to it, inspecting the impeccable handiwork and finally having decided that it will do, I pull it over to the table.
A loaded stretch of silence passes while I stare down at my plate. The warmth of the kitchen settles around me like a velvet noose, and the food—the food beckons me. Not just with the delicious scent, but with something deeper. An invitation.
My stomach twists. Not with fear, but hunger.
I haven’t eaten since morning, maybe longer. It’s hard to tell now, in this place where time has no weight.
The silence stretches on, and it feels as if the stone walls and the dark wood, no, the house itself, is listening. Holding its breath.
Waiting for me to take a bite.
“For Christ’s sake,” I grumble out loud, snatching up the spoon. “This is ridiculous.”
I begin to eat, practically inhaling the warm stew in a matter of seconds, and before I know it, the bottom of the bowl is staring back up at me.
I lean back, patting my stomach that’s filled to the point of bursting, and just before true satisfaction can overcome me, something wet and slimy slides out of my mouth.
Shards of ice lock me in place as I feel said something slither up my cheek, right before an elongated fat form appears in my field of vision and inches closer to the corner of my eye, as if trying to crawl into the very socket.
I scream, spitting and hysterically smacking myself across the face as I try to rid myself of whatever the hell it is—and fail to realize that I’ve leaned too far back.
Not until the chair groans under me.
“Oh, shit—”
My feet lift off the floor. My arms fly out, flapping in the air like some chicken in a hopeless attempt to keep myself upright, but the chair tips back as my weight tilts the delicate balance.
I find myself sprawled out on the kitchen tiles, the once cozy piece of furniture shattered to countless bits under me.
“Oh, no...”
I bolt upright, the worm that’s slithered out of my mouth and its corporal absence completely forgotten about and replaced with concern when I see the absolute mess I’ve made, and the current disheveled state of the kitchen.
It looks like a fucking warzone.
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no.”
I spin, taking in the muddy footprints painting the once pristine tiles and the chunks of wood that lie in tatters all over the floor.
“Shit.” I glance around, frantically trying to find something to mop up the mud with, but I’m left disappointed and desperate and oh so miserable as I fail to see any rags lying around.
“What do I do? Think, Elena. Think.”
A sudden idea pops into my head as I peek down at my clothes– at my shredded and thoroughly soaked clothes.
“Well, there goes that.”
I sigh, rubbing my temples.
Fatigue and heavy chills overtake me. Violent tremors shake my entire frame as I stand in the middle of the deserted room.
“You should probably take these things off and put on something dry, Elena,” I ramble on to myself.
The way I’ve always done ever since I was a little girl.
Hearing my own voice has always brought a sense of peace to me, and it’s no different now, as I stand in this half dream state of warped reality.
“Wouldn’t want yourself catching a cold, on top of everything else that seems to have gone horribly wrong. ”
I rip the multiple layers off, peeling them from my body like coats of paint until I’m standing in my drenched lace underwear, the necklace that was in my coat pocket only a moment ago, now hanging from my neck.
“Oh, no,” I repeat for the hundredth fucking time since getting off that wretched train.
My leather travel bag: I left it in the forest.
My nostrils flare as I inhale slowly, begging my brain to start functioning at a somewhat tolerable capacity.
“Great job, Elena. Just fabulous.”
So much for being a revered historian with a brilliant mind.
I smack my head. Think, Elena! Think! And pace back and forth. I’d be certifiably insane to go back out into the woods to retrieve my belongings in nothing but my underwear, especially not in this weather.
Especially when I don’t know what could be hiding out there, amongst the trees.
“Oh, stop it. There’s nothing out there. Nothing but leaves and broken branches and—” A bolt of lightning flashes through the murky glass followed by a resonating boom of thunder, causing me to jump back and disregard the newest wild idea that has already begun to form.
Taking my bundle of ruined clothes, I search the place.
My eyes land on a fireplace with a cheerful fire burning bright in its hearth, its flames beckoning me to come closer.
Urging me to ignore my gut feeling that’s screaming at me that there shouldn’t be an active fire in an abandoned mansion.
Enticing me, until I find myself standing in front of the flames, unable to look away.
My lids feel heavy, the cold that has seeped into my bones finally taking its toll on me. A mirror speckled by time stands above the fireplace. Shadows dance across it. Shadows that could easily be mistaken for faces.
My gaze flies up.
My reflection stares back at me.
It was only my imagination.
The fire in the hearth grows higher, its light pulsing like a heartbeat.
An elongated plush sofa with enormous pillows covering it appears in my periphery, and in a matter of seconds I find myself standing before it, not even remembering when or how I got there.
The garments fall from my arms as all strength leaves me, and I throw myself onto the cushions.
In no time at all, my fingers are pulling a down filled duvet over my trembling body.
“I’ll just rest for a bit, no one will ever know...”
I trail off, eyes glazing over as I descend into sweet oblivion, only my dreams and the paprika scented air keeping me company.