Chapter 3. Lorena #2
The first is of a mustached man with pale white skin, black hair, and silver eyes.
The second is of a bald man with coal-black skin who also has silver eyes.
They look like they’re from the eighteenth century in their woven vests with cravats and waistcoats.
There’s an ageless quality to their faces that makes me think of Director Minaro, like they could be anywhere between thirty and sixty years old.
“These paintings are older than this manor, probably older than daguerreotypes,” says Zach, studying them closely. “I think the paper is vellum.”
“What’s vellum?” asks Tiffany.
“Calfskin.”
The third portrait features a guy dressed in similar fashion to the others, only he looks younger, closer to our age. Instead of looking straight ahead, he’s in profile and staring at the ground. He’s undeniably handsome, with a sharp jawline, straight nose, and windswept black hair.
He kind of reminds me of how I’ve always pictured Mr. Darcy.
“Are these sketchbooks?” asks Tiffany, holding a text open in her hands. “Or unlined journals?”
I see that Salma and Trevor are also flipping through books, and I ask, “What’s going on?”
“They’re all blank,” says Salma with a frustrated exhale. “I don’t get it.”
“Maybe they’re planning to hand these out to us tomorrow,” says Zach, picking one up. “For our assignments.”
“Then why did they tell us to bring our own notebooks?” I ask as I peruse a text with a purple cover. The leather binding is immaculate, like it’s never been touched. I leaf through the thick pages, but there isn’t a drop of ink anywhere.
“If anyone finds anything, call it out,” says Trevor as he picks up a green book.
We’re quiet for a while, the only sound in the space the turning of pages.
“Can I get some help with this?” asks Salma after what feels like hours but could have just been minutes. Tiffany bounds over before I can even set down the book I’m holding.
I’ve already gone through dozens of texts, but Trevor is still thumbing through the same green book, carefully inspecting it page by page. “Anything good in there?” I ask.
He looks up like I’ve startled him. “Just being cautious,” he says.
There’s a snap of fabric, and I turn to see that Salma and Tiffany have removed one of the tarps, revealing a leather love seat that releases a whiff of a sour and moldy odor. They plop down on the cushion, and the backrest leans back automatically.
A footrest pops up, elevating their legs, and they shriek in unison as both armrests open and metal arms shoot out, with candle holders and metal fingers.
“Whoa,” says Salma.
The three of us approach for a closer inspection, and Tiffany tells Zach, “Pass me a book.” When he hands her one, she nestles it in the metal fingers. They hold the pages up at head level for her to read.
“What is this?” asks Trevor, while Zach captures it with his camera.
Salma grins at me. “If you had this chair, you’d never leave your room again.” Then she leaps to her feet and approaches another piece of furniture, eager to keep unwrapping surprises.
This time, she pulls off the tarp on her own, uncovering what looks like a low wooden storage bench with metal latches and an oxidized lock. The whole thing looks ancient.
“What’s that?” asks Tiffany.
I hear Sal’s sharp intake of breath, and it’s only then that I register the hexagonal shape and black cross on the side.
I take a horrified step back.
“A coffin,” I whisper.
I don’t know how long we all stand and stare. It starts to feel like we’re giving the coffin a moment of silence.
“Let’s open it.”
Salma’s voice penetrates the quiet. This is what she does when she feels vulnerable—she overcompensates by pretending everything is a joke.
“Let’s not,” I say.
“There’s a lock,” Tiffany points out.
“We can probably break it!” Salma moves forward like she’s going to do it. “What are you afraid of—?”
“NO!”
Trevor’s shout makes us all jump. He’s still holding the green book, and his eyes are wide with actual fear.
“Okay, let’s calm down,” says Zach, his voice tight. “It’s probably empty.”
I move closer to Salma. I want to get her out of here before the adrenaline recedes and leaves sadness in its wake. I also really need to use the bathroom and change my pad. “It’s late,” I say, speaking only to her. “Why don’t we—?”
A thump sound cuts me off, and Zach leaps back, knocking into me. I fall to the floor, scraping my palm on the stone hard enough to draw blood.
“Did that thing just move?” whispers Tiffany as Salma pulls me to my feet.
Zach says, “Let’s just—”
Then the metal lock goes flying as the coffin’s lid blasts open.
Our screams pierce the air as we run.
We’re forced to funnel single file into the tunnel, and Trevor makes it there first, followed by Salma, Zach, and Tiffany. I plunge into the darkness after them, but I feel a sharp tug on my hoodie, like the fabric snagged on something.
I glance back to see where it’s caught—and horror hardens my blood to ice.
I part my lips to scream, but a chilly hand covers my mouth, and I’m dragged back to the basement, then slammed into the wall.
Pain burns in the back of my skull, and as my blurry vision clears, a face swims before me.
The guy is as pale as a corpse. He’s tall, with a mane of black hair that’s wild and unkempt, and he’s dressed in some ridiculous vintage costume. Yet something about his blade-sharp features looks familiar, and my eyes widen—
The teen guy from the portrait.
His hand is a vise across my lips, and I can’t speak. Yet he’s not looking at my face. His gaze is tipped down, transfixed on my bloody hand.
His mouth starts to widen in what looks like a smile …
Until a pair of pointy fangs slides out.