Chapter 51 Salome
Salome
The path to breakfast is lonely. For a moment, I wonder if I’m the only soul awake and wandering the halls.
Once I make it to the archway of the kitchen, though, the manor is full of life.
My friend’s laughter carries out into the hall, temporarily relieving me from the memory of last night’s dream.
Time slips by, and it’s past noon before I realize we’ve moved from the kitchen to the parlor and Larkin still hasn’t joined us.
When everyone drifts to individual conversations, I excuse myself to head back to the room.
Somehow, the hallways feel longer, stretching and twisting like my memory of them has been warped.
The floorboards hum under my feet, as if there’s a giant machine whirling below.
Old houses have furnaces in the basement, I remind myself, but the house still feels like it could come alive and devour me at any moment.
Maybe I have cabin fever. That’s a thing, right?
Something crackles in the library, startling me out of my walking daydream.
Maybe Larkin is out of bed and decided to read instead of socialize—it wouldn’t be unlike her, especially given the company.
I pop my head in the doorway, expecting to see her sprawled across the chair with her face buried in a book.
Instead, I find the room empty, even though flames dance in the fireplace and a book lies open on the chair.
“Lark,” I call, like maybe she’s hiding in the room somewhere.
When no one replies, I venture further inside, deciding to wait and see if she’ll return.
I lift the book, curious to see what she’s been reading all day.
The open page contains a strange poem, and as I read it, the blood drains from my face.
The Tale of Screaming Silvey
Don’t go into the woods alone
When the clouds cover the moon
And the wolf howls its lonesome tone
The embers glow beyond the trees
But this plea you must heed
Unless you’re soon ready to see
The ghost of Screaming Silvey
The train whistles in the night
Against the flames she screams and fights
You’ll bear witness to her plight
And if you haven’t listened to this song
It won’t take long for you to learn
What it is to burn
I drop the book like it’s burning my hands, and it crashes to the floor. The fire suddenly pops, spitting out glowing embers. I can’t get out of there fast enough, rushing towards the door. My legs don’t stop moving until I’m in the hallway, and I lean against the wall to catch my breath.
Screaming Silvey? Is that the woman from the portrait? All the pieces fall into place the more I think about it—the painting, the dream, the poem. We have to get out of here, or at least out of our room.