The Watcher in the Shadows (Niebla 3)

Ismael nodded, his eyes glued to the figure of the toymaker, who was walking towards the wood, and towards them. Irene gave Ismael a panicked look. The boy let out a sigh and looked anxiously around him. They could hear the sound of Lazarus’s footsteps approaching. Ismael grabbed Irene’s arm and pushed her inside the dead tree trunk.

‘Quickly!’ he whispered.

Inside, the trunk smelled strongly of damp and rot. Irene felt an unpleasant tingling in her stomach. Two metres above them, she noticed a line of tiny luminous points. Eyes. She was about to scream when Ismael clamped his hand over her mouth and held it firmly shut.

‘They’re only bats, for heaven’s sake! Don’t move!’ he hissed as Lazarus passed by.

Ismael wisely kept his gag in place until the footsteps of Cravenmoore’s master had faded away inside the forest. The invisible wings of the bats flapped in the dark. Irene felt the air wafting against her face and smelled the sour stench of the animals.

‘I thought you weren’t afraid of bats,’ said Ismael. ‘Come on.’

Irene followed him through the garden, heading towards the rear of the house. With every step she took, she kept telling herself that there was nobody inside and that the sensation of being watched was just a figment of her imagination.

They reached the wing connected to Lazarus’s old toy factory and stopped in front of the door of what looked like a workshop. Ismael took out a penknife and flicked open the blade. He then inserted the tip of the knife in the lock and carefully touched the mechanism inside.

‘Move to one side. I need more light.’

Irene stepped back and peered into the darkness that reigned inside the toy factory. The windowpanes were dulled from years of neglect and it was practically impossible to make out anything inside the building.

‘Come on, come on,’ Ismael whispered to himself as he continued to work on the lock.

Irene watched him and tried not to listen to the voice inside her warning that it was not a good idea to break into someone else’s property. Finally, the mechanism yielded with an almost inaudible click. A smile lit up Ismael’s face as the door opened a couple of centimetres.

‘Piece of cake,’ he said.

‘Hurry,’ said Irene. ‘Lazarus won’t be away for long.’

Ismael stepped inside. Taking a deep breath, Irene followed him. The atmosphere was thick with dust, which floated in the moonlight. The smell of various chemicals permeated the air. Ismael closed the door behind them and they both turned to face what remained of Lazarus Jann’s toy factory.

‘I can’t see a thing,’ mumbled Irene, repressing the urge to leave the place as soon as possible.

‘We have to wait for our eyes to get used to the dark. It won’t take long,’ Ismael replied without much conviction.

The seconds went by, yet the darkness cloaking Lazarus’s factory didn’t fade. Irene was trying to work out which direction to go in when she noticed a figure rising a few metres away.

A spasm of terror gripped her stomach.

‘Ismael, there’s someone here . . .’ she said, clutching his arm.

Ismael scanned the darkness and held his breath. A figure was suspended in the air, its arms outstretched. It was swinging slightly, like a pendulum, and its long hair snaked over its shoulders. With shaking hands, Ismael felt around in his jacket pocket and pulled out a box of matches. He lit one and for a second they were blinded by the flame. Irene held on to him tightly.

Seconds later, the vision that unfolded sent a wave of intense cold through Irene. Before her, swinging in the flickering light of the match, was her mother’s body, han

ging from the ceiling, her arms reaching out. Irene thought her knees would give away. Ismael held her.

‘Oh God . . .’

The figure slowly turned, revealing the other side of its features. Cables and cogs caught the faint light; the face was divided into two halves and only one of them was finished.

‘It’s a machine, only a machine,’ said Ismael, trying to calm Irene down.

Irene stared at the macabre replica of Simone. Her features. The colour of her eyes, her hair. Every mark on her skin, every line on her face had been reproduced on this expressionless, spine-chilling mask.

‘What’s going on here?’ she murmured.

Ismael pointed to what looked like a door leading into the main house at the other end of the workshop.

‘This way,’ he said, dragging Irene away from that place and the figure dangling in mid-air.