‘Follow me.’
Irene headed off down one of the wings and Ismael followed. Slowly, the light from the dome faded and they became aware of the swaying silhouettes of the mechanical creatures populating both sides of the corridor. Voices, laughter and the whirring of metal parts drowned out the sound of their steps. Ismael looked behind them once more, scanning the entrance to the tunnel as a gust of cold air blew towards them. Looking ahead, Ismael recognised the gauzy curtains fluttering in front of him, marked with the initial A.
‘I’m sure this is where he’s keeping her,’ said Irene.
Beyond the curtains, at the end of the corridor, stood the carved wooden door. It was closed.
A new breath of air enveloped them, stirring the gauzy veils.
Tense as a steel cable, Ismael froze, trying to discern something in the gloom.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Irene, sensing his apprehension.
Ismael opened his mouth to reply, but then stopped. Irene looked down the corridor behind them. There was a point of light at the end, but the rest was darkness.
‘It’s there,’ said Ismael. ‘Watching us.’
Irene drew close to him.
‘Can’t you feel it?’
‘Let’s not stay here, Ismael.’
He nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Irene took his hand and led him to the door at the end. Without saying a word, Ismael placed his hand on the knob and turned it slowly. The door yielded with a faint metal click and swung open on its hinges.
Irene advanced a few steps. An eerie blue mist filled the room. Everything was as she remembered it. The large portrait of Alma Maltisse presided over the fireplace and the fine silk curtains billowed gently around the four-poster bed. Ismael carefully closed the door and followed Irene, but then she stopped him. She pointed to an armchair facing the fireplace. They could see only the back of it, but from one of its arms hung a pale hand, drooping onto the floor.
Next to the hand, shiny fragments of a broken wine glass lay scattered in a pool of liquid. Irene let go of Ismael’s hand and crept towards the armchair. In the flickering light of the fire she could see a drowsy face: her mother.
Irene knelt down next to her and took her hand. For a few seconds she couldn’t find a pulse.
‘Oh God . . .’
Ismael rushed over to the desk and picked up a small silver tray. He ran to Simone and placed the tray in front of her face. A faint hint of breath clouded the surface. Irene heaved a deep sigh.
‘She’s alive,’ said Ismael, gazing at the unconscious face of the woman. She looked to him like a mature version of Irene.
‘We have to get her out of here. Help me.’
They stood on either side of Simone and, putting their arms around her, tried to lift her from the armchair.
They’d only managed to raise her a few centimetres when they heard a deep, chilling whisper from somewhere inside the room.
‘Let’s not waste any time,’ Irene urged.
Ismael attempted to lift Simone again, but this time the sound was much closer and he realised where it was coming from. The portrait. In an instant, the thin film covering the oil painting bulged out, forming a sheet of liquid darkness. As it gained substance, it unfolded two long arms ending in claws as sharp as daggers.
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sp; Ismael tried to move back, but the shadow jumped from the wall like a cat, leaping through the air and landing behind him. For a second, the only thing Ismael could see was his own shadow watching him. Then another form emerged from the shape, spreading over it until it had swallowed it completely. The boy could feel Simone’s body slipping from his arms. A powerful icy claw wrapped itself round his neck, then hurled him against the wall.
‘Ismael!’ shouted Irene.
The shadow turned towards her. She ran to the other end of the room, but the blackness at her feet closed about her, taking on the form of a deadly flower. She felt the chilling contact as it enveloped her body and numbed her muscles. Struggling hopelessly, she stared in horror as the dark mantle dropped from the ceiling and morphed into a familiar face – Hannah’s. The ghostly mask threw her a look full of hatred and its lips opened to reveal long fangs, wet and shining.
‘You’re not Hannah,’ said Irene, her voice tiny.
The shadow struck her, gashing her cheek. Instantly, the drops of blood from the wound were absorbed by it, as if it were drinking them in. Irene felt a wave of nausea. Brandishing two long, pointed fingers in front of her eyes, the shadow drew closer still.