Iâd found these facts peculiar at first, but it is amazing what you can get used to when your reality requires it.
Presently we emerged from the wall of fog to find ourselves on the quiet main street of Spektor, where a light mist clung to the old buildings. We passed Haroldâs Grocer, which was open day and night, and pulled up at Number One Addams Avenue, a large mansion in the heart of the suburb.
Home spooky home.
Vlad opened the door for me and I stepped out, clutching my satchel. âThanks so much,â I said.
Vlad was perhaps a full foot taller than me and I found myself staring at him for a moment. His face was pale, placid and expressionless . He is so still , I observed. If he breathed, I couldnât tell. In the reflection of his dark sunglasses I could see that the sun was starting to set, its radiance filtered through layers of light mist.
âWell, um, thanks again,â I said awkwardly and scurried towards the big iron gates at the front door.
I had perhaps twenty minutes.
N umber One Addams Avenue was built in the 1880s in neo-Gothic style. It towered over the other buildings of Spektor, its embellished arches, turrets and spikes stretching up to the sky. In time, the stonework of the great mansion had faded to stained variations of grey, but the imposing nature of the building remained. It stood a proud five storeys high and took up most of a small city block. Designed by the infamous Victorian-era architect and psychical researcher Dr Edmund Barrett, it was said to house twisting passageways and a hidden laboratory where many mysterious experiments had taken place before Dr Barrettâs untimely death. It was clear the mansion had seen better days, but though the windows on the middle floors were boarded up, giving it a slightly abandoned air, it would be wrong to assume those floors were uninhabited.
Soon those who slept beyond those covered windows would wake.
Given the opportunity, it was advisable to get home before this occurred. My timing was good.
I slid my house key into the lock, and after a murmured word of encouragement, managed to open the heavy wooden front door. The entry lobby always seemed to have a tomblike chill and I pulled my collar close as I stepped inside. Perhaps it would warm up a bit come summer? There was little doubt this entry area would have once been grand. It boasted a high ceiling, beautiful tilework and a lift encased in an intricate â if broken â cage of ironwork. A circular staircase to one side snaked up to a mezzanine floor, barred by a large door I had not yet managed to open. Above me, the large lobby chandelier was impressive, though it hung askew, draped in layers of cobwebs and dust.
At the sight of it I rolled my eyes.
Iâd lost count of the number of times Iâd taken out my great-auntâs ladder and straightened that chandelier. How many times had I dusted it and carefully wiped down the heavy, tear-shaped crystals? There had to be a draft somewhere, pushing the dust around. It was disappointing, but never mind.
Schraaack.
I took a step across the lobby and stopped.
Thrrrraaaaaaack.
There it was again. Iâd heard those sounds before, always in the lobby. Was it something beneath the floor? A kind of movement? A trick of acoustics? I couldnât identify the source of the noise and it seemed that every time I stopped to concentrate on it, the house grew quiet again. Like it knew that I was listening. But tonight was special and precious time was passing, I reminded myself. I made my way towards the old-fashioned lift, my heels clicking on the tiles. The elevator was waiting for me on the lobby floor and as soon as I pushed the call button, the doors opened with a squeak. I didnât hear any weird noises from the lift, and I didnât want to think about them for the moment anyway. Mind firmly on the evening ahead, I took the elevator to the top floor, watching the dusty landings pass as I went.
Presently we emerged from the wall of fog to find ourselves on the quiet main street of Spektor, where a light mist clung to the old buildings. We passed Haroldâs Grocer, which was open day and night, and pulled up at Number One Addams Avenue, a large mansion in the heart of the suburb.
Home spooky home.
Vlad opened the door for me and I stepped out, clutching my satchel. âThanks so much,â I said.
Vlad was perhaps a full foot taller than me and I found myself staring at him for a moment. His face was pale, placid and expressionless . He is so still , I observed. If he breathed, I couldnât tell. In the reflection of his dark sunglasses I could see that the sun was starting to set, its radiance filtered through layers of light mist.
âWell, um, thanks again,â I said awkwardly and scurried towards the big iron gates at the front door.
I had perhaps twenty minutes.
N umber One Addams Avenue was built in the 1880s in neo-Gothic style. It towered over the other buildings of Spektor, its embellished arches, turrets and spikes stretching up to the sky. In time, the stonework of the great mansion had faded to stained variations of grey, but the imposing nature of the building remained. It stood a proud five storeys high and took up most of a small city block. Designed by the infamous Victorian-era architect and psychical researcher Dr Edmund Barrett, it was said to house twisting passageways and a hidden laboratory where many mysterious experiments had taken place before Dr Barrettâs untimely death. It was clear the mansion had seen better days, but though the windows on the middle floors were boarded up, giving it a slightly abandoned air, it would be wrong to assume those floors were uninhabited.
Soon those who slept beyond those covered windows would wake.
Given the opportunity, it was advisable to get home before this occurred. My timing was good.
I slid my house key into the lock, and after a murmured word of encouragement, managed to open the heavy wooden front door. The entry lobby always seemed to have a tomblike chill and I pulled my collar close as I stepped inside. Perhaps it would warm up a bit come summer? There was little doubt this entry area would have once been grand. It boasted a high ceiling, beautiful tilework and a lift encased in an intricate â if broken â cage of ironwork. A circular staircase to one side snaked up to a mezzanine floor, barred by a large door I had not yet managed to open. Above me, the large lobby chandelier was impressive, though it hung askew, draped in layers of cobwebs and dust.
At the sight of it I rolled my eyes.
Iâd lost count of the number of times Iâd taken out my great-auntâs ladder and straightened that chandelier. How many times had I dusted it and carefully wiped down the heavy, tear-shaped crystals? There had to be a draft somewhere, pushing the dust around. It was disappointing, but never mind.
Schraaack.
I took a step across the lobby and stopped.
Thrrrraaaaaaack.
There it was again. Iâd heard those sounds before, always in the lobby. Was it something beneath the floor? A kind of movement? A trick of acoustics? I couldnât identify the source of the noise and it seemed that every time I stopped to concentrate on it, the house grew quiet again. Like it knew that I was listening. But tonight was special and precious time was passing, I reminded myself. I made my way towards the old-fashioned lift, my heels clicking on the tiles. The elevator was waiting for me on the lobby floor and as soon as I pushed the call button, the doors opened with a squeak. I didnât hear any weird noises from the lift, and I didnât want to think about them for the moment anyway. Mind firmly on the evening ahead, I took the elevator to the top floor, watching the dusty landings pass as I went.