Chapter 22: 25. The Closet

Pak

(Grandmother’s House)

 

I know the upstairs hallway well. I am a child, sneaking about like a thief.

So far, I have glimpsed the insides of four of these rooms, each one its own unique microcosm of colors, odors and objects. I have discovered journals and pens, jewelry and gowns, toy chests and music boxes. I hear a watch’s rhythmic ticking, a clock’s compelling tock. Grandmother’s room never opens, nor does the one across from it, nor does the seventh, the one without a portrait.

Tonight, though…

 

ba-dum. ba-dum. ba-dum.

 

My tiny hand tugs the handle. It clicks. The seventh door swings open with a long, mournful creeeeee…

Specks of dust float in the air, jostled loose by the door, backlit by the moonlight leaking in through the curtain’s crack. The covers sprawl across the bed like ocean waves. The chair is scooted away from the little table, as if someone just stood up from it, but a thick, dusty film covers its cold, paint-chipped wood. The desk-mirror reflects a single bottle, half-filled with black ink. A brittle feather lined with brown spines pokes out of it, all alone.

My legs move towards the bed, urged by some unseen pressure to clamber up the red sheets, though I’m barely tall enough to hoist myself up. The comforter hugs me, eliciting a hum and a whimper. I rest my face on the pillow’s cool, silky surface, letting it soothe my cheek. It’s softer than anything I could imagine.

My hand brushes a cold, damp spot. I flinch. It reeks of Grandmother’s perfume. I scramble off the edge of the bed. She was here, she was just here… But she’s gone, for now. The house’s blood is still, pooling in its foundation.

I toddle to the desk and peek over the edge. A yellow sheet of paper, frail and thin, rests like fresh snow on its surface. Symbols shimmer across it, like the ones etched into the metal plates below the paintings, but these are small, scrawled in rows. It feels as if they want to crawl into my head, but the way they shift and morph makes my stomach lurch…

I turn away, stumbling onto a fluffy white rug. It stretches over the room’s center like a moonlit pool, tickling my toes as I drift to the other side. The wall folds in on itself, one section collapsed like a paper fan, leaving a space just big enough for me to squeeze through. I brush past the zigzag door, and it squeaks, just slightly, as its tiny wheels struggle against the groove set into the floor. It leads to a dark, musty closet. Rows of clothes hang from bars that span the length of the ceiling, like meat hung on hooks in a butchery. My eyes dart to a wooden box in the corner, hidden behind a white dress. I didn’t notice it. It’s almost like it noticed me, begging for my attention.

From inside the box, something glows red. It pulses with the heartbeat in my head, a little quicker than before…

 

ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum

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