House of Mirrors - Chapter Five

It was precisely two weeks after acquiring the key that I finally allowed myself to be drawn back to that wounded door on the third floor. Mr. Heckley’s return could not have been any more timely, appearing silently and surreptitiously at the doorstep merely moments after my exit from the study – so extreme was my luck! His face as pale and gaunt as ever, his black coat whipping and writhing around him in the wind; I was promptly reminded of a ghost returned from the grave. Standing there before him, the stolen key burning a hole in my pocket, I knew I would have to wait awhile before furthering my investigations. After all that had happened there was a blunt rawness that clung to the air, infecting every corner of No. 7 St. Catherine’s Street. It was not the time to go snooping about; things had to settle.

Needless to say, I was not particularly keen on staying in such close quarters with Mr. Heckley and so, making sure to check with his poor wife, I managed to slip out most days without so much as a word from the man. There was, of course, another reason why I was so eager to keep my distance. Every morning I woke in fear of Mr. Heckley discovering my act of thievery. Some nights I even dreamed of waking to his stormy rage, a flash of fork-blue lightning illuminating his beastly silhouette, a crescendo of thunder matching his terrible roar. I was so sure of my demise and yet there was no sign of his knowing. Many times I considered returning the key but didn’t, simply for the same reason I did not use the wretched thing.

Between those nights of crippling worry I joined Ezrella in a series of small adventures, the first of which was my learning how to fish. Hours were spent casting my line into the river, again and again, but to no avail. To tackle my dismay Ezrella drew from her abundant collection of stories to tell, passing the time delightfully in spite of the absence of a catch. Most of our discussion, however, was focused around the golden key (which I had hidden beneath my cupboard for safe keeping) and what I may find once that door was unlocked. She begged for her to join me, musing on a possible Darnell case discovery, but we both knew well that it was not worth the risk. Admittedly, I too had made the same curious connection. Was it not possible that some sorry souvenir of that bleak time remained in the house? And if so, what better place than behind that very locked door?

It was near sundown when my line suddenly twitched enticingly. Grabbing hold of the fishing-rod I followed Ezrella’s directions as she yelled gleefully, hopping up and down the riverbank in excitement. With considerable ease I reeled in my first and only catch of the day. It was a tiny trout barely worth keeping, and yet I rejoiced, considering those long hours a success and a triumph.

Now sitting rigidly at the edge of my bed, straining hard to hear any small sign of wakeful movement, I tried to determine when best to venture up those stairs for a second time. The moon was clear and bright against a charcoal sky, easily visible from my window. Brilliant clusters of stars winked down at me as I let time pass, knowing that the longer I waited the less likely it was I would go at all. Finally, after near an hour, I knelt to my knees, reaching softly under the cupboard to recover the key. Then, pulling a thick, woolen jumper over my bedclothes and a pair of socks to muffle my footsteps, I stepped gently out onto the landing. Carefully closing my door, leaving just a crack so as to let the moonlight spill out a little, I turned to slip slowly towards the particular door, passing through without a sound.

As I ascended the gold grey steps I could see my breath cloud before me and I shivered, chilled again by the cold air. The silence of the night struck me. In London there was no such thing as silence. Instead, life hummed ceaselessly around you, becoming a part of your very existence, invading your every moment; and yet here, as I reached the third floor door, the silence acted in that very same way. It was unnerving, disquieting, and it warned me back – but still I was drawn. Pulling the key from my pocket, I slotted it into the hole. The two were united once more, and I paused to hold my breath before turning it slowly and surely. The lock clanged loudly, causing me to freeze, quietly cursing the damned thing. A minute passed with my hands resting on the lock and handle, waiting for the sound of footsteps to echo from the landing. Nothing. I eased the handle round, leant lightly on the door, and pushed; I was in.

What I found was far from anything I or Ezrella had imagined. Even our wildest guesses were miles off. Gazing around the small attic room, I struggled to know what to think. Every one of the four walls was covered with various mirrors; some were large, their thick, elaborate frames highlighting the silvery pool within them. Others were small and without a frame, like the paintings of the Webb’s front room. However, it was the effect of this curious display that appeared significant, for it was that which unsettled me. Through cracks between the mirrors, beams of moonlight pierced through the rotting wooden walls. Each ray was then reflected again and again, over and over, until a strange, ethereal glow emanated from every looking-glass. Every speck of dust was plainly visible as it danced around the room. It was a bizarre experience, seeing my own murky ghost surrounding me, staring solemnly back. Circling the room bit by bit, I ran my hand along the mirrors, brushing away the old wispy cobwebs that clung on so delicately. Eventually I came to the wall opposite the door where hung the largest, most positively grand of all the mirrors. It was only now, standing so close, that I notice a small engraving at the bottom of the frame. The words were roughly carved, unmistakably imprinted with a knife.

~
That which man cannot create
Is cure to all his deepest plights
~

I repeated the words under hushed breath. Over and over it went in my head. I knew it was a riddle, but for the life of me I could not think of the answer. Even within the context of the Darnell case I could not uncover its meaning. Maybe Ezrella will have more luck, I thought. Resolving to leave, I made my way towards the door. It was at that point that something caught my attention; an old book sat in the corner, covered with dust upon the floor. Bending down to pick it up, I gently wiped the filth from it’s black leather cover.

The title read ‘The Mystery of the Candelabra’ in beautiful golden letters. It occurred to me that this was the first book I had found in the entire house; how odd it was to find one here. I opened up the first page and found, to my sheer disbelief, a little note written inside. To Helena with love, forever and always, C.W.D. I could not believe my eyes. Was this really what I thought it was? Undeniably, the book had been gifted to Helena Darnell, and C.W.D was Charles, to be sure! In my young hands I held a token from the very life of those two poor souls. Astonishing as it was, it terrified me to know I held evidence of their existence, also proof of their death in this very house. Judging by the layer of dust that had covered it, I decided that if taken, it would not be missed; and so I left the room, making sure to close to door as inaudibly as possible.

I was dreading the turning of the key, hoping above hope that it would not clang as it had done before; only the key was not there. At least, it wasn’t in the lock. I reached into my pockets, searching a little frantically, but there was no touch of cold metal. My heart froze. There was only one explanation, but it was the very thing I prayed was not true. Someone must know where I am; and even worse, they were standing meters from me as I searched the room, mere moments ago. I shivered again, more in fear than from the cold. What was I to do? Eventually I descended the stairs, crossing the landing in a daze. I felt vulnerable, unprotected and defenseless. Someone had predicted my plan, and there were only two people who could know I had the key: Ezrella, and Mr. Heckley. And it certainly wasn’t the first who lurked in the shadows that night.

Sleep avoided me until dawn but finally, callously, it came for a while; and I dreamed of a memory from my days at Crawley’s. The circus was in Hyde Park and, in my childish excitement, I spent the afternoon enchanted by the many wonders the travelers had brought. Joining a few of the older boys from the orphanage, we were wandering through the crowd when a certain sign caught our eyes. ‘The House of Mirrors’ towered high above the throng, beckoning us in.

Taking our tickets from an old, wizened man with a glass eye and a broken-toothed grin, we ventured cautiously through the doors, a cackle of “Don’t get lost, now,” following us in. Within seconds the others dashed from where I stood. Trying desperately not to lose them all, I ran through the mirrored maze, calling out in panic and the hope that they would take pity. It was useless. I knew they would hide from me, and now I was totally lost. Their sniggers could be heard echoing in the vastness of the hall, yet I could not tell if they were far or near. Creeping round corners, fighting the suspicion that I was merely walking circles, I lay victim to the labyrinth of my own reflections. Every time I caught a movement from the corner of my eye, I whipped around only to find my own befuddled self.

Time passed and I was sure it must be dark outside. Tears filled my eyes as I paced hopelessly through the maze, the thought of all the happy visitors leaving with their popcorn and gifts, oblivious to the boy lost in the mirror house. Finally I emerged into a circle of mirrors, all different shapes and sizes. I looked around at my twisted, distorted images and again I heard the titters of laughter.
“Don’t get lost, Edward. You mustn’t get lost,” mocked the voices. “Will you ever get out?”
“Help me!” I cried, turning hysterically on the spot. “Someone, please help me!”
There was no reply, and so I sunk to the floor, my tear-drenched face buried deep in my hands. I would never get out; I would never be free.