House of Mirrors - Chapter One

A good man once told me that one must first become acquainted with a house if they ever intend it to become their home. It is only then that they may enter with the knowledge that in that exact moment, amongst all other paths the world may offer, they are truly where they are supposed to be. If I had known this as I stood on the pavement of St. Catherine’s Street, suitcase in hand, it may have warmed my heart a little. When presented with such a choice, all people choose to believe in that which brings most comfort; especially those who are alone. Dark clouds loomed overhead and I could sense that calm, hovering moment that lingers before a downpour. In spite of this I remained, staring at the old house that stood before me.

Only hours before I was at the train station along with hundreds of other children, all tagged like packages and as scared and confused as I had been. As they each waved goodbye to their tearful parents I was left wondering what life lay ahead of me, not what I was leaving behind. Nearly fifteen years spent in Crawley’s Orphanage had left me with no desire to return, yet apprehension gripped me as the first whistle pierced the air. The mass of reluctant children surged towards the carriages and there was no choice but to follow suit. I had no idea of how long my journey would be or to where it would lead; but as I slowly succumbed to the measured, steady beat of the train, the uneasy wonder of change stole over me. Left to my thoughts, I could do nothing but wait.

The sky gave an almighty rumble and I knew if I lingered any longer I was in for a soaking. Making my way towards the front gate I took in every detail of the old Victorian house; the thick beard of ivy, the gaping mouth of a front door. While the house was one of many on the street a feeling of seclusion was apparent as I stepped through the gate. Skeleton trees enclosed the area that surrounded the house; their crisp, castaway leafs left a carpet of red and gold that led me to the front door. Each step was accompanied by the sing-song rustle beneath my feet. It was only as I neared the front steps that I noticed two pale faces staring out at me from the circular window on the second floor. The man’s sharp face remained stern as his eyes pierced my own. To his right the woman barely held a quivering smile. I lifted my hand in greeting and both backed away from the window in a hurried retreat; and I haven’t even met them yet! I sighed and peered up at the house one last time. Above me, on the third floor, I glimpsed a single window boarded with rotting wood. It gave the impression that this house held hidden secrets, that forgotten memories lived within it’s walls and were waiting to be found beneath floorboards or behind locked doors. A sudden gust of wind begged the house to creak and groan, dead leaves rising up behind me. I turned to admire the dance of autumn colour. I hadn’t noticed the door open.
“Y-y-you m-must be Edward!”
Turning, I found the peculiar couple standing in the doorway. The man looked in his forties, his dark hair graying. His wife, gripping and twisting the edges of her apron tightly between boney fingers, looked like she had said something utterly inappropriate.
“And you must be Mr. and Mrs. Heckley,” I replied politely, with the most convincing smile I could muster.

~

Setting down my suitcase, I gazed around the hall of what was to be my new home - for how long, I did not know. To my left the staircase curved up invitingly to the floors above, and I noted the small kitchen to my right.
“You may take your things to your room and unpack. Dinner will be served on the hour,” said Mr. Heckley in a low, contemptuous voice as he continued further down the hall. Each step was measured and thoughtful, his hands clasped firmly behind his back.
A little taken aback, I replied, “Yes Mr. Heckley. Thank you, sir.”
“While you are here you will sleep in the guestroom - ” Pausing, he looked reproachfully to his wife who, in turn, nodded, avoiding his eyes desperately. “You will find it has already been prepared for you. Do you have anything else with you?”
“No sir, just my suitcase – and me,” I smiled. Upon no reaction from either of the two, I proceeded to look solely at the ground.
“That will be all.”
“But Mr. Heckley–”
“That will be all,” He repeated, hanging on each word. He barely raised his voice but each word came with such conviction that I knew to protest no longer.
With that Mr. Heckley turned on his heels and left, shutting the door of his study. I looked to Mrs. Heckley who lingered for a just moment. Not once looking me in the eye she said, “I-I’m ever so sorry, Edward,” and hurried off into the kitchen.
I hadn’t been sure what to expect from my hosts but, standing quite alone in the hall, I felt far from welcome. Perhaps they aren’t used to visitors, I thought hopefully. That must be it.

Lifting my luggage I made my way to the top of the stairs. Before me was the large circular window, heavy rain now streaking the glass, partially blurring my view. From where I stood I was able to look out over the small town of Tullow. Tucked neatly into the English countryside, the town looked quaint – even homely despite the gloomy weather – and yet it unnerved me a little. Until now, I had lived insignificantly, swallowed by the murky streets of London. The effects of my actions only went as far as Mrs. Crawley’s strictly rule. There I would be assured of the fact that nothing I did, surely, would ever be of worth.
“Of all children, not for you.” She would say bitterly. This perplexed me, of course; I had no recollection of any such hindrance. When I did ask her reason, she would let out a shriek, raising a shaking hand to her mouth before hurrying away on the verge of tears. Every child at the orphanage knew that she was in no fit state, but from a young age I was led to believe I had made some fatal mistake, committed some terrible crime that would haunt me forever, whether I remembered it or not.

On the landing there were four doors, only one of which was open. Assuming it was to be mine I crossed the hall and entered, laying my suitcase on the neatly made bed. The room was simple, but no less than what I was used to. The bed, a cupboard, a small writing desk and chair filled most of the space, but as I began to unpack my things I was filled with delight. Never before had I had a room to call my own.

Finishing my unpacking, I stepped back onto the landing. Hearing nothing from downstairs I let curiosity take the better of me and began my exploration behind each of the doors. Trying the first, closest to my room, I turned the handle slowly, easing the door open. Finding only the bathroom I moved eagerly on to the next. This time I found what I could only assume was the master bedroom. Feeling suddenly intrusive, I retreated swiftly with barely a glance. As I closed the door I could not help but notice the walls were as bare as my own, all apart from one large silvery mirror that hung above the bed.
Finally I reached the fourth door, across the landing from my own. I gripped the handle, noticing it was oddly colder than the others. A draught trickled from behind, chilling me a little. Again, easing the door open for fear of making a noise, I looked in through little more than a crack. A musty smell clogged my nostrils as my eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Inside I found a cold, grey flight of stairs ascending to my left along the right-hand wall of the house. Remembering the boarded window I had seen on arrival I opened the door further and entered. Something beckoned me on. Taking care not to make a sound, I took each step with a careful light-footedness, grateful for the layer of dust that muffled my footsteps. At the top was another door, different to all others in the house. Scratches and scrapes scarred its surface and what little paint was left was now dull and colourless. I shuffled closer, a hand held before me, and ran my fingers softly over the wounded door. At that precise moment – whether it was imagination, instinct, or something more – I was overcome with the surety that there was something curious behind the door, waiting, wanting to be found. If I didn’t look now I would be forever inclined to return to that door.

I reached for the handle, my heart in my mouth. Hesitating only for a moment, I turned it and pushed. It was locked. Desperately, I tried again, thinking that perhaps the door was simply jammed. It was hopeless. Resigning to make my way back down to dinner, I turned away. Suddenly the sound of footsteps pricked my ears. I froze, listening carefully. They were getting closer! I rushed down the steps, wrenched open the door and – I was too late. Mrs. Heckley stood at the top of the stairs, looking directly at me for the first time since my arrival.
“I-I’m sorry, M-Mrs. Heckley,” I said; a stuttering apology. It wasn’t her that I feared – the danger very clearly lay on Mr. Heckley hearing of my prying. However, as I stood waiting for a reply, I sensed not a hint of annoyance in Mrs. Heckley’s expression. Instead, a smile flickered across Mrs. Heckley’s face and her eyes softened, meeting mine. I breathed a sigh of relief, even before she spoke.
“It’s quite alright, Edward,” she whispered, quiet as a mouse. I moved forward, straining to hear a single word she said.
“Dinner is ready.”

During dinner I was able to further observe my peculiar custodians while sat at the kitchen table.
“Tell me,” began Mr. Heckley coolly, holding a glass of wine contemplatively in hand, “why is it that good people, such as ourselves,” he gestured to himself, “must be burdened with the troubles of that which does not concern us.”
Feeling that Mr. Heckley was looking for an answer, I attempted a respectable reply.
“I believe sir, that everyone in England-“
“I’ll tell you why,” he continued, clearing his throat and fixing the napkin tucked into his collar. “When war is proclaimed every Englishman must be affected, whether he likes it or not.” Eying me with disgust, he added, “You didn’t come from the streets, did you?”
“No, sir. I came from Crawley’s Orphanage, in London.”
Adopting a look of pure repugnance, he gulped down his wine. Then, leaning slowly across the table and brandishing his half empty glass, he said in a menacingly hushed voice, “We live peacefully here. Do anything to disturb that peace and you may find yourself very miserable indeed.” Mrs. Heckley, who was not seated at the table but stood behind her husband, let out a whimper. Holding his stare for a moment longer, his eyes bore into mine, saying what did not need to be said.

Even if I had wanted to reply I would not have known what to say. Mr. Heckley seemed so infinitely able to hold his steely manner with such relentlessness that I was beginning to think he had always been so cold, even as a child. I could only do my best to make sure I did not displease him during my stay here, no matter how unpleasant it may be; and, regrettably, it seemed that unpleasant was exactly how it would be.

When dinner was finished I was dismissed to my room for the night. For a long while I lay awake, thinking over the days happenings and listening to the soft patter of rain on the window. So much had changed in such little time and I was left exhausted. Soon my eyes fell heavy and sleep took me for the first time in this strange new place.

~

I rose from my bed, laying my bare feet on the cool wooden floor. There it was. The same song that had haunted my dreams since I was young, now echoing gently throughout the house. Opening my door, I crossed the landing noiselessly and ventured down the stairs. I knew every note, recalled every lightly touched piano key that now drifted from the room before me. I reached out, barely brushing the door before it swung slowly and silently open. Moonlight shone softly though the open window, bathing the room in an eerie half-light. The curtains fluttered in a quiet breeze. There, in the middle of the room, sat a woman with her back to me, her hands drifting and dancing across the keys of a beautiful grand piano. Unable to call to her, I approached. Her long silver hair nearly touched the floor, shining in the moonlight. I stretched out my arm, reaching for her shoulder. I wanted to turn her, to see her face. There was something I needed to ask her; something that I needed the answer to so desperately that I dared disturb this woman’s ghostly song. The music stopped and the curtains stilled. The woman turned…