Page 297 of Castings & Curses

The creature’s growls draw closer. It’s taking its sweet time, making the grass quiver under its approaching footsteps. It’s on the porch now, its heavy claws scraping the wood. Its breathing is shallow, rasping, almost on my neck.

I fall on my knees and lean against the door, tears flooding my face.

It unlocks and opens. Balance eludes me, but I catch myself in time and scramble inside as fast as I can, closing the door and pushing against it with all my weight. I brace myself, waiting for the beast to destroy the wood panels, but everything’s still. No growls, no rasping breath, not a sound comes from outside—or inside.

I quiet my breathing and dry my cheeks. As my eyes accustom themselves to the pitch darkness, I check my surroundings. I make out black-and-white tiles on the floor and a long rug running all the way down the corridor I’m in.

A flicker of light appears at the end of the hallway.

“Hello?” I mutter.

Not a sound, but the orange glow grows ever so bright, casting shadows on the paneled walls. The distinctive scent and crackling of freshly lit pinewood reach my senses, but I hesitate still.

“Hello?” I say again, a little louder, still to no avail.

Fear grapples with my brain, but compared to what I experienced moments ago, it’s too weak to resist the compelling promise of light and warmth. I get up and limp towards whatever expects me.

I find an antechamber that looks like a waiting room, but cozier. The walls closest to the entrance are covered in bookshelves full of leather-bound books, while across the room stands two massive half-moon windows, and in the middle of them, a baroque fireplace. A velvet-clad wingback armchair complete with a throw invites me to snuggle by the hearth, while a leather Chesterfield sofa and its matching chair surround a mahogany coffee table.

I check behind me but see no sign of anyone or anything. I venture into the antechamber, pick up the throw and nestle into the wingback’s inviting arms, unable to resist Morpheus’ call.

Commotion somewhere inside the mansion wakes me up with a start. Daylight’s peering through the shutters; specks of dust dance in the beams. I prick up my ears, but no more noise troubles the watchful silence. After a few seconds, my body brings me back to the grim reality. I stretch my sore neck and aching knees and assess the state of my ankle. Resting has improved the pain, but I still can’t put too much weight on it.

I hobble towards the corridor and go in search of whoever let me in last night. The hallway ends on an arched double door that I open inch after inch in case there are people on the other side. There is none, but the view that greets my eyes leaves me speechless: a gigantic chandelier casts shadows and beads of light on a marble hall. Marble staircases on each side of the room lead to an overlooking balcony. Colonnades grace the walls on every side, and between every column stand Renaissance statues of goddesses and heroes.

The sheer decadence and marvel of this room dizzy me to the point I must lean against the door jamb and breathe deep, soothing breaths. In awe, I approach the busts and statues one after the other. They’re all dusted and clean, but the half-closed shutters on the windows of the gallery grant them shadows of desolation. This is a hall fit for celebrations, but something’s amiss.

People. Life.

A clatter makes me jump. It comes from the right, behind an ajar door. With heart pumping and thumping, I tiptoe towards the noise. With each step I take, I become very much aware of my trespassing, but I want to thank the person who saved my life. I push the door slowly, and a whiff of freshly baked bread assaults my nostrils. Right on cue, my stomach grunts so loudly, the sound echoes in the hall. I wince, mortified. Not the classiest way to be discovered when you’re trespassing. I wait for the metaphorical hammer to fall, but nothing happens.

I pluck up the courage to follow the mouth-watering aroma to the kitchen, taking care not to be found, but again, there’s no sign of life, save for the still steaming loaf of white bread laid in the center of the kitchen table and surrounded with various delicacies: jams of all colors and tastes, cheeses, cured and smoked hams. A whole feast, seemingly for no one. Or is it all for me?

“Erm, hello?” My voice comes out shaky. I clear my throat. “Is it okay if I eat some of this?”

When no reply comes, I tentatively tear a piece of bread. Stop, wait. The only retort I receive comes from my stomach rumbling some more, so I bite into the warm crumb and melt onto the closest available chair. I rush to add butter and jam before stuffing my mouth with the piece of delight. Then I wolf down some brie and cured ham with more warm bread. I’ve never eaten such succulent food. I serve myself a glass of fresh orange juice and find a pot full of fragrant coffee, whose flavor makes my body shiver with pleasure.

Realization dawns on me that my aching has subdued. I get on my feet and test my ankle. No pain. Wait. I can walk? Dance even! I improvise a little jig to prove it to myself. Jam-covered bread in hand, I twirl in the kitchen, oblivious to anything but the pleasure this breakfast is procuring me. But the view from outside the kitchen window stops me dead. A beautiful garden spreads all the way to the forest, azaleas stealing the show from hydrangeas in a bed of trailing red roses. But the colorful flowers can’t distract me from what has stolen my attention in the first place.

In the undergrowth leading to the woods, the monster is watching me. And in the light of day, it’s even scarier. Especially as it stands on its hind paws and charges at the window.

CHAPTER6

I jerkbackwards and hit the table, scattering the jams and cutlery, and dropping the orange juice jug onto the floor. It crashes into thousands of glass pieces and juice spills everywhere, making me slip and fall. I scamper on my bottom to the furthest corner of the kitchen, as far away from the window as I can, crushing glass on my palms in the process.

The pain’s nothing compared to the fear that crumples my guts. There is no way to stop the beast from coming for me now. I stare wide eyed at the window, expecting the dreadful creature to crash through it any second. My vivid imagination pictures the glistening fangs tearing at my throat while the sharp claws rip me apart. The waiting is just as agonizing. Warm tears stream down my cheeks; my chest heaves painfully with every terrified gulp of air.

A minute passes before I pluck up the courage to get on my feet. I totter towards the window and risk a glance outside, but there’s no sight of the monster, not a trace of it. I let go of the heaviest sigh and turn to the mess I’ve made. Did I imagine the attack? Did I even see the creature? Sunshine spreads on the table, casting my shadow amongst the rubble. I’m going mad.

Jolts of pain assault my right hand. As I lower my gaze, I witness the blood spilling in thick drops on the ground. I rush to wash myself in the sink. The wounds are superficial, but the sting of the water jostles my memory. The fear was genuine enough; I’m certain I didn’t hallucinate the monster.

After the bleeding has stopped, I clean up the table and floor with a wet cloth. I’m halfway through the ordeal when I hear someone approaching. My instincts scream for me to hide, but I remain frozen, orange juice dripping from the cloth inside my hands. The footsteps draw ever closer in the nonchalant stride of someone who knows their way around the place.

Through the kitchen doors enters a beautiful blonde woman, her long, wavy hair falling down her shoulders and covering half her face. She wears unflattering flannel pajamas and fluffy slippers and is wiping her sleep-ridden eyeballs. She pauses as she discovers the mayhem and the stranger standing in a pool of orange juice, before assessing every inch of the place. At last, she locks eyes with a stunned me. Her countenance remains impassible, but her stare hardens. She stays on the threshold and scrutinizes me in complete silence.

At once very aware of what I’m holding, I fumble to the sink to let go of the wiping cloth and clean my hands. “Hi, er,” I blurt. “I’m so sorry, I—”

“What are you doing?” the woman says in an impassive tone.

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