Page 4 of Ethereally Tainted

I wrap myself in the blanket, the frigid air from the room without insulation working its way through the fabric. We tried to cover the window with a towel once, but the maid caught us and removed it at once. It’s like they want us to suffer, but who am I to kid? This place was made to torture us.

I glance at the bed to my side, expecting to find my roommate fast asleep, but instead, I see her bed perfectly made with the pillow resting against the wall and the duvet draped over it, just like the master requires. Next to her bed on the floor–in front of the old and relatively dirty bedside table that I once requested she threw out but refused–her indoor slippers are missing.

Where is she?

The golden light streaming through the window tells me it is still early in the day, and the eerie silence around me has me questioning why it’s so quiet. A wave of paranoia washes over me, and I feel a prickling sensation of discomfort in my arms as I worry about missing something important while I sleep.

I make my way over to the wardrobe I share with my roommate, taking in the sight of all the colorful dresses hanging there, but I don’t want to wear any of them. In the end, I reluctantly choose a black one, knowing it’s my only option. I can feel the rich texture of the fabric beneath my fingertips, and the white arms are gentle and billowy, allowing me the space I desire not to feel trapped. I can’t stand the feel of a dress that is too tight, clinging to my body. The master tried for several months, but finally, he became tired of my tantrums and asked the maid to fix other dresses. Those dresses I have now are looser, but I can still feel the fabric digging into my skin.

Being comfortable is not meant for people like me, those who live here. I know I’m not worthy of anything good, though I never stated I was a good person. I was, once upon a time, but I have had my life constantly messed up since that time, and as a result, I have been permanently fucked up.

There is no fixing those things that have already been damaged.

After dressing, I carefully tuck the sheets and blankets into place, making the bed look as neat as the other one, and I adjust the lamp on our shared bedside table. The floral curtains in the room provide little protection from the sun, leaving the room filled with bright, blinding light every morning.

Maybe that’s why I’m never able to get a decent night’s sleep, or perhaps it’s because of the constant fear of someone sneaking into the room when I am unaware and asleep. The dark has always been my best friend, the one thing I sought comfort in while growing up in the countryside of England. My grandparents often found me huddled in a wardrobe, my body quivering like an aspen leaf, yet I found comfort in its darkness. It was the only thing I had ever known, something that would never leave my side.

Even at a young age, I could hear my grandmother’s worry when she found me in the wardrobe. Before she embraced me, her slightly down-turned eyes shone with pity, but I didn’t need her sympathy. I needed to hide in the wardrobe so my mother wouldn’t find me. My grandmother held me tight, her arms not quite as strong as my father’s, yet still providing a sense of security.

Every night, they found me cowering in the wardrobe, despite assurances that I was safe in my own room. As a teenager, I would still hide in there, my heart racing with fear of my mother discovering me.

Regardless, that habit of mine stopped the day I was brought to Grimhill Manor, especially after the first night when the master held me at gunpoint and threatened to shoot me if I did not wipe away my tears and return to my room.

After seventeen months of effort, I can finally lie in bed without succumbing to my old habit.

I take one final sweep of the room, ensuring everything is in order, before I step out into the hallway, the only sound being my soft footfalls. Every door is closed, apart from mine, and the stillness of the hallway confirms that everyone else is still fast asleep. It is only a matter of hours before the early forenoon begins, and everyone will be forced to leave the comfort of their beds. A new day filled with terror, like millions of glass shards crushing hopes and dreams.

Welcome to the hell I am living in.

Walking toward the stairs, I hear the soft creaking of the floorboards beneath me, causing my pulse to quicken. If I wake the master, I will be met with his anger and frustration. I tiptoe toward the stairs leading down, my steps muffled by the thick carpet. The railings are thick with dust, and I can feel the layer of grime on my fingers as I grip it to steady myself. The smell of old wood is unmistakable. Its musty, earthy aroma is caused by mold and mildew formation. Despite everything, the master never cared about this facility; all that mattered to him was his own enjoyment.

As I cautiously descend the stairs, the creaking wood is a reminder of the countless orphaned children that have come before me, their passage marked by the well-trodden floor below. It is no secret that the floor is stained with the tears of people who have been irrevocably changed by the events unfolding here. The bottom of the building holds so many secrets, including the stories of all the children who never made it out alive.

After approaching some furniture gathered in one corner of the room, I glance around to verify that I’m alone and not accompanied by anyone. Indeed I am, and the old grandfather clock stands proudly along the wall closest to the stairs. The ticking of the old clock fills the room with my shallow breaths, and the steady golden pendulum sways back and forth, the passage of time only proving that the inevitable is close at hand.

Tension courses through me as I swallow, searching for something to ground me. I hate the clock with its ugly demeanor and wooden material, which I suppose is as old as the house itself. The clock has been here all these years, witnessing every horrible thing that has gone down.

It’s six-thirty in the morning, so I won’t have to expect any children to be awake at this hour. Instead of sitting in one of the chairs around the round table, I perch on top of it, an action that always annoys the master and provokes his ire.

A mischievous smirk appears on my lips as I recall how I’ve irritated him in the past seventeen months. I dislike how his gray hair is gelled back, highlighting his dark eyes like a peephole into the depths of the ocean where he belongs. Even though it rarely turns out in my favor, I still get a thrill from taunting him. It is not so much the bruising I can take, but the thrill of watching him lose the temper he so valiantly tries to hide that makes me continue to taunt him until he loses it.

When I am fully comfortable in my seat, leaving my legs dangling, I notice I am not alone after all. A girl with strawberry-blonde hair is at the other end of the expansive parlor room. She sits there, her hair a vibrant contrast against the room’s muted colors. The early dawn light cascades down her hair, making the red tones sparkle and the purple tips appear brighter.

Two layers cover the windows, the frilly net curtains and the longer, heavier curtains, which are held back by brass tiebacks, creating shadows over her face. The curtains are more valuable than all the meals the master gives us throughout the year combined.

I watch as the girl’s hair cascades over one shoulder, the only sound in the room being her occasional page-turning. She mumbles something in an almost incomprehensible manner, her pink lips moving so quickly that she appears to be insane. Even more so than I.

I’m intensely watching her, mesmerized by her movements, with nothing else to do in this barren environment. She’s so caught up in her own thoughts that she doesn’t feel my gaze lingering on her.

That is another lesson I was forced to learn from the monster; never be too unaware of your surroundings, because you never know when he will strike. An unsatisfactory response to his question can suddenly lead to him dragging you down to the basement because he deemed it inappropriate.

I can never relax, as I am constantly aware of the master’s unpredictable decisions that could lead to chaos at any time.

If I were in her shoes, I wouldn’t let my thoughts consume me to the point of ignorance of my environment. If I had been in her position, I don’t think I would have gone through the same amount of physical suffering as I have.

She is the master’s favorite doll for reasons no one knows about, and she is the one who has been at Grimhill Manor the longest. In one way, it is terrible to have his undivided attention, not being able to do anything at all without his prying eyes on you twenty-four-seven. Still, in another way, it provides a privilege. A privilege I wish I had, not to have to worry about the next time I will fall victim to one of his sick games.

As I recall her name, Aurora has been here for at least twelve years and has grown up here. She is too old for anyone to want her, and frankly, I am too, and sometimes I wonder if that is more luck than bad.

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