The Watcher in the Shadows (20 page)

Simone stood up, trembling, and slowly retreated until she backed into the wall. She couldn’t listen to another word from this man’s lips, from this sick person. Only one thing kept her where she was and stopped her from giving in to the panic she felt after hearing the masked figure’s story: her anger.

‘No, dear friend . . . Don’t make that mistake . . . Don’t you understand what’s happening? When you and your family arrived here, I couldn’t help but let my heart notice you. I didn’t intend to do so. I didn’t even realise what was happening until it was too late. I tried to break the spell by building a machine in your own image . . .’

‘What?’

‘I thought . . . Shortly after your arrival, which filled this house with life again, the shadow awoke from its limbo. It had been asleep for more than twenty years in that accursed bottle, but it soon found a victim to release it again.’

‘Hannah . . .’ Simone murmured.

‘I know what you must be thinking, but believe me, there is no possible escape. I’ve done everything I can . . .’

The masked man stood up and walked towards her.

‘Don’t take another step!’ Simone screamed.

Lazarus stopped.

‘I don’t want to hurt you, Simone. I’m your friend. Don’t turn your back on me.’

She felt a wave of loathing.

‘You murdered Hannah . . .’

‘Simone . . .’

‘Where are my children?’

‘They’ve chosen their fate . . .’

An icy dagger ripped at her heart.

‘What have you done with them?’

Lazarus raised his gloved hands.

‘They’re dead . . .’

Before he could finish his sentence, Simone let out a furious yell and, grabbing one of the candlesticks from the table, she threw herself at the man standing in front of her. The base of the candlestick struck the middle of the mask and the porcelain face shattered into a thousand pieces. Behind it there was nothing.

Paralysed with fear, Simone focused on the black mass floating before her. The form threw off its white gloves, beneath which there was nothing but darkness. Only then did Simone see the demonic face taking shape; it slowly acquired volume, hissing like a furious snake. A shriek pierced her ears, a high-pitched howl that extinguished every flame burning in the room. For the first and last time, Simone heard the real voice of the shadow. Then two claws seized her and dragged her out into the night.

As they stepped out of the forest, Ismael and Irene noticed that the soft mist covering the undergrowth was slowly morphing into a glowing mantle. Ahead, Cravenmoore was completely illuminated, light pouring from every window, making the entire structure look like a ghostly ship rising from the ocean.

They stopped in front of the spear-headed gates that led into the garden. Bathed in the strange luminescence, the house looked even more menacing than it did in the dark. On the breeze they could hear the disturbing sound of dozens of automatons moving about inside the mansion. The fiendish cacophony wafted through the front door, which stood wide open. Through it, they could see the shapes of shadows dancing in time to the blood-curdling melody. Instinctively, Irene pressed Ismael’s hand.

‘You don’t have to come with me. After all, she’s my mother . . .’ offered Irene.

‘Tempting. Don’t ask me twice,’ said Ismael.

Trying not to think too hard about the laughter, the music, and the sinister parade of figures inhabiting the place, they began to climb the main staircase.

‘Can you feel it too?’ asked Ismael as they stepped across the threshold of the front door.

Irene nodded. ‘The house. It is waiting for us.’

Dorian knocked repeatedly on the door of the police station. He was out of breath and his legs felt as if they were going to melt. He’d run like someone possessed through the forest, down to the Englishman’s Beach, and then along the endless road that bordered the bay. He hadn’t stopped for a second, knowing that if he did he wouldn’t be able to take another step. A single thought drove him forward: the image of that terrible shape carrying off his mother into the night. He had only to remember that and he’d run to the end of the world.

When the door of the police station finally opened, the rotund figure of Gendarme Jobart appeared. His tiny eyes examined the boy, who looked as if he was about to collapse.

‘Well?’ spat out the police officer.

‘Water, please . . .’

‘This is not a bar, Comrade Sauvelle.’

Shaking his head in disapproval, Jobart let the boy in and gave him a glass of water. Dorian had never known that water could be so delicious.

‘More.’

Jobart handed him another glassful.

‘You’re welcome.’

Dorian finished the last drop and then looked up at the policeman. Irene’s instructions came to mind, loud and clear.

‘My mother has had an accident and she’s hurt. It’s serious. At Cravenmoore.’

‘What sort of accident?’

‘We need to go
now
!’ Dorian burst out.

‘I’m alone. I can’t leave my post.’

Dorian suppressed a sigh. Of all the idiots on the face of the planet, he’d gone and found a prize one.

‘Use the radio! Do
something
!’

The clear anxiety in Dorian’s tone finally prompted Jobart to move his considerable backside. He walked over to the radio and switched on the machine. For a moment he turned to look at the boy.

‘Go on! Hurry!’ Dorian shouted.

Lazarus regained consciousness abruptly and felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck. He lifted a hand and touched the open wound. He vaguely remembered Christian’s face looming at him in the corridor of the west wing. The automaton had struck him and dragged him to this place. Lazarus looked around. He was in one of the many disused rooms of Cravenmoore.

Slowly, he stood up and tried to put his thoughts in order. Intense exhaustion washed over him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, he noticed a small mirror hanging on one of the walls. He walked over to it and stared at his reflection. Then he crossed to a tiny window overlooking the main façade. He noticed two figures stealing across the garden towards the front door.

Irene and Ismael stepped into the beam of light coming from deep inside the house. The echo of the merry-go-round and the metallic rattling of thousands of cogs that had been brought to life chilled them to the bone. A whole world of impossible creatures jiggled about in glass cabinets or dangled from the ceiling. It was impossible to look in any direction and not find one of Lazarus’s creations in motion. Clocks with faces, dolls that looked as if they were sleepwalking, ghostly faces with teeth bared like hungry wolves . . .

‘This time I’d prefer it if we didn’t separate,’ said Irene.

‘Wasn’t planning to,’ Ismael replied.

They’d only gone a couple of metres when the main door slammed shut behind them. Irene screamed and clung to Ismael. A gigantic man stood before them, his face covered with a mask depicting a ghoulish clown with green eyes. The monster’s pupils dilated and it began to walk towards them, a large carving knife in its hand. Suddenly, Irene recalled the mechanical butler that had opened the door on their first visit to Cravenmoore. Christian. That was his name. The figure raised the knife in the air.

‘No, Christian!’ she shouted. ‘No!’

The butler stopped and the knife fell from its hand. Ismael looked at Irene, confused. The motionless automaton was watching them.

‘Quick,’ Irene urged, and moved off towards the centre of the house.

Ismael ran after her, but first he picked up the knife Christian had dropped. He caught up with Irene in the stairwell that rose towards the high domed ceiling. Irene looked around and tried to get her bearings.

‘Where now?’ asked Ismael, looking over his shoulder.

Irene hesitated, unable to decide which way to go.

Suddenly, they felt a gust of cold air blowing along one of the corridors. With it came the sound of a deep, cavernous voice.

‘Irene . . .’ the voice intoned.

Irene’s stomach tied itself up in knots. The voice came again. She stared at the end of the corridor. Ismael followed the direction of her gaze. And there, floating above the ground, enveloped in a cloud of smoke, was Simone, advancing towards them with outstretched arms. There was a diabolical glow in her eyes and two lines of steely fangs appeared behind her pale lips.

‘Mum,’ moaned Irene.

‘That isn’t your mother . . .’ said Ismael, drawing the girl away from the creature’s path. As the light caught its features, the full horror of the beast was revealed. Only half of its face was finished; the other half was just a metal mask. It turned to confront them once more.

‘It’s the doll we saw before, not your mother,’ Ismael repeated, trying to waken his friend from the trance into which she seemed to have plunged. ‘That thing, the shadow, moves them as if they were its puppets . . .’

The mechanism inside the automaton made a clicking sound and it rushed at them, its claws bared. Ismael grabbed Irene and fled, without quite knowing where they were going. They ran as fast as their legs could carry them, through a gallery with doors on either side that opened as they passed.

‘Quick!’ shouted Ismael, as he heard the shrill of mechanical cables behind him.

Irene turned her head. The wolf-like jaws of the replica of her mother snapped shut only twenty centimetres from her face. Needle-sharp talons reached towards her. Ismael pulled Irene to one side, into what looked like a large, dark hall, and closed the door behind them. The creature’s claws sank into the door like lethal arrows.

‘My God . . .’ Irene gasped. ‘Not again . . .’

She was as white as a sheet.

‘Are you all right?’ Ismael asked.

Irene nodded vaguely and then gazed around her. Walls of books seemed to spiral towards infinity.

‘We’re in Lazarus’s library.’

‘Well, I hope there’s another way out, because I’m not going back there,’ said Ismael.

‘There must be another exit. I just don’t know where . . .’ she said, heading towards the centre of the room.

Ismael wedged the door shut with a chair. If his defences lasted more than two minutes, he thought, he’d start to believe in miracles. Behind him, Irene murmured something. He turned and saw that she was standing next to a table, examining a book. It looked ancient.

‘There’s something here,’ she said.

A dark foreboding took hold of him.

‘Put down that book . . .’

‘Why?’ asked Irene, puzzled.

‘Put it down.’

Irene closed the book and did as her friend asked. The gold letters on the cover shone in the light of the blaze from the fireplace: ‘Doppelgänger’.

Irene had only just left the desk when she felt a strong vibration under her feet. The fire in the hearth flickered and some of the tomes on the bookshelves began to shake. The girl ran to Ismael.

‘What the hell . . . ?’ said Ismael. The intense rumbling seemed to be coming from the very depths of the house.

At that moment, the book Irene had left on the desk burst open and the flames in the fireplace were extinguished by a blast of icy air. Ismael put his arms around Irene and drew her close. Books started to tumble down from on high, pushed by invisible hands.

‘There’s someone here,’ Irene whispered. ‘I can feel it . . .’

The pages of the book slowly began to turn over, one by one. Ismael gazed at the ancient volume. He noticed, for the first time, that the letters on its pages appeared to be evaporating, forming a gaseous black cloud above the book. The shapeless mass was absorbing word after word, sentence after sentence, a phantom of black ink suspended in mid-air.

Suddenly, the dark cloud expanded and the shapes of hands, arms and a trunk appeared, together with a sphinx-like face.

Petrified with fear, Ismael and Irene watched as the electrifying apparition, and other shapes around it, came to life from the pages of the fallen books. Slowly, an entire army of shadows formed before their incredulous eyes. Shadows of children, of old men, of women dressed in strange costumes . . . trapped spirits, too weak to acquire consistency and volume. Their anguished faces were weary and listless. As she looked at them, Irene felt she was standing before lost souls, beings enslaved by some terrible curse. They stretched out their hands towards her, begging for help, but their fingers faded, becoming nothing more than a nebulous mass. She could feel the horror of the darkness that gripped them.

Irene wondered who these spirits were and how they’d got there. Had they once been unsuspecting visitors to Cravenmoore, just as she was? For a moment she thought she might spot her mother among them, but at a simple gesture from the shadow, their forms melted into a dark whirlwind that swept across the room.

The shadow opened its jaws and swallowed each and every one of them, consuming what little strength they had left. A deathly silence followed. Then the shadow opened its eyes. They shone blood-red in the gloom.

Irene wanted to scream, but her voice was lost in the sudden roar that shook Cravenmoore. One by one, all the windows and doors of the house were being sealed up, like tombstones closing. Ismael heard a cavernous echo rumble through the corridors of Cravenmoore and sensed that their hopes of getting out of there alive were quickly evaporating.

Now only a thin line of brightness remained, a tightrope of light high up on the vaulted ceiling. Without waiting another second, Ismael grabbed Irene’s hand and felt his way towards to the other end of the room.

‘Perhaps the other exit is up there,’ he whispered.

Irene looked up in the direction Ismael was pointing, at the thread of light which seemed to be coming through a keyhole. The library was constructed in a series of concentric ovals, connected by a narrow passageway that rose in a spiral up the walls and led to the different galleries that branched out from it. Simone had told her about this architectural quirk: if you followed the passageway to the end you were almost level with the third floor of the house. It was a sort of indoor Tower of Babel, Irene thought. This time she led the way.

‘Do you know where you’re going?’ asked Ismael.