The Shadow Cabinet (23 page)

Stephen had stepped ahead, and I saw that while light came from some of the windows, the doorway itself was entirely dark. It was exactly like the haunted house—they made it pitch-black, and they turned the air-conditioning all the way down, and they also had a fog machine, so frosty air puffed out near the door where the two atmospheres met. You knew then you were going
somewhere else.

I was already somewhere else, and I was with Stephen. But this house was different. I knew this somehow. Once we got inside, things would change. There was a world of unknowns. And as to whether or not any of this was real, that had yet to be determined. Inside, I was eight years old, staring at the dark, knowing what I was about to do and having no idea what the outcome would be.

This was not a haunted house in a Louisiana firehouse.

I was the one leading this, even though Stephen had physically walked ahead with his flashlight.

“Rory?” he asked, turning around.

I took a last look at the sky. The moon had never been so low. I felt like I could touch it if I wanted, but you're probably not supposed to reach up and touch the moon. This was not a place anyone was supposed to be.

“Coming,” I said.

23

N
OTHING JUMPED
OUT
AT
US
AS
WE
CROS
SED THE THRESHOLD.
That was the first and clearest difference between this and the Bénouville haunted house. Back there, someone in a mask, rubber monster gloves, and surgical scrubs had snatched at me in seconds, and I started running through that maze, screaming one unbroken scream until I emerged in the parking lot about a minute later. It was just the one room, after all, and you can only put up so many cardboard dividers.

This was quiet. Settled. It was the house I knew. There was the stupid ceramic leopard by the door. There was the silvery wallpaper. It was warm, at least. My hands had gone purple from the cold. I rubbed them together and shook the snow from my clothes. Stephen dusted himself off as well and used his flashlight beam to probe around past the vestibule. The hall was straight ahead, leading to the kitchen. The coat pegs where I'd found Charlotte's blazer were not there. The stairway itself was so dark, it couldn't be clearly seen.

If I'd been coming to visit Jane, I would have gone into the room on the right, but that door was closed now. The other door, the one on the left, was partway open, and there was light from this room. I'd only been in this one once or twice before. I'd always gotten the impression that Jane used the room on the right for work, the room on the left for her personal living space. I pushed this door open very slowly, inch by inch, revealing a room entirely, almost blindingly, illuminated by candlelight. It took me a second to realize it wasn't the candles alone that made it so bright, it was the fact that there were so many mirrored surfaces—actual mirrors, the mirrored table, and a mirrored cabinet. There was a chandelier, also full of candles. It rained wax drops.

I'd seen this room, and it looked mostly correct, but some things were different. There was a thick white shag rug on the floor and a large cabinet along the one wall that hadn't been there before. There was a weird little silver globe thing in the corner that had a screen and may have been a television. The mirrored table didn't have the usual selection of coffee table books about decorating. Instead, there were a bunch of red glasses—goblety ones, like you might get at the ren faire, but better quality. Heavy glass. There was also an open black box and three curved knives. Stephen examined one of these, then went over to the long cabinet and looked inside.

“There's a turntable in here,” he said. “And albums. Old vinyl ones. Rolling Stones, David Bowie . . .”

“This is definitely Jane's house,” I said.

“I don't think it's so much a question of where we are as
when
we are,” he said, picking up a pile of magazines and looking through them. “The dates on all of these say 1973.”

It was pretty clear once he said it where and when we had to be. I counted the glasses on the table. Thirteen. Ten people, Sid and Sadie, and Jane. There was a decanter with a bit of liquid inside. I gave it a delicate sniff. It seemed to be the same disgusting stuff that Jane had given me, though there was a strange sweetness to the scent that hadn't been in the batch I'd had.

“1973,” I said. “This is where it happened. The kids died down here. And Sid and Sadie . . .”

Before I could finish, there was a female voice—a cheerful one.

“Upstairs, darlings!”

It was a voice you might hear across an English garden offering you more lemonade or cake or a game of tennis.

I looked over at Stephen.

“I think we go,” I said. “I don't think they can hurt us here.”

“Who knows what happens here,” he said.

“Do come up,” the voice said. “Straight up.”

He switched the flashlight back on and moved toward the door. He led the way up the stairs, guiding us with the beam of the flashlight. The darkness on the stairs was absolute. We turned along the corridor of the second floor and looked up the next story. There was light at the top of these stairs, and standing in it was a woman in a filmy white gown. She was tall and blond, her fine hair landing in gentle, feathery bursts at her shoulders. She was also completely backlit, so we could see the entire outline of her body.

“This way,” she said. She turned and vanished into the room. I was almost knocked over by the smell—a cloyingly sweet incense burning, undercut with musk and the skunky smell of pot. This was about ten times stronger than the bookshop.

We reached the top and were standing in a room that took up the entire floor. I had been in this room before, and it looked very much the same as I remembered. Overlapping carpets on the floor in a variety of patterns and colors, books filling the walls, the tiny inlaid tables. But something was different—a round table in the middle of the room. The woman stood by this. She didn't look like any person I'd ever seen, and I grew up going to New Orleans on Mardi Gras. Her gown swept the floor, and I could see her bare toes peeking out under the hem. Her face was faintly silver, and she had streaks of duck-egg blue and stark white on her eyes. She was part nature goddess, part elf.

“I don't think we've met,” she said. “My name is Sadie.”

She put her hand to her décolletage. The arms of her gown were like bat wings, making every gesture a grand sweep.

“This is my brother, Sid.”

I finally took my eyes from her and saw a figure elegantly slouched on a low chair in the corner of the room. He wore a white suit with wide lapels, with a white shirt and a silver tie. He even wore a hat, a fedora style, tipped a bit over one eye. His one leg was crossed widely over his knee.

“Enchanted,” Sid said, smiling and raising a hand. “I love what you're wearing.”

“It's been so long since we've had guests,” she said. “We've been waiting.”

“It's been an absolute drag,” Sid said. “Tell us, how long has it been?”

“About forty years,” I said. “More than that.”

“Well, that explains it,” Sid said. “I'm famished. I'm going to have five fry-ups. I absolutely am.”

“Have six,” Sadie said.

“I will. I'll have six.”

“Might we know your names?” Sadie asked.

“We love names,” Sid said. “Otherwise we'll have to call you This One and That One, and you deserve better.”

“We give better names than that,” Sadie said to him reproachfully.

Sid tipped his head in concession of this fact.

“I'm Rory,” I said.

Stephen did not offer his name, and I didn't offer it for him.

“So you're Rory,” Sid said, “and . . . well, he's handsome but not chatty.
Very
stone-faced. Like the white cliffs of Dover.”

“Those are chalk,” Sadie replied. “He's more solid than that. Like the Misty Mountains.”

“Over the hills where the spirits fly . . .”

“With Rivendell in the foothills.”

“And Orcs in every pass,” Sid concluded. “So perhaps he's . . .”

“Stephen,” Stephen said, bringing an end to that.

“Stephen it is.” Sid finally made an effort to stand, unfolding like origami. He joined his sister at the table, and the moment he did, she wandered off to a basket chair by the window. All their movements were fluid, like they were doing some kind of ballet.

“And tell us,” Sadie said as she draped herself over the wicker, “how did you get here?”

I hadn't actually told Stephen this yet, and he looked over at me curiously. I had to choose my words carefully here. I wanted to tell them something—I mean, if they were going to help us leave. But I couldn't tell them everything. That just seemed like a bad move. “You killed ten people” probably wasn't a good opener, so I went with:

“I know Jane.”

“You know Jane!” Sid said merrily. “Our Jane? Darling Jane.”

“Sweet Jane,” Sadie said. “Forty years. And Jane's waited for us all that time? She
is
a dear.”

“She's getting a Christmas bonus,” Sid said. “A fat goose for our Jane and a half day off work. So, if you're here, I suppose Jane must be up to something.”

Sadie got restless in her seat and got up. I was mostly amazed that in this reality, a gown that filmy and delicate didn't catch on the wicker. If that had been me, I would have been dragging that chair around on my hem. Sadie rose, like she was mostly made of air and birdsong, and glided over to Stephen. She gave him a once-over that made me very uncomfortable. She raised a curious finger to his chest and drew an invisible line under the word
POLICE
on his sweater.

“You aren't really,” she said, smiling coyly.

Stephen didn't reply, which was enough for her.

“Oh, Sid. He's actual police!”

“Is he?” Sid said. “Things
have
improved, dear sister. Come to bust us? Feel free. Come over. Search me. Make it thorough.”

He leaned backward over the table in a dramatic stretch. His hat tumbled off his head and turned upside down. While Sid was joking around, Sadie seemed more intent on working us out.

“There's something different about you,” Sadie said. “You're different. You see it, Sid, don't you?”

Sid straightened up to look at me.

“I do, now that you mention it,” he said, replacing his hat on his head. “Quite different.”

“What is it, I wonder?” Sadie circled me curiously.

“I'm not sure. I like her hair quite a lot. It's very Angie Bowie. But that's not it. That's not it at all.”

“No,” Sadie said. She reached out and touched my hair. “No, she's . . . I can't place it.”

She rejoined her brother at the table. Side by side, they looked far stranger than when they were even a few feet apart. Side by side, the eeriness of their resemblance came through, the strangeness of their dress, the odd highlights of their makeup.

“She's very interesting,” Sadie said.

“She is,” Sid replied. “What is it? It's going to drive me crazy, Sadie.”

Stephen, during this time, had been taking in the contents of the room with a long sweeping look. We had our own dance. I would keep them talking—that was my strong suit. I was buying him time to think. When Stephen thought, he was like one of those dogs that froze in position when they heard a rattle in the bushes.

“So,” Sid said, “tell us how you got here. We're
ever
so curious.”

“We really are,” Sadie said. “What did our sweet Jane do?”

“She's a clever girl,” Sid said.

If we were going to get any information, I was going to have to say something.

“There was a ritual,” I said. “The mysteries.”

“I assumed as much,” Sid said, with a dismissive hand wave. “But she did something different. Something about you.”

Stephen stepped a bit closer to me, partially in a protective move and partially because he'd become transfixed by the window wall in front of us. Maybe in this world Stephen was really into staring at walls.

“I came here to get him, and now I have to get back. And I thought you'd know how.”

“Us?” Sid laughed. “We've been here for forty years, if what you say is true. If we knew, we'd have done it by now.”

“It's very boring,” Sadie said.

“It is, it is. And we hate being bored. However, perhaps we can work this out together. Or we'll all be stuck here together. Either way! But I don't think you want that. So why don't you tell us your secret? You have one. I can see it in your eyes. We're very good at ferreting out secrets.”

I followed the line of Stephen's gaze. The window wall had the least on it of any wall in this room. Just a few tapestries, the curtains, a long mirror on one side. But above the windows, there were some painted things—symbols. Some astrological ones. But in the space between the windows, up where wall met ceiling, I saw what he was focusing on. It was a series of Roman numerals: I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VII
IX
X
XI
XII. From what I could remember from fourth grade, that was just a sequence of numbers, one to twelve. Why Sid and Sadie had painted the numbers one to twelve along their wall in Roman numerals was anyone's guess, and really no weirder than, say, murdering ten people in your living room because you thought Greek gods were real.

Actually, no. There was something wrong with those numbers. One was incorrect.

“So what was different?” Sadie said, pulling me back to the conversation. There was something so soothing about her voice. It wasn't strange or cloying or evil. It was soft and nice, like Jazza's. And it was rich and full, like the English people in period pieces on TV. I had to give them a little something more.

“She used a stronger stone,” I said.

On this, Stephen's head whipped in my direction. His eyes were utterly clear. He knew what I was talking about, about the stone. I was sure of it.