The Man In The Midnight Blue Suit

Chapter Fourteen

I run down the white halls of the mansion. Doors after endless doors fly past me, but I don't slow. Turning left, I run down a long corridor. Here the walls seem to be hiding something under the shadows. There is no light or wall sconce, not even a window, making the hallway seem like a dreary tunnel, the end of which is unknown. I slow my pace to a walk, taking extra care to silence my movement. In this corridor, the doors are unremarkable and irregular, different from the rest of the mansion. I pause for a moment, not sure which door is the right one. In the weeks following Jonathan's story, the one about the girl and the top floor, I haven't forgotten the route he described. Though he never mentioned which door it was.

By now I'm so deep in the windowless corridor that everything is covered with a grey haze. I pause and look at the doors around me. They are all the same plain wood. The door I need can't be much further down than this. Turning, I stare at each of them. As I come near one door, no different from the others, I feel a faint chill in the air. Curious, I inspect the frame. It's unremarkable, perhaps a bit old, a darker shade than the others. I feel the cold breeze blow against my face. It seems to come from the door. Not waiting to reconsider, I grasp its handle and slowly push it open.

Inside is a room that feels familiar, though I have never been there before. An icy chill sets in, sending shivers down my spine. Like the corridor, there are no windows here. Cupping my hand, I ignite a small white flame. To my left is a simple grey sconce. Thankfully, it's unlit. He's not here. I light the sconce without going near it. My flame flickers for a moment, struggling. I've never had any difficulties lighting my fire before. The lip of the sconce peels over itself, the ends tearing into ripped points. I look away. The rest of the room is plain and unfurnished. The floors are dark, cloudy wood. The back wall is tainted with nicks and scratches. Against the left wall an old staircase. Paint peels off the bannisters leading to the topmost floor. I make my way towards the staircase, swallowing the fear rising in my chest. This is something I have to do.

I climb the stairs. My hand reaches out towards the bannister. It feels damp and cold. I draw my hand back towards my chest. The stairs creak. The pained sound seems loud in the small, bare room. I cross my arms, unprepared for the chill that seeps through my skin. Inimical darkness swallows the top of the staircase. I keep climbing. My mind tries to pull away, but I will not give up. Every part of me warns against this. I continue forcing my legs up the stairs. One by one. The silence now seems out of place. I shiver and tuck my hands beneath my armpits as a cold breeze blows towards me. I take the final step, suddenly realising that there are no windows on the top floor.

I whip my hands in front of me. The hairs on my back stand up. But not from the cold. The darkness obscures me. It swallows me up, so much that I forget which way I'm standing. Taking deep breaths, I try to light a flame in my palm. Nothing happens. Unsure of what's stopping me, I rub my hands against my sides and try again. This time I feel the comfort of warmth, but still see no light. I swallow. I must be disorientated. I can't focus. Carefully, I turn around in a circle. Another cold breeze, stronger now, brushes against my arms. I rub my prickled skin. It's only a breeze. Even though there are no windows for it to come from.

I stop turning and begin to walk into the breeze. It's uneven, blowing in different strengths between scattered pauses. Yet it is calm and slow. With each step I take the floor creaks, a raw, groaning sound. It echoes through the room. Still holding my hands in front, I continue to walk forward. The breeze blows my hair behind me. It's stronger now. Softly, my hands brush against damp metal. It's not cold, as I would expect it to be. I reach out further, trying to grasp it again. Something sharp catches my foot. I stumble over it. I feel the floor rushing toward me. My heart catches in my throat. Hands blindly reach for something to hold. They grasp lukewarm metal again. I cling to it. With my head pounding and my heart beating, I pull myself upright. I feel something wet trickle down my calf. It aches in time with my heartbeat. One hand slips. Anticipating another fall, my feet scramble to find safe ground. But before my other hand drops, they find perchance and hold still. I take a shaky breath. My calf aches. Suddenly feeling weak, I lean against the metal beside me. My hands roam over its surface. From what I can tell, the metal is mostly flat. Near me, it bends in a sharp corner, with bumps and dents scattered on the other side. I grip a dent to pull myself up. The cold breeze brushes my cheek. My breath grows quicker. I hold my hands out again and try to light a flame. This time it works. My white fire manages to ignite against the inky darkness, though it sputters and struggles. Its light is unusually dull. But it is enough. I look around myself, trying to find the source of the cold breeze.