Dead Pan Reflection

I

sabella's lips remained sealed as she ascended the stairs, obediently following the man's instructions. The interior of the house, she discovered, surpassed the haunting aura of its exterior. Dimly lit, the halls suffocated under layers of stagnant air and dust, relics of a bygone era. Each wall adhered to the same Gothic aesthetic, devoid of distinctive features except for a few jarring exceptions. The wooden paneling's friezes held grotesque depictions of torture and anguish, meticulously carved in unsettling detail along the border where wall met ceiling. The red carpet, embracing the sharply curved stairs to the middle landing, bore an opulent gold trim, while the worn bannisters bore witness to the touch of countless lords who had inhabited the manor before her uncle. The grooves and dusty imprints spoke of her family's journeys, their secrets laid bare by grimacing portraits and dimly hanging chandeliers. Fear mingled with fascination as Isabella continued her ascent through the house.

The objects adorning the house's interior struck Isabella with awe. Her hand grazed over peculiar oddities, leaving her mouth slightly agape. A severed hand, its nails honed to needle-like points, floated eerily in a jar, veins and whispers of veins aglow with an ethereal green hue. A stuffed wolf's head loomed in a guest bedroom she passed, while preserved insects lay motionless in jars atop a sideboard. A rabbit's foot, nailed to a wooden slab, dangled lifelessly. All once possessed the spark of existence, a sacred and enigmatic force akin to the energy she had sensed upon disembarking the carriage. The girl pressed on, her steps unsteady, captivated, and confused.

Eventually, Isabella reached the steep stairs leading to the attic, fatigue weighing upon her more heavily than when she embarked on the arduous climb. Seated for a moment, she surveyed the peeling wallpaper, a testament to the neglected upper quarters of the house, now rarely frequented but once bustling with servants. Through the gaps in the tattered wallpaper, older wooden panels peered, revealing glimpses of decay and desolation. Nothingness. Emptiness consumed the recesses of her uncle's dwelling.

Summoning her strength, Isabella mounted the few remaining steps and turned the stiff attic door handle. A potent scent of age, coldness, and musty dust filled her nostrils as the door creaked open, echoing through the silence. Darkness cloaked the room. Treading cautiously, she made her way to the curtained window, pulling back the drapes. Timid light trickled in, illuminating the meager space. As instructed by Duncan, the chest awaited her, solitary against the room's far wall. She approached it, opening the lid to reveal an assortment of reasonably well-preserved clothes. Running her fingers through the moth-eaten garments' holes, she recognized their extended stay within the chest's confines. Selecting a couple, she brought them to the room's center, beating them with her open hand to dislodge some of the clinging dust. The air grew foul, and Isabella peered down at her now-gray hand, its mortal vulnerability accentuated by the dim light. Summoning courage, she shed her light blue dress, draping it over the chest's lid, and slipped into one of Olivia's dresses—a snug, yet surprisingly flattering, red attire. Gazing upon her transformed reflection, she grinned, emboldened by the garment's sudden audacity. Her mother had always insisted on dressing her in "inoffensive" colors, molding her into a suitable match for wealthy Dublin businessmen who would undoubtedly court her after she completed her schooling. Yet, with her father's passing and her mother's confinement to a Parisian chamber, her future had grown uncertain, devoid of wealthy suitors, Dublin's allure, children, and love.

Perhaps her existence was fated to become a cruel struggle, an empty and lonely journey. She shook off the morbid thoughts. At her tender age, she prided herself on her cleverness, believing that living here, in the company of a brilliant scientist, would provide her with an advantageous edge. Pondering her future while toying with the relics of the past—the dresses, the toys adorned with crudely inscribed initials marking them as her deceased cousin's possessions—Isabella picked up a silver music box. Twisting the handle, she unleashed a familiar tune, causing her grin to widen into a smile. It was an ancient folk melody, reminiscent of the lullabies her mother used to hum, coaxing her into slumber during her childhood. The music's spirited rhythm filled the air, propelling Isabella into a whirlwind of twirls and spins at the room's center. The nervous and introverted girl who had disembarked from the carriage vanished, replaced by her former self—energetic, inquisitive, and brimming with the zest of youth.

As the music gradually slowed and ceased, Isabella came to a halt, her shoulders slumping. The nostalgic tune had evoked a profound longing—for home, for her mother's embrace. Shaking off the emotions, she approached a mirror nestled in the room's corner. Admiring her reflection in the pretty red dress, she easily forgot the melody that had filled the room moments ago, her father's death, and her prolonged stay in her uncle's mansion. Her hair cascaded over one shoulder, shimmering playfully as the sun signaled the day's progression, casting fleeting rays through the window. She understood that daylight hours in northern England were limited. In the mirror's corner, an unsettling presence caught her eye—a grinning man, his bloodshot eyes briefly visible. She swiftly turned, her feet tangling beneath her, and tumbled backward, crashing into the mirror. The fractured glass shattered against the floor with a thunderous roar, amplified by the attic's acoustics, reverberating through the halls and distant forest groves beyond the window. Her head throbbed as she scrambled backward, entangling herself in cobwebs hanging from an overhead beam, surveying the figure standing in the attic's doorway.

He was aged, not ancient, garbed in grubby brown trousers, a stained white shirt, and an untucked waistcoat revealing tufts of dark chest hair. His disheveled, loosely curled hair held a hint of greasiness. Gripping the doorframe, he continued to fix his gaze upon Isabella. No words escaped his lips, and silence engulfed the room, the echoes from the shattered mirror fading into nothingness. Isabella's breath quickened, her heart pounding against her chest like a desperate creature.

"Who are you?" she managed to utter, her voice trembling with nerves.