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.
‘Trust me.’
He hurried after her, the ground slowly rising underfoot as they went further into the passageway. A cold draught caressed the back of his neck and he noticed that there was a thick black stain spreading across the floor behind him. The shadow’s texture was viscous now, and it moved like a sheet of oil, thick and shiny.
After a few seconds, it reached Ismael’s feet. The boy felt a cold spasm, as if he were walking on ice.
‘Hurry!’ he cried.
As they had suspected, the thread of light was coming from a door which was now only half a dozen metres away from them. Ismael ran towards it, managing to get ahead of the shadow for a few moments. He doubted the door would be unlocked.
Irene’s hands were already on the lock, searching for some way of opening it. Ismael turned to check where the shadow was and discovered the jet-black mantle rising before him. A tar-like face materialised. A familiar face. Ismael thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. He blinked. The face was still there. It was his own.
Ismael’s dark reflection gave him an evil smile, a reptilian tongue flickering out of its mouth. Instinctively, Ismael pulled out the knife he’d taken from the butler Christian and brandished it in front of the shadow. The figure blew on the weapon and a sheen of frost spread from the point of the blade to the hilt. The frozen metal sent an intense burning sensation through the palm of his hand. Ismael almost let go of the weapon, but he ignored the spasm gripping his forearm and tried to plunge the knife into the shadow’s face. When the shadow’s tongue touched the blade it dropped off, falling by Ismael’s feet. Instantly, the small mass wrapped itself around his ankle like a second skin and then began to creep up his leg. The contact with its slimy matter made him feel nauseous.
Just then, he heard the lock give a click and a tunnel of light opened up before them. Irene ran through the door, followed by Ismael, who slammed it shut, leaving his pursuer on the other side. The shadow’s tongue that had become detached had now reached Ismael’s thigh and it took on the shape of a giant spider. A painful cramp shot up his leg. Irene tried to brush off the monstrous creature, but the spider turned towards her and jumped on her. Irene let out a terrified scream.
‘Get it off me!’
By now Ismael had discovered the source of the light that had been guiding them. A row of candles extended into the gloom. The boy grabbed one of them and held the flame next to the spider, which was heading towards Irene’s throat. The contact with the fire made the creature hiss in anger and pain, then it disintegrated into black droplets that rained down on the floor. Ismael put down the candle and pulled Irene away from the fragments. The drops slithered like jelly over the floor, then joined into a single body that slid back under the door.
‘Fire! It’s afraid of fire,’ said Irene.
Ismael picked up the candle and placed it by the door, while Irene took a quick look around. The space had probably once served as an additional storeroom for the library, but it seemed more like an empty waiting room, with no furniture and covered in decades of dust. On closer inspection, Irene noticed shapes on the ceiling. Small pipes. Irene took one of the candles and lifted it above her head. She could see the glint of tiles and mosaics on the wall.
‘Where the devil are we?’ asked Ismael.
‘I don’t know . . . They look like . . . like showers . . .’
In the candlelight they could see a network of hundreds of bell-shaped sprinklers emerging from the pipes, their mouths rusty and covered in a citadel of cobwebs.
‘Whatever this place is, it must be ages since anyone has—’
Before she’d even finished the sentence, they heard a harsh sound, the unmistakable screech of a rusty wheel turning. Right there, next to them. Irene brought the candle closer to the tiled wall. There were two stopcocks and they were moving.
A strong vibration was running through the walls, the rumble of something creeping above their heads. They held their breath. Something was making its way through the narrow pipes.
‘It’s here!’ shouted Irene.
Ismael nodded, his eyes glued to the sprinklers. A thick mass began to filter through the holes. Irene and Ismael took a few steps back, transfixed as the shadow gradually formed before them, like sand falling through an hourglass.
Two eyes appeared and the friendly face of Lazarus smiled at them. It would have been a reassuring sight had they not known that what was standing before them was not Lazarus.
‘Where is my mother?’ Irene asked defiantly, moving closer.
A deep, inhuman voice spoke: ‘She’s with me . . .’
‘Get away from it,’ said Ismael.
The shadow’s eyes locked on Ismael, who appeared to go into a trance. Irene shook her friend and tried to move him away, but he did not react and remained trapped in the shadow’s spell. She put herself in between the two then slapped Ismael, which finally woke him from his stupor. The face of the shadow now filled with anger and two long arms reached towards them. Irene and Ismael hurled themselves against the wall, trying to dodge the shadow’s claws.
At that moment a door opened and a halo of light appeared on the other side of the room. In the doorway stood a man holding an oil lamp.
‘Get out of here!’ he yelled. Irene immediately recognised the voice: it was the toymaker, Lazarus Jann.
The shadow let out a shriek and, one by one, the candles went out. Lazarus advanced towards the shadow. His face seemed much older than Irene remembered, and his bloodshot eyes were immensely tired, like those of a man consumed by illness.
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‘Get out of here!’ he shouted again.
They caught a glimpse of the shadow’s demonic face as it transformed into a cloud of gas, seeping into the cracks in the floor and flowing towards a small gap in the wall. As it escaped, it made a sound similar to wind whistling against windowpanes.
Lazarus stood there, watching the gap for a moment. Then he fixed his penetrating gaze on Irene and Ismael.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ he asked, unable to hide his fury.
‘I’ve come to find my mother. I’m not leaving without her,’ Irene retorted.
‘You don’t know what you’re up against . . . Quick, this way. It won’t be long before it comes back.’
Lazarus led them through the door.
‘What is this thing? What is it we’ve seen?’ asked Ismael.
Lazarus looked at him intently.
‘It’s me . . . That thing you’ve seen is me . . .’
Lazarus led them through an intricate labyrinth of tunnels, the very bowels of Cravenmoore. The way was flanked by a large number of closed doors on either side, secret entrances to the dozens of bedrooms and other rooms in the house.
Lazarus’s lamp cast a circle of amber light against the walls. Ismael noticed his own shadow and Irene’s walking beside them, but Lazarus had no shadow. The toymaker stopped before a tall, narrow door, pulled out a key, then opened it. He scanned the passage along which they had come and signalled to them to go in.
‘This way,’ he said nervously. ‘It won’t come back here, at least for a few minutes . . .’
Ismael and Irene were suspicious.
‘You have no option but to trust me,’ Lazarus warned them.
Ismael sighed and stepped inside the room with Irene and Lazarus following. The lamplight revealed a wall covered with photographs and cuttings. At one end stood a small bed and an empty desk. Lazarus put the lamp on the floor and watched as the two young people examined the bits of paper.
‘You must leave Cravenmoore while there’s still time.’
Irene turned to him.
‘You’re not the ones it wants,’ added the toymaker. ‘It’s after your mother, Simone.’
‘Why? What does it want to do to her?’
Lazarus looked down.
‘It wants to destroy her. In order to punish me. And it will do the same to you if you get in its way. You must leave this place. Sooner or later it will return, and this time I won’t be able to protect you.’
At that moment a distant boom was heard somewhere in the house. Irene gulped and looked at Ismael. Footsteps. One after the other, exploding like gunshots, and getting closer and closer. Lazarus smiled faintly.
‘Here it comes,’ he announced. ‘You don’t have much time left.’
‘Where is my mother? Where have you taken her?’ Irene demanded.
‘I don’t know, but even if I did, it wouldn’t be any use.’
‘You built that machine with her face . . .’ Ismael said.
‘I thought it would be satisfied with that, but it wanted more. It wanted her.’
By now the demonic footsteps were approaching their refuge.
‘On the other side of that door, over there,’ Lazarus explained, ‘there’s a gallery leading to the main staircase. If you have a drop of common sense, you’ll run away and leave this house for ever.’
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ said Ismael firmly. ‘Not without Irene’s mother.’
The door through which they had entered shook powerfully. A second later, a black stain spread beneath the doorway.
‘OK. Let’s get out of here,’ Ismael urged Irene.
The shadow wrapped itself around the lamp and the glass cracked. Then the flame went out. In the gloom, Lazarus watched as Irene and Ismael fled through the other exit. Next to him towered a figure, black and impenetrable.
‘Leave them alone,’ he groaned. ‘They’re only children. Let them go. Take me once and for all, isn’t that what you want?’
The shadow smiled.
The gallery in which they found themselves crossed the central point of Cravenmoore. Irene recognised the place where the corridors all met and led Ismael to the spot beneath the dome. Clouds could be seen through the glass windows of the turret, scudding across the night sky.
‘This way,’ said Irene.
‘This way, where?’ asked Ismael nervously.
‘I think I know where it’s taken her.’
Ismael turned to look behind them. There was no sign of movement in the darkness, although he realised that the shadow could easily advance towards them without them being aware of it.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ he replied.
‘Follow me.’
Irene headed off down one of the wings and Ismael followed. Slowly, the light from the dome faded and they became aware of the swaying silhouettes of the mechanical creatures populating both sides of the corridor. Voices, laughter and the whirring of metal parts drowned out the sound of their steps. Ismael looked behind them once more, scanning the entrance to the tunnel as a gust of cold air blew towards them. Looking ahead, Ismael recognised the gauzy curtains fluttering in front of him, marked with the initial A.
‘I’m sure this is where he’s keeping her,’ said Irene.
Beyond the curtains, at the end of the corridor, stood the carved wooden door. It was closed.
A new breath of air enveloped them, stirring the gauzy veils.
Tense as a steel cable, Ismael froze, trying to discern something in the gloom.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Irene, sensing his apprehension.
Ismael opened his mouth to reply, but then stopped. Irene looked down the corridor behind them. There was a point of light at the end, but the rest was darkness.
‘It’s there,’ said Ismael. ‘Watching us.’
Irene drew close to him.
‘Can’t you feel it?’
‘Let’s not stay here, Ismael.’
He nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Irene took his hand and led him to the door at the end. Without saying a word, Ismael placed his hand on the knob and turned it slowly. The door yielded with a faint metal click and swung open on its hinges.
Irene advanced a few steps. An eerie blue mist filled the room. Everything was as she remembered it. The large portrait of Alma Maltisse presided over the fireplace and the fine silk curtains billowed gently around the four-poster bed. Ismael carefully closed the door and followed Irene, but then she stopped him. She pointed to an armchair facing the fireplace. They could see only the back of it, but from one of its arms hung a pale hand, drooping onto the floor.
Next to the hand, shiny fragments of a broken wine glass lay scattered in a pool of liquid. Irene let go of Ismael’s hand and crept towards the armchair. In the flickering light of the fire she could see a drowsy face: her mother.
Irene knelt down next to her and took her hand. For a few seconds she couldn’t find a pulse.
‘Oh God . . .’
Ismael rushed over to the desk and picked up a small silver tray. He ran to Simone and placed the tray in front of her face. A faint hint of breath clouded the surface. Irene heaved a deep sigh.
‘She’s alive,’ said Ismael, gazing at the unconscious face of the woman. She looked to him like a mature version of Irene.
‘We have to get her out of here. Help me.’
They stood on either side of Simone and, putting their arms around her, tried to lift her from the armchair.
They’d only managed to raise her a few centimetres when they heard a deep, chilling whisper from somewhere inside the room.
‘Let’s not waste any time,’ Irene urged.
Ismael attempted to lift Simone again, but this time the sound was much closer and he realised where it was coming from. The portrait. In an instant, the thin film covering the oil painting bulged out, forming a sheet of liquid darkness. As it gained substance, it unfolded two long arms ending in claws as sharp as daggers.
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sp; Ismael tried to move back, but the shadow jumped from the wall like a cat, leaping through the air and landing behind him. For a second, the only thing Ismael could see was his own shadow watching him. Then another form emerged from the shape, spreading over it until it had swallowed it completely. The boy could feel Simone’s body slipping from his arms. A powerful icy claw wrapped itself round his neck, then hurled him against the wall.
‘Ismael!’ shouted Irene.
The shadow turned towards her. She ran to the other end of the room, but the blackness at her feet closed about her, taking on the form of a deadly flower. She felt the chilling contact as it enveloped her body and numbed her muscles. Struggling hopelessly, she stared in horror as the dark mantle dropped from the ceiling and morphed into a familiar face – Hannah’s. The ghostly mask threw her a look full of hatred and its lips opened to reveal long fangs, wet and shining.
‘You’re not Hannah,’ said Irene, her voice tiny.
The shadow struck her, gashing her cheek. Instantly, the drops of blood from the wound were absorbed by it, as if it were drinking them in. Irene felt a wave of nausea. Brandishing two long, pointed fingers in front of her eyes, the shadow drew closer still.
As Ismael was getting back on his feet, still dazed by the blow, he saw that the shadow was holding Irene captive in the middle of the room and was about to kill her. Ismael yelled and threw himself against the black mass. His body went straight through it and the shadow split into thousands of tiny droplets that fell to the floor like liquid coal. Ismael lifted Irene and pulled her away from the shadow’s reach. On the floor, the pieces came together, forming a whirlwind that hurled the furniture towards the walls and windows.
Ismael and Irene flung themselves to the ground as the desk crashed through one of the windowpanes, shattering it completely. Ismael rolled over Irene, protecting her from the impact. When he looked up again, the whirlwind was solidifying. Two great black wings unfolded and the shadow emerged, larger and more powerful than before.