Calista, Laura Rahme [best ereader for comics txt] 📗

that for an instant, he became oblivious to the grim deaths at Alexandra Hall.

The fountain was an astonishing work of art. Its bottom surface was a coloured mosaic of fish life with myriads of indescribable sea creatures shimmering under the light. Creatures that he could not name, and even the crest of blue waves appeared beneath the translucent pool, as though an entire ocean was depicted there.

No bugs. Not even a fallen reed. Not a leaf from the autumn-stripped trees that lined the garden. The pool’s surface gleamed, exceptionally well-tended. One could almost forget there was a pump underneath, functioning perfectly. It all seemed magical, this  clear water gushing out from the large fish’s open mouth, flowing into the pond, the sea world beneath it coming alive.

Black and blue

THREE hours upon falling asleep, Maurice heard rapping at his bedroom door. He rose. Reaching for the handle, he was stunned to learn Mrs. Cleary had once again locked him in. It unsettled him. It brought up memories he wished long gone. He took in deep breaths and worked at calming himself down, focusing on what might be her reasons. It could not be due to distrust. She had given him a set of the house keys, after all.

A loud knock startled him.

Maurice lowered himself to the door handle. He inched himself close to peer into the keyhole. Into this shaft of light, he could make out the stair landing ahead. Who had struck his door? His heart beating fast, his eye pressed against the keyhole, Maurice waited.

He became aware of an unnatural odour. A long blackened face flashed into view, obscuring the corridor. With the light blocked, the figure became indistinct even as it drew closer and closer still. Before Maurice could discern any shape or form, a large eye was thrust before him, at the opposite end of the keyhole. A jolt passed through him. He held his breath. The eye, a glittering orb of black and blue, with a swollen pupil, stared back at him. It was grotesque. It might have been an illusion brought upon by the darkness, but it gave the impression its owner was ill or had ingested a nefarious substance.

The rapping at the door resumed with vengeance. Maurice recoiled in fear. He knew not whether to feel terror or outrage. He dared not peer again through the keyhole.

Now the door shook on its hinges. He stepped back, confused. It sounded as if multiple beings stood on the other side, and together they hammered at the panel from different angles. It was infernal. It seemed to scream, “I have seen you. I know you are here.”

Horror-stricken, Maurice fled to his bed. He covered his head with the sheets, and shut his eyes tight. The sensation of being locked in and the uncanny feeling the noise stirred within him brought back memories of his Paris home. He wanted to yell out but when he finally found his voice, it was choked with fear, childlike. “Be gone! I shall speak to you in the morning!”

The noise ceased.

Maurice opened his eyes. He heard a heavy mass drag itself away. Then all fell quiet. He could not imagine who had visited him or why they would wish to do so. The bedside clock told him it was past midnight. He recalled that it had been about this time when he’d heard the rap at his door the night before. He settled into bed but for some time, his heart raced and he could not sleep.

He thought of the eye and the curious shape and form it had. It was a rare colour but he could pinpoint it with ease if he were to see it again. Tomorrow while he questioned the maids, he would be sure to match the eye with one of the residents of Alexandra Hall.

At long last, Maurice found sleep but it was far from restful. For when the dream came, it rose from a place of despair and brought him back to Paris. He found himself, sitting in his childhood home. There, he lived with a woman whose eyes he feared most of all. For hers were cruel and when he looked into them, he saw only that she wished to tear him apart.

Under the glow of a single candle whose weak flame only enhanced the misery in the room, Maurice the child sat upon a wooden stool, one tiny hand upon the kitchen table while the other held a spoon. His tear-filled eyes were riveted on the ceramic bowl in front of him.

In the bowl, in that cold soup, that opaque milky stew, he watched the numerous maggots crawl, and the bobbing flesh of a bloodshot eyeball.

“Eat it now, Maurice,” came his mother’s menacing voice. Maurice dared not look at her. He clutched at his spoon and stared, against his wishes, at the ghastly bowl.

But now, the wooden table seemed infinite, like a creature with a mind of its own. How it stretched and stretched, how its timber planks seemed to elongate to astounding proportions, taking the shape it wished. And down the far end of this unimaginably long table, there was she. Therese.

Maurice shook his head violently and pushed the bowl away. “Maman. I can’t…” he sobbed.

A mistake. A mean glint lit Therese’s eyes. She seemed to suddenly awaken. The long strands of dull hair which hung about her face, lifted, flying all about her. She stared at him with a vicious snarl. Tears ran down Maurice’s cheeks. Then he blinked. For in an instant, his mother’s traits had mingled with those of Mrs. Cleary’s. The resulting monster was at once austere and seething, distant and deranged, the eyes, both blue and black. He blinked again, unsure of what he was seeing.

“Eat it!” hissed Therese from the other end of the table. The candle light flickered, and before Maurice knew it,