Joseph gripped his seatbelt as Martha Trotter rounded the corner at breakneck speed. The wheels of the car slid and screeched on the dark ribbon of road. He felt sure they were going to have an accident before they reached Nova’s house. However the urgency of the situation and the screams still audible, even over the mechanical roar of the engine, dimmed any impulse to caution her.
The journey had thus far taken a matter of minutes but to both of them it felt like an eternity. Neither spoke. What words could offer comfort in a situation like this? Neither he nor Martha knew what they were speeding towards. Instead they shared occasional glances of encouragement as the minutes slowly ticked by.
The car slid around the last corner and the dirt-track leading to Darkfern Cottage came into view. At last the waiting would be over. Joe just hoped that they had arrived in time.
Martha did not slow as they left the asphalt road and hurtled up the dirt road. She knew the bumps and turns as well as any other who lived in Bellflower. None were a strange to Nova’s house.
It was at that moment, as the cottage finally came into view, that they noticed the mist. The hoary shroud hung so thickly in the air that all but a few trees were lost to its drifting-asylum.
The source of the vapour appeared to be the cottage’s threshold. Gushes of the mist poured out, drowning the garden as a tide swallows the shore.
Joe looked at Martha. Both sat with their mouths open, their throats dry and unable to speak. Their earlier courage had abandoned them, valour lost to the oddity all around them.
“Maybe we should wait for Sergeant Cooper?” Martha said. Her face was a pallid, milky hue. Eyes wide and scared like that of a startled animal. She trembled all over.
Joseph placed a hand on Martha’s. She had been a pillar of strength for the entire village for as long as he could remember; a leader of the community that protected them both. Always there to help, no matter who needed it.
He smiled warmly; his best attempt to reassure her. “You wait here, Martha. Stay and wait for Sergeant Cooper. I'll go in…”
Martha shook her head vigorously and tried her best to convince him to stay. She insisted they both wait for the police to arrive. Joe ignored her advice and opened the car door. He stepped out, losing his foot to the obscuring grey. The car door closed with a loud clunk.
This wasn't about him being afraid. He didn't have enough time or nerve to go inside if he let himself feel fear. No, he had to help Nova. He had to go inside and he had to do it now.
The fog swirled around his feet. An eerie stillness had descended around the cottage. No sounds of the forest filled the night. No owls hooted. No animals scurried. There was no sound at all. The silence was complete, save for the rampant thud of his quickening heartbeat.
He walked forward as quickly as his feet would allow. The murkiness made it difficult to see the undulations in the ground and he fell more than once as he made his way up the path. As he approached the open door the crunching of shattered plates scraped violently against the overwhelming stillness.
He paused at the threshold and stared into the darkness, trying to see any shapes or movement. Another scream burst forth and he recoiled. He caught himself, stowing his fear. The pitiful sound invaded his head and his adrenaline kicked in. He rushed forward. He looked back over his shoulder at the headlights of the car.
Joe nodded to the woman watching and then stepped into the darkness.
***
Harmony crawled very cautiously into the dark space beyond the tiny door. She tentatively reached out with her hands. Nimble fingers danced in a thick layer of dust covering the floor. She felt certain that traps lay hidden in the gloom and she wanted to be ready for them.
Quite by chance she stumbled upon an object lurking beneath the dust layer. Fumbling in the dark she cleared the filth and picked up her discovery. Shifting into the light she learned the object was a short candle-stub; a nubbin of wax with a blackened wick.
Harmony frowned. What use was a candle with no way of lighting it? She was just about to voice this when she spotted a matchbox resting by the small door.
“Well, that’s oddly-convenient,” she whispered, reaching for the matchbox.
The box contained just a single match. It felt damp and old. As she prepared to strike she questioned the intelligence of lighting a candle in a room filled with dust. It was a terrible idea, a looming and very real fire-hazard. That being said the darkness was too great to see properly. She had little option.
Harmony dragged the matchstick across the rough side of the box. A loud, scratchy, popping noise filled the quiet air and a second later the flame suddenly burst from the tip. She touched the match to the wick then blew out the rapidly dwindling taper.
The candle immediately began to cast light around the room. Orange light illuminated the shadowed corners with a cheerful glow. Harmony held the flickering wick away from her hair as the little flame danced on the end of his waxy pillar. She pushed the little door over with her foot and turned to inspect the room.
Her initial scan was a disappointment. The mysteries of this cottage had promised so much yet so little reward was delivered. The tiny, hidden chamber was full of junk. This was not the kind of bric-a-brac which concealed wondrous rarities.
Most of the space was occupied by an ancient contraption. Though bizarre in design and amateur in construction Harmony concluded it to be a loom. Accompanying the weaving-device was an old captain’s chest. The container looked to have seen better days. It was old, tarnished and dented. Harmony found these details only enhanced its appeal.
Along one wall, and indeed spilling across the floor, was a rather sizeable collection of damaged books. Many were torn, coverless or burned to a point beyond use. Harmony glanced over the few titles with covers. She frowned as she spied a collection of silly names; Physica - The way of Will, Symbolism and Sacrifice - The step by step guide, The Rift – An eyewitness account, The seven steps; becoming a better witch.
Looking over the remaining volumes Harmony began to feel a little unnerved. Why would her Great Aunt have such bizarre tomes? Was this her big secret? Did Nova really think she was a witch?
Harmony laughed at the absurdity of her thought. Nova must have been senile to believe in magic. She dismissed the madness, blaming the isolation, and turned her attention to the dilapidated loom.
A thick layer of dust besmirched every inch of the ancient machine. Harmony quickly deduced it hadn't been used in living memory. She swept the cobwebs away from the row of warp-threads; still taught despite their age. Her fingers plucked the lines like the strings of a harp. A decidedly unmelodic-twang punctuated the stillness as the aged line snapped. She backed away hoping whoever was down stairs hadn’t heard the noise.
On the brink of turning away she suddenly noticed a strange detail. Descending from the thatch above was the end of a strange, copper device. The telescopic-apparatus, like the narrow end of a funnel, reached out over the loom. From the tapered opening innumerable, practically invisible, threads hung down.
Harmony followed the strands’ path through the loom’s workings. She cleared dust and web alike until she found their end. Hidden in a shroud of gloom the fibres convened at the edge of a bundle.
Her hand reached out and lifted a parcel of fabric. The candlelight brushed the dust-covered cloth and Harmony could see a gleam of red shine through. Despite the apparent age of the material the colour had not diminished any.
Holding onto one edge she allowed the bundle to unravel. This was no ordinary scrap of cloth. This was something far more interesting than that. In her hands she held a beautiful patchwork cloak. Each section, fascinating in its own intricacy, was delicately stitched to the next with sparkling thread. The combination formed a garment of significant opulence.
She twirled the cloak through the air, spinning it behind her back in a hurry to see it draped around her. The dust covering the floorboards, undisturbed for many years, was sent swirling into the air with the draft from the cloak.
Like a twisted vision of Christmas the room filled with the restless grime; large, fluffy flakes of decay danced in the air. Thick clumps clung to her hair and face. Some even drifted into her mouth, choking her as she gasped at the splendour of the perfectly-fitting cape. Quickly she closed the clasp, shaped like a lion’s head, around her neck and at once the cloak started to feel warm.
Harmony paced the room. She was attempting to achieve the perfect amount of theatrical flourish when she turned. The cloak seemed to move instinctively; almost as if the garment had a mind of its own.
The old chest waited patiently for the girl to notice him again. He had been in this room far longer than the cloak or the loom or the dust. To be precise he had waited in the dark for so long he had forgotten what he was waiting for. The only detail he was certain of was that he had something important to share with the girl in the cloak. The chest would have shrugged his shoulders in bemusement if he had any to shrug. Alas he didn’t. He would just have to wait until she stopped dancing around like a ninny and got on with the story.
A little out of breath from spinning and twirling Harmony sat down for a rest on the old chest. Rose had been gone for quite a while now. Harmony was just wishing she would come back when a creaking noise from downstairs reminded her she needed to be quiet.
She would have checked the time on her watch if Rose had allowed her to own one. Rose had declared all watches (and devices on which time could be measured) to be “an unnecessary and vulgar constraint on the flow of life.” This statement had been quickly followed by the ejection of Harmony's watch through an open window as they sped along a nameless country road in France.
The secret room was beginning to lose some of its initial appeal. The game of hide and seek was becoming as stale as the air she inhaled.
Harmony stood up and took a few steps back towards the pile of books. Perhaps her first dismissal had been too hasty. The tomes deserved a closer inspection and it doubled as a great waste of time. Suddenly the clasp around her neck tightened and her movement was chokingly-halted. She muffled her complaints as she turned to locate what had snagged the cloak.
The tail of the cape had intentionally hooked it's self onto a protruding nail. It could not let the girl, who wore it so proudly, leave the room. She had not yet checked the chest. She had not yet seen the wonders inside. How did she expect to survive the coming ordeal without the gifts? It was the cloak's responsibility to protect her and he knew from experience that if the wearer was unprepared, then he wasn't worn for long.
Harmony freed the caught edge, careful not to tear the cloak any further. She had quite forgotten about the chest lurking in the gloom. She found this surprising given how her mind was now positively buzzing with curiosity.
Visions of gold and treasure filled her head. Though, the likelihood that a crazy old woman would have such things was, as far as Harmony could tell, doubtful in the extreme.
Harmony sank to her knees as she looked at the large rusty padlock. The impeding bulk of metal halted her discovery from coming to fruition.
The lock itself was fairly average and quite unremarkable. It was big and heavy with a very definite ‘no further without a key’ kind of vibe. However, it was the attached brown label which most intrigued her or rather it was the inscription...
Speak your name and then we'll see if you’re the one who'll open me.
Harmony stared at the words. It was Nova's handwriting; she immediately recognised the same swirly style from the letter. She paused for a moment trying to shrug off the feeling that someone was watching her, waiting for her to speak into the lock, waiting to jump out and tell her it has all been a practical joke and what a fool she had been. A furtive glance over her shoulder at the door and quickly around the room lulled her suspicion.
Harmony was beginning to question her own sanity now. Did she really believe this was happening? She caught herself; this was the most amusing, exciting and absurd occasion of her life, why spoil the fun by trying to make it real?
“This is all just make-believe,” she laughed to herself before she leant forward and whispered into the keyhole.
“My name is, Harmony.”
The lock did nothing but stare back, unaffected by her whisper. Harmony frowned in annoyance. She felt more than a little disappointed. She really thought it would work, that by some act of magic the lock would have clicked open.
A flash of memory, armed with a fragment of her dream, charged in to her mind. She recalled the red-haired woman asking her name; the very same woman who was in the paintings. If Nova had painted the door then perhaps she had experienced the same dream?
Harmony considered for a moment whether she was starting to crack up. She dismissed the notion flippantly and leant forward once more.
Her lips hovered just above the keyhole. “My name is, Harmony Ryder.”
The lock clicked open...