The network of pipes riddling the house all congregate in this room. The devious system used by Brahms to hear every conversation and footfall of the Heelshire house hidden away in this Lair, now works to your advantage. You hear a door open in the distance, the distinctive creak tells you it's your bedroom door. You can only pray whoever's prowling around won't find any of the false panels and doors leading to the secret passages.
There's a moment when you think maybe it's Brahms come home without telling you. That he's signed himself fit to leave hospital. But you instantly dismiss it. He would have come straight into your room, called out your name.
You don't hear any voices. Whoever, or whatever, is out there walks in silence, and, you guess, is alone. For an age you hear nothing. Then footsteps are moving closer, into the nearest room to the one you're hiding in; the room where Joel died.
Something heavy hits something hard, and you swear you hear a muttered curse. Then the footsteps pad away, sounding clearly now on the parquet floor of the dining room; out again into the hallway; moving slowly to the kitchen. They're searching for something, or someone, perhaps collecting valuables as they go. The Heelshire's owned countless antiques, valuable paintings and ceramics, glassware and silver.
You glance over your shoulder to scan the darkened room. A sliver of moonlight shining through a crack in the shuttered window bisects the worktop where the doll sits, igniting its crystalline eyes. You stare back at it, wishing Brahms were here with you; yearning for his strength and courage. You know he'd stride out there to confront whoever dared threaten you and his property; fearless and terrifying. But he's sixty miles away, lying in a hospital bed.
There's one horrible moment when the thing in the room touches the panelling; for you hear the scrape of fingernails over wood as though it's searching for a chink in the wall; searching because it senses you behind them; can smell your fear, taste it. You hear it move to the chimneybreast where the pipes lay just behind the brickwork. It's breathing. A soft rasp that sets every hair on your body erect.
You have no idea what time it is. Straining your ears you listen but it's moved away, out of the room and you hear no more footsteps. You think you hear a car engine, but it's so faint you can't be sure. For a second, you hope it actually is Brahms, but the sound gets fainter until it dies away completely.
Creeping over to the window, you adjust the shutters so that the room is completely black. Then you feel your way to the little cot bed Brahms used to sleep in, snuggle up in the bedding, and try to pretend he's lying alongside you. You know you won't sleep. But here it's warm and you can release the muscles you've been tensing so hard they're aching. Bit by bit you relax. No more footsteps echo through the walls. You lie there, immobile, til morning.
~
You realise you've actually dozed off at some point. You lie a moment listening, trying to gauge if it's safe to emerge. At the window you open the shutter an inch. It's rained overnight and the sky is leaden. From the dreary light you guess it's about eight in the morning. The window overlooks the front of the house. The drive and gardens below are deserted.
Slowly, you open the door to the Lair, step into the corridors beyond and tip toe back to your room. There are cracks in the walls, here and there, where you can see into each room. All are empty. Nothing seems disturbed. You wonder if you've imagined it all. That the noises were just the house shifting. The building is very old, built in 1890, and it must hold a few energies or spirits.
Emerging through the closet, you stand awhile in your room, not quite daring to step into the hallway. But eventually you do. You search every room but find nothing. Not a single thing disturbed, stolen or interfered with. Then, in the kitchen, you discover the back door is unlocked. Realising that you probably forgot to lock it in the panic to get Brahms to hospital, doesn't give you any comfort. You consider calling the police. But realise the futility of this. There's nothing stolen, or damaged. No break in. No smashed windows. Nothing to suggest an intruder. Niggling within you still, like a dark malignant worm, is the vision of Joel. Dead Joel his slashed throat bloodless and gaping, his grey blue eyes that had once intimidated you so much, milky with decay and slippage, once more burning with an infernal light. You know it's ridiculous but you can't shake it off. You don't believe in ghosts, or so you tell yourself and nothing Joel ever did can hurt you anymore.
You take the stairs two at a time, locking yourself in your room as you shower and change. Then you grab the bag holding your stuff and a change of clean clothes for Brahms, and leave the house, locking the door behind you.