The darkness was broken by two lanterns, flaming torches that guttered low, casting an uneven light across the floor. She noticed, and wish she hadn’t, that the floor was slightly soft, and the colour of dried blood. What was it with the dodgy horror metaphors? It was dark brown, that’s all it was. It was squishy though, like wet grass. That was better, wet grass was ok. Unless it was wet with blood, of course.
She shook her head, swearing quietly to herself, and rushed to keep up with Martin as he strode away down the tunnel. The darkness was relieved, here and there, by more torches, which did little more than chase shadows around, chasing her imagination down nasty little holes. She grabbed his hand, ignoring the look he gave her.
They emerged from the tunnel into a huge hall, the walls lined with tapestries, more flaming torches thrusting out from the walls. She stared at the tapestries, and blinked, looking closely. They were moving, the figures writhing, and doing things… ewww, that’s nasty, really nasty. She didn’t want to see stuff like that.
She turned her eyes to the end of the hall, and broke into a run. Mum was at the end, slumped against the back of the cage, eyes closed. Scarlett was halfway there when the fog came down. The hall around her disappeared, hidden by a thick white blanket. She stopped, turned, and held her hand up in front of her. She couldn’t see it, she couldn’t see anything.
‘Martin!’
Her voice was swallowed, the shout sounding like she’d barely spoken. She started walking, then stopped as she heard it, a scratching that made her wrap her arms around herself and burrow her face into them.
‘MARTIN!’
Still nothing, and the sounds were getting closer, the scratching of feet on the floor, but feet was the wrong word. Claws. She broke into a run, panting as the sweat poured off her. Her foot caught something on the floor and she went down, hands outstretched. She screamed as they struck the floor, the softness giving just enough so her wrists didn’t break, then her entire body smacked down with a thud.
She moaned, sitting up and rubbing her nose, and fell silent. The skittering was louder now, all around, getting closer. She screamed. Arms wrapped around her and she lashed out, flailing about with her arms and legs.
‘Easy, easy, it’s me, it’s Martin, calm down, please.’
She stopped, looking at the arm wrapped around her chest. Yeah, that was him. OK. She took a deep breath, followed by another. ‘Can you hear them? What are they?’
‘There’s nothing here, you’re listening to your fears. Remember the hall, remember the tapestries.’
At mention of the tapestries, she blushed, and giggled. ‘You noticed them too, huh?’
He laughed as the fog cleared. It didn’t drift away, it just went, transparent.
‘What happened?’
‘Castle defences, I think.’
‘Isn’t that, like, boiling oil and stuff.’
He shook his head. ‘The boiling oil thing is a myth actually. In medieval times, oil was far too expensive to throw on people. It was normally boiling water.’
‘Really? That’s, like, fascinating, really.’ He either missed the sarcasm, or chose to ignore it, waving a hand toward the cage. Mum was standing up, hands wrapped around the bars. She was shouting, a smile on her face, but Scarlet couldn’t hear anything, which was both weird and oddly pleasant. It was like having a volume control for mum. Yay!
She rushed over to the cage, Martin just behind, and searched around for a door. The bars travelled from floor to ceiling, a ring of them embedded deep in the concrete. How the hell had she got in there? She waited as Martin did a closer inspection, and groaned when she saw his face.
Next instalment: Monday 28 October
