Paper Tigers (18 page)

The pendulum was swinging, the second hand moving wrong, but moving nonetheless. Her answers were close now, so close. The wood gleamed, all dark wood and gilt trim. The clock chimed again, but the sound was distant, muted. The pendulum swung, the filigree hands moved, and her hand passed through it all, as though the clock were mere illusion.

“No,” she shouted, clawing at the air, at the clock face that wasn't a face, but a memory of a face. A trick. The clock chimed again and again, each one fading further and further away. And, finally, it
stopped. The pendulum paused in mid-swing, the hands froze, and silence fell into place.

“No, please, no.”

She held out her hands, fingers splayed. Through her skin—skin turned a translucent shade of pale—the grain of the wood and the glint of the clock peered back.

But that—

A low moan escaped from her throat. She turned her hands from side to side.

—was wrong. Impossible.

Goosebumps broke out on her arms. When they disappeared, a cold chill remained, deep under her skin. She shivered, started to take a step toward the doorway, then turned back to the clock. She'd been so certain it was the key. Was she wrong? She took a deep breath. Her hand slipped into the silent face all the way to her wrist. No smooth wood, no slick glass, no warmth. And all the colors had dimmed, leaving pale imitations in their place. The air tasted flat. Empty.

“I'm afraid you cannot leave yet, my dear. There's still so much to see.”

She spun around, but she was alone in the room. From beyond the door, a woman's laughter rose into the air, sharp and hard and cruel. It cut off mid-way, leaving her once more in silence.

The door slammed shut, followed by the thuds of many doors shutting one after another. She jumped, crying out, but her voice emerged as an indistinct hum.

Another voice crept in, tinged with anger that felt both familiar and foreign.

Do something. Don't just stand here.

“Okay,” she said, but as she approached the door, her steps were slow.

Her hand passed through the cut-glass doorknob. She tried
again. Hand, wrist, and forearm slipped through the door. Like the clock. Like a
ghost
.

She grimaced. She couldn't be a ghost. She pressed her hand on her chest, comforted by the steady,
living
, beat of her heart. She'd been at the party, she'd heard the clock, and then—

She held out her hands, the dark stripes of the wallpaper visible through them both.

“Then this.”

But what about before the party? Why couldn't she remember?

Because they don't want you to.

The floor shook beneath her feet, a quick tremble that vanished just as quickly. The colors brightened back to real. The cold creeping under her skin vanished. She grabbed the doorknob, her fingers dug into the glass and held, and then the floor shivered again. The colors faded. The cold returned. Her hand met only air. She frowned, a movement that felt real and solid. On the inside, she felt

whole

normal, but on the outside, she was anything but.

Stop this. Do something now.

She took a deep breath and stepped through the door. Her vision blurred, as though she were walking through a dense fog, then she passed through to the other side.

And everyone was gone.

She halted, her hands curling into fists. Everyone had been standing in small groups, talking and drinking. Now the rooms stood silent and empty, a tomb of furniture leached of nearly all its color. She took quick steps into the music room, the hem of her dress sweeping along the floor with no sound.

The piano in the corner loomed dark, yet a paler sort of dark, grey instead of deep black. Liquor still shimmered in the glass decanters. The sconces still burned. The air held no smell at all, but surely she
should smell perfume or brandy or something leftover from the people who'd been in the room. They couldn't simply disappear.

“Hello?”

The silence stole every trace of her voice. And what had stolen her memories?

Or who?

She needed to remember what she'd forgotten. That was the key to finding the way out.

A strain of music danced in the air, a touch of laughter, and a soft voice spoke near her ear in almost, but not quite words. She turned around with her hands held up palms out.

“George?”

The colors in the room shimmered, then faded back to pale.

“I know you're here.”

Another laugh, deep and masculine. Her eyes narrowed. She didn't know what sort of game George was playing, but she'd had enough. She took another step forward. The lights flickered, shadows danced along the wallpaper, and Alison slowly waved one hand. There was no corresponding motion on the wall.

“I am not a ghost. I'm
real
,” she said, but her voice quavered.

The other shadows continued to move.

I can't see them, but they're all still here.

But could they see her? Yes, she thought they could. Everything here was a trick. How else could she move through doors and leave nothing behind? The floor trembled beneath her feet. Voices pierced the hush, a gentle susurration of syllables.

“…and then he…”

“…no, she doesn't…”

“…careful…”

Alison tipped her head to the side—colors and shapes blinked into existence. She smelled perfume. Men and women stood shoulder to shoulder with drinks in their hands, mouths moving in conversation.
Madeline, Josephine, Thomas, Edmund, and others. But no George.

She made a half-turn and they all disappeared. With a scowl, she turned back. The room with its pale furniture. She shook her head. Everything, the smells, the colors, the people, spun back in, then out, then in, then out, a sickening strobe light of there and gone again.

Could everyone see her the same way—winking in and out of existence?

“Enough,” she shouted to the ceiling. The walls drank her words before an echo could sound. Tears filled her eye, spilled down her cheek. Only one eye, of course, because the other was glass, a stupid glass sphere that couldn't see, couldn't cry. Something had hurt her, had taken her eye and left an empty socket in its place, but the what was lost somewhere in her mind. The tiger wouldn't let her remember.

She shrieked, a long sound without form that raced around the edges of the room. Laughter then, a woman's laugh, familiar in its icy tone. Alison scrubbed the tears from her eye with the back of her hand and fled from the laughter, from the wide open spaces in her memory, from the room with its remembered smells and its promise of shadows.

George had the answers and she'd make him tell her the truth.

CHAPTER 19

Halfway up the staircase to the second floor, she heard voices. A man's voice. George? She raced to the landing and paused in the hallway. The voices vanished, but the first door on the right swung wide.

Edmund, minus his monocle, and a woman with hair the color of honey stood in the middle of the room, deep in conversation. His face was contorted in barely held anger. The woman, her back to the door, put her hand on Edmund's arm. He pulled away. Alison caught sight of her profile—a high cheekbone, strong nose, full lips. Her mouth moved and Edmund responded in kind, yet no sound escaped the room. The

tricklight

candles flickered and their colors washed out, leaving silvery shapes in their place. Then they shimmered back. Still though, at their edges the color was faded, as though it had a tenuous hold in this reality, this
time
.

Because it had run backward. Edmund's beard wore no strands of grey and the lines on his forehead were mere promises of the aging to come. The woman spoke again, wringing her hands. Edmund shook his head. The woman turned, offering Alison a view of her face, all swollen, red-rimmed eyes and cheeks wet with tears.

She heard conversation, not whole, but in snippets.

“…we have no choice…”

“…Eleanor, he would not…”

“…cannot stay…”

“…what would you have me…”

Eleanor put her hand on Edmund's arm again. He yanked it free, stalked over to the window.

“…I don't know…”

“…not safe…”

“…George would not…”

Eleanor turned, her hands fluttering to her throat, and her gaze locked with Alison's.

She's looking at the Monstergirl.

Alison jumped back. Edmund swung around, his eyes narrowed, his mouth set in a grim line. A wave of cold pushed into Alison, the chill pushing deep inside her, cold enough to hurt. From the back of her mind arose a shred of something forgotten, a lightning fast image of hands kneading skin, pushing hard enough to bring tears. And a name—Meredith.

The cold wrenched out of her body, the air rippled, and the door slammed in her face with a dull thud. She rubbed her temples, not caring about their conversation or about George. Meredith and a Monstergirl? She tried to find the rest of it, even a tiny bit more, but the only thing that would come was an image of something striking the wall and falling to pieces on the floor.

A voice drifted down the hallway, deep and throaty. “Still so much to see.”

Tightening her hands into fists, she started down the hallway, a ghost-pale woman with one glass eye, a head full of empty, and a handful of hurt.

Then she heard a heavy thud behind her and spun around with a cry. A man, clad in a dark suit, lay face down on the carpet. One arm was extended, the fingers nearly touching the wall, his face turned away from the room. Something glittered, half-hidden by his hand—a monocle.

Alison backed away. Swallowed.

“Edmund?”

Don't be stupid, he can't hear you
, a voice said, a voice that was oh so familiar because the voice called her names and—

Edmund turned his head toward her. “Hel—” His voice came out in a thick rasp, his breath labored.

This Edmund was older than the one inside the room. A line of drool spilled out from his lips and dripped down to darken the carpet beneath his head. His eyes rolled wildly in all directions, bleary and bloodshot. His hand scrabbled on the carpet, his fingernails scratching at the rug. A long moan slid from between his lips.

“I'll get…” The words died in her throat.

No, she wouldn't get help. She couldn't. Like the conversation in the room, this was something old, something the house remembered.

Edmund groaned, fingers clenching around the monocle as he pulled himself forward with his other arm.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm so sorry.”

He coughed, expelling a huge glob of pink-flecked phlegm. His breath turned to a shallow wheeze, and his skin took on a greyish cast as he dragged himself another inch and then rolled over onto his back. The monocle dropped from his hand. He tugged at his collar again and again. His heels beat a discordant rhythm on the floor and he gave another gasp.

Somewhere far in the distance someone whistled, and the tune set her teeth on edge. With one last glance at the dying man, she fled for the stairs.

She paused on the landing of the third floor. Closed her eyes.

A small voice hissed inside her head.
Yes, sleep and pretend, like a child hiding under the covers. Do something. Make yourself remember.

Her eyes snapped open. She wasn't sleeping. She was trying to remember.

Try harder.

A tiny tapping noise broke into her thoughts. Eleanor, clad in a flowered dress, was making her way up the stairs, her hand curled tight around the railing, her eyes no longer swollen but narrowed, her steps slow and labored.

Not real. It isn't real. Go find George. You don't need to see this.

But Alison couldn't move, and Eleanor continued up the stairs, staring through her

Because I'm not really here. Not to her.

with eyes full of sorrow and pain and more than a hint of anger. Carefully controlled, but seething beneath the surface. The look sent a shiver down Alison's spine, not because of its tone, but because of its familiarity.

It's red, and it's hiding inside, waiting to come out. Waiting and waiting.

Eleanor stopped three steps away from the landing and her mouth curved into a smile that did not reach her eyes. Her eyes flash with grim determination, and then she spoke, the words flickering in and out.

“…know what…did…”

“No, I didn't do anything,” Alison said.

Fool, she isn't talking to you.

When Eleanor spoke next, her words were clear and heavy with promise.

“You will pay.”

Another voice answered, but the words consisted of an unintelligible hum. Dark clad arms reached. Eleanor's eyes widened. The dark arms extended and shoved. Eleanor's face contorted into fear and disbelief. Alison tasted fear on her own tongue, bitter and acrid.

In slow motion, Eleanor's feet left the stair. She grabbed for the
railing, but it was too late. She plummeted down in a rustle of fabric and a trailing scream. There was a thud, accompanied by a sharp crack, and then all fell still. Eleanor's head rested against the space where wall met floor, her neck bent at a wrong angle. Footsteps thudded back down the hallway; Alison caught a glimpse of dark hair and dark clothing.

Even knowing she could not help, she took the stairs. Halfway down, a shout of alarm came from deep in the house, footsteps scurried across the floor, and a woman in a white cap rushed over and bent over Eleanor's still form. “Help,” she cried out. “Someone help…”

Her voice faded away at the same instant her body did, yet Eleanor's broken body remained visible. Alison fisted her hands. This wasn't real, not now, but it was a long time ago. Somehow, she'd been silent witness to Eleanor's

murder

death.

Eleanor's eyes opened with a tiny little snick. Filled with confusion and stark terror, they fixed on Alison's. Her mouth worked, letting out a strange garble.

“No, oh, no,” Alison said.

Eleanor lifted one hand. But how? She was dead.

What had Edmund said? “Someone would know a thing like that, wouldn't they?”

A foul smell made her gag. Covering her mouth, Alison turned and ran back up the stairs, a strange crackling noise following all the way.

She skidded to a stop just past the landing. Darkness shrouded the entire hallway. She blinked several times, but the pitch black remained, as though she stood at the edge of a great abyss. Impossible. She'd been here moments before.

From deep within the darkness, a voice said, “Come and see…”

She took a step back. The strange sounds, the stink, continued to drift up the stairs. Alison covered her face with her hands.

Enough. I want to go home.

She dropped her hands and stepped into the darkness.

No light, no sound, until a door creaked on her left, letting out a band of sunlight into the darkness.

No, don't, it's another trick.

But what if George was in the room? Only one way to find out.

The little girl sitting on the floor did not look up when Alison entered. The smell of talcum powder hung in the air, but another persisted beneath, sickly and wet.

Wisps of pale curls hung over the girl's forehead and shoulders. She held a doll in one hand and a well-loved blanket in the other. Sing-song nonsense words slipped from her lips in tiny murmurs. Alison remained by the door with a smile on her face. The girl stood and spun around with her arms outstretched; the blanket trailed around her, obscuring her face. Her dress, a cheery sunshine yellow, belled out around her thin legs. With a ragged sigh, she dropped to the floor again and stretched out on her back, her narrow chest moving with harsh breaths of exertion.

When the girl turned her head, Alison's mouth dropped open. Shadows marred the skin beneath the girl's eyes, a sickly pallor tinged her cheeks, and her tiny rosebud mouth held a shade of pale instead of blossom.

Alison crossed the room and bent down on one knee. This close, the girl's illness wept from her pores, a nightmare of labored breaths, fever, and sour sweat. In the back of her mind, Alison heard a clock ticking away the minutes.

The sun streaming in the windows offered no warmth. Beyond
the glass, a grey mist moved, long tendrils that pushed against the panes only to slither away.

More tricklight. A fake.

“Elizabeth?” a voice said.

The little girl sat up, a wide smile on her drawn face. The air beneath the doorframe shimmered and took shape in the form of a teenage boy, all smiles and dark hair, with a cup in his hand.

“I thought you might be cold, so I brought you some cocoa,” he said, stepping closer. “You should be in bed, resting.”

“I don't want to rest. I want to play.”

“You can play when you're well,” he said. “You don't want to upset your mother, do you?”

She shook her head.

He held out the cup. “Here, little cub. Drink this and be warm.”

She took the cup in both hands and lifted it to her lips.

“Good?” the boy asked.

As she nodded and drank more, the boy winked at Alison, and she rocked back on her heels. She knew that wink, knew the man's face masked within the boyish features.

Elizabeth drank the rest and handed the cup back to George, but it was the wrong George, not the George with answers, but a once-George.

“Now, back to bed with you, before I tell your mother you were up.”

“Please don't tell,” Elizabeth said and scampered over to her bed, a tiny white-framed construction piled high with pastel blankets.

George tucked her in, pulling the blankets high, and kissed her forehead.

“My blankie,” Elizabeth cried out.

“Stay there, I'll get it.”

When he picked up the blanket, his eyes met Alison's. Without another word, he handed the blanket to Elizabeth and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Elizabeth began to cough, and her face darkened. Her eyelids dropped shut, her lips parted, she exhaled one long, ragged gasp, and her chest went still.

“Help, someone help,” Alison cried out.

But it didn't matter how much she yelled or how loud, because no one could hear, no one would come in time. One of Elizabeth's arms slipped from beneath the blanket and dangled off the edge of the bed.

Had there been something more than cocoa in the cup? No, George wouldn't have done something like that, would he?

Bone ground against bone as Elizabeth turned her head, slow, so slow. Alison shrieked and backed away. The blankets slid off the bed and puddled on the floor. The air grew vile with a wet, rotten stink. Elizabeth's flesh turned a dark shade of green, then grey. Her cheeks pitted and her chest collapsed, the ribs apparent even through her nightgown. The skin of her arms and legs shriveled into matchsticks of decay, and her hair sloughed off into a blonde mass above her head as her face turned into that of a wizened crone. Alison wanted to run, but her feet would not move, could not move.