tapestry’s edge and ran my hand on the wall behind it, stepping sideways toward the rug’s center. Amity followed. “See this panel?” I showed her. “It’s spring-loaded. All you have to do is press on it like this—” I put both hands in the center of the panel and pushed. It sprung back open toward me.
“Awesome,” Amity whispered, her eyes wide.
I pulled the door open farther to reveal the dark, dusty passageway behind it. I felt around for the light switch and flipped it a couple of times. Nothing.
“I’m sure these bulbs must’ve burned out long ago,” I said to my daughter. “I can’t imagine Grandma used these passageways very much.”
“No,” she murmured, peering around me into the darkness.
“You’re sure you’re up for this?” I asked her, teasing a bit. “You never know what we’ll find in here.” I knew there was nothing to be afraid of, nothing more terrifying than the odd spider or bat, but it was fun to give my daughter an adrenaline rush.
She nodded. “Let’s go,” she said, nudging me a little.
I pressed the button on my flashlight and watched as the shaft of light illuminated the passageway beyond, where the years hung in the air, clung to the wood-paneled walls, and blanketed the dark floorboards. Spiderwebs were stitched in intricate patterns, their weavers at work undisturbed for decades. It smelled of the past, of countless childhood afternoons when my brothers and I would explore here. Our footsteps echoed in the emptiness as we walked along, and I could hear Amity’s shallow breathing soft and low in my ears.
“This leads to your room,” I told her, pointing to a door that was nearly indistinguishable from the wall on either side of it. It groaned as we pushed on it, voicing its displeasure at being awakened after such a long rest.
“I didn’t even know this door was here,” Amity whispered as she pushed aside a tapestry and peered into her room, its light and color and brightness contrasting sharply with the dingy, shadowy passageway in which we stood.
“Come on,” I told her, gently shutting the door and leading her farther down the hallway. “You won’t believe what’s down here. It’s almost like a house within a house.”
And then I noticed it, what seemed to be a darkness within the light-colored dust on the wall. I shone my flashlight beam in its direction and saw, for lack of a better description, a trail along the passageway’s wall, roughly at hand height. I squinted at it. Had someone been walking there recently, absently trailing one finger through the dust as they went? That just couldn’t be. It wasn’t like my mother would’ve been creeping around these passageways, and Jane certainly wouldn’t, either. A workman, perhaps? One of Mr. Jameson’s lads?
I shone the light to the floor looking for footprints but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary there. Just my imagination, then.
We reached the end of the hall, where narrow spiral stairs led either up to the third floor or down to the first floor and basement beyond it.
I started up the stairs but then thought better of it. There was always an air of taboo about the house’s third floor. Even as kids, my brothers and I didn’t play up there. We knew that generations of Albans had grown up on the third floor in the nursery, and it felt as though something—one of them, perhaps?—didn’t want us up there. It felt that same way now, as though walking up those stairs was unwise and going down was the safer path. I didn’t think too long before heading down.
The stairway was even more narrow than I remembered—barely wide enough for a person to fit through. “Careful,” I told Amity, pointing at a broken step.
On the first floor, the passageways ran around each of the main rooms and were lined with peepholes, each with its own cover that could be slid on or off, so undetected lurkers could easily spy on the people who happened to be in our parlor, salon, library,
“Awesome,” Amity whispered, her eyes wide.
I pulled the door open farther to reveal the dark, dusty passageway behind it. I felt around for the light switch and flipped it a couple of times. Nothing.
“I’m sure these bulbs must’ve burned out long ago,” I said to my daughter. “I can’t imagine Grandma used these passageways very much.”
“No,” she murmured, peering around me into the darkness.
“You’re sure you’re up for this?” I asked her, teasing a bit. “You never know what we’ll find in here.” I knew there was nothing to be afraid of, nothing more terrifying than the odd spider or bat, but it was fun to give my daughter an adrenaline rush.
She nodded. “Let’s go,” she said, nudging me a little.
I pressed the button on my flashlight and watched as the shaft of light illuminated the passageway beyond, where the years hung in the air, clung to the wood-paneled walls, and blanketed the dark floorboards. Spiderwebs were stitched in intricate patterns, their weavers at work undisturbed for decades. It smelled of the past, of countless childhood afternoons when my brothers and I would explore here. Our footsteps echoed in the emptiness as we walked along, and I could hear Amity’s shallow breathing soft and low in my ears.
“This leads to your room,” I told her, pointing to a door that was nearly indistinguishable from the wall on either side of it. It groaned as we pushed on it, voicing its displeasure at being awakened after such a long rest.
“I didn’t even know this door was here,” Amity whispered as she pushed aside a tapestry and peered into her room, its light and color and brightness contrasting sharply with the dingy, shadowy passageway in which we stood.
“Come on,” I told her, gently shutting the door and leading her farther down the hallway. “You won’t believe what’s down here. It’s almost like a house within a house.”
And then I noticed it, what seemed to be a darkness within the light-colored dust on the wall. I shone my flashlight beam in its direction and saw, for lack of a better description, a trail along the passageway’s wall, roughly at hand height. I squinted at it. Had someone been walking there recently, absently trailing one finger through the dust as they went? That just couldn’t be. It wasn’t like my mother would’ve been creeping around these passageways, and Jane certainly wouldn’t, either. A workman, perhaps? One of Mr. Jameson’s lads?
I shone the light to the floor looking for footprints but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary there. Just my imagination, then.
We reached the end of the hall, where narrow spiral stairs led either up to the third floor or down to the first floor and basement beyond it.
I started up the stairs but then thought better of it. There was always an air of taboo about the house’s third floor. Even as kids, my brothers and I didn’t play up there. We knew that generations of Albans had grown up on the third floor in the nursery, and it felt as though something—one of them, perhaps?—didn’t want us up there. It felt that same way now, as though walking up those stairs was unwise and going down was the safer path. I didn’t think too long before heading down.
The stairway was even more narrow than I remembered—barely wide enough for a person to fit through. “Careful,” I told Amity, pointing at a broken step.
On the first floor, the passageways ran around each of the main rooms and were lined with peepholes, each with its own cover that could be slid on or off, so undetected lurkers could easily spy on the people who happened to be in our parlor, salon, library,
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