The Hushing [#ONC2022]

Chapter Three (part 1)

The walk to Valecroft felt excruciatingly long and slow, though Septimus claimed it was no more than two or three miles. Ashes and mud clung to Marion's shoes, weighing down every step as if blocks of cement had been tied to her feet. And the wraiths remained forever lurking in the background, trailing at Marion's heels with their wings rustling and fluttering like a thousand whispers.

Despite Septimus's assurance that the wraiths wouldn't touch her thanks to Lady Ingrid's protection, Marion's skin still prickled with uneasiness. The phantom memory of that unbearable, agonizing cold had left her with a hollow echo in her body, no matter how many times she'd tried to shake it off.

As Marion left the dark, tangled forest behind, she emerged onto the sloping crest of a hill and Valecroft came into view. Some small, fragile part of her had entertained the hope that she might find a little comfort in this grim wasteland she'd stumbled into. A warm bed, four walls to protect her, and a brief rest from the ever-present threat of wraiths at her back.

But that delicate hope crumbled to dust as she took in the sight of Valecroft.

The building sprawled like a spider on the ashy landscape, all sharp angles and predatory stance. As with everything else in The Hushing, it held very little color, rendered in shades of stoic black and somber gray. Rail-thin towers like spears slashed at the sky. At the entrance stood two large dark metal doors that whined in protest when they slid open as Marion and Septimus approached.

"This is a..." Marion trailed off.

It seemed too impossible to say castle but there was no other word that could describe what she was seeing. She'd already figured out that Lady Ingrid held an immense amount of power in this land. But the realization that she was actually royalty made Marion feel as if she was sinking deeper and deeper into this nightmare like quicksand.

Septimus glanced at her, his gaze cool and level. Unshakeable.

"Are you having second thoughts about accepting Lady Ingrid's invitation?"

Marion shook her head. Then she nodded. Then she shook her head again.

"That clarifies nothing," Septimus said.

She sighed. "Exactly."

When Marion turned to look back at the forest, a wraith hovered next to her shoulder. Pitted black eyes stared at her, unblinking and sightless. Its mouth stretched wide in a silent scream, wings shifting and rustling with a dry whisk-whisk sound. Wisps of cold emanated from the wraith, needling at Marion's skin.

She'd already tried running away. It nearly got her killed in the process. But the thought of entering Lady Ingrid's fortress of Valecroft only made her feel small and enclosed, as if she was walking into her own casket.

All she had to do was find the mirror, Marion told herself. Then she could go home, break the glass, and never return again.

Taking a breath to brace herself, she stepped into Valecroft. She found herself in a slim, narrow entry hall. There didn't seem to be a single source of light that might brighten the dim interior though. Not a candle. Not an oil lamp. Nothing.

"Why is it so dark?" Marion said. "Do you have something against light around here?"

She heard Septimus shrug with a clank and rustle of his armor.

"We have no need of it. Spirits of the dead have grown accustomed to a life without light."

Marion was still working on getting that spirits-of-the-dead part to sink in. With sobering clarity, she realized she was the only thing alive in this place.

Septimus moved to a side table by the doorway and pulled out a candle and a box of matches. After striking the match against the heel of his boot, he touched the match to the candle's wick and a golden glow of warmth and light bloomed in the gray room.

"Where did you get these," Marion said, "if you don't need them?"

"You are not the first visitor to come through the mirror," Septimus replied. "And you are not the first human to visit Valecroft."

Marion perked up at that. Were there other humans here after all?

"Where are they now?"

Septimus shook his head. "Long gone."

Marion deflated at how ominous that sounded. She didn't want to know what "gone" meant. It was easier to imagine that they had managed to pass through the mirror again instead of...the alternative.

Septimus passed the candle to Marion and she accepted it. The flame seemed frighteningly small and delicate amid the looming shadows but it was better than nothing. She raised it higher to get a better view of the entry hall. The floor was made of slick white marble, shot through with veins of black that seemed to ripple and writhe as Marion advanced deeper into the room.

Then her gaze fell on a portrait of Lady Ingrid, spanning an entire wall, as big as a movie theater screen. She wore an elaborate gown the color of dark wine, spilling yards and yards of fabric behind her. In her hand was a skull, bleached white as she held it up against the shadowed background. Something gleamed in the upper right corner of the portrait and Marion edged closer to get a better view. It looked like the curved Cheshire Cat smile of a crescent moon...

"Lady Ingrid will be waiting for you."

Septimus's voice made Marion flinch after being so engrossed in the painting. He was already moving down the hallway, his figure engulfed in shadow. She hurried to keep up.

One hallway led to another, each darker and more intimidating than the last. Marion shielded her candle with the palm of her hand, protecting the flame from sputtering out. If she lost track of Septimus, she would be lost in the labyrinth of halls and rooms forever.

Then Septimus pushed a set of double doors open, revealing a cavernous room with a cathedral ceiling. Marion's footsteps echoed even as she tiptoed across the threshold. The floor was jet black here, swallowing the shadows of Septimus's and Marion's figures into black nothingness.

At the far end of the room was Lady Ingrid, seated on a throne that looked as if it had been made of fractured ice, shards as sharp as glass rising at her back. While the rest of the room was dark, the silvery throne seemed to catch any hint of light, rendering Lady Ingrid a shining figure. It was impossible to look anywhere else except at her. She'd changed her riding clothes for a snug-fitting gown of black lace, as delicate and wispy as spider's silk.