𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐒𝐎 | ᴍɪʟʟᴀʀᴅ ɴᴜʟʟɪɴɢꜱ

𝟏𝟓] 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐊

CHAPTER FIFTEEN ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ THERE IS A DEAD MAN IN THIS TRUNK

     "YEAH, BECAUSE THIS ISN'T FUCKING HORRIFYING."

Jacob gulped, looking into the darkness. "Ladies first."

"Fuck you."

The basement was a meandering complex of rooms so lightless I may as well have explored them blindfolded. I descended the creaking stairs and stood at the bottom for a while, hoping my eyes would eventually adjust, but it was the kind of dark there was no adjusting to.

I was also hoping I'd get used to the smell--a strange, acrid stink like the supply closet in a chemistry classroom--but no such luck. So I shuffled in, with my shirt collar pulled up over my nose and my hands held out in front of me, and hoped for the best.

I tripped and nearly fell. Something made of glass went skidding away across the floor. The smell only seemed to get worse. I began to imagine things lurking in the dark ahead of me.

Forget monsters and ghosts--what if there was another hole in the floor? They'd never find my body. And Jacob was too big of a follower to not get stuck down there with me. We were both good as dead.

Then I realized, in a minor stroke of genius, that by dialing up a menu screen on the cellphone I kept in my pocket (despite being ten miles from the nearest bar of reception, I could make a weak flashlight. I held it out, aiming the screen away from me. It barely penetrated the darkness, so I pointed it at the floor.

Cracked flagstone and mouse turds. I aimed it to the side; a faint gleam reflected back. I took a step closer and swept my phone around. Out of the darkness emerged a wall of shelves lined with glass jars. They were all shapes and sizes, mottled with dust and filled with gelatinous-looking things suspended in cloudy fluid.

I thought of the kitchen and the exploded jars of fruits and vegetables I'd found there. Maybe the temperature was more stable down here, and that's why these had survived.

But then I got closer still, and looked a little harder, and realized they weren't fruits and vegetables at all, but organs. Brains. Hearts. Lungs. Eyes. All pickled in some kind of home-brewed formaldehyde, which explained the terrific stench.

"What the hell?" I whispered, going closer. "Jacob, get a look at this."

Those jars were something you might expect to find in the basement of a fly-by-night medical school, not a house full of children. If not for all the wonderful things Grandpa Portman had said about this place, I might've wondered if Miss Peregrine had rescued the children just to harvest their organs.

When I'd recovered a little, I looked up to see another gleam ahead of me--not a reflection of my phone, but a weak glimmer of daylight. It had to be coming from the hole Jacob made with a suitcase.

We soldiered on, breathing through our pulled-up shirt and keeping away from the walls and any other ghastly surprises they might've harbored.

The gleam led me around a corner and into a small room with part of the ceiling caved in. Daylight streamed through the hole onto a mound of splintered floorboards and broken glass from which rose coils of silty dust, pieces of torn carpet plastered here and there like scraps of desiccated meat.

Beneath the debris I could hear the scrabble of tiny feet, some rodentine dark-dweller that had survived the implosion of its world. In the midst of it all lay the demolished suitcase, photographs scattered around it like confetti.

We picked our way through the wreckage, high-stepping javelins of wood and planks studded with rusting nails. Kneeling, I began to salvage what I could from the pile. I felt like a rescue worker, plucking faces from the debris, brushing away glass and wood rot. And though part of me wanted to hurry—there was no telling if or when the rest of the floor might collapse on my head--I couldn't stop myself from studying them.

At first glance, they looked like the kind of pictures you'd find in any old family album. There were shots of people cavorting on beaches and smiling on back porches, vistas from around the island, and lots of kids, posing in singles and pairs, informal snapshots and formal portraits taken in front of backdrops, their subiects eluching dead eyed dolls, like they'd gone to Glamour Shots in some crop; wunkofthe-century shopping mall.

     But what I found really creepy wasn't the zombie dolls or the children's weird haircuts or how they neves ever semed to smile, but that the more I studied the pictures, the more familiar they began to seem. They shared a certain nightmarish quality with my grandfather's old photos, especially the ones he'd kept hidden in the bottom of his cigar box, as if somehow they'd
all come from the same batch.

     There was, for instance, a photo of two young women posed before a not-terribly-convincing painted backdrop of the ocean. Not so strange in and of itself; the unsettling thing was how they were posed. Both had their backs to the camera.

     Why would you go to all the trouble and expense of having your picture taken--portraits were pricey back then--and then turn your back on the camera? I half-expected to find another photo in the debris of the same girls facing
forward, revealing grinning skulls for faces.

     Other pictures seemed manipulated in much the same way as some of my grandfather's had been. One was of a lone girl in a cemetery staring into a reflecting pool--but two girls were reflected back.

     It reminded me of Grandpa Portman's photo of the girl trapped in a bottle, only whatever darkroom technique had been used wasn't nearly as fake-looking.

     Another was of a disconcertingly calm youngman whose upper body appeared to be swarming with bees. That would be easy enough to fake, right? Like my grandfather's picture of the boy lifting what was certainly a boulder made from plaster

     Fake rock--fake bees.

     The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I remembered something Grandpa Portman had said about a boy he'd known here in the children's home—a boy with bees living inside him. Hugh.

     Some would fly out every time he opened his mouth, he had said, but they never stung unless Hugh wanted them to.

     I could think of only one explanation. My grandfather's pictures had come from the trunk that lay smashed before me. I wasn't certain, though, until I found a picture of the freaks: two masked ruffle-collared kids who seemed to be feeding each other a coil of ribbon.

     I didn't know what they were supposed to be, exactly-besides fuel for nightmares; what were they, sadomasochistic ballerinas?

     But there was no doubt in my mind that Grandpa Portman had a picture of these same two boys. I'd seen it in his cigar box just a few months ago.