Tangled In Time

Hide & Seek

Why is it that whenever you're hiding, it always makes you desperate for a wee? I was huddled in the dumbwaiter, knees pressed to my chin, the old cord brushing against the top of my head. It wasn't as if anyone could comfortably fit in here, so why was the cord even inside? I stifled a giggle at the image of some stuffy Victorian man trying to squeeze himself into this tiny space.

Suddenly, the kitchen doors banged open. My laughter died instantly, and I clapped a hand over my mouth, holding my breath.

Tom's voice rang out, sing-song and exaggerated. "I wonder where little William could be..."

I could hear him rummaging through cupboards, each bang of a door making my pulse quicken. His footsteps grew closer. If he found me before Will, I'd never hear the end of it.

I needed a plan. Fast.

My gaze flicked to the cord above me. Maybe I could lower myself to the basement, away from his search. Slowly, careful not to make a sound, I reached up and grasped it. Tom was still clanging cupboard doors shut—was that the fridge opening? Typical.

I pulled gently. Nothing. I tried again, threading the cord through my hands like a pulley. The dumbwaiter shifted slightly to one side before settling, then began to descend with a soft groan from the old mechanism.

Halfway down, doubt crept in. What was I doing? How stupid could I be, trusting this rusty thing? My heart thudded harder as a strange humming noise filled the compartment. Then—jerk—it came to an abrupt halt.

Something was caught. My fingers fumbled for my phone. I pulled it out, the torch almost blinding me in the cramped space. The beam landed on a rusty nail protruding from the wall, snagging the cord.

I wriggled it free, twisting and pulling until the nail dropped with a faint clink. "Yes!" I whispered triumphantly.

And then the dumbwaiter dropped.

My stomach shot to my throat as the compartment plummeted, the walls rushing past in a blur. A rush of air roared in my ears before it slammed to a bone-jarring stop. For a moment, I couldn't breathe. I waited, frozen, then began to assess myself. No broken bones. At least, none I could feel.

But panic still gripped me. Had I broken it? Would I be stuck down here? I shoved at the hatch, but it wouldn't budge. My heart hammered as I tugged harder. 

"Please, please, please," I muttered through clenched teeth. Finally, with a groaning protest, the hatch swung open.

I poked my head out, blinking at what I saw.

The kitchen stretched before me, its air cool and heavy. Copper pots hung neatly on the walls, their surfaces glinting faintly in the dim light. A long, wooden table stood in the centre, its surface dusted with flour—like someone had just been baking.

I climbed out of the dumbwaiter, my trainers scuffing the stone floor. Wiping my hand along the table, I stared at the smear of flour on my palm.

Weird. Really weird.

This place was supposed to be abandoned. Or had I misunderstood Mr. Baker? He'd told us to keep the cellar locked, hadn't he?

The door. If it was locked, I'd be trapped down here, and I'd have to call Dad. I cringed at the thought. There was no way I could explain this without admitting I'd been stupid—and that would lead to endless lectures.

I glanced around. The stove was cluttered with pots, their lids firmly in place. Curiosity prickled at me. Lifting one of the lids, I found ingredients inside—prepped but not yet cooking. My unease deepened. Who had been down here?

To the right of the stove was a small door with a narrow window. I peered through, squinting to make out a garden beyond. On the other side of the room, a steep staircase spiralled upwards. I rushed to the steps, praying the door at the top wasn't locked.

The knob turned easily. Relief washed over me as I stepped out, but it evaporated instantly.

A grandfather clock stood directly in front of me, tall and imposing. I frowned. That definitely hadn't been there earlier.

Had Mum or Dad moved it? Why place it here, opposite the cellar door?

Shaking off the unease, I headed left, avoiding the foyer to steer clear of Tom and Will. I crept up the narrow back staircase, pausing at the top. Voices drifted from below, their echoes carrying through the hall.

Peering over the banister, I spotted people moving through the house. That was strange. Dad hadn't mentioned movers.

I leaned forward, squinting. A man carrying a heavy chest ambled past, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Mum would lose it if she caught him smoking indoors.

Then, a group of women walked by, each carrying extravagant flower arrangements. Their uniforms gave me pause—grey dresses trimmed with delicate white lace. They looked like something out of an old film, the kind of attire maids wore years ago.

Their soft laughter echoed eerily through the corridor. A knot of unease twisted in my stomach.

Something wasn't right.

I opened my mouth to call for Mum or Dad, but before I could speak, an arm snaked around my waist, yanking me backwards. I flailed, kicking and elbowing wildly, but the grip holding me was far stronger than it should have been.

I was hauled into the library, the door sliding shut behind us. The moment I was released, I spun around, breathless, ready to scream.

But the words stuck in my throat.

The man standing before me was tall, his face stern and unyielding. Cold, grey eyes bore into mine, sharp with irritation. My heart stopped as recognition flooded me.

It was him. The man from the portrait downstairs.

His dark brown hair, neatly combed in the painting, was slightly tousled, likely from carrying me. The features were unmistakable. A man from over fifty years ago was now standing in front of me.