Tangled In Time

Into The Depths

"Neville," I breathed as realization hit me, and my eyes rose to his. Surely this man wasn't the same Neville that was mentioned in Ernest's journals. The man who Cecilia had been married to, the one who had beaten her so badly she had hid in the dumbwaiter. Maybe it was just a coincidence, as this man had to be at least in his late sixties with a very hard paper round which would have put him in his forties when Cecilia escaped.

Neville's eyes then settled on my clothes, "Where did you get those?"

My heart skipped a beat at the tone of his voice; it wasn't so much what he was saying but how he was saying it. The sense of dread intensified as his gaze remained fixed on me.

"I was wearing these earlier, but this jacket I found in the loft," I lied, hoping he wouldn't pay much attention to what I had been wearing earlier. "You know it's getting late," I said.

Neville's unblinking stare intensified, and I couldn't shake the feeling that he was scrutinizing every word, every movement. His response was measured, a slow and deliberate drawl, "You've been there, haven't you?" He said, ignoring what I said.

I stared back at him blankly, a sense of unease ringing loud now. "I don't know what you mean," I said, my voice wavering.

"Don't play stupid with me," he said, reaching for his bottle on the table and pouring some amber liquid into a glass. His voice was measured. "You've been there," he repeated, clicking his tongue. "Like I said, I should go now," I moved towards the door.

"Stop." His voice was cool as he placed the glass onto the table, stopping me in my tracks. The frail old man that I had met had disappeared; his voice was now strong and low.

"My wife disappeared, you know?" Neville picked at a piece of thread from the sofa. "We used to have terrible arguments. She had to make me be the bad guy, but she wouldn't listen. I couldn't always help what she made me do." He said this, looking down at his hand resting on the sofa, tracing his knuckles as if lost in the memories.

He paused, and the room seemed to close in around us, suffocating in its tension. "I'd come back from fixing various items around the house one day. I'd been working hard and when a man works hard he should expect his dinner to be ready and waiting for him." He drained his glass of the liquid, his watery eyes staring back at me unblinking. "But when I got back that day it wasn't ready. And she knew, she knew what I expected of her. She didn't have to go out and work she got everything she wanted. That day I was tired and hungry, and it wasn't ready.... I snapped."

His voice held a mixture of frustration and resentment, and I couldn't believe that he was still blaming her for his actions. The room seemed to close in around us, and I couldn't help but feel trapped in the suffocating atmosphere. I needed to leave; I checked the distance between myself and the door, then the distance from myself to Neville.

"Well, I should go," I muttered again, taking another step.

Neville's voice, however, stopped me in my tracks. "Sit down," he said, his tone calm but with an underlying threat that sent a shiver down my spine.

I hesitated, feeling a rising sense of unease. "I think my dad said something about dinner before I came here."

Neville's voice remained deceptively calm as he repeated, "Sit down." There was no mistaking the implied threat in his words; I slowly sank down into one of the dining chairs.

"What was it like when you went there?" Neville's gaze drifted away from me, focusing on some distant point beyond my head.

"I don't know what you mean," I replied hesitantly.

His eyes flared back to mine, and I glimpsed the anger that simmered beneath the surface. "Don't treat me like an idiot!" he bellowed, his nostrils flaring, and spittle flying from his mouth. He was nothing like the frail man I remembered. He shifted his gaze to a spot on the floor opposite the front door. "I left her there unconscious. But when I returned from my walk, she was gone. I searched the grounds, went into the house, but she had vanished." He clicked his fingers. "None of her stuff had gone, so I believed she was coming back. I was the only family she had."

Neville's words hung heavily in the air, the way he so casually mentioned leaving his wife unconscious as if I should be shocked that she didn't stay; he was deluded. "The months passed without her being here. I would have to go to the pub for my dinner, and I would stay until close every night. Drinking myself into oblivion, one night I had been at the pub for a bit too long," he confessed, bitterness and resignation lacing his voice. "When I stumbled back to the grounds, I saw someone with blonde hair and dark clothes. My heart raced; I just knew it was Cecilia."

Listening to his account, I felt a growing sense of dread. "I followed behind, determined to confront her," Neville continued, his tone laced with anger. "I caught a last glimpse of her as she climbed into the dumbwaiter." His voice dropped, and he turned his gaze toward me, his pupils filled with rage. "She'd got a bump. I decided that I would meet her at the other end; I couldn't understand why she was climbing in there; it just took you to the old kitchen."

As Neville's words unfolded, I couldn't help but wonder where this conversation was headed. Five days ago, I had seen him as a frail old man, harmless and alone. Now, sitting across from him, he didn't seem frail at all. In fact, he appeared stronger and more menacing, and my mind raced with thoughts of my parents. I found myself desperately wishing they would find me. Neville's revelation had shattered any illusions I had about him, and I couldn't ignore the sinking feeling that this conversation was taking a dangerous turn. His voice held an unsettling tone, and I knew deep down that this wasn't going to end well. What was he planning to do to me?

I might have believed that I could easily overpower him if it came to that, but now I couldn't be so sure. Had his act of frailty all been a facade, a clever ruse to deceive everyone around him? I couldn't help but fear the worst as I sat there, trapped in his cottage, with no way of knowing what he was truly capable of.

Neville's unsettling smile remained as he continued. "I decided to go to the cellar," he said, his voice still tinged with bitterness. "I knew the dumbwaiter had to lead down there, and I had to find out where Cecilia had gone."

I couldn't tear my eyes away from him as he spoke, feeling an overwhelming sense of dread. "I opened the hatch to the dumbwaiter, expecting to see her there, but she wasn't. I thought I had gone mad, that my mind was playing tricks on me. I went back to the cottage and slept off the alcohol." He paused; the memory etched in his eyes.

My heart was racing; I wasn't sure about what to do. Every creak of the floorboards, every flicker of Neville's gaze sent waves of unease throughout me. I spent weeks looking for her throughout the house," he said, his voice heavy with despair. "Bottle after bottle of whiskey became my only company. I was convinced she was hiding, taunting me." Neville's tale grew even more surreal and unsettling.

"I found myself standing before that dumbwaiter again. I don't know what possessed me, but I climbed inside. It was as if everything in the house was tormenting me; I needed to find her." If Neville followed her into the dumbwaiter, that means he would have traveled through time too.

"We can always speak about this tomorrow," I said weakly, the feeling of dread growing deeper inside me, a little voice telling me to escape now.

I stood abruptly, the urgency to leave growing stronger, but Neville rose too, reaching out for my arm, his fingers gripped me tightly. He was overpowering, his breath reeking of whiskey. I struggled to move away from his grasp, making a desperate move toward the door. However, he seized my hair, yanking me backward with brutal force. Pain shot through my scalp as I fell, my head colliding with the corner of the dining table with a sickening thud.