Page 41 of The Spiral

“No, I want some answers. She wrote Lewis’ name. Why? This place is bloody insane. Or maybe you are.” Violence springs across his features, the kind of death stare he had when he held a gun to his own head.

“Get off the fucking stairs.”

“Make me.” He snarls at me, his features contorting into a look of disgust and hatred, his legs pushing him closer to me. “All there was were locked doors on the third floor. There’s definitely nothing wrong with the structure. Stop with all the damned lies now.”

“Get out of my fucking house. Leave.” No. I have nowhere to go now anyway.

“Really? That’s the best you’ve got? Screw you, I want to know.”

I turn again, my legs driving me upwards to the top, and I’m counting as I go. Round and round the long, wide steps, turning slowly and letting my feet move along the pristine carpet. He’s not following me, but I can hear him pacing below as the numbers fall from my lips.

“Come down, Madeline, now,” he calls, fury etched into his words.

The sound echoes up the stairway, chasing around the space as if it’s haunting the area. It makes me smile, reminding me of the woman in the ballroom and her melancholy tone. She was warmer in her manner, regardless of the temperature she created.

“Selma?” I ask into the air quietly, wondering if it might be her name. It’s not implausible after all. I did just have a chat with a ghost in the mirror.

I’m not even nervous about her answering. Maybe I’m going mad, too. Or maybe I just want some answers as to what the hell is happening here. I should be going to kill Lewis, but for the time being nothing seems as important as this. It’s like my mind has to know. Has to. She wrote Lewis’ name. I saw it there clear as day, and then she wrote Selma. Is it her?

I stand on the step that leads off to the second floor, glancing along the corridor, unsure where to check first or whether to keep going upwards. There was nothing on this floor earlier, just some empty rooms full of luxury furnishings and nothing else.

My hand scuffs the wall, knocking on a protrusion of elaborate plaster work as I let it slide around the oak bannister. I hardly feel the impact as I listen and watch for a response.

“Selma? You there?” I call out again. There’s nothing coming back, so I keep climbing and counting the never ending spiral, more interested in those locked doors further up. “I’m going up, Jack. You should start talking before I find out for myself,” I call down, peering through the middle of the spiral to see the floor below. He’s not there, not that I can see anyway, and his feet seem to have become silent, too. Maybe he’s climbing behind me and I can’t hear him on the carpet. I turn to look backwards, searching the space, but all I can see is the elaborate bannister as it cascades back downwards. “You coming to get me, Jack?”

There’s a low rumble of something somewhere beneath me. I couldn’t say what it is, or where it came from. “Selma? Hey? If that was you in there I need to know what you want.”

Great. I really am talking to ghosts now. I believe in them, or this one, it seems. I shake my head at myself, letting the axe swing loosely in my hand and chuckling a little as I look upwards. Nothing’s happening. It’s just silent apart from my breathing and the continued landing of my bare feet on the carpet. Mmm.

I look upwards again, scanning the huge circular galleried landing that’s coming into view as the stairs begin petering out in front of me. There’s balustrading acting as a wall over the open gallery area, creating a balcony for the entire circle as it stretches the four sides of the third floor. It’s stunning, a true masterpiece of craftsmanship and opulence, matching the downstairs to perfection, regardless of the grime and dust covering everything here, but the continued turn of the stairs is disorientating, making me question positioning and clarity in the house.

I finally land at the top, now a little unsure of my purpose as I look at the axe in my hand. Breaking into rooms is not my forte, not something I’ve ever entertained before this madness.

“Selma?” I whisper, perhaps because the climb has somehow made me recognise the stupidity of all this. Ghosts? Maybe I didn’t see that stuff downstairs. Maybe it was just my imagination and now I’m simply being foolish.

I turn, looking back down at the vast spherically shaped wood on the ground floor around the spiral, hoping for something sane to present itself in this strange house. There’s nothing there but the table waiting for me. No warming set of arms to hold onto, not that that’s what I could call him really. It’s just me standing here, alone. “Jack? Are you still there?”

Nothing.

Well, I’m here now. And I’ve got this axe.

My lip purse at the thought of doing damage as I turn away from the area, twisting my body towards the first door I tired earlier. So much damage over the last few years. My body, my face, my home and possessions. My friend. I lift my fingers to my face, tracing the outline of my eye and wishing the residual bruising away. My new house, my new life, destroyed before it began by the man I ran from. And now this—this house full of strange pain and hurt. Why is everything always broken? Why can’t life be plain and ordinary like I wanted it to be? A safe new life, that’s all I wanted. One filled with contentment and ease. And yet now I’m standing here with an axe in my hands, ready to break through doors to find answers to questions from ghosts. Ones like:

Who is that man downstairs?

And why do I even care?

My back hits the balustrade, making me realise I’ve been wandering aimlessly in thought. What am I doing? I look at the axe, its dark wooden handle looking awkward in my grip as the end of it glints light back into my face. I’m just little Mads. Cute Mads. Mads who potters about, making a home out of dreams and hopes. This axe looks as ungainly in my hand as the gun did earlier.

Maddy.

My head rises from the axe, unsure who said my name, or if anyone actually did. I sweep the space, looking for the body attached to the voice, but there’s no one there. No white images or mirages. No billowing curtains. No frost creeping along the floors. There’s only more silence and the long stretch of stagnant beauty all around me.

Do it.

That wasn’t spoken out loud; it was all in my head, like a little voice nagging at me to finish something, to take control of something and make it my own. I look at one of the doors lining the landing from where I’m stood, breathing in some courage to do damage. I’ve never damaged anything. I’ve spent my life putting things back together, rebuilding them—my relationship, my face, my life. That’s what I do. I don’t destroy things or tear them to pieces. I mend things, keep them knitted together even if it is pretence.

Do it.