Get Out If You Can

Emilie | The Walls Have Eyes

"Are you sure about this?"

I turn around to see Matt, nervously brushing his hair. "I mean, wouldn't it be better if we just, like, try to get out of here?"

"I'm sure," I say, hoping that is true. "There's no easy way out of here. And if we try..."

"...then we're worse off," Diego finishes for me. "I think the only way out is forward. For now, at least."

Nobody says anything more. I feel a warm hand hold mine — Alison's. She gives me a squeeze, and I return it.

"Take care, okay?" she whispers, her brown eyes glassy. "For what it's worth." She gives me another squeeze.

I nod, then place my foot on the first step.

***

I jog up the last few stairs, a stitch steadily growing in my side. I halt for a while when I reach the first landing, my breath shallow. I hear steps behind me.

"You...ready?" Hunter asks, darting his eyes from left to right; like he was convincing himself he'd be able to fight whichever monster was hiding in the walls. I nod, and walk to the front of the door.

"Please take care," Alison says, putting a hand on my shoulder. "If you want to back out or anything, it's perfectly fi—"

"No, I'll do it," I say, tapping her shoulder. "Don't worry."

I turn around. Everyone's looking at me like I'm about to enter the gallows or something.

And maybe they're right.

I nod again, my head bowed. Then I turn around, and look up, my eyes fixed on the arc at the top of the door.

It would have looked beautiful. It would have looked ornate, and probably, romantically medieval — with its carved rose creeper snaking around the borders, and its Indian rubies studded in the creases of the leaves. I would have run my fingers across the creepers, letting the cold metal chill their tips.

But I can't. My fingers are trembling and shivers run up my spine — but my feet carry me forward, past the threshold.

My sneakers touch the carpet, snaking embossed trails in it as I drag my feet to the center of the room. Right in the middle of the elliptical carpet, there's an intricate circular design that marks its center. And above it is a rosewood table, exactly congruent to the circular design below it.

The accuracy would be beautiful if it wasn't so creepy.

I walk over to the table, examining the glass, looking for something. It's empty. I can't see anything except for a large, blue terracotta teapot with sinisterly beautiful ceramic teacups next to it. Dark, poisoned tea is spilt over it, and there are shattered remains of the teacup Alison had drunk from on the carpet, near the sofa.

It's placed so welcomingly on the table, that I can't blame Alison for thinking it was a display of hospitality.

Apart from that, there's nothing. No monsters jumping at me from behind the thick green curtains, heavily embroidered with expensive-looking white lace. No guillotine blades falling from the towering ceiling.

Though the jewel-dropping chandelier, that's probably half as tall as me, is precariously dangling from a rusty hook. It looks as though it'd slice me cleanly in halves if someone did so much as touch it. I wonder if it's up there on purpose. I edge away from the center, just in case.

I feel around the walls of the room, which are lined with some kind of velvety material I've never seen before. They're plain at first sight, but I've watched an atrociously large number of historical spy dramas to know that walls hide lots of things. I'd thought it was some sort of exciting before.