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( XXVI. ANGELA SIMONE )
THE WALK TO ANGELA SIMONE'S HOUSE WAS NOTHING BUT TORMENTING. Amelie's nerves grew by the second and the questions she wanted to ask were piling up on top of each other. She had a million questions— how did she know her father? How can she defeat Matthew? What was she? Was she an anchor too, or was there just one?
They walked through a dark alleyway that they took from the main street. It was dim and wet, the sound of wet droplets splattering onto the cobbled floor echoed around them— along with the whispers that only she could hear. Other than that, it was eerily quiet, almost like they were on the edge of a cliff and there was a drop about to happen, like someone was doomed to fall and they were just waiting.
In front of her, Chris stopped abruptly, making her bump into his back. She mumbled an apology and took a look at the black wooden door that stood proudly in front of them, with drawings scratched onto it.
Hesitantly, Argent knocked on the door twice, before reaching quietly for the gun in his jeans. Amelie stood on the edge of her toes, waiting impatiently for the door to swing open and reveal the woman with all the answers. Eventually, it did but no one stood behind it.
Furrowing her brows, Amelie moved to stand in front of Chris, who hissed at her to stand back. She ignored him, taking another step into the dark house, her hands grazed the wooden door. "You guys should wait here," She told them quietly, her eyes still trained on the end of the hallway. "I don't think she wants you in there."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Just trust me, okay?" She turned her head to them, a reassuring smile on her face. Chris slowly nodded, lowering his gun.
As soon as she was inside the house, the door swung closed, putting a barrier between her and the outside. Her eyes found a string hanging from the ceiling so she pulled it and a small lightbulb lit above her, lighting the hallway for her. Mustering all the courage inside her, Amelie continued her path, her hands trembling ever so slightly.
She passed by a room with the door slightly ajar ( ironic ). It seemed empty but the sound of a chair creaking told her it wasn't, so she pushed the door open with her foot, to be met with a woman sitting on a rocking chair with her back facing the teenage girl.
"Amelie Nightly," the woman hummed, a thick french accent hanging onto those words. Almost robotically, the woman stood up and turned to her making Amelie take in a deep breath.
Angela Simone was a sight to see. Dressed in a bright red dress which accentuated the curves of her body and dark skin, Amelie looked at the woman in awe.
"I have been waiting for you for a long time," The woman mused, a small smile trickling her thick lips. "Please," Angela gestured to the chair next to her. "Have a seat."
