Beastly

Pt. 2 The Playpen

After a mouth-watering four course meal, each course accompanied with countless dishes of soups, sweetmeats and grand roasts placed on the expensive ebony wood dining table, Lysander and I retire to our respective rooms.

The room that has been provided for me has already lent my camera twenty odd pictures, with spectacular views of the setting sun, the brilliant shine of the chandelier as sunlight forms dazzling spectrums as it hits the crystal. The bed is a plush four-poster, with the softest quilts and sheets, and dozens of candles litter the shelves, giving off the most peculiar scent. I cannot quite place my finger on the scent, but it is mesmerising, almost heady. Mr Blackwood certainly has put a lot of effort into putting together this room for my use.

I had eaten only an hour ago, as the sun was beginning its descent, but now, as the sun paints incandescent hues of orange and purple across the sky, I feel as full as ever, and my eyes droop with drowsiness. I should probably get some sleep.

I sluggishly change out of my jeans and shirt—which, looking back, seems so hopelessly out of place in the mansion—and into a silk red robe that is as brilliantly red as the drapes of the house. My vision clouds and dances with fatigue as the scent of the candles waft through my system, and my head barely hits the feather-stuffed pillow before I plunge into the darkness of sleep.

~~

She awakens with a start, eyes wide open but blank as slate. Seeing but unseeing. Her hair is dishevelled, and her robe is twisted awkwardly, the front threatening to open, exposing her pale chest. She stands, and dons her ever-present camera, looping the strap over her neck. The candles are naught but burnt out piles of wax, but its potent smoke hangs around the room in heavy clouds. Their work is done. She grasps the door handle, the metal cool against her palm, and it opens without a sound. Her bare feet soundlessly pad across the hardwood floorboards. She strides with purpose, and yet she is unseeing, unaware of her movements, unconscious.

She stops when she reaches a staircase, placing her hand on the bannister. Her fingers sought out the carving of a gargoyle that decorates the end before she climbs up to the third floor.

This level is dark, even more so at night, with heavy wall drapes dampening any sound.

She is soundless as she drifts through the corridors. Her fingers undress the lens, and bring the camera to her unseeing eyes as she slowly opens a door. It is large, cavernous, but the darkness swallows everything within. Despite the all-consuming darkness, her finger seeks the button, and with a deafening click in the still atmosphere, the camera takes in the darkness. She wakes with a start, blinking in confusion as the polaroid slips out. Out of sheer habit, she takes the polaroid and shakes it to bring the photograph back into clarity. Through the darkness, the camera has managed to capture every detail. Her blood chills.

The room is decorated in reds, rubies, burgundies, scarlets and crimsons, every shade of brilliant red. There is a large bed, spanning at least a metre wide, with red velvet drapes hanging from the frame, drawn to the side. Knives, showcased in glass boxes, flaunt their blades on the dressers, varying in size and serration, in handle and deadliness. There is a chain—no, a flail—that is in the corner, with three spiked spheres of metal. On the bed, however, sits a man and a woman. The woman is lying flat on her back with the man pinning her down. They are both naked, but what they are engaged in is not one of love nor lust. The man's skin is marred with streaks and smudges of red and brown, and his head is raised, like a wolf seeking out prey, eyes focused directly at the camera. Lysander.