The Boy Behind The Glass • Stydia

1. lydia and company

C H A P T E R • O N E

The mansion stood in all its glory, surrounded by a widespread of glorious trees and forestry. A white piker fence ran across the front of the house, a large distance from the front porch that was sheltered by a grand white, wooden arch way. The tall bell tower-like stadium stood taller than the rest of the house directly in the middle. Thin, long and narrow windows were spaciously spread out between the old brick work.

It would have been beautiful, but it didn't look like that.

There was no forest, only two dying trees on either side of the front garden. The grass was overgrown and weedy. The fence was standing on its last ends, swaying despite the still air. the pathway leading to the front porch was cracked and tiles unsteady. The porch was rickety, white paint peeling unpleasantly as the stairs croaked and moaned when the new house residents walked up them.

It was scary, and Lydia didn't like it.

To any eight year old, the house looked like something out of their darkest nightmares, or something off the front of a DVD cover from the adults movie section. This didn't look like a 'nice, family home' the real-estate agent had told them about. This looked eery and creepy, and Lydia was not living here.

"Mum," she started, following the said female up the groaning front steps. The wood felt weak under her pump shoes and her mothers clicking heels. "I thought you said it was nice."

"Lydia, don't start," her mother replied, looking unimpressed as she turned back to look at the eight year old.

"But you said it was nice," Lydia repeated.

Her mother continued to unlock the front door with a sharp click. The door popped open and Lydia stiffened, tension building in the eight year olds shoulders. The door was large and spooky already, but when it swung open on screaming hinges and revealed a dusty, daunting hallway, Lydia barely refrained from running back to the car.

The house was cold, that was the first thing Lydia noticed. After her first step into her new home, she was unsettled. The hallway was large, grand and spacious. To the left, there was a large archway that lead into a long room with a open fire and brick chimney. Straight ahead, parallel to the door was a large staircase, the faded and dirty red carpet half pulled up. Beside the staircase, a further hallway lead down to another maze of rooms.

"What do you think?" Her mother asked.

Lydia looked at her with what she thinks would be a bewildered expression. "You said it was nice."

Natalie Martin rolled her eyes with a exaggeratedly exasperated sigh. "For goodness sake, Lydia, I never said it was perfect. You're father already has the decorators booked for the end of the week, this place will be lovely in no time."

"But what about now, mum. I don't like it, can we—"

"Lydia, no. Stop looking at the condition of the house now and start thinking about how good it could look," her mother said, and Lydia didn't have another moment to speak before her mother was turning back to the front door. "Now, I'm going to go and help your father. Why don't you go and find the room you want upstairs."

Lydia didn't have a chance to respond, to protest that if she went upstairs alone she could be walking into serious danger, because her mother was turning around and disappearing out the door.

Lydia stood frozen, limbs stiff and unmoving. Her arms were wrapped around the Mosby Dictionary that she had clutched closely to her chest. The beaten up, battered book was her only prize possession.

She turned around slowly to face the stairs, gulping audibly. Florence Nightingale wasn't afraid of ghosts, she told herself, thinking back to all the facts she knows about the famous nurse. Florence Nightingale wouldn't be afraid of this house, so neither will you.