Chapter Two: The Library

Sweat trickling down her face, panting for air, her mind reeling with dizziness, Amanda stood on the door step, looking up at the stretch of darkness at the top of the stairs, trying to organise her thoughts.

She had experienced a scene from the countless scary movies she had watched since she was twelve, the shock moment that always made you jump as the monster suddenly sprang into view. This made her question what she had seen. The angle of the light or the mirror’s murky surface might have transformed the reflection of her own head into a pain wracked, silently screaming thing. She only had been gazing at it for a few seconds before leaping away and maybe she had seen something that only her well primed imagination could have contrived.

Conflicting thoughts, Amanda had to admit to herself, had been struggling for dominance within her, since learning about the move to Ashbury Manor. A part of her was drawn to the prospect of living in a dwelling with a dark past, preferably a haunted house. The British Isles also had its attractions; the whole country in her imagination, prior to the move, seemed to be steeped in the shadows of ghostly ancient dread. But travelling from Heathrow through a landscape of drab suburban sprawl, not that dissimilar to Los Angeles, had disabused her of the idea. In a similar fashion so too had her frightening experience in the greenhouse, regardless of its illusory nature. These things were alright within the confines of horror films but not in reality.

Relaxing slightly, her eyes still fixed on the darkness at the top of the stairs, Amanda pondered on another strange illusion: the seemingly huge expanse of space inside that the outside could not possible hold. She remembered a book her father had lent her a few days ago, about the haunted houses of Great Britain. There was a very extensive chapter on Ashbury Manor describing its long history of disturbing supernatural occurrences. She had briefly read the author’s comment on the unnerving architectural feature of the house, creating the perception of a large space contained within a small area. The manor house was also supposed to be honeycombed with secret passageways and hidden rooms.

Amanda turned to the door on her right and entered the kitchen. She had loosely studied the plans of the house beforehand so had a vague idea of where she was going. The glaring modern surfaces of the kitchen appliances reflected the light from outside, coming from small latticed windows set above the sink, contrasting with the oldy-worldy wooden table and cupboards. Turning again she entered an expansively furnished and airy sitting room. There were rich looking Victorian armchairs and a long settee, near the french windows that looked out on the patio and neat back garden, comprising straight avenues, tidy flower beds, white statuary and deactivated water features. A stone fire-place and whorled oaken beams crossing the ceiling created the impression of upper-class respectability.

Her father and Moonbeam were not there.

This sent a little wave of anxiety to ripple through her mind, but her wristwatch told her that she had spent less time in the front garden then she had thought, only twenty five minutes at the most. She might as well do a bit of exploring before her dad with new girlfriend turned up.

Going through another door, Amanda entered the grand extent of shelving that was the library, but not before noticing that she had forgotten to clean her grubby baseball boots on the doormat, leaving dirt marks on the living rooms luxuriant Persian carpet. She groaned, knowing this was a flashpoint for a telling off.

The library was gloomy like a church, as there were only two narrow slit like stained glass windows. One looked over the wild front garden shaded by tall trees, depicting a scene of a naked Eve in Eden being tempted by the serpent, the other, this one picturing both Adam and Eve holding hands, gazed over the sedate, ordered back garden. The arched ceiling was supported by angled and horizontal Elizabethan beams, similar to those in the living room.

Most of the library walls were covered by brown coloured shelving filled to capacity with books of all shapes and sizes, placed there by the removal contractors. This was Jonathan Blake’s book collection amassed over a twenty year period, many of them unread; rare volumes of the occult arts, horror, fantasy and science fiction first editions, comics, graphic novels and music books. In addition there were two massive bookcases in the middle of the large room, containing thousands of vinyl LP’s and an array of CD’s. Between the towering stacks of recorded music was a lived in and battered armchair that stood beside an expensive stereo system.

As she passed one of three step ladders on rollers, ready for someone to reach out for the tomes on the higher shelves, she heard husky whispering and girly giggling coming from an alcove embedded directly in the centre of the wall.

With growing irritation and a certain amount of embarrassment she realised that it was her dad snogging with her ‘step-mother.’ Her instinct was to quickly and sheepishly return to the sitting room before they found out she was in the library and wait for them there, but the thought of physical contact between her father and that woman fuelled her anger.

Walking briskly Amanda entered the alcove, a false smile on her face that was more of a grimace.

“Hi dad, hi Sam, how you doing,” she said as casually as she could but unable to unclench her fists.

“What the hell” her father shouted but then suddenly changed his tone. “Jesus, what do you think you’re playing at Amanda?”

Disentangling himself from his girlfriend, he stared angrily at his daughter, while Moonbeam smoothed her hair with a mortified look on her features.

But Amanda was silent, her gaze transfixed as if hypnotised, by a huge mirror, attached to the oak panelled back wall of the small enclosure. The plain oval frame was crowned by an intricately carved eye, the width of a human hand, staring back at her as if to commit some awful crime. The sculptor’s art was so detailed that the tiny veins around its pupil could faintly be traced. The looking-glass reflected across the gap between the middle shelves, another alcove in the opposite wall, that was identical to the one in which they stood. It too had a mirror, also crowned by an eye, staring in abject fear rather then ugly malice, reflecting both Amanda, Jonathan and Moonbeam in an infinite series.

“What’s the matter, you’ve lost your voice or something,” her dad said, his arms now crossed not so much in anger but as protection against his daughter’s obvious unease.

“Answer your father, Amanda, please,” Moonbeam added, a concerned uplift of the mouth replacing the look of bewilderment on her face.

“Sorry, I didn’t know I was disturbing anything,” she lied still staring at the hideous eye. Her animosity towards Moonbeam had been abruptly replaced by the fear she had felt in the garden, that only moments ago she had rationalised away.
“I know your not telling the truth, I told you to wait for us in the sitting room,” her dad replied stiffly but then relented after a long tense silence. “But let’s forget about it for the time being, I can see you are upset by these mirrors. Come on I’ll show you the rest of the house. ”

“Where have these mirrors come from?” Amanda said gazing not at the hate filled eye now but at her own reflection. “I found one very similar thrown away in the greenhouse, except that one had foliage and twisting human shapes on its frame.” She had an urge to tell them about the horrible face that had seemingly come from within the looking-glass itself, but thought better of it.

“That’s interesting,” her father said his gaze suddenly fixed on his daughter, his eyes wide open. “So that’s were it got too, it must have been placed there by Mrs Boswell.”

“Who’s Mrs Boswell?”

“Oh, the wife of one of the former owners of Ashbury Manor. Anyway those mirrors have always been part of the house since it was built in Elizabethan times. They were made for ritual purposes by the religious sect that founded the place…” Jonathan went silent for a moment stroking his chin, a vacant expression on his face, as if thinking what to say next.

“The mirror you have found,” he continued, “was originally in the room which is now your bedroom, a long time ago though, in Victorian times. It’s a strange thing though why they were never stolen when the manor was derelict.”

As they talked the light from the lowering sun filtered through the stained glass window overlooking the front garden, emphasising Eve‘s bold nakedness and the sinuous serpent wrapped around the tree of knowledge. Extended shadows from the bookcases stretched across the floor as darkness slowly colonised the library and Amanda now deep in thought meekly followed Jonathan and Moonbeam into the sitting room, an odd chill seemingly coming from nowhere making her shiver.