It would have cackled if the situation was at all funny. (Okay, so maybe it was a little funny, it knew exactly where the proper tools were to repair the lights.) But perhaps now wasnât the time for laughter and games, it knew that from experience.
Maybe they could convince the copy of themselves.
Perhaps after the lights were on.
It started marching forward. Past the portraits on the wall and the etchings of insects, trees, and a horrible monster. Even as it brushed itâs hand across the old wallpaper, it left no traces behind. Faint ghostly candlelight flickering in the wind, and yet it left no shadow of itself.
Closer, and closer still. Yet it didnât stop, acting almost as if it was going to collide with him.
Closer, and closer, and closer.
It suddenly stopped, an inch from his face. Scowling at him, with pale voids staring back into his. He canât feel the breath on his face, but heâs sure he would if it could breathe.
And then, almost too softlyâ
âI left my tools in the second drawer down to the right. Spare lightbulbs and such, or cords to things Iâm unsure of.â
To emphasize their point, they⌠Well, point at the correct drawer.
âItâs important to have a home well-lit for guests.â
Guests that wanted to play, play, play. And it could hardly contain itself, but perhaps for the sake of this poor shriveled thing⌠It would wait.
Frozen. No where to hide, no where to run, he was glued in place and his heart was roaring so loudly in his ears he couldnât think. No, too many thoughts swirling in furious waves as always but he couldnât grasp onto them and make use of the information they held. Focus, he urged, focus and look for an escape for a hiding place for anything at all to get out of this damned room!
Each step was too quick and too slow and his throat got tighter and tighter and he suppressed the urge to gasp for air. He wanted to shut his eyes as tight as possible and let the force blind him. If he couldnât see it, it couldnât possibly be real.Â
Fake. It was all a dream. A hallucination. A macabre illusion crafted by an overworked brain running on little other than routine alone.Â
He grinded his teeth together until the pressure caused his gums to sting. His hands were trembling. Stop shaking, stop shakingâ
Itâs whispered words were deafening. He inhaled a quivering breath. Itâs eyes were like foggy mirrors but he saw little of himself in itâs gaze. Physically the same but when he stared back, something awful and vile stirred in his gut. Dredging up something horrific heâd long suppressed down and down until it was nothing but an inkblot of emotion. The whole house seemed to groan under their weight and in that moment, those locked rooms and halls never felt more crowded.Â
If this apparition was a reflection he supposed it only made sense for it to speak with his voice and of his possessions. With that thoroughly reasoned, his frightened features hardened considerably. Not tearing his eyes from the double, his free hand felt for the desk behind him, fumbling for the handle of the second most drawer. Brittle hands hesitated, and hesitated as though afraid a monster would be lying within, and then with a swift tugâclatter.
His eyes flicked over his shoulder. There they were. Dimmed domes of glass and haphazard coils of dark wires, looped together like sleeping snakes. He stared. When a floor above growled and creaked, his body kickstarted and he rolled his tongue against the roof of his dry mouth.
âWhat do you want?â He asked quietly, sourly, hesitantly. Against his better judgement, he trailed his attention back to the duplicate and a part of him hoped it would be nothing more than a trick of the shadows now far from his sight.