After passing the Jagger family at their last happy and serene meal, she entered the kitchen. It featured a huge cast iron stove, several dish cabinets, and pans hanging from a shelf, suspended in mid-air. Here, she found Adelaide and her sister Justine around a table. The latter had her hands over her mouth, her eyes bulging out, watching helplessly as her sister protected herself as best as she could from two knives hurling towards her. The kitchen knives were about twenty centimeters above the table, held by a thin wire frame structure. In front of the stove, Maggie, looking fierce, waved her pan as if she intended to knock out the sharpened weapons with a well-placed blow.
Again, Billie watched her with his glass eyes, lurking in the shadow of the pantry.
This time, she didn't find a sign explaining the scene, but a framed newspaper article from the era on the wall, its almost parchment-like paper protected behind glass. The article was dated December 1st. Jordane deciphered the headline, written in capital letters with an aggressive font: THE HOUSE OF HORROR.
She smiled: there were already people like her a hundred years ago. The paranormal world has fascinated man since he became man. She struggled to read the body of the article, especially in this dim light, but she did her best:
A terrorized family turns to a priest following a series of horrific events.
The Yagger family, tormented for weeks by a malicious spirit, decided to make their case public after an unimaginable ordeal, the straw that broke the camel's back.
“It's a Poltergeist,” affirmed the priest, after young Yagger girl, Adelaide, shared her account: “I was quietly in the kitchen with my sister Justine, peeling potatoes, when the knives came to life and attacked me.”
The horrified parents have testified to a multitude of paranormal phenomena starting several weeks ago. The activity seems to be centered on their eldest daughter, Adelaide.
“This Poltergeist is quite determined to escalate the situation,” Jordane commented.
“Indeed,” confirmed Billie in her prerecorded gentle voice. “That was when the family called for help. If the Poltergeist was harassing Adelaide to play with knives, how far could it go? The day after the article was published, a priest came to bless the house. He slept in the living room to monitor the ghost's activity.”
“They couldn't find anyone more impartial than a priest?” Jordane replied, shaking her head.
“Not in such a small village, ma'am.”
Jordane thought the appearance of a clergyman would further complicate the story: just as a hammer was made to hit nails and saw everything as a nail, a priest was made to fuel people's fear of the afterlife, so for him, everything would be an authentic act of a Poltergeist. If the press had counted on his testimony, it would be even harder to untangle the truth among the exaggerations and dubious interpretations.
“For now,” said Jordane, “I feel that any family member could be the culprit.”
“Why must there be a culprit?”
Jordane eyed him from where she stood: his eyes gleamed in the dark, his smile of painted teeth shone, making him almost threatening.
“There's always an explanation,” she retorted, “you just have to find it.”
“I see,” he replied, chuckling. “In that case, I'll leave you to go to little Adelaide's room upstairs, first door on the left.”
Jordane didn't hesitate and climbed the stairs two at a time. She passed the reading room and entered the bedroom.
It was a typical room for a ten-year-old girl, except that there were no plastic toys, nothing that lit up and made noise, only rag dolls and wooden toys. There was a small dresser and a wardrobe. The room itself wasn't very big.
Jordane finally met the aforementioned priest: a small, chubby man, dressed in his white robe and accessories. In one hand, he firmly held the Bible. With the other, he wielded a wooden cross towards the small single bed at the center of the room. Adelaide was on it, or rather above it: suspended a meter from the mattress with several metal chains screwed to the ceiling. The priest seemed to be either performing an exorcism or simply witnessing a Poltergeist manifestation. Adelaide was terrified, desperately trying to cling to the sheets, her head down and legs in the air. Jordane shivered at this caricature of a religious scene.
A new article was framed on the wall:
POLTERGEIST CONFIRMED
The church's agent confirmed what everyone was whispering: the Yagger family is the victim of an evil spirit, a Poltergeist. He claims to have seen the spirit take hold of little Adelaide and try to pull her to the ceiling. Poltergeists are souls of children lost between worlds, seeking to play and inflict all sorts of pranks on the family they haunt.
Usually, the pranks become more and more violent, and church intervention becomes necessary before things get dangerous.
“I suppose there were no other adults in the room at that time?” Jordane asked her guide, who was now in the room.
“No, ma'am, just his testimony.”
“Children can be easily impressionable,” she continued as if lecturing. “If an adult, especially one representing authority, releases a certain energy, the child can unconsciously enter their dynamic. In other words, if poor Adelaide was alone in a room with this priest, and he desperately needed to see a paranormal manifestation, her subconscious might have wanted to meet his needs, and she could have started doing strange things.”
“I see we are dealing with a connoisseur...”
“It's like exorcisms,” she continued. “Initially, you have a simple child suffering from mental illness, like schizophrenia, epileptic seizures, or severe depression, and the parents don't want to admit they're facing a disorder that may not even be treatable, over which they have no control, and which will require a lifetime of care. Instead, they choose to believe the problem lies elsewhere, a demon. It removes all responsibility from them, they think the problem can be solved overnight, and their child can return to normal, that is, as they want them to be. Once the priest enters the room, the phenomenon of mass hysteria begins. Adults see what they want to see, and the poor child has no choice but to play along, withering away, sometimes to death.”
“Someone has a grudge against the clergy,” Billie noted with a tone full of malice.
Jordane glared at him: his remark felt like a cold shower, and she felt some anger at being analyzed by a cold, emotionless machine.
“The mother would make a good suspect,” she declared to change the subject. “Present at most of the scenes, coming out of the priest's overactive imagination. She has time to prepare her moves if she's a housewife.”
“Perhaps,” Billie chuckled. “She does indeed make a plausible suspect. But have you thought of everything? Have you considered the famous M triad?”
Jordane smiled at the mention of the M triad: it was a tool used by investigators to help solve a crime. To find a suspect, one needed to answer three questions: Means? Modus operandi? Motive?
For the means, Maggie could use fishing lines and all sorts of tricks. For the modus operandi, she could easily prepare her moves when alone in the house. But the motive? What could it be?
“Did they gain anything from this story? Were there books? Interviews? Did they sell the house at a good price?”
“That, my dear,” Billie replied, “you will discover soon enough. If you're done with this room, I suggest you go up to the attic.”
Jordane frowned: “The attic?”
“Yes,” continued the automaton, “but rest assured, there's no danger.”
“That's what I'll believe,” she thought.
She turned around, keeping an eye on Billie until she completely left the room. When she turned back, she found him in front of her, blocking the exit to the stairs, which had been free just a few minutes ago. Always the same mischievous eyes.
“It's that way,” he said, pointing down the corridor, cleaning his gears.
Jordane stepped aside and delved into the hallway, reaching a dead end.
“Where should I go?” she asked.
“Look above your head, dear Madame.”
Jordane looked up and discovered a hatch in the ceiling, with a string hanging down.
“Of course,” she exclaimed in frustration.
She pulled the string, and a staircase unfolded to the floor. From her vantage point, she could see the house's roof, simple tiles laid on wooden beams. A lamp cast a faint, yellow-tinged light.
“Come on, Jo, when it's time to go...” she told herself.
She stepped on the first stair: the structure slightly bent under her weight, emitting a series of eerie creaks.
“Don't worry,” Billie called from the other end of the corridor. “It's safe.”
Jordane sighed and began climbing on all fours. Reaching the top, she found a confined space filled with various objects: trunks, a bicycle, furniture, and all sorts of other odds and ends. She saw Justine in the same position as her, eyes fixed on something in the back of the room. Jordane made out a silhouette almost indistinguishable from the darkness just under the rafters, but it was there. Next to it, she thought she saw an information plaque on the wall. Still on her knees on the last step, she began to approach, then froze:
“Billie, you're not going to close the hatch behind me, are you?”
“Such a thing would never occur to me, Madame,” he retorted from his position.
She imagined his mischievous eyes and smile as he spoke those words, and she sighed. Nevertheless, she stood up and advanced, her knees knocking against the old wood. She passed Justine, who seemed captivated by what was in front of her. Jordane's gaze fell on the silhouette: a black, human-shaped sign, about one meter twenty tall. It was like a shadow.
Jordane read the panel:
December 15
After several weeks of tormenting the family, especially Adélaïde, the Poltergeist shifts its attention to her younger sister, Justine.
She recounted how she used to meet it in the attic, where it spoke to her and asked her to play with it.
She turned around, moving carefully to avoid bumping into anything. She saw a small desk facing a dormer window. Outside, night was falling, and she had a beautiful view of the dormant attractions. She continued, noticing a sealed old garbage chute. Opposite it was a chest: awkwardly positioned in the middle of the path, unlike the rest of the stored items which were somewhat neatly stacked to leave room to pass. She then grabbed one of the handles of the box and pulled with all her might: the scraping noise it made as it moved became metallic.
“Bingo,” she thought.
Once moved a meter away, she went to investigate: under the chest was a hidden black steel air vent, similar to one in a bathroom.
“Maybe I just found the origin of the voices that tormented poor old Rodolphe in his bathroom,” she thought.
“Nice find, Madame!” Billie shouted from below.
Jordane turned towards the hatch, grimacing: she disliked how he knew everything she did. She decided she had seen enough and had a good idea of what had happened here, so she went back down. She found her guide where she had left him, at the top of the stairs.
“Are there many rooms left?” she asked.
“Only three. You're close to the end.”
Then, he pointed to a door she hadn't opened yet. She did, and found herself in another, more spacious children's room. The bed was prettier, the furniture larger; however, all the toys were piled on the floor, all destroyed. Porcelain dolls shattered, cloth dolls torn and dismembered. Board games with boards snapped in half.
Justine sat on the floor, crying.
Someone had written on the wall: “Why won't you play with me?”
Jordane looked for the information plaque and found it on the other side of the bed. She approached it and read:
December 22
After more than a month of haunting, the specter decides to focus on Justine, and no longer Adélaïde. This shift marks the beginning of the dark chapter of this story.
Jordane surveyed the scene again: Justine was devastated by the loss of all her toys. Why change targets? Was Maggie tired of focusing on Adélaïde? Or was Adélaïde starting to suspect, so she took an easier prey?
“Why does the explanation have to be natural?” an artificial voice asked from the doorway.
Jordane's heart leaped in her chest, still surprised by the automaton.
“Because there's always an explanation for everything,” she retorted hotly.
“Really?” he said in a petty voice.
Her eyes moved with a crackling sound to rest on Justine's bed. At the same moment, the duvet pulled itself away at a breathtaking speed to crash against the opposite wall, as if pulled by an invisible hand. Jordane stepped back quickly, letting out a cry of surprise.
“And there,” he said triumphantly, “what's the natural explanation for that?”
“It's the same for this damned town!” she hissed angrily. “I will solve the mystery and find an explanation for all of this!”
Billie began to snicker, ignoring her last remark:
“In this case, you are quite right, there is a natural explanation for Duli's Poltergeist. But that's only half of the answer, isn't it? Shall we continue in the master bedroom to try and solve this mystery?”
Jordane stormed out of the room, furious. She hated this machine, the way it followed her, saw what she did, read her thoughts. They had to finish this quickly, so she could get the truth out of it and leave.
She returned to the first-floor corridor and plunged into the only room she hadn't visited: she found herself face to face with Rodolphe and Maggie, screaming their heads off, lying in their bed. They weren't looking at anything in particular, just had wide, panicked eyes. Rodolphe was holding his head with both hands, Maggie was clinging with all her might to the duvet. Jordane almost left, slamming the door at this sight, but she kept her cool. Instead, she headed to the information plaque, placed on the wall next to the bed:
December 27
Justine has been missing for four days. She remains unfound, despite her parents being woken up every night by her screams and cries for help, seemingly coming from the walls.
The Poltergeist no longer shows itself, and it's thought to have taken her with it, condemned in the in-between worlds.
“The little girl disappeared?” Jordane wondered.
“Yes,” replied Billie from the other corner of the room.
“What happened to her?” she pressed.
“That, dear Madam, you will discover in the last room of our exhibition.”
“Where's that?”
“The basement.”
Jordane left the room, hoping to finally end this last staging. She raced down the stairs, turned around, and reached the end of the corridor, the storeroom where she had first encountered Billie. She discovered a door under the stairs and opened it: it led to old wooden stairs plunging into the ground.
“How can it go under the ground if there's a concrete slab under the house,” a voice in her head said.
She saw the shadow of her guide enveloping the last steps of the staircase.
“Please, come down,” he invited her from the basement.
She descended cautiously and arrived in a cellar lit only by a bare bulb. At the other end of the room, the two parents were kneeling in front of an indistinct bundle, wrapped in white linen cloth. To her right was Billie, motionless for now, and next to him, the statue of Adelaide, staring at her parents with a vacant look and a distracted smile on her lips.
She advanced into the room: she realized that the two parents were at the foot of an old garbage chute. They had moved a heavy boiler to access it, as evidenced by the cast iron mass and the black streaks on the floor.
She knelt beside them and saw that they were crying. Her eyes fell on the bundle: a small hand was sticking out. Next to it, a newspaper article had been framed against the garbage chute, dated December 29:
DEAD
With the terrible discovery of Justine's body, the family of the House of Horror can finally mourn. Missing for more than a week, the cries for help from the six-year-old girl were heard day and night, despite a thorough search of the house by the authorities.
She was found in an old, condemned garbage chute, perhaps pushed by the Poltergeist himself.
The Church believes she died instantly, and that her lost soul was calling to be found, so that her mourning could end her torment. The Poltergeist's activity had ceased since Justine's disappearance, and we all hope that this family, stricken by this cruel twist of fate, can finally find peace.
“What happened?” Jordane asked.
“That's for you to tell me,” the guide retorted.
Jordane stood up and faced him:
“Fine, I played your game, followed your exhibition to end up with a dead girl. No more playing now, tell me what happened on the day the park opened.”
The automaton stared at her with its shining eyes, still smiling.
“Have you solved the mystery?” the prerecorded voice asked.
“I don't care about this story!” she exploded. “It's Maggie, no matter!”
“No,” he simply said.
“Then it's nobody! A collective hysteria, a little girl who went to play in an old garbage chute, and that's all!”
“Would you like a clue?” he replied calmly.
“No!”
“Well, then, what is the secret of this story?”
Jordane sighed, not knowing what he expected of her, and what had happened in this damned story.
“If you answer correctly,” he continued, “I will give you a tool that will allow you to know what happened on the opening night, and why the park was closed for so long.”
She tried to regain her composure, to gather her thoughts. She had to review all the clues thoroughly. She set her gaze on the wax doll representing Adelaide, the way she was smiling: it was chilling. Then, her deductive mind unlocked, and she traced back the entire trail: the master bedroom came back to her in a flash. It had a ventilation grille, just at the foot of the bed. The same grille was present in the bathroom, and another had been hidden by a large wooden chest, right in front of the attic garbage chute. How the silhouette there was the size of a child. The reading room, with an almost invisible door, leading to the room on the left she had visited: Adelaide's room. That smile, those empty eyes...
“It's Adelaide,” she finally said. “She staged the Poltergeist story, and she pushed her sister into the garbage chute.”
The robot began to laugh, shaking its metal frame, producing clinks and creaks in rhythm.
“Well done,” it said. “You've solved the mystery. There was never a Poltergeist in this house. Only a ten-year-old girl full of ingenuity.”
“But why?” she asked. “And how?”
“Don't worry, you will find out soon. In the meantime, I am a man of my word, and you have earned your reward. Are you ready to discover the truth?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied as if it were an insult. “What is it?”
“Madam, have you ever heard of astral projection?”
***
“Astral projection?” she repeated, incredulous.
“Yes,” replied the robot. “All events happening somewhere emit energy. This energy can stick around, and even interfere with the world of the living. Like snippets of film being replayed. It's very rare to interact with these kinds of energies, but in the world they belong to, the astral world, they are much more powerful, and can be observed more easily. This house is filled with energy, from such a traumatic event. You don't see it as I do, but the ghosts of the past are everywhere. The same goes for the park. The phantoms of that night still buzz like a power station, and if you go to the astral world, you can relive that fateful evening.”
“Wait,” stammered Jordane, “you want me to take an astral journey, to find myself in another world and access a replay of events that happened here?”
“Yes,” he said, laughing, “it's a bit simplistic and crude, but that's the idea. You've heard of it before, haven't you?”
“Yes, of course, but aren't there conditions, or restrictions, to go there?”
“There are techniques to achieve it, and I'm going to teach you one, are you ready?”
“Is it dangerous?” she blurted out despite herself.
“Not at all,” he replied with his mischievous eyes. “As long as I'm here to guide you.”
Jordane hesitated: could she trust him? It was extremely dangerous, but maybe it was the key to discovering the truth.
“Are you ready?” asked the automaton.
***
From what Jordane knew, astral projection was a rather well-known phenomenon and widely represented in today's culture, but she thought it was a euphemism for relaxation after mediation, or a mirage produced by the brain when dreaming; the esoteric explanation stated that the body had a physical version, the one we see every day and can touch, but also a multitude of bodies made of energies, connected to different planes of reality - esoteric, astral, and many others according to beliefs and religions. Astral projection allowed one to leave their physical shell and explore another reality, the astral plane: this plane of existence was supposed to be made of energy and populated by spirits, whether good or bad. According to her readings on the subject, it was almost proven that astral projections were real, but that it was a creation of the brain when it entered a phase of REM sleep under certain special conditions: meditation, sleep paralysis, or near-death experience.
It was all linked to our good old frontal cortex.
“Are you ready?” asked the automaton.
“Wait, no, I haven't made my decision yet.”
“Don't be afraid, dear Madam, it will be almost painless...”
Jordane wanted to back away, feeling that she was in danger. She began to head towards the stairs to escape, but as soon as she moved, the pre-recorded voice behind her resumed, seeming to whisper something directly in her ear:
“Look at the ground.”
She saw herself running up the stairs, climbing each step, one by one, but she realized that she was still where she was, her eyes glued to the tiled floor.
“What?” she managed to think, but she could no longer take her eyes off the surface of the tiles.
“Look at the ground... And become aware of all the nuances of colors of this floor...”
She was now fascinated by the patterns of the tiles, beautiful and so perfect: such harmony hidden from the world's eyes for so many years was revealing itself to her.
“Now you see an old pot placed on a piece of furniture... look at its shape... its size... focus on the handle of the pot and the way the light reflects on the metal... imagine the smell of the stew coming out. Imagine the lazy white smoke coming out of it.”
She observed the rusty pot and the spider webs that had firmly clung to it: the reflection of the bulb in front of her, and she imagined the smell of the stew that must have cooked there an eternity ago.
“But wait,” she thought, “I can really smell it!”
She didn't know if her mind was playing tricks on her, but she now almost felt like she could see smoke coming out of it.
“By imagining all this, you begin to relax. And what you see helps you to go a little more inside yourself. Each element you focus on allows you to gently enter this pleasant hypnotic state. And it helps you to go a little more into this feeling of fullness.”
Her eyes closed despite herself, and she felt her entire body relax: a soft and warm vibration of serenity was slowly enveloping her.
“You hear the sound of your breathing becoming deeper and deeper... and that of your heart beating...”
Her breathing was slow and regular, and her heart was beating the tempo of this gentle melody.
“You feel the temperature of the air on your face... there are also the beats of your heart... you feel each heartbeat in your chest... and you feel the weight of your body standing on the floor...”
She felt her body become immobile, like an anchor lazily resting at the bottom of the ocean.
“And you feel how some parts of your body become heavier and numb as you enter this altered state.”
She now felt her body sinking, going down, but her mind becoming lighter and lighter: she felt like she was entering a dream.
“Now, open your eyes.”
A woman was sitting, or rather slumped on the floor, resting against a corner of the wall, her head down. She was below, distant and hidden in the darkness, as if she were at the bottom of a well: Jordane recognized herself and understood that it was her own body, asleep in a corner of the room. Yet, she knew she was there: somewhere up high, overlooking the room, cradled in a soft light as if floating in the room, and not down there, sitting on the cold floor and leaning against the rough and dirty wall, lost in a veil of black and distant darkness.
She felt no physical sensation and seemed to have broken all contact with her fleshly body, but she nevertheless saw that it was still connected thanks to a long luminous and gray thread coming out of the sternum of her inanimate silhouette.
“This is the silver cord,” said a voice behind her.
She turned around but saw nothing, still the empty room. Yet, the voice seemed to whisper its words in her ear.
“It is the chain that binds you to the physical world,” continued the voice, “it prevents you from venturing too far and getting lost in the astral world.”
Jordane half-listened: she was trying to get used to her new perceptions. She felt an extremely powerful emotion. A wave that engulfed her and poured into her entire being. She felt that the future held no tomorrow for her, that she had lost something incredibly precious, and that she would never find it again. She only wanted to sink into darkness forever, anything to no longer feel this crushing sorrow. She saw that the statues of Rodolphe and Maggie had come to life. The two parents were crying and lamenting over the white shroud: she understood that she was now reliving a scene nearly a hundred years old, and the emotions were rushing into her. She looked to her right and saw Adelaide. And that smile. A chilling coldness invaded her: her entire being instantly emptied, as if under the effect of a gust of wind. She felt nothing, except emptiness. An emptiness that, paradoxically, filled her entire soul and nibbled away at it more and more. She felt a very slight satisfaction, but it was a feeling buried under the incredible noise of this corrosive void.
Despite herself, her body began to rise: she felt herself leaving the stage, as if pulled backward, and everything became blurred, both the outlines and the emotions, as she moved through the floors. She was now in the attic. It was pitch black. Fear had taken hold of her. An immensely powerful fear. She had never felt so lost and terrified as she did now. She saw Adélaïde in her pajamas, using all her strength to move the heavy chest. She opened the ventilation grid and stepped back to open the garbage chute door.
A little girl's blood-curdling scream emanated from it, calling for help, and was quickly joined by the screams of her parents, trying to contact her in return. Adélaïde was snickering behind her hands, but the feelings she sent to Jordane were nothing but a graveyard filled with acidic tombs.
Jordane was violently pulled from the scene, and for a moment, like an interference, she saw another painting: worry, a feeling that instantly ravaged her. She caught a glimpse of the Yagger parents, dead worried about their little girl's disappearance. And Adélaïde crying in front of them, having lost her younger sister. But what Jordane felt was joy: the intense joy of deception, of pretending.
She now moved to another scene, still in the attic: Justine was curious, addressing the Poltergeist. But it wasn't a ghost. That shadow hidden in the corner, asking her to play with it in the garbage chute, was Adélaïde.
Once again pulled backward, Jordane rushed through the kitchen: a knife slowly dragged across the table towards Adélaïde, her sister, and her horrified mother, but Jordane saw everything, she saw the magnet under the table. This passage lasted only a moment, like the memory of a dream, and she found herself in the reading room. Adélaïde setting a mousetrap under a cushion on the sofa, with fishing lines connected to books. She used the hidden door to hide in her room. Jordane watched her mother arrive, sit on the trapped cushion, and go screaming, tripping over the wires, and sending books flying. Jordane observed Adélaïde return to the room, lock it, and ravage it. She felt her uncontrollable anger, the void devouring her. She thought of her assailant, Richard, and wondered if they were made of the same wood.
Then, the memories surged back to the origin of the drama. The last dream before waking up. She was in the living room, the whole family dining, happily. She felt a lot of joy, happiness. She watched the two girls play together, laughing, and her gaze stopped on Adélaïde: beneath her bursts of laughter, hid an incredibly powerful feeling. Jealousy. Extreme jealousy for the attention her little sister received. And the intense desire to reclaim that attention. The scene passed as if she were watching the landscape from a train window, and she found herself back in the basement, above her own body.
“Quite a story, isn't it?” said Billie, a meter below, looking directly into her disembodied soul's eyes.
“She made up this whole story to get attention, and to get rid of her little sister,” lamented Jordane.
The robot nodded with a sound of rusted metal.
“Now,” it said, “if you leave this house with your astral form, you will finally be able to discover what happened on the night of the opening.”
She hesitated: she didn't know if it was wise to leave her body here, with this monstrosity, but the truth was so close, she just had to reach out to grab it. All the conditions were met, it would be a shame not to take advantage of it. So she crossed the wall and left the house.
***
The park was identical to the one she had visited. Just as empty. Except that the buildings looked brand new, and not a single blade of grass protruded from the paving stones on the ground. The night had fallen, but all the lights were on.
She heard footsteps, and turned her head in their direction: she recognized Inès approaching the house. She wore the same uniform and had the same features, as if she hadn't aged until their meeting in the mortal world. She arrived in front of the door, looking around as if she were being followed, and took out a bunch of keys. She rummaged until she found the right one, still suspiciously looking around her, like a thief, and inserted it into the front door's lock, unlocking it. From the other side of the path, a figure appeared and started approaching erratically:
“INÈS!! INÈS!!” shouted the stranger.
Inès jumped out of her shoes and turned towards the voice.
“Damn it!” she spat, “what are you doing here, mom?”
“INÈS!!” the other shouted like a drunkard. “It's late! We have to go home! It's a school day!”
Inès cautiously approached her, as if dealing with a wild animal.
“Mom, you're not supposed to be here! You should be at the hospital, remember?”
She collapsed to her knees and began to cry:
“Oh Inès, please come back! Your father told me you were hired here, so I came to see you work. I miss you so much, please come back home!”
Inès sighed and squatted near her, trying to reassure her.
“Mom, you know that's not possible. You have to follow your treatment, I don't know how you got in, but you have to leave. Otherwise, I'll have to call the hospital.”
Her mother raised her head abruptly, a grimace of indignation on her face; but before she could protest, Inès's walkie-talkie crackled to life, and she seemed agitated.
“Uh…” a crackling voice said, “does anyone know where the boss is? I don’t know where he is, and the key box is locked… Uh, never mind, I'll check his office…”
“Damn,” Inès cursed, “that idiot won't manage on his own… I have to go right away. Listen, get out of here. Go back to the hospital without making a scene, and I won't say anything.”
“But...” her mother pleaded, arm extended.
“There's no but!”
She hesitated for a moment, let out a “damn it!” and left. Jordane studied the woman more closely: apart from her simple white dress, she was the spitting image of Inès, it was Ollie, no doubt. Ollie the madwoman. The one who had tried to kill her several times, and who had been sent to a psychiatric hospital. The one who occasionally came back to see Inès unexpectedly, causing her trouble.
She saw Olivia raise her head, as if someone was speaking to her. Jordane followed her gaze: her eyes were fixed on the door of the “Haunted House”, which was ajar. She looked back at the woman: she nodded to the door, got up, and headed in its direction. She wanted to know more, but already she was pulled from the scene like an intruder, as she saw Olivia enter the house.
The world around her tilted, and she found herself in another place. Not far, just in the central square of the park. She saw the Zoltar automaton with an angel mask and a bloodied knife. It was a little later: the moon had risen in the sky. But most importantly, the park was crowded. Visitors flowed like an amorphous mass, emerging from the gullet behind the ticket booths, and spreading towards the various attractions.
Jordane moved through the crowd, bathing in their excitement and happiness as if in a rejuvenating water. The sensation was very pleasant. Wonder and anticipation tasted wonderful. She began to listen to the conversations, flitting in all directions:
“So cool this park! Thanks, dad! Best birthday of my life!”
“Look at the decoration, honey! These buildings are splendid!”
“A shadow show! Quick, let's go see it before there's too much of a line!”
She let herself be carried by the crowd, drunk on so many positive thoughts. She hoped to stay here until the end of time, feeding on all this happiness. She crossed the park to the rhythm of the human tide, discovering new attractions more interesting than the others. She was so happy that she didn't see the shadow beginning to creep into all this happiness.
She continued, and the lights began to dim into a pale hue. The crowd lost its color, turning black. Smiles tightened gradually, and a thread of worry began to taint her happiness. As she delved deeper into the park, positive thoughts pushing her forward, a hint of fear started to creep in from behind, chilling her veins. Suddenly, somewhere ahead, in the center of the park, a horror was moving toward her. A whisper reached her, freezing her blood.
“What kind of horrible decoration is this! It's not suitable for children!”
“Did you see what's over there? It's in bad taste, really!”
“Call the owner! I want someone to ask him to remove this decoration, it's not possible!”
Jordane continued, but already, the branches had lost their foliage. The colors became dull, and she was immersed in a wave of negative feelings, drowning her: incomprehension, confusion, fear. And she wanted to go back. To leave; but it was too late. The crowd pushed her towards the inevitable, the catastrophe. She wanted to scream at everyone to back off, to stop moving forward, but no one would hear her. They headed towards the horror, and the carnage was about to come.
“Someone come take down this filth!”
“I've never seen anything like this in my life!”
“What is that? Is it a decoration? It looks so real!”
“Let me through, I have to leave! Move, I tell you!”
“Back up, everyone back up! Give some space!”
Now, she found herself at a turn from the Horror. She just had to round the corner of the attraction, and she would encounter it. A black aura escaped from the corner, like squid ink in the ocean, contaminating all those who approached it, turning them black, mere silhouettes.
“Get down from there, my god! Hurry up, I tell you!”
The tension was palpable. The good mood had completely disappeared. The icy cold of fear gripped her insides, and the pain was unbearable.
“It's not a decoration!”
“You're joking, it can't be!”
She rounded the corner, pushed by the crowd, and discovered the source of the Horror: employees had placed a ladder against a pole, looking concerned. A decoration hung from the lamp post, swinging in the void at the mercy of the breeze. It was a woman, a rope around her neck, a simple white dress, a brown trickle running down the inside of her leg. Jordane recognized her immediately: it was Olivia.
“This decoration is horrible! There are children, take it down!”
“It's not a decoration! It's a real woman!”
“She hung herself! This woman has hung herself! She's dead!”
Fear turned into panic. This emotion swept through Jordane like a swarm of ice picks. It spread in the opposite direction, contaminating the entire compact crowd like a terrible disease.
“Let me through! I'm going to vomit!”
“Help, I want to get out! I'm scared!”
“She's dead! A woman is dead! Let me out!”
“Move! I want to get out! Move!”
“You're stepping on me! Help! You're crushing me!”
Jordane saw the employees take down Olivia's body: no doubt, it was a human being. She saw them ask the crowd to disperse: an unstoppable movement began.
She was pushed in the opposite direction, enduring the waves of panic and haste. Once the crowd was set in motion, it was impossible to extract oneself: the row behind pushed you, and you could only push the one in front in return.
“Mommy, I'm scared”
“I can't stop!”
Jordane was pulled as the rumor spread, and the shock wave advanced. She went up the pink brick alley, spotting some visitors who had climbed high not to be trampled. Everyone was pushing; there was barely enough room to breathe. She reached the central square, and already the mass could no longer advance. People began to compress.
“I can't breathe anymore!”
“Help, I'm choking!”
Jordane glanced at the Halloween Zoltar: already, it was starting to raise its knife, preparing for the carnage. Even the moon hid, and the world plunged into darkness, lit only by the crazy attractions spinning in the void. A familiar soul passed her: Jordane recognized Inès, throwing herself into the crowd. She moved in zigzags, which allowed her to bypass the rows. She held her key ring in her hand.
“Inès!” spat her walkie-talkie, “Rally at the administrative building! The rescuers have arrived, the gates are going to open! I repeat, get your ass to the administrative building, it's too dangerous in the crowd!”
“Go to hell!” she spat back, “I have to go there, the rescuers won't be able to manage!”
Then, a familiar voice took over in the communication device, a much calmer voice: “Inès... Believe me, if you go to the ticket booths, you're going to die. Come back, it's an order.”
In response, she threw the device to the ground and continued her advance. She managed to gain ground towards the ticket booths, moving diagonally, weaving through the compressed visitors. Jordane was swept along involuntarily and was pushed against the ticket booth grilles, unable to resist. Pain and despair engulfed her, along with the fear of dying. The visitors were crammed against the grilles like cattle. Some were bloody, others had fainted. She saw faces turned blue from suffocation, people trying to climb over the booths in vain. Hundreds of hands were stretched through the grilles, begging for help, or for air, as if zombies were trying to escape. The air and space were just there, on the other side of the grating, yet unreachable. The crowd continued to compress further, and it was like human waves crashing against the grilles, crushing the unfortunate, before the wave rebounded and spread in the opposite direction. Jordane had never seen anything like this.
“I'm going to die!”
“My heart! It hurts!”
Then: “Make way! Make way, I have the keys!”
Jordane caught a glimpse of Inès making her way through the mass, only her arm stretched with her key ring visible above the tide. She continued to advance, weaving in one direction and then another, and finally managed to reach the door. She twisted to insert the keys into the lock:
“Where are those damn rescuers!” she yelled, breathless.
She managed to trigger the mechanism, and the grilles opened.
She crashed to the ground first, at the foot of the Palace of the Strange, preparing to be trampled, but she looked up in horror: the crowd was so compressed that even with the gates open, the visitors couldn't get out. It was a wall of human limbs writhing in every direction, unable to disperse. A monster with hundreds of voices crying and begging. Inès got up screaming, trying to grab hands or feet and pull them toward her.
After an endless struggle, she managed to pull out one person, then others followed: the park then began to vomit the panicked, sweating, and crying crowd. All the visitors fled; Inès remained standing in front of the entrance.
“Oswald...” she said between her teeth, looking at the empty park. “It's you, isn't it? I know you're hiding something... And if you think I'm going to bother with the cops, no. If you have anything to do with all this, I'm the one who's going to take you to them...”
And she set off into the park, crossing the gaping maw in the opposite direction, disappearing into the depths of the Palace of the Strange.
Then Jordane turned her head towards the parking lot, and she saw him: a man standing alone among the cars, laughing. He was laughing uproariously, mocking her. Jordane saw his face more clearly, and she finally recognized him: it was the face she had seen in her nightmare, the one on the poster “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?”
The same carnivorous smile. The same piercing eyes. It was Oswald himself.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, and was forcibly turned around: the crowd had disappeared, the gates were open. The park was empty and abandoned, just as she had found it earlier in the evening.
Inès stood in front of her, alarmed.
“Inès?” Jordane stammered.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in a pleading tone. “I told you not to come here! I warned you in the tunnel!”
Jordane didn't know what to say, completely lost. She opened her mouth, but it twisted into a grimace of horror: her Ariadne's thread lazily unwound, illuminating the park floor with its silvery glow. It wound into the park, ending up in the gloved hands of Billie. His mischievous eyes had gone completely mad, and his painted mouth was a real steel jaw. He brought the thread to his mouth.
“No!” Jordane begged.
But the automaton bit into her Ariadne's thread, and savagely tore it apart.
Jordane was instantly pulled backward, and the world became black, a perfect darkness. She plunged into an endless fall, spinning into the void, hearing Oswald's insipid laughter in her ears.
“I told you not to enter the park after nightfall,” he mocked.
