Raphaël exited the administrative building, flinging the door open with his shoulder. Night had completed its struggle with the day, enveloping the world in its starless veil. He could hear the distant buzz of the crowd somewhere far off, on the other side of the tall brick wall that separated the attractions from the administrative buildings; but the area where he stood remained silent. One thing alone stood in his way to the rest of the park, right in front of him. It was the only lit lamppost in the alley, casting on the ground the shadow of the thing swinging from the rope around its neck. All he could see was a tuft of disheveled black hair and a long, grayish dress. A dark stain spread and trailed along one of the pale legs of the thing, dripping to the ground.
The woman swung very slightly, like a pendulum nearing its end.
He stood frozen, watching the woman oscillate: the rope creaking against the metal of the lamppost filled his ears, almost hypnotizing him.
“It's Olivia, I'm sure of it. It's Crazy Ollie,” he thought.
A rustling behind him made him jump: he turned quickly and his eyes fell on a pile of old, weed-covered scrap metal. There was a pale, faded pink metal arm topped with a line of multicolored bulbs, most of them shattered. Around it lay several panels and hoods of the same color, seemingly belonging to the same attraction. But a quick glance revealed no movement. He turned back to the lamppost: it was off, the thing had vanished.
And yet.
He felt its presence. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that he himself was just at the foot of another lamppost. A nauseating smell filled his nostrils: a stench of death, and more. He felt something slowly rising behind him, barely inches away. He heard the dull creak of the rope right behind his ear.
“I hate being called that,” whispered the woman behind him.
He turned around slowly, very slowly. Like in a dream, simply observing a distant scene. When he faced the ghost of Olie, seeing her cadaverous pallor and her black eyes with burst blood vessels, his legs gave way and he collapsed. She hung a few inches off the ground, that brown substance still dripping at regular intervals, her rope still firmly attached. She spoke again in a plaintive voice:
“You must leave here! He killed my baby! My dear heart! My beautiful Inès... I was so proud of her...”
“Who killed her?” he found himself asking.
“THE OTHER ONE WITH HIS CARNIVOROUS SMILE!!” she spat. “THE ONE WHO RUNS THIS PARK! HE STABBED HER, MY POOR LITTLE RAY OF SUNSHINE...”
“Oswald...”
“She saved them all that night. They used me! The thing stole my body, and look what they did to me!”
“Who? Who stole your body?”
“They killed my little girl,” she ignored him, “and she's trapped here, like me! You must leave immediately, if you don't want to end up like this!”
He opened his mouth to speak: questions crowded his mind, he tried to gather his thoughts but the adrenaline was pounding in his skull, making it hard to think. He was interrupted when the ghost's face lit up with a green glow. She contorted in horror, pointing at something in the sky.
“It's too late!” she whimpered, desperate, “It's started!”
Raphaël, still on the ground, turned towards the park: he had time to see the green light ascend into the air, climbing higher, leaving a small trail of smoke behind it. It slowed down, and for a fraction of a second, it paused, high up like the evening star. Then, it exploded. He saw a swarm of bright red lights shower the amusement park with their wondrous glow, and the sound of a distant gunshot reverberated between all the buildings of the Palace of the Strange. At the second firework launched into the air, he realized what he was watching. He turned again, but Olivia had vanished. He was alone. By the fourth shot, he finally composed himself and joined the crowd.
***
Once past the gate, he quickly found the mass of visitors all converging in the same direction. A glance over the crowd told him they were headed towards the origin of the gunshots. He made his way through the mass, pushing some, stepping on feet without bothering to apologize. The crowded alley changed color to the rhythm of the colorful explosions, lighting up the excited faces of the oblivious visitors. He elbowed his way several meters before stopping dead in horror: everyone had gathered in front of a large medieval castle. It consisted of white granite ramparts a bit higher than him, surrounding a stage towering over the mass of visitors. Behind, towers rose higher into the sky, decorated with various tapestries and sculptures. Two cannons had their mouths pointed into the air and were firing the rockets at regular intervals, illuminating the stage with a symphony of colors.
On stage, the show had begun: a person lay in a large purple box adorned with esoteric motifs. Lying on trestles, only a head and feet protruded from each end. It was the first time Raphaël had encountered the woman who screamed to death, but he immediately recognized the family resemblance to the ghost he had just encountered. The same face, the same expression of horror. It was Inès. Her screams were drowned out by the festive explosions and the crowd's cheers, but terror was written all over her face.
Standing behind the box, with a vacant stare, Jordane held a saw in her hand, examining the sharpness of its teeth.
“Jordane!” he yelled, but even he couldn't hear himself amidst all the noise. He started moving again, pushing visitors out of his way to make a path, but the crowd was too dense. Already, Jordane placed her blade against the surface of the box, drawing applause from the crowd, and a silent scream of horror from Inès.
“This is not a trick,” he thought. “She's going to saw her in half, but there won't be any magician's trickery in this box. When the blood flows, and they realize what's happening, the panic will start.”
“And we'll all die,” finished a voice in his head.
He redoubled his efforts to reach the stage, passing by a small group that seemed absorbed in something else. He glanced into the attraction and nearly stumbled over the man in front of him when he caught sight of another Jordane.
“Jordane?” he shouted.
No, it wasn't her. Well, yes, he had recognized her instantly, but he was now facing a little girl, no more than six years old. She had the same delicate face as his friend, identical chestnut hair, and he knew deep down that it was indeed her. He tried again to get her attention, but she didn't seem to be able to hear him. So, without thinking, he plunged behind the curtains of silky red. As he entered, it was as if everything had extinguished around him. The sudden silence pierced his ears, and he was now in an infinitely large room bathed in a deep blue light. There was nothing around him, only the perfectly black undefined floor and a ceiling endlessly high, as if lost in the confines of space.
“Jordane?” he called, but the universe simply echoed his voice. He took a step forward, and a multitude of silhouettes appeared in a line before him. He jumped, and they all mimicked him. He recognized the clothes he was wearing, his hair from behind. He slowly raised his hand, and all his doubles immediately mirrored him, a gesture that seemed to repeat to the ends of infinity. He tried to touch the nearest twin, but his hand struck an invisible wall. He groped around him like a blind man, mirrored by his followers: there was also a wall on the other side. He advanced along the corridor, and the line of reflections disappeared, before another appeared in front of him. He looked into his own eyes, and he understood where he was: a labyrinth of mirrors.
“Run! We have to leave!” he heard someone shout.
He turned, and his heart leaped when he saw Jordane. She was far, very far from him, lost in the vastness of the room, like an astronaut adrift in space.
“Jordane!” he called.
But she seemed neither to see nor hear him; she was tapping against a pane, screaming and pleading as if speaking to someone.
“You have to leave! Monsters are coming! He wants to trap and kill you all!”
“Jordane!” he shouted, but his voice was lost.
How could she be here if he had seen her on that stage? He thought back to what the apparition had told him: could Oswald have also stolen her body to create panic? Then what was he seeing? Her soul?
“Or is it an illusion?” he thought.
He didn't bother to ponder and moved forward, groping around him like a blind man. He delved deeper into the sinuous structure, sometimes hitting his own reflection, his doubles appearing and disappearing in all directions.
“Jordane!” he called, to no avail.
She turned her back on him, desperately tapping against a mirror, pleading for someone to listen. And he, trying to reach her, but unable to advance. He felt like he was making no progress, the distance between them also infinite. His reflections watched him in two endless diagonals, as if he was the center of a hellish cross. And the ghostly light was driving him completely mad.
“Jordane!” he yelled one last time without her hearing him.
She abruptly lifted her head as if she had heard him, but her gaze fixed on a point somewhere in the void. He heard her whisper something, maybe “Inès...”, and she began to walk along the mirror. She disappeared when she stepped out of the frame only to reappear a little further, as if traveling by jumping from mirror to mirror. She looked worried, as if she was following something, or someone.
“Damn, we really don't have time for this...” he thought.
He knew that outside, at any moment, panic would erupt among the crowd. And with it, death.
So he decided to go deeper into the labyrinth to try to reach Jordane.
***
Meanwhile, in the park, Billie was having a blast: in control of a brand-new body, he sawed wood with passion. Even if outwardly, the face of his host was expressionless, he was jubilant watching Inès scream in terror. It was her punishment, for having prevented them from eating last time: they could torture and kill her as many times as they wanted, forever.
None of the spectators could see him, admire him pulling his strings with perfect dexterity. But that didn't stop him from listening to the cheers and applause of the crowd slowly quieting down, giving way to confusion: already, the girl's screams were beginning to be heard, and the faces of those who were just beginning to understand were falling apart. Soon, panic would start. And finally, blood would flow.
At the next saw stroke, he felt a snag, and the large purple box began to jerk and vibrate as Inès struggled to escape the blade. He saw his tool turn red and a smile formed on his face. He redoubled his efforts, pulling and wrapping the strings around his puppet. His multiple arms moved with precision, like a surgeon in the operating room. Blood began to flow to the ground and Inès's convulsions stopped suddenly. He hadn't noticed that she had stopped screaming. He hadn't noticed that the crowd had begun to flee in horror. He was focused on his doll, in ecstasy before its graceful movements.
But something caught his attention. In a corner of his mind, he became aware of a presence. A lost little girl.
In his world, the Astral world, the human had managed to trap the girl's soul, Jordane. He had managed to manipulate her, and she was now condemned to remain locked in the world of mirrors, screaming stories of monsters and catastrophe.
His work here was done: already, there was no one left in front of the stage. He felt the time approaching, but he thought he had just enough time to enjoy this new soul and have fun with her before the great carnage. He finished sawing the box that opened in two, spilling its contents onto the granite pavements with an obscene and guttural noise. An explosion in the sky colored the soaked ground and breathed a last note of green life into the tear-filled eyes of the corpse.
Poetic.
But Billie didn't linger on this spectacle: this girl was at their disposal and always would be. He could play with her another time. Instead, he released his control over Jordane's physical envelope and went hunting for what really interested him: her soul.
***
Jordane was desperately pounding on the bathroom mirror, only succeeding in creating a cloud of fog on the smooth surface, growing and then evaporating in time with her ragged breathing. Why wouldn't anyone listen to her? Why was it always the same? Ever since she was little, she had been ignored.
“Because you've been living in your own hell since you were six,” a voice in her head said.
She patted the mirror again with her small hands, in vain, when she heard the floorboards creak behind her. She turned around abruptly and saw a shadow pass in front of the slightly open door. A familiar silhouette, she was sure of it. She moved lightly and cautiously peeked her head into the hallway: she just managed to see the shadow disappear around a corner of the house, heading towards the stairs.
“That ponytail...” she thought.
Thinking she knew who it was, she called out without thinking:
“Inès?”
No response, but a stair creaked loudly. She decided to follow the apparition, and behind her, in the mirror, Raphaël could be seen calling her in vain.
She reached the stairs and saw, out of the corner of her eye, the silhouette disappear into another room. She followed, making the old wooden boards cry out too. She passed another mirror, placed on a table near the entrance, without seeing it: Raphaël could be seen again, now further away, seeming to struggle to reach her. She arrived in the kitchen and came face-to-face with Inès, who was rummaging in a drawer under the sink. But it wasn't her.
Jordane watched in horror the scene unfolding before her. Not the half-torn rag doll moving its hands in the cutlery drawer; she was watching Billie standing right behind it.
The real Billie.
She knew it was his true form, that of his world, the spirit world. The thing she saw was sitting on the floor, its fat, hairy legs, those of a colossus, surrounding the dirty, unstitched puppet. Above it, the monster furiously waved its long, thin, hairy arms, pulling a mass of string in which a dusty cotton heap was entangled. It must have had a dozen arms, maybe twelve, manipulating the object's limbs like a mad conductor, pulling and winding the thread with frightening speed, like a spider enclosing its prey in its mortal cocoon. She was not surprised to recognize the string in which she was wrapped: a long, thin, silvery thread.
She didn't even glance at the padded fabric hand that pulled out a long knife. Nor at its face with gold cufflink buttons for eyes, nor its ponytail of stapled fabric. She stared at Billie's face, a neckless head sunk into his broad shoulders. He wore a hood, or rather an old dirty and rotten shroud that hid his face.
“It's with you I'm going to have fun now,” he said in a hoarse voice.
He lunged at her with the knife. Jordane saw herself dying, eyes fixed on the plaster ceiling and a pool of red blood spreading on the dirty floor tiles, but a force lifted her like a gust of wind.
“What are you doing here?” the monster yelled as she was dragged into the hallway, a firm grip crushing her wrist. She was pulled into a closet that closed behind her. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she recognized her savior. The woman with the ponytail hiding with her in the closet was about thirty years old, the one she had seen in the Duli tunnel, the one who had tried to warn her before Oswald trapped her here.
“Inès...” Jordane exclaimed.
“Shh!” she whispered, “he's going to hear us!”
They jumped when they heard furniture crash with a bang somewhere near the kitchen.
“Where are you?” the monster roared. “Do you think you can hide for long? Show yourselves, because if I find you, you're going to regret it!”
Inès looked terrified, but her gaze returned to Jordane:
“Listen to me, you have to get out of here as fast as you can!”
“But, what about you? You're stuck here too, right?”
“No,” she replied, “it's too late for me, I belong to this place...”
“Don't worry, we'll make it. I'm not going to leave you behind!”
“You're not listening to me!” hissed Inès. “There's nothing more you can do for me! Your only chance not to end up like me is to find a mirror, and flee. I'll create a diversion, you'll have to use it to escape.”
“But...” she tried to protest.
“Drop it,” she cut off. “Save yourself before trying to save others.”
Without giving her time to react, she flung open the closet door and went out to draw the monster's attention.
“Ah,” he said, “a new toy! I'm bored playing with this rag doll, it lacks screams... Come here, let's have some fun!”
Jordane heard a terrible crash in the kitchen followed by a piercing scream, but she hadn't moved an inch, lost in her thoughts. She remembered what Inès had said: “Save yourself before trying to save others.”
It sounded like a reproach.
Then, Richard's words came back to her: “Nobody wants to face their demons, so someone has to do it for them, right?”
What did that mean? Was she wrong about everything? Had she ignored all the warnings given to her? Even Oswald had told her not to venture into the park at night. And Inès... Should she have listened to her that night in the tunnel? Who had she managed to save, so far? No one. Who had she put in danger? Ed, that teenager, Emilie, and then... Raphaël...
“What are you doing, idiot?” she heard scream from the other room. “Why aren't you listening to me? Run away!”
“Certainly not!” spat Billie.
Jordane heard Inès scream even louder, then silence. She listened to Billie's footsteps moving away, then a dresser overturning with the sound of broken glass.
“No,” she thought, “the mirror in front of the entrance.”
“Where are you??” he bellowed, smashing everything in his path: the walls trembled as he flung furniture and doors slammed, shaking the whole house as he changed rooms. It was only a matter of time before he reached her.
“Should I start listening to what I'm told?” she thought. “Should I trust Inès and find a mirror?”
Gathering her courage, she emerged from her hiding place and headed towards the entrance. She found the dresser where her parents used to place their keychains years ago: it lay on its side, its mirror shattered into glittering fragments on the floor.
“So, you're trying to lock me in here...” she muttered to herself.
She ascended the stairs, navigating around pieces of broken furniture littering the ground: the only other place she could find a mirror was the bathroom. Reaching the top, she was about to enter when she heard the sound of glass breaking just beyond the wall.
She froze. Silence ensued.
“Jordane, I have someone who wants to see you, with me,” growled the monster from the room.
“They are very angry,” it continued, “they say you're going to be in big trouble!”
Paralyzed and speechless, she watched helplessly as the door opened. A hand gripped the doorframe, white and with cracked skin. Another hand appeared, holding a large wooden ladle. Then, Jordane's mother floated through the entrance, followed by her husband, clutching a poker firmly. The two corpses blocked the entrance, hovering a few centimeters off the ground. Their skin was ghostly pale, streaked with fissures oozing black liquid. Their eyes were yellow discs, like full moons. Jordane's mother rhythmically tapped her antique spoon against her other hand. Above their heads, clawed, hairy talons moved in the shadows, nearly invisible.
“I see a naughty girl who deserves a good lesson,” Billie's voice boomed from the hidden depths of the bathroom, shaking Jordane's father as if he were speaking.
She tried to back away, but her legs simply gave way, and she fell to the ground. Hundreds of tiny spiders swarmed over her parents' bodies, some dropping to the old parquet floor and now climbing up her legs.
“Why do you want to leave here?” Billie continued. “Aren't you happy at home, with your family? And if you escape, we won't be able to keep you forever and have fun with you, like we're already doing with the other girl...”
She caught a glimpse of something in the corner of her eye, and the next moment, she was thrown aside like a rag doll. An excruciating pain tore through her hip. Her mother appeared in the hallway, brandishing her ladle.
“So, you've been swearing to everyone that there are monsters in this town?” Billie mocked, “Aren't you ashamed of spreading such lies? You know your parents care a lot about what people think of them.”
A sinister chuckle followed.
“It's too late, you've nowhere to run. No more mirrors. You belong to me now.”
She crawled back, still on the ground. Billie emerged, blocking the corridor with his large, furry body.
“Yes,” she thought. “There's no way out. Why didn't I listen in the tunnel? Why didn't I listen to Raphaël when he wanted to go back? Why did I dismiss him?”
There was a squelching sound, and as Billie advanced, she saw Inès being dragged on the ground behind him. She was ensnared in a silvery thread, like a dog tangled in its own leash. Her arms were bent at unnatural angles. Her leg was twisted the wrong way, a bone protruding from the acute angle. She was crying, but her whimpers were muffled by her mouth covered in thread.
“I've been stubborn. I didn't listen to anyone. I insulted Raphaël. I was unfair to him.”
She remembered what she had said to her parents the infamous night she woke them up because of the monster under her bed, and she smiled.
“So this is my hell? I've been trying to find and solve injustices everywhere, and all this time, I was the one treating others unfairly? I'm going to end up like her.”
Inès's pleading eyes met hers; not for liberation, Jordane knew immediately, but so that she wouldn't end up like her.
“If only I had listened to you that night...” she thought.
Then: “That night...”
Suddenly, a realization struck her: “That night. I saw you too. You gave me a clue, didn't you?”
Her focus returned to Inès, still being dragged on the ground, and she read in her eyes: “Your room.”
Yes, that was it, there was still a way out.
She found the strength to stand up, and it was just in time: she narrowly dodged a swing of the poker that embedded itself in the wall with a dull thud. Billie lost a moment trying to pull the weapon from the old brick wall, giving Jordane time to sprint towards her old room. But she was small. She was only six years old, and her legs couldn't carry her as fast as she needed. She knew that Billie needed only one step to catch up with her, and then she would be impaled by the hand of her own father. As she lengthened her stride, time seemed to slow down. She was bracing for the blow: any moment now, she would feel her skull being ripped open from the back, or perhaps see a sharp object suddenly protruding from her chest, staining her pajamas with a pool of red. But she set her foot down again, and nothing happened. She began her next stride and heard only the monster's growl. A second later, she reached her bedroom door. She burst in and turned around one last time to look at the hallway: Billie was still there, his two deathly mannequins still brandishing their weapons. Inès stood at the bathroom doorway: in a final effort, she had grabbed the frame to hold back Billie. Their eyes met, and both saw gratitude in the other’s. Jordane didn't wait for Billie to scream and turn his parents against Inès; she quickly closed the door behind her and locked it with a turn of the key.
***
“I’m going to go crazy…” Jordane thought, sitting on the church bench. It was stiflingly hot on this beautiful summer Sunday, the perfect weather for playing outside: hopscotch drawn on the sidewalk at the corner of the street, the swing in the park just a few strides away, the water jet from her neighbor Leandra's parents… There were so many options; yet, here she was, stuck listening to Father Maxence's sermons, which felt like they lasted for centuries. She turned to cast a pleading look at the church's partially open entrance door, hoping for a breeze, but it seemed even the wind had better things to do than attend mass.
She felt a hand grip her thigh, and she immediately bowed her head and closed her eyes to mimic the other parishioners, to avoid the icy glare her mother was probably giving her. She tried to follow along, to concentrate on reciting the text she knew by heart to keep from being noticed, but insidious thoughts invaded her mind like flashes from a camera: salted caramel ice cream… A refreshing lemonade she could sip while playing jump rope. She fought these distractions as best she could, but the mass was unbearably boring, robbing her of precious time that she was convinced would be just long enough for clouds to start appearing.
“Jordane, what's gotten into you!” hissed her mother.
She opened her eyes and realized she was fervently tapping her foot on the bench in front of her, likely disrupting an entire row of parishioners in their recitations.
“Uh... I need to pee,” she lied.
“You're joking, right?” her mother whispered, hands still joined, “How many times have I told you to go before we leave?”
“But I didn't need to go before we left!” she protested a bit too loudly.
In fact, now that she had thought about all that lemonade, she really did need to go…
She saw her mother blush as a few members of the congregation turned around with stern looks, and that was enough for her to relent. She nodded towards the exit for Jordane to sneak off to the restroom without drawing further attention. Jordane seized this golden opportunity to escape.
After making her way up the aisle, breaking the perfect silence of the large hall with her shoes – could she go to hell for that? She seemed to remember reading something about it, but she wasn't sure – instead of turning right towards the restrooms, she cast a timid glance at her mother and, seeing the coast clear, slipped through the partially open door to escape BoredomVille.
She was first blinded by the harsh light of the outside world, but as she fully descended the marble steps, she could finally behold the radiant day before her: clear blue skies, the luckier half of the neighborhood outside, playing all sorts of games. Her mind whirled with possibilities: what should she play? Already damned to hell, she might as well make the most of it, but the possibilities seemed almost endless.
Struck by sudden inspiration, she decided she wanted to play hopscotch. She made her way up the street, keeping a low profile, then, once she was out of the church's aura, she broke into a run. She passed a bus stop where two girls were waiting for the next bus on a bench when she noticed a small box on the ground in front of them. She stopped to pick it up and offered it to the two older girls.
“Is this your box?” she asked.
“Ah, my compact!” exclaimed one of the girls in a man's voice.
Jordane's eyes widened as she realized that one of the 'girls' was actually a man. He had a huge mass of blond hair falling to his chest, wore a colorful open shirt revealing his lean, tanned body, and sported a collection of necklaces of various shapes. His jeans were torn at the knees and held up by a large metal buckle belt with complex symbols.
But what made her blush in surprise was when she saw the man's makeup. He had outlined his eyes in black with eyeliner.
The woman sitting next to him, stunningly beautiful with her long, silky hair, a T-shirt revealing two peaks on her chest, and high-waisted white pants, burst into a crystalline laugh:
“What’s the matter, dear, never seen a man in makeup before?”
Jordane jumped, her mouth still agape, and she automatically replied, her eyes still fixed on the young man, “my daddy says that men who wear makeup are...” then she lowered her eyes, realizing what she was about to say. The boy, instead of getting angry, laughed heartily. The sound that came from his throat was like a philharmonic orchestra.
“Well, your daddy is wrong,” said the woman, “it takes a real man to wear makeup and own it. I hope you find one like that.”
“It's the Rock spirit, baby!” added the other, “you know about Rock, don't you?”
Jordane shook her head vigorously, clutching the compact in her crossed arms without realizing it:
“My mommy says Rock music opens the door to the devil!” she recited, panicked.
This time, both young people laughed in unison, and it was as if a rainbow had poured directly onto her.
“I bet your parents are in there, right?” the woman said, pointing to the church behind them.
“Yes,” Jordane replied timidly.
“And do you think they enjoy it there? I mean, do they feel good? Does it uplift them?”
She thought about it: many left with smiles. Some seemed rejuvenated, as if they had drunk a magic potion that would help them through the week's challenges. But her parents? How did they leave? Happy? No, they always seemed just as afraid, if not a bit more with each sermon.
“Not them,” she replied timidly.
“Playing hooky, are you?” the boy said cheerfully.
She lowered her head and looked at her shoes, shame creeping into her eyes.
“Hey, don't worry!” he reassured her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You're so right, little one! Too many adults spend their lives doing what they think they should instead of what they really want to do, you get me?”
“It's not an easy path,” the woman added, “and that's why so few take it. If you don't feel like you belong there, don't waste another second fighting against your true nature! Look, I spent four years studying law before I realized I hated it and wanted to make music.” She tapped a large black case shaped like a guitar, but longer, propped against the bench. “And the same goes for my sweetheart here!”
“I never want to change another timing belt again,” he lamented.
“Do you dream of going to space?” the woman continued. “Go to space. Want to become a princess? Fight for it. Raise sheep? No problem! That's the Rock spirit too!”
Jordane frowned: she didn't know what to think of these strangers talking about strange things. She just went to school. She had no idea what was after that, or what she wanted to do. In fact, she was still obsessed with the man's makeup, and what her parents would think of them. They would grab her arm and drag her back to church, screaming that they would call the police. That's what they would do.
“You don't seem convinced, little one,” the man said, “but maybe this will help. This is what we're presenting at the studio tomorrow, that's why we're taking the bus to the station.”
He rummaged through his bag at his feet and pulled out a cassette player. He placed the large headphones on Jordane's head and gave her a thumbs up to ask if she was ready. Caught off guard, wanting to be polite, she returned the thumbs up, and then the man pressed the play button, laughing.
It was as if a dam had burst above her head and a torrent of phenomenal power was pouring down, sweeping away everything in its path. The bass line vibrated through her entire body, as if she was one of the strings of the instrument, and she immediately recognized the beauty of the young woman in the melody. The drums hammered her brain with their catchy rhythm and impeccable tempo, like the architect of the group. The guitars and piano joined in, and now she was surfing on the stream, carried by incredible energy. She felt certain she could climb any mountain while listening to this music. And then, the man's voice exploded in her ears. The voice of a king. She was swept away by this tornado, soaring over the entire world as if she had wings. Her worries and troubles were tiny from where she was, and she felt the strength of ten titans.
She cried at the sheer beauty of it.
When the song ended, she wasn't sad: it was like mourning that incredible experience. When the man took off the headphones, Jordane couldn't utter a word, which made the two musicians laugh:
“You know, kid, I like you,” the singer said. “Keep this compact with you, as a memory. A relic to remind you to always stay crazy, always be yourself, and never lock yourself in your misery.”
***
Jordane was frantically searching her room, throwing toys across the room and flinging open her cupboards in search of the old relic. Meanwhile, Billie was trying to break down the door, screaming in rage.
She leaped over her bed, opened the small drawer in her bedside table, and there it was. A small, worn black compact.
Her heart pounded as she opened it, and it fell into her chest when she saw nothing but an empty space, except for a faint blue glow. It looked like her mirror was a window to space, in a dead and starless universe. Behind her, a deafening thud sounded, and she heard the door crack.
“Let me in!” the monster roared from the other side of the door. Then, a tiny voice, coming from between her hands:
“Jordane?”
Her eyes widened when she recognized her friend:
“Raphaël?” she replied.
“Jordane, finally!” he exclaimed.
He was tiny in the compact's mirror, as if she was watching TV on a miniature screen. He seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, in a huge room with bluish neon lights; but she didn’t dwell on that. She was overwhelmed with happiness. She couldn't believe he had returned, despite what she had done to him. She felt grateful, realizing how precious a friend he was.
“What are you doing in that little mirror?” he asked. She felt nauseous seeing Raphaël's head swivel and turn in all directions.
“What's this thing? A makeup kit for kids? Why was it in the middle of this labyrinth of misery?”
“It's a compact,” Jordane replied reflexively, “the one I've had since I was little.”
Hope returned: she knew how they were going to get out.
“I'm in their world,” she explained, “they've trapped me but we can communicate through mirrors. You need to take it and bring it to my body, so I can rejoin it. Can you do it? And what did you say about a labyrinth?”
“I think I'm in the hall of mirrors, but I'll find a way out. But Jo, time is running out! They used Inès, or I think it was her mother but they wanted Inès, to try and kill everyone, and now they're using you to try their luck again!”
“I understand,” she said, “I'm counting on you to get us out of here.”
He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then nodded with a miserable smile.
He was about to set off when she stopped him:
“And by the way… Thank you, thank you for everything, you can't know how happy I am to see you.”
No sooner had she finished her sentence than the door gave way with a dull crack.
***
“How do I get out of here?” Raphaël thought, casting frantic glances around the endless room. He stood before a pedestal with an old black powder case, in which he had seen Jordane's head. His brain was spinning in emptiness, but he felt like he had something on the tip of his tongue. An idea taking root somewhere deep in his mind, but he couldn't put his finger on it. The more he tried to focus on it, the more it seemed to bury itself further into the back of his skull. Something about mice?
“Where are you hiding again, little mouse?” growled someone from the other world, on the other side of the small mirror. Raphaël jumped at the remark, and something in his mind unlocked.
“A mouse!” he exclaimed.
He slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand.
“The random walk theorem! The mouse in the maze!”
He was plunged into an old memory of his student days: he had started programming classes and had already discovered that he was quite good at it. The professor had given them a problem to solve: he had created a computer program with a maze and a robot mouse placed at the entrance, and the students had to program the virtual rodent to find its way out as quickly as possible.
“Each iteration randomly generates a new maze. At the end of the day, whoever shows me the fastest mouse escaping its trap gets the highest grade,” he had said.
So, like everyone else, he had thrown himself at his keyboard to start coding. He first created a robot that wandered randomly on the grid of the board; but even after optimizing his program, the mouse wasted infinite time by going back and forth through the same dead ends. Although, like everyone else, he was a beginner in programming, he was very good at math. And while he had spent his schooling hating this subject, which he considered abstract and useless, a flash of genius made him realize how useful it could be with a keyboard in his hands. He furiously struck the old keys with faded paint, and an hour later he had implemented a new algorithm: a robot that can only do one thing, turn left. After a few tests, he realized that his algorithm was much faster: this method allowed for maintaining a constant direction, thus not missing any corridor and avoiding revisiting the same places multiple times.
“Not bad,” the professor had said from behind his shoulder. “Did you come up with that yourself? Because that technique actually exists, it's called...”
“The right-hand rule,” he finished out loud.
If you place your right hand against a wall in the maze and walk, making sure to never let go of the wall, you always end up finding the exit. That was pretty much what he had programmed back then.
He glanced in the mirror to find Jordane, but it now showed only darkness under the bed. However, he spotted something: the darkness returned his gaze. Large bulbous eyes stared at him from their lair like a frightened animal. He swallowed at this vision and forced himself to refocus on his task: the only thing he could do at the moment was to get them out of here.
He placed his hand against the mirror, meeting his double. Then another, and another, all in a line in the infinity of reflections.
“If we keep our hand pressed against the wall and keep moving forward, we should get out quickly,” he thought to himself.
“Are you sure?” a voice in his head asked.
He was about to tell them yes. That they would manage to escape in time, that they would prevent the massacre, and that everything would end well. But there was a problem. It couldn't work. Because...
***
“Impressive, for sure,” the professor had added. “But what if I do this? How do you get out then?”
He had opened the program and modified a few lines before relaunching the application. This time, the mouse was not placed at the entrance of the maze but in the middle. He pressed the launch button, and the mouse nestled against an interior wall: this wall was not connected to the edge of the maze, so it just went round in circles until Raphaël closed the application, discouraged.
“You still have three good hours left,” the professor said before going to see another student.
***
“Damn, this might not work,” he blurted out.
“Because we're not at the entrance of the maze, idiot, we're already somewhere inside. Impossible to know if the wall we choose is connected to the edge of this damn trap!”
But maybe he could still go for it, maybe he would be lucky...
“Wait, wait...”
He concentrated harder, trying to fully fall back into that memory that seemed so distant.
At first, he was discouraged.
He felt powerless and was afraid of finishing last. But in the end, hadn't he gotten the best grade?
“I think everyone had come around me to watch my program run,” he said aloud.
“Incredible, the Pledge algorithm!” his professor had chimed in.
Yes, that was it.
He had continued to dig, and inspiration came to him: he had reinvented the famous algorithm, in that classroom filled with the panic and sweat of teenagers.
He finally regained his confidence:
“I know how to get out of here,” he said with affirmation.
But no one answered: he had to hurry.
***
Raphaël had been following his invisible thread for a few minutes, but he had no indication of his progress: for him, he was still lost in the depths of space, in a universe with long-extinguished stars, but he kept moving forward as fast as he could. He placed his right hand on a surface and moved forward blindly, like a blind man without his stick. He counted the turns in his head: one, two, one, two, three, two, one, zero. He turned left. He continued for a while, then passed his hand back over the right side: minus one, minus two, minus one, zero, one, zero, one, zero. He turned left.
This algorithm had given him a hard time, but it was thanks to it that he had achieved the highest grade: much more robust, and especially able to solve a maze already entered, it required sticking to a preferential direction – left in this case. You always had to turn left unless you encountered an obstacle. Then, you had to put your hand on it and follow it, keeping a counter in mind: if following the obstacle you had to go left, you counted minus one. If you went right, you counted plus one. If you encountered a left turn and the counter was at zero, you could turn.
The whole class had come to watch his program, and when the professor did his best to throw obstacles in the path of his mouse but she still always managed to escape in record time, he felt intense satisfaction and knew he had found his calling.
The journey through limbo seemed to last an eternity, but when the blue void surrounding them suddenly collapsed, and he faced the thick red curtains with golden seams, a lost hope filled him.
“I've done it…” he whispered.
He looked at the scene where he was: Jordane was on the ground. He ran to join her.
