A Hundred Lifetimes

Three

“The what mansion, now?” I asked, unsure if I had heard Mary correctly. She had picked me up at exactly 6 pm in a different red sports car, wearing a classy red jumpsuit to match it, underneath a black biker jacket. She reminded me of those cute little dogs on the internet that only look feeble, but could bark and bite like nobody’s business. Her thick eyeliner and dark red lipstick alone showed that even if she had a cute face, she was not to be trifled with. I mean, she’s smaller than me, but I’m sure she could’ve taken me down with one swift punch.

“The Murder Mansion,” she repeated, as if it was the most normal thing to say. “You know, the one at the end of Cherry Lane?” We were in the car, midway through the city, when I had finally remembered to ask her where exactly we were going.

“I thought it’s a haunted mansion,” I muttered pointlessly, as if that would have made a difference.

“Haunted Mansion, Murder Mansion, Abandoned Mansion, whatever,” she waved a hand and rolled her eyes as she overtook a bus. “The place has been called so many things already. People just can’t leave it alone, even after more than a century.”

This isn’t good, I thought. The mansion at the end of Cherry Lane was the one in my new body’s—or my own, I’m still not sure—memory. And if this new body of mine really was connected to that mansion in a major way, like she’s the great grandmother of the person occupying it now, then I was in deep trouble.

“Um, actually,” I began, starting to panic. “I think I better get back home. My stomach’s not feeling so good.”

“That’s fine, we have all kinds of medicine in the house. My grandmother will take care of that for you,” Mary said, as she finally pressed the breaks in front large, metal gates. “We’re here now,” she said. She clicked something on her phone, which caused the gates to slowly swing open, creaking in the process. After we passed, the gates automatically shut close, and Mary—for the first time since I’ve known her—actually drove slowly. I was guessing it was to give me a better view of the place, since I was very obviously gawking at it. “Don’t worry, if it really were an actual Murder Mansion, I wouldn’t have told you,” she said in an attempt to assure me, as if that was the fact I was worried about.

“Good to know,” I mindlessly said, too busy looking out the window now. There were hedgerows of flowering quince alongside the brick driveway, where hidden motion-sensor lights lit up consecutively as we passed to show us the way. At the middle of the roundabout was a grand four-tier fountain that looked as old as the house, but it did not seem to be working.

“Garden’s at the back, but don’t go wandering around by yourself. You can seriously get lost here,” Mary warned, and I believed her. I had seen the mansion from the back and in my dreams, yet looking at it up close—there were just no words. It even made me forget that I was supposed to be trying to get out of the place. I gawked up at it, only to be brought back to my senses as the car door on my side suddenly opened.

“Let’s go,” Mary said, looking at me weirdly as she held it open. I hadn’t even realized that she’d gone out of the car. Still in a daze, I muttered a small sorry then stepped out. “Come on,” she said, ushering me up the stairs. “This is my boss’s place,” she began to explain. “It’s a family home that’s been here for around 200 years.” She pushed open the large, heavy doors and stepped in before me. The place was as magnificent inside, if not more than its exterior.

“Wow, it’s really huge,” I said, stating the obvious. A large, gold chandelier hung from the tall ceiling, dark and dead. The only lights in the main hall were from the sconces, and the moonlight coming in through the windows, making the hallways look like they stretched out endlessly in the darkness. And there, right in the middle where two staircases met from each side, was a life-sized painting of—if I wasn’t mistaken—a family portrait. Although from where I stood, it was too dark to see their faces, I could tell that there were 3 of them in the painting, wearing clothes that hadn’t been in style for the past century. I stared at it for a few seconds, but I wasn’t really looking at it. Instead, I was trying to dig in my head if it would trigger any memories, but there were none. I could still only vaguely remember the façade of the mansion back in its prime. I wondered, maybe the girl had only seen the façade of the place when she was alive, but had no connection to it whatsoever? Maybe she just passed by this place, or lived near it back in the day? Was I overthinking things?

“Shay,” Mary called out, “are you okay?” but it had sounded more like she was curious than concerned. I could sense that she was watching me closely—every movement in my face and body, even where my eyes landed. “Are you not,” she looked down at my feet then at my eyes, as if waiting for something. I realized that I was still standing outside.

“Oh,” I said, feeling quite foolish. I realized I must’ve been gawking at the place for quite some time. As soon as I took a step into the house, it was like a tension on Mary’s back was lifted. Her face visibly relaxed and with a deep breath, she smiled and excitedly pulled me by the arm, down to one of the hallways. “Okay, so Clarissa is waiting for us in the dining room on the right wing. As for Mr. D, well, I’m not sure if he’ll be joining us. He’s been in quite a mood lately,” she said, rolling her light blue eyes. “Always the drama queen.”

“Are you sure it’s okay that I’m here? I don’t want to intrude,” I whispered, although with the silence within the halls, it had sounded loud.

“It’s fine,” Mary assured. “The place is big and you’re expected to come tonight anyway.”

Expected, she had said. I didn’t think much of her choice of words back then, because I was too busy admiring the ornate crown moldings and the vases of fresh flowers placed every few meters. “Are these real?” I asked, pointing at one of the vases.

“Yeah, they’re from the garden at the back,” Mary answered. “The boss likes to have things that are alive in the house.” Again, there was something about her choice of words that just seemed to sound a little bit wrong, but I only replied, “They’re pretty,” because they really were.

We had turned corners at least two times, but we passed by many corridors and all the doors were very similar, that I was sure if Mary were to leave me there, I would probably be stuck trying to find my way out for a few minutes. I wondered if they had a map of the entire place.

Finally, we stopped in front of large, white double doors with golden trims. “You’re not allergic to anything, are you?” she asked as she pushed them open.

“I… don’t think… so…” I trailed off, stunned by the high ceiling with two classic chandeliers, and the long, grand table in the middle filled with food that could feed at least 10 people. I had been rich at some point in my life, I tell you, and I had been to a lot of countries and even actual palaces, but I never thought I’d see such grandeur in the city—especially not a place deemed murderous by history, something I took a mental note of to ask about at some point. It was also especially odd that such a mansion seemed to be abandoned. Places of this size usually needed at least a dozen of employees to run smoothly, yet so far, there was only Mary.

And now, there was an older woman walking towards me, with a motherly air around her. She was a big woman with braided long, white hair, wearing a collared black dress—something I imagined Mary Poppins might wear to a funeral—and a silver ring necklace on top of her large bosom. “Right on time, Mary. Good evening, Miss,” she said with such elegance. I was definitely older than her, but hearing a 70-year-old someone call me “miss” just wasn’t comfortable.

“Please, call me Shay,” I said with a shy smile. She slightly bowed her head and ushered me to the seat at the end of the table. I counted the number of people the table could fit, and thought about the hours spent to prepare such a feast. “There’s so much food. Are we the only ones eating?”

The old lady nodded. “We don’t get much guests here, so I became a bit too excited,” she admitted, then as if suddenly remembering something, said, “Mary, please go up and ask Master Dorian if he will be joining us soon,” and sat me down. Dorian, she had said. Dorian.

“He said he’s probably going to skip,” Mary replied as she picked a grape from one of the fruit bowls on the table, and popped it into her mouth.

Something in my head rang, like a small vibrating alarm that you set to remind yourself of a task you have to do.

Mary looked at me and nodded towards the lady, then said, “That’s Clarissa. She’s been working here the longest, cooking and changing Mr. D’s diapers,” which earned her a stern look that she didn’t seem to care for. Clarissa maintained her composure, and simply said, “Please excuse my granddaughter, Mary. She has been in training for years, and yet she still behaves as such.”

But I couldn’t care less how they were behaving. It barely even registered that Clarissa had said Mary was her family.

Dorian. This mansion.

Mary took a seat on the chair to my right, about to help herself with the food in front of us when Clarissa hit the back of her hand with a gas lighter gun, and gave her a warning look. “Not before the guest, Mary,” she sternly said, making Mary roll her eyes.

“Oh, sorry, please get some, by all means,” I respectfully said, quickly getting a serving of the salad. “Thank you for preparing so much, Clarissa, but won’t you be joining us?”

Clarissa was lighting the candelabra throughout the length of the table, even though Mary and I probably only took up an eight of the space. “I have to check up on Master Dorian,” she said, “I’m afraid he’s been feeling quite… ill, lately.”

Mary didn’t say anything, and only continued to eat while watching our exchange. Clarissa excused herself and left the room after she was done lighting all the candles.

“This… Dorian person,” I started carefully as I mindlessly cut a broccoli in half. Mary looked at me expectantly, but quietly chewed her steak. “He owns the mansion?”

Mary’s eyes very slightly narrowed for a second as she studied my face. “Yes,” she answered, still watching my reaction. “For as long as I could remember.”

“He must be quite old, then,” I said without thinking. This only made a corner of her lip turn up.

“I guess you could say that,” she said with a knowing smile.

“Is that why he’s sick?” I asked, slightly unsure whether I was crossing the line with my questions. But Mary’s expression showed no indication of it whatsoever, as she continued to entertain them while eating heartily.

“Related, but not really,” she said. “He’s just been a real drama queen lately, saying that he’s been seeing ghosts around, and then refusing to drink—and eat, I mean.”

“He’s that old, huh? I hope he’s okay,” I muttered, thinking that this Dorian person must have been in the age of senility. “It’s a good thing he has you and Clarissa to take care of him. Does he have other employees?”

“Not really, no,” Mary replied, much to my surprise.

“So, it’s really just you three?”

“Uhuh,” she said, pouring herself a glass of wine, then pouring one for me. “But we get the job done. Mr. D likes to cook and clean anyway, plus he does most of the gardening in his pastime.”

“He can still cook and clean?” I asked with obvious shock. “Wow.” Then I took a bite of the vegetables and meat that Clarissa had prepared, and repeated, for a different reason this time, “Wow,” with my mouth full.

“Tell me, Shay,” Mary said, pointing her fork at me. “Do you know anyone named Dorian?”

I hesitated, of course, because the truth was, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure that I didn’t know anyone named Dorian. “I know only of Oscar Wilde’s,” I said with a smile, a second attempt at a joke that Mary, once again, did not appreciate.

“Right,” she said without a hint of humor. “Where are you from?”

Another question that was too broad to answer. Mostly difficult because I, myself, didn’t know where I originally came from. Just as I was about to answer, Mary said, “Ah, right, you told me that you moved here five years ago. Where did you live before then?”

I couldn’t answer. Before then, I was living as an old man in a nursing home the next town over.

“Where were you born?” she asked.

I have no clue.

“Have you ever lived in Cherry Lane before?”

I panicked. Mary’s questioning was starting to hold more tension, and I was unsure what kind of answer she wanted to hear. Years of inadequate socialization due to living as isolated, elderly people, meant that I was quite inept at making conversation; more or less, lying—and even if I didn’t lie, Mary would surely think I still was because of how absurd the truth would sound. I reached for the pitcher of water as my throat began to dry, but with my shaky hand, I accidentally knocked over the glass of wine that she had previously poured for me. The liquid spilled onto the light blue sundress that I was wearing, staining it red, and before I could catch the glass, it fell onto the floor and broke into pieces.

“Oh no,” I exclaimed, as I leaned down to collect the glass.

Mary quickly and worriedly said, “Shay, you don’t have to. You have to be careful or else,” and was about to stop my hands, when a sharp edge of the glass cut into my skin.

I involuntarily cursed as I let go of it to check on my finger. Mary watched with a panicked expression on her face. “Are you okay? Is it bleeding?” she asked, craning her neck to see my hand.

“I’m fine, it’s not bleeding,” I said, and Mary breathed a sigh of relief. “Do you have a room where I can freshen up?” I gestured towards the large stain on the dress that I had just bought for this new form. She pointed towards the door a few meters behind me. “Go out there, then second door on the right. Feel free to use anything. I’ll clean up hear,” she said, and I went on my way.

I followed her directions and ended up in a washroom. Without hesitating, I took a towel, dampened it, and started wiping at my dress, even though I was sure it would only do so little. I looked into the mirror and was proven right. There was barely any change in the state of my dress, except it was wetter now.

“Oh,” I muttered, seeing that my cheek had tiny droplets of wine. I wiped at them with my thumb, but not without being taken with my new face once again, especially at how soft my skin was. “Pretty,” I whispered to the mirror as I closely examined my new, long eyelashes. I’ve never been one to care about physical appearances, but my goodness, this girl could probably stay awake for 5 days and still look amazing.

I would have stared a while longer, but I felt a small itch on my finger, so I peeled my eyes away from the mirror. I put pressure on the skin around it, and just like that, a small bead of blood escaped from the tip of my ring finger. The cut was small, almost just like a prick, really.

“I guess I was cut after all,” I muttered to myself, shrugging it off. I turned on the faucet and let the water run on my finger for a few seconds, when the air in the washroom suddenly changed. It was somewhat suddenly colder, as if a breeze had just passed by—which was impossible in the closed room—and I was sure I had closed the door. I glanced up at the mirror for a second, just to make sure, and true enough, the door was shut.

I looked back down at the sink and shuddered—a feeling like I was being watched came over me, like someone was behind me. I turned off the faucet and looked up at the mirror again, and there he was, staring right at me.