Between Shadows

Between Shadows: Chapter 03-C (The Marionette)

It wasn’t long before Lorian was absorbed in the blueprints scattered at the end of the table. Evelyn relayed as much as she could, how she first discovered the lift off an abandoned service corridor.

“I was here in the archive and heard something off the main stairwell.” Evelyn stood next to Lorian, pulling a blueprint to the top of the mess. There were some notes from her session before Lorian arrived, of details that matched up with her dream. “If we go back to the main hall, there’s a break room with a kitchenette across the way, easy enough to get to.” She pointed, just as Lorian’s finger traced down a corridor that wasn’t on any of the modern floor plans.

“There. This is where the hallway to the kitchen ends. And that hall—if we’re taking my dream as a map—opens up to the old service corridor from the original basement layout.” She paused. “You don’t imagine Faye would mind us tearing up some wallpaper, would she?”

Lorian laughed. “If we actually find this, Faye isn’t the one you have to worry about answering to. You probably won’t be the one catching heat, anyway.” He hesitated, then rolled up the blueprint and tucked it in his satchel. “Ready?”

Evelyn took a deep breath, as if trying to steady her nerves. She pulled a torch out of her laptop case, testing the light. “Ready.”

The walk to the end of the hallway seemed to span half an hour. Only the sound of their breath and the faint hum of the break room refrigerator filled the space. She tucked her flashlight in the back of her jeans, feeling along the wall at the end of the hallway.

“Sure you want to do this?” Lorian asked, watching her. “It’s not too late to head back now.”

Evelyn traced her fingers over the wallpaper, eyes lingering on the pattern too long, following the elegant curves as they swirled, cream against a red backdrop, then jutted off at strange angles as if the patterns themselves wanted to break that slow, horrid spiraling.

She felt sick.

Evelyn shook her head, grabbed the torch, and shone it on the wall, looking for anything that would suggest a door: a frame, the shape of a keyhole, or a plate where a handle should be. And then she caught it—a slight disruption in that sickening pattern, a dent in the paper. She pressed her fingers there, and it began to tear into a gaping hole where a handle should be.

The air that came through was warm, musty, and smelled of old insulation and something metallic. She stepped back, releasing a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“Here, step back for a second,” Lorian said.

She moved back and angled the light over his shoulder as he worked, tearing back wallpaper. At first, it looked like there was only more wall underneath. But then she saw it. Red paint, cracked and peeling, covered what looked like the frame of a door.

“It’s really here,” she muttered.

“Honestly, I’m not sure if I’m thrilled that there might still be something left over from the original hotel, or terrified that there’s some semblance of reality in those dreams of yours.” Lorian pulled a long strip of wallpaper off the door, then used his nails to break it along the seams.

Hesitantly, he put his fingers through the hole in the door and pulled. It resisted, as though it might be stuck, warped from water damage, then groaned as it scraped against the frame, giving way.

“There you are,” Lorain said as light spilled down the stairs.

Evelyn took the lead, slowly, one step at a time, as they descended.

The stairwell spat them out into space that felt heavier, alive, breathing, as if the basement itself had lungs. The air was hot and humid, a departure from the cooled, controlled environment of the archive. She turned back to Lorian when they reached the bottom of the stairs. He pulled out the blueprint, moving it under her light.

“It should be straight ahead, far wall,” he said, quietly, as if trying to avoid being overheard. He rolled the sheet and tucked it away again.

They moved through the room with Evelyn taking the lead again. The floor shifted from smooth tile to rough stone, just as she had described the room in her dream. Evelyn’s light cut across stone and caught brass—the elevator that shouldn’t exist, its doors cracked open like a mouth waiting to breathe. Lorian’s footsteps echoed behind her, breath heavy as he struggled to adjust to the thickness of the air.

Machinery whirred to life. Metal scraped against itself in a sound like bone being filed down.

The doors opened onto a cage of brass and mirrors. Inside stood a man—or, at least, the attempt at one—lank and sunken in.

Lorian slowly approached the elevator, letting out a low whistle. He peeked inside but stayed at the threshold, admiring the interior. “Wanna take a gander? She’s beautiful, all things considered. Mirrors intact, red velvet lining, rosewood veneer—something straight out of the 1920s.” He paused. “Looks like it’s wanting for an operator though. Where’s the call button?” He exchanged a look with the operator, but his expression didn’t change.

Evelyn froze. “What— You don’t see that?”

The operator glared at Lorian. He wore a navy uniform, pressed sharp as if freshly laundered, though no heat or steam stirred the air. White gloves rested against each other in the perfect pose of service. But his head hung too still, too centered, until it lifted—slowly, a hinge rediscovering rusted motion. His eyes weren’t the same stormy grey, but a gleaming silver against the backdrop of black scleras. His smile split wider than it should have, like the skin hadn’t been told where to stop.

“Going up, madam?”

The voice dragged a beat behind the mouth, warped as though broadcast through static.

Evelyn’s stomach turned. She couldn’t look away.

Beside her, Lorian whispered, “What are you staring at?”

Her throat tightened. “You don’t see him?”

Lorian’s answer was careful, slow, as if speaking near broken glass. “The lift’s empty.” He stepped inside, as if to prove it was safe. The operator’s eyes followed him, narrowing, grin faltering. He didn’t dare break eye contact, for fear it might turn on him. Lorian held out his arms, filling the space before he stepped out again. Evelyn didn’t miss the shudder as he backed away from the lift.

“You were looking right at him,” she said, exasperated.

The operator’s expression didn’t change so much as reset. One second flat, then the same grotesque smile slotted back into place, stretching too far. The figure tilted its head, eyes snapping to meet hers. Too fluid, too patient, like something underwater trying out the motion for the first time, a puppet rediscovering its strings.

“Mezzanine,” it said.

Her pulse spiked, breath hitching. For a moment, she felt herself drawn in, taking a step toward the lift.

“There is tonight.”

The lights in the cab sputtered. For a split second, Evelyn saw him doubled—two overlapping versions, each slightly misaligned, like film reels fighting for the same frame. One blink behind the other. Both staring at her.

The doors snapped shut with a violence that shook dust from the ceiling.

Silence pressed in, thicker than before.

Heart pounding, Evelyn flinched as she stumbled back into Lorian.

He grasped her shoulders to steady her. “What did you see?” he asked.

“Not Silas. Something else. But it—” She cut herself off, still reeling. The truth chilled on her tongue. The thing had been watching her watch it, gauging her fear, as if it needed her terror to finish becoming real. “It wanted me to think it was him.”