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I was just leaving Sarah Hawkins’ study when a crash sounded through the dark hallway. “Bradley? Is that you?” my voice rang out into the dark, echoing slightly from the bare walls. No answer came, nor any other noise to follow up the crash, not even after a few minutes of waiting. Maybe it hadn’t been Bradley that had caused the noise then?
No, come to think of it, it most probably hadn’t been. I may not have known the officer for long yet, but from the brief time we’ve spent together I’d wager to say he’s a very responsible person that likes to stick to protocol whenever possible. As such he would most likely answer when being called. And even if that evaluation isn’t correct, he has pretty heavy steps. I would have heard him going by when I was in the study. So no, not Bradley then.
But something must have caused that sound. Sure, this mansion may be rather decrepit in most places, but the ones that were still in use before the fire are at least not in any imminent danger of falling apart. That rules out something simply falling of its own accord as well then. Winchester stayed outside and didn’t seem like he particularly wanted to come in here again either. Which only leaves the option that someone else is in here with us. Maybe whoever managed to escape the fire? Or someone that wants to ransack the place? In any case they could be hostile, I should be careful.
As quietly as I could I crept left towards the stairs leading to Sarah Hawkins’ studio, passing by the ominous scratch marks on the walls I had noticed earlier. The soft flickering of my lighter’s flame didn’t help in alleviating this ominous, foreboding atmosphere. It only made it worse, shedding my surroundings in shifting, orange tinted half shadows. Finally, I reached the stairs. It was only a few steps between the door to Mrs. Hawkins’ study and the bottom of the stairs but in this moment, time seemed to stretch weirdly.
With quick steps I ascended the eight stairs to the top. To my relief none of them let out any sound beyond a quiet hollow thud when I put my weight on them. With a bit of luck, the intruder wouldn’t yet know that I was nearing their hideout. As suspected the previously locked door was now cracked open. Whoever was in there must have sneaked by while I had been in the study.
Slowly I pushed the door open further. It creaked. Great. Any chance I might have still had at not alerting the intruder were now gone out the window. But no one came at me to try and flee, nor were there any more sounds to be heard. The studio was dark, very dark. Even with my lighter I could barely see a foot in front of me.
The darkness, the creaking door, with odds like these I might as well just call to check if anyone was in here. “Is anyone there?” Of course, I received no answer yet again. It seemed like I would have to go in and search in person after all.
That was when I noticed a light in front of me, there on the ground stood a lit metal lantern. It probably belonged to the fugitive hiding somewhere in here. Slowly I bent down to pick it up. A lantern was far more convenient for lighting than my lighter after all. New light source in hand I stepped further into the cramped room, now finally able to make out a least a few details of the art studio. Such as the canvases covered in paint-stained tarps, a few of Sarah Hawkins’ paintings hung on the walls and the occasional metal shelf positioned oddly in the room.
All the paintings I came across that weren’t hung up on the walls were covered, a strange little detail, but one deemed insignificant to my investigation. At least until I spotted one that wasn’t covered. It was positioned near the centre of the room, leaned against other covered paintings on the floor. I could already tell that it was a portrait from afar, but of whom only really struck me once I crouched down in front of it to take a closer look.
Light reflected off the dried oil paint, creating a slight shimmering sheen and for a moment I could have sworn I was looking into a blurry mirror. The dark hair, the tired looking, sullen eyes, the beard, that scar on the left cheekbone, I knew that face. Of course I did, I was used to seeing it in a mirror. And here it was, my face painted oil on canvas in the studio of Sarah Hawkins. A woman I never knew when she was alive, a woman that had had no idea who I was, let alone look like!
This painting should not exist. Cannot exist. And yet, it is undeniably real. Right here in front of me.
I was reaching out to touch it, to make sure I really wasn’t hallucinating. Slowly my hand crept closer to the painting, throwing elongated shadows on the ground. My fingers were just about to meet the leathery dry surface of the paint coat when a loud creak from the floorboards to my side interrupted me. Suddenly it was as if time had decided to speed up. Everything happened in a flash and blur of colours.
A hooded figure had jumped out from behind a tarp covered shelf, pushed me to the ground and snatched the painting before promptly booking it. I reacted without pausing to think, I jumped up while grabbing the lantern and started to sprint after them. “You! Stop!” They had the painting, they had possible evidence. I could not let them get away. I couldn’t.