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Through the thin crack between the armoire doors, I see Mrs. Baker enter the room. From the way she sways, I assume she quickly polished off the entire bottle of wine herself. She drifts to the gramophone on the sideboard and turns it on. One dropped needle later, music starts blasting through the room.
“Let’s Misbehave.”
Mrs. Baker drunkenly sings along, croaking out every other word.
“Alone... chaperone.”
Her head bobs in time to the music, her hands undulate in the air, and her singing gets louder.
“Can get... number.”
She plops down at the dressing table and yanks the same drawer I’d opened minutes earlier, pulling out a tube of lipstick.
“World’s... slumber... misbehave!”
Eyeing her reflection in the mirror, Mrs. Baker swipes the tube across her bottom lip, her unsteady hand smearing it outside the lip line. She wipes it with her thumb, making it worse. A crimson streak now runs halfway to her cheek. Mrs. Baker chuckles softly to herself, leans forward, stares at her drunken reflection.
Something in the mirror suddenly catches her attention. I can tell by the way her gaze darts from her reflection to just over her right shoulder.
The armoire.
Mrs. Baker turns away from the mirror and faces it. From my point of view, it appears as if she’s looking right at me. I hold my breath, unable to do anything but watch.
As Mrs. Baker sets the lipstick atop the dressing table.
As she stands.
As she takes an uneven step toward the armoire.
Her second step is steadier. The third even more so. Like she’s sobering up with each consecutive stride. By the time she’s in front of the armoire, all traces of drunkenness are gone. It’s now the usual stern, stone-cold-sober version of Mrs. Baker who reaches out.
Touches the armoire doors.
Prepares to throw them open.
I shrink against the interior wall, knowing that in one second I’ll be caught, fired, sent back to a house where my father thinks I killed my mother. But just before Mrs. Baker can pull the armoire doors open, the record player suddenly skips.
The music is replaced by a loud, low groan. It sounds through the entire house, starting at the first floor and moving upward, gaining volume as it goes.
I know what it is.
Mrs. Baker does, too, for her face darkens with concern.
The groan is followed by a crack, a clatter, and several sudden, sharp jerks. It sounds like something’s smashing into the house. Inside thearmoire, I’m jostled like a body in a coffin that’s just been dropped. One of the doors flies open, exposing me being knocked back and forth behind Mrs. Baker’s long black dresses.
But she’s no longer there to see me. Instead, she’s throwing open the bedroom door and peering into the hall, one withered hand gripping the wall for support as all of Hope’s End bucks and heaves.
As quickly as it started, everything stops.
The noise.
The movement.
All is silent and still.
Mrs. Baker disappears into the hallway, off to investigate what just happened and where. Others in the house are doing the same. I hear footfalls overhead and the sound of someone thundering down the service stairs.
I stay huddled in a corner of the armoire, my heart beating a hundred times per minute. Above me, Mrs. Baker’s dresses still sway on the rack. I wait until they’ve settled before crawling out of the armoire and hurrying to Lenora’s room. She’s awake, of course, her expression alarmed and her good hand clenched around the call button. Through our adjoining door, I hear the buzz of the alarm and see the red light filling my room.