Page 12 of The Last Vampire
“Thanks, Dimples. But why hide a whole room?”
Trevor looks like he’s stifling a grin as he says, “Let’s find out.” Then he sets down his phone so that the flashlight is aimed at a large piece of furniture and starts to pull on the tarp. Zach helps him remove it, exposing an empty bookshelf.
We uncover a few sofas next, as well as accent tables, a wardrobe, and a grand piano. Our phone lights bounce around in every direction as we keep unveiling more and more items, displacing enough dust that we sound like a chorus of sneezers.
“I found something.”
Trevor’s whisper carries through the space, even though it seems low enough that he could have been talking to himself. He’s standing in front of the wooden wardrobe as the four of us approach. It appears to have been custom-built into the wall because even though Trevor is shoving his body weight against it, the furniture doesn’t budge.
“What is it?” asks Zach.
Trevor opens the wardrobe’s doors and casts his flashlight across the inside. “See that?”
All I make out is blackness.
“No,” says Salma. “I don’t see anything.”
“Exactly.” Trevor reaches his hand inside, as if to prove it’s empty. “Nothing.” He leans farther in, until his arm disappears completely. “Get it yet?”
“Can you just tell us what—?”
But the rest of Tiffany’s question falls away as we watch Trevor climb inside the wardrobe and vanish from view.
“Trevor?” Salma calls out, but there’s no response.
“Did he just go to Narnia?” is all I can think to say.
“What are you,twelve?” Tiffany asks me.
“I’m going in,” says Salma, climbing after Trevor.
“Me, too,” says Tiffany, and she goes next.
Zach raises the camera to capture the wardrobe with its open doors, and the flash turns night to day.
“Come on,” he says to me as he climbs inside.
I hesitate, remembering the way Minaro looked at me likeIcould be a troublemaker. Then I think of what Salma, Zach, Tiffany, and those girls in the bathroom said about this schoolcallingto them. And I wonder—what if the secret this room is hiding is one best kept buried?
But I can’t abandon Salma, so I shake off my worries and follow the others into the wardrobe. I use my phone for light, but I can’t see anyone ahead of me.
“Hello?” I ask, my voice small in the darkness. By now, I’ve taken too many steps to still be inside a piece of furniture. This passage must cut through the insides of the manor.
It’s so narrow in here that I can reach my arms out and touch both walls, which are smooth and lacking in texture. My calves start to tighten like I’m descending, and then a light appears in the distance. Once I’m closer, I shut off my phone.
The tunnel spills into a basement that’s windowless yet illuminated by a web of glowing white wires strung across the ceiling.
“What is this?” I ask in awe.
“It looks like a library,” says Zach, holding his camera like he’s recording.
Rows of bookshelves fill the space, brimming with spotless spines that match in height and style, differing only in color and thickness. It’s as if they’re all fresh off the same press.
There are a couple of pieces of furniture covered with white tarps. They look smaller than the ones in the dusty room, and I think they might be anarmchair and a bench. Hanging on the wall are three small portraits, the artwork as detailed as photographs.
The first is of a mustached man with pale white skin, black hair, and silver eyes. The second is of a bald man with coal-black skin who also has silver eyes. They look like they’re from the eighteenth century in their woven vests with cravats and waistcoats. There’s an ageless quality to their faces that makes me think of Director Minaro, like they could be anywhere between thirty and sixty years old.
“These paintings are older than this manor, probably older than daguerreotypes,” says Zach, studying them closely. “I think the paper is vellum.”
