wouldn’t have been there in the 30s, when this room was used as a cell.
She shivered, though more because she was creeped out than by any sort of chill . A few years before, she’d accompanied Robert to London on one of his conferences. They’d spent a week prior to the conference playing tourist, visiting all the sites. Robert was in heaven. For an academic like him, one who had spent most of his life reading about the places they were visiting, it was very nearly a spiritual experience. He’d even cried at Poet’s Corner in Westminster Abbey. Sarah, meanwhile, thought London was nice. It was big, the shops were cool, lots of interesting people. And those accents were so much fun, almost musical. But she hadn’t really been affected at all by what she saw. She spent her teens and early twenties in New York City, after all. The history of London, the significance of the place – she got it, she wasn’t stupid – but it didn’t especially move her. Not until they went down to the basement of a pub on the fringe of the old Newgate Prison grounds. They had one of the old prison’s cells down there, a little indentation in the wall, grimy and moldy and dark. The bartender told them the pub had left it as is, out of respect for the condemned men who had served out the final days of their lives there. He also told them that as many as twenty-four men at a time had been kept in there, pressed close. Like fish in a tin, he said. That had got to Sarah. Standing in that cell, she’d felt sick, overwhelmed. It filled her with uneasy disquiet that chilled her to the bone.
She’d left that cell never ever wanting to feel that way again . But she was experiencing the same awful sensations now, the same sickening dread, the same feelings of lingering pain and misery and hopelessness. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe, but it was as if all the joy, all the life, all that she had loved, was being pulled away from her, leaving only vile abasement and the utter shock of being alone and lonely.
Sarah opened her eyes when she heard the noise. A whisper, a voice barely discerned. She looked around.
“Angela?”
You make so much damned noise.
Sarah froze. The voice had seemed feminine the first time she heard it, but when it came again, it was so colored by a bald contempt, by the rage of one pressed by frustration beyond all endurance, that it barely seemed human.
The smell was back too . Raw sewage. She gagged, coughed.
Beside her, on one of the little card tables, a picture frame began to shake . She stared at it as it danced and jerked, unable to look away, unable to do anything but stare. From the other side of the room, the door slammed shut, and she jumped. The next instant the entire room was trembling, like she was caught up in an earthquake. Sarah lost her balance and fell against a chair.
You make so much damned noise!
The words were deafening. They hit against her chest like a physical blow, knocking her further off balance.
Get out! Get out! Get out!
The entire room was shaking. Sarah clapped her hands over her ears and still withered beneath the roar of the voice.
Get out! Get o ut!
The picture frames on the walls burst, spraying glass on the wooden floor . Chairs bounced and danced, shifting across the floor. Sarah sagged to her knees, hands still pressed against the sides of her head, mouth open in a silent, suspended scream, eyes shut tight against the mounting pain.
Get out!
And then, as abruptly as it started, the noise stopped. The door clicked and sighed open. And Sarah, still on her knees, looked up at the door.
It took her a moment to realize nothing around her was damaged . She’d heard picture frames exploding. She’d seen chairs shake, tables tottering over. But there was no glass on the floor now. No broken picture frames. No chairs or tables out of place. All was as it had been. Except for the faint, lingering stench in the air.
Shaking and shivering, uncertain of what,
She shivered, though more because she was creeped out than by any sort of chill . A few years before, she’d accompanied Robert to London on one of his conferences. They’d spent a week prior to the conference playing tourist, visiting all the sites. Robert was in heaven. For an academic like him, one who had spent most of his life reading about the places they were visiting, it was very nearly a spiritual experience. He’d even cried at Poet’s Corner in Westminster Abbey. Sarah, meanwhile, thought London was nice. It was big, the shops were cool, lots of interesting people. And those accents were so much fun, almost musical. But she hadn’t really been affected at all by what she saw. She spent her teens and early twenties in New York City, after all. The history of London, the significance of the place – she got it, she wasn’t stupid – but it didn’t especially move her. Not until they went down to the basement of a pub on the fringe of the old Newgate Prison grounds. They had one of the old prison’s cells down there, a little indentation in the wall, grimy and moldy and dark. The bartender told them the pub had left it as is, out of respect for the condemned men who had served out the final days of their lives there. He also told them that as many as twenty-four men at a time had been kept in there, pressed close. Like fish in a tin, he said. That had got to Sarah. Standing in that cell, she’d felt sick, overwhelmed. It filled her with uneasy disquiet that chilled her to the bone.
She’d left that cell never ever wanting to feel that way again . But she was experiencing the same awful sensations now, the same sickening dread, the same feelings of lingering pain and misery and hopelessness. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe, but it was as if all the joy, all the life, all that she had loved, was being pulled away from her, leaving only vile abasement and the utter shock of being alone and lonely.
Sarah opened her eyes when she heard the noise. A whisper, a voice barely discerned. She looked around.
“Angela?”
You make so much damned noise.
Sarah froze. The voice had seemed feminine the first time she heard it, but when it came again, it was so colored by a bald contempt, by the rage of one pressed by frustration beyond all endurance, that it barely seemed human.
The smell was back too . Raw sewage. She gagged, coughed.
Beside her, on one of the little card tables, a picture frame began to shake . She stared at it as it danced and jerked, unable to look away, unable to do anything but stare. From the other side of the room, the door slammed shut, and she jumped. The next instant the entire room was trembling, like she was caught up in an earthquake. Sarah lost her balance and fell against a chair.
You make so much damned noise!
The words were deafening. They hit against her chest like a physical blow, knocking her further off balance.
Get out! Get out! Get out!
The entire room was shaking. Sarah clapped her hands over her ears and still withered beneath the roar of the voice.
Get out! Get o ut!
The picture frames on the walls burst, spraying glass on the wooden floor . Chairs bounced and danced, shifting across the floor. Sarah sagged to her knees, hands still pressed against the sides of her head, mouth open in a silent, suspended scream, eyes shut tight against the mounting pain.
Get out!
And then, as abruptly as it started, the noise stopped. The door clicked and sighed open. And Sarah, still on her knees, looked up at the door.
It took her a moment to realize nothing around her was damaged . She’d heard picture frames exploding. She’d seen chairs shake, tables tottering over. But there was no glass on the floor now. No broken picture frames. No chairs or tables out of place. All was as it had been. Except for the faint, lingering stench in the air.
Shaking and shivering, uncertain of what,
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