Chapter 22

The crunch of gravel beneath our feet ceased as we stepped onto the solid path leading to the ancient edifice. I lifted my gaze to the two-story stone brick structure that towered before us, its very old-fashioned style exuding a sense of timelessness. Curiously, the walls looked scrubbed and restored, making the building appear surprisingly new on the outside, as if it had defied the centuries that should have worn it down.
"Here we are," the teacher announced with undisguised anticipation. His eyes, usually so keen and penetrating, now gleamed with an intensity that both intrigued and unnerved me.
I could feel his expectations like a tangible weight upon my shoulders. Ever since he discovered my ability to slip into dreams—a skill I once regarded as a mere curiosity—he had become increasingly determined to harness it for purposes I wasn't entirely sure were benign.
"Remember," he continued, his voice smooth as the cool stone underfoot, "your talent is rare. It's crucial that you help me locate the..." He trailed off, but the unsaid words seemed to hang between us, an invisible thread pulling taut.
I understood what was left unspoken. My dream-entering ability wasn't just a parlor trick; it was a key. And the teacher, with his cryptic motives, was eager to unlock whatever secrets lay dormant within these venerable walls.
Stepping through the threshold, I ran my fingers along the cool, weathered brick, each one a silent guardian to untold stories. The teacher moved ahead, his stride purposeful and sure, as if every step brought us closer to an invisible prize.
There was an unsettling beauty to this place, an allure that seemed to whisper promises of ancient secrets.
As I craned my neck higher, a glint of something unnatural caught my eye. Perched on the edge of the roof was a small, intricate statue, barely discernible against the backdrop of the sky. "What's that?" I couldn't help but murmur, my curiosity momentarily overtaking the gravity of our quest.
The teacher paused at my question, sparing a brief glance upward before resuming his unwavering march forward.
"An owl statue," the teacher replies casually, as he flicked a speck of dust off his sleeve, seemingly more interested in maintaining the pristine condition of his dark coat than indulging my curiosity. "This is an old building, and the decorations are all from the past."
His dismissive tone couldn't stifle the spark of intrigue that flared within me. The owl, with its ever-watchful eyes, seemed to hold vigil over the building, a silent sentinel from a bygone era. My gaze lingered on its form, the contours of its feathers etched into the stone with meticulous care, suggesting a reverence for the creature it represented.
"Decorations," I echoed, but the word felt inadequate. This wasn't just adornment; it was a symbol, and symbols held power. Could it be that some psychics or supernatural entities once revered this place as sacred ground?
The teacher's steps never faltered as he led us deeper into the heart of the ancient edifice, but I could feel the weight of history pressing close, whispering secrets just beyond the reach of understanding.
The threshold creaked beneath my boots as I crossed into the shadow-laden foyer, a chill brushing against my skin like the cobwebs that festooned the corners. My eyes swept over the place, taking in the grandeur of the interior. Heavy velvet drapes hung from the windows, filtering the light to cast an array of muted hues across the marble floor. The walls were lined with portraits, their subjects' eyes following me with silent intensity, as if they knew my purpose here.
"Remarkable, isn't it?" the teacher remarked, his voice echoing softly off the stone. He didn't wait for my reply, already striding towards a heavy oak door at the far end of the corridor.
I trailed behind him, every sense heightened. The air was thick with the scent of old books and burning incense, a fragrance that seemed to hold the whispers of those who had once walked these halls. I imagined them — scholars or mystics, perhaps — their lives dedicated to unraveling the threads of reality and stitching them back together in ways only they could comprehend.
With a jingle of keys from his pocket, the teacher selected one that looked ancient, its metal tarnished by time. He slid it into the lock with a practiced motion, and the mechanisms within gave way with a dull thunk. A gentle push, and the guest room's secrets were laid bare before us.
The room was a small sanctuary of antiquity, its walls adorned with tapestries that depicted scenes of mythical creatures and enchanted forests. The air held a cooler touch, a stark contrast to the warmth that enshrouded the rest of the building. In the center, an ornate four-poster bed commanded attention, its covers neatly turned down as though waiting for me.
"Go lie down under the covers," the teacher instructed, his voice betraying none of the anticipation I felt radiating from him. He motioned towards the bed, his gaze never leaving mine, ensuring that I understood the gravity of what was about to transpire.
My feet moved almost of their own accord, carrying me closer to the bed. Its linens were crisp and cool beneath my fingertips as I brushed them lightly. I could feel the weight of the history in this room pressing against my skin, whispering secrets of the past occupants who had perhaps stood right where I was now.
"Rest," he said, his eyes briefly sweeping over the room before settling on the unlit fireplace. "There's a fireplace in the room; I'll light it up for you later." His casual mention of it was belied by the careful way he scrutinized the darkened hearth, as if confirming an unseen detail.
I watched him for a moment longer, trying to glean any hidden meaning from his words or actions, but his face remained impassive. As he stepped back, allowing me the space to prepare for what was to come, I couldn't shake the feeling that the flames we'd soon kindle here would ignite more than just firewood.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving a silence that seemed to seep into the very stones of the ancient building. An involuntary shiver traced down my spine as I shrugged off my jacket, the weight of it falling away like a discarded shield. My fingers worked deftly, untying laces and unbuttoning cuffs until all my outer garments lay in a neat pile on the worn wooden chair beside the bed.
I slipped between the covers, the fabric cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the brewing anticipation that warmed me from within. The mattress embraced my form with an unexpected softness, a silent promise of comfort, or perhaps deceit—I wasn't sure which. Lying there, I stared at the ceiling, its shadows playing tricks on my eyes, forming patterns that danced just out of reach of comprehension.
Footsteps heralded his return—a rhythmic echo against the stone floor that grew louder with each passing second. He reappeared, holding a steaming cup that diffused a gentle heat into the space between us.
"Drink this," he said, his voice a smooth melody that belied the complexity of our shared purpose. "It should help you relax."
I accepted the cup, the warmth seeping into my palms. There was a subtle sweetness to the steam that rose in delicate spirals, and I wondered about the ingredients that composed such a comforting aroma. Trust was a luxury I could ill afford, yet there was something about the way he presented the drink—without a hint of urgency—that made me want to believe in the simplicity of the gesture.
The teacher watched me, his gaze never wavering, as if he could see through to the very core of me, to the place where my ability—and my fear—lay intertwined.
"Thank you," I murmured, though whether for the drink or the journey we were about to embark upon, I couldn't say.
The milk left a creamy residue on my lips, and I felt the drowsiness tugging at the edges of my consciousness. Before I could take another sip, the air shifted, and there was Alan, leaning against the doorframe with his characteristic smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. His eyes glinted with that all-knowing sneer, the one that always preceded some snide remark or thinly-veiled insult. I blinked and he was gone again. Mhm. I must be half wake.
"Comfortable?" Hargrave asked, though it was clear he didn't care for an answer.
"Very," I replied, feigning indifference. Yet, beneath the surface, unease coiled in my stomach like a sleeping serpent. Alan's presence was no accident; he was the teacher's spy, his shadow cast in human form.
"Good," he said, his voice as smooth as the potion in my cup. "Wouldn't want anything to go amiss while you're out gallivanting in dreamland."
I settled deeper under the covers, the warmth from the drink spreading through my limbs. The teacher's intentions might be shrouded in mystery, but I was no stranger to the unspoken language of caution. The sleeping potion worked its way through my system, pulling me down into a state of half-awareness where reality blended with the cusp of dreams. My eyelids grew heavy, the world blurring at the edges, yet I clung to a single thread of thought: beware the waters in which you swim, for predators lurk beneath the surface.