and send him arse over shit downstairs, then they’d see
who had the last laugh.
‘Get real, you bloody idiot,’ she shouted, reaching
the top of the staircase. The reply, if such it could be
called, consisted only of more low moaning, more tapping
on woodwork. She hesitated for a second before beginning
the descent.
The figure didn’t appear to move quickly but even
so it reached the hall well before Elsa. A mere 20-watt
frost-shaded lamp glimmered down there, boosted
occasionally by flares of lightning that bounced off
panellings and the oil paintings of long-dead aristocrats.
Elsa saw the figure hobble across more furtive shadows
and slip through an open doorway, and she heard its feet
on a flight of stone steps that presumably led to the cellar.
A few seconds later Elsa reached the doorway and
hesitated again before continuing her pursuit.
She shivered, because the whitewashed
underground walls reeked a dampness and chill that
immediately enfolded her. From somewhere far below an
orange-yellow light danced a weird tarantella, serving to
silhouette the hobbling form ahead. Its feet scrunched on
the gritty steps but all moaning and tapping had ceased
since it left the hallway.
Elsa gained on the figure although not as quickly
as she ought to have done, given its clumping, clumsy gait,
and it reached the foot of the steps still well in advance of
her. An open doorway gaped to the left, spilling out the
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