//CLARA//
The corridor swallowed the light. Ahead, nothing but darkness and the smell of damp stone.
I caught up to Hattie, my chest heaving, my lungs burning from the sprint. But my mind was miles away, back to Gary.
Please, I prayed. Let him be alright.
Hattie's footsteps faltered.
"Miss Eleanor—"
"Keep moving."
"But it's so dark—"
"Stay close."
The hallway dead-ended at a door.
Not the red door I had expected. This one was dark, unremarkable wood. The closer I got, the more I could see that the dark color wasn't grain or age or any kind of varnish I had ever seen.
It was the color of old pennies. Of rust. Of dried blood.
My stomach turned. I told myself it was a trick of the torchlight. I told myself it was cheap dye, or water damage, or decades of grime. I told myself anything could stain wood that color.
But there was no time to dissect the dread pooling in my gut. And the door was already open.
Hattie grabbed my arm.
