Lance is starting to think the foyer isn't so bad. True, everything is swathed in cobwebs and dust, but at least the ceiling is tall and nothing else moves in the dark. There's open space and the barest hint of fresh air, and the steady drum of rain against the windowpanes soothes him. He is all alone, and it's a lot less unsettling than anticipated.
Suddenly, lightning flashes, and being alone isn't so appealing anymore.
"Keith?" he calls, abandoning the oil pastel general whose frame he was peeking beneath. Its eyes seem to track him in a way that no painting should. "Keith, buddy, wait for me. Splitting up is bad news."
No answer. Lance isn't surprised, though, because if anyone is reckless enough to explore this place alone, it's definitely Keith. Truth be told, Lance won't be surprised if he learns that Keith wasn't looking for the Erasmian, but for proof of ghosts. Or Bigfoot. Or Mothman, if Mothman liked to hide in haunted mansions.
Come to think of it, the shadow looked pretty bulky. Too bulky. Bulky enough to be Bigfoot.
Feeling a faint rush of relief that Pidge isn't here to see his conversion to cryptid believer (done in the name of survival, he insists, if only to himself; he's not projecting his interests into Keith, he hasn't believed in these things for years, no, how dare the Pidge in his head make that assumption), Lance rushes after Keith. He launches himself up the stairs with clouds of dust exploding in his wake, and the curved staircase groans with his passing. When he reaches the top, the crystal chandelier shivers.
There are three doorways on the balcony, one at each end and the double doors visible from the main floor. Lance hovers, unsure which way Keith went and wishing he hadn't been nearly beneath the staircase when Keith disappeared. There's no way of telling exactly which door Keith went through. To the left, though, the door lies ajar, and that seems very Keith.
Lance leaves the double doors behind and slips through the open one, hand straying to his bayard. There are no windows in this corridor; just a rumpled rug and doors lining both walls, some missing their handles, one wide open to reveal a barren linen closet. At the end of the hall, a staircase turns sharply to the side before marching upward. Probably the tower, Lance thinks, remembering his brief glimpse of the mansion from the outside, backlit by lightning. That door he'll avoid for now. Nothing good ever happens in towers except princesses, but he's not going to hold his breath for that one.
Tower out of the question, he calls for Keith again, but gets no answer, not even when he turns on his comm. Heavy static fizzles in his ears, and he can't pick up a signal. "Figures," he mutters. But maybe, if Keith isn't in earshot and he left the door open, he went upstairs. There only seems to be one way up or down, and Lance decides that if he investigates this hall while he waits, he'll meet up with Keith again eventually, or he'll be close enough to answer a call for help. That sounds reasonable.
So he investigates, one halting step at a time. The open linen closet houses nothing of interest save for a few wispy cobwebs tucked into the corners, while the door closest to the foyer leads into a musty study. Lance pokes his head inside, skin crawling as his visor whooshes up and away. Apparently, the air here is safe to breathe, but that doesn't make it pleasant. He can practically feel the dust in the room sinking into his pores, loaded down with every bit of dirt a haunted mansion can muster.
Haunted. He really should be a little more careful in his choice of words.
Tucking his helmet under one arm, he approaches the heavy desk and leather chair, wiping a finger through the layer of dust atop the ink blotter. It comes up grimy and grey, and he pulls a face as he wipes it on the spine of the nearest book on the shelf behind him. Then he pulls another face, because the leather binding is dry and cracked with age, papery and clingy to the touch.
"Place'd be nice if it wasn't gross," he mutters. And since the rest of the room looks just as stale, between the patched up rocking chair and the cold, soot-stained fireplace, Lance leaves it be. There's nowhere for the Erasmian to be hidden, not even in the cavity below the desk, and if he stays any longer, he's going to have to look for a shower next, to scrub it all off.
It's not really the dust that bothers him, even if it does make his eyes water a little. A faint allergy is something he can deal with. Instead, it's the sense that the dust is hiding something. It lies over everything, a powdery coat of silence, and everything it touches has been undisturbed for how long? And yet, maybe half an hour ago, tops, he and Keith watched the shadow pull the Erasmian into the mansion before losing sight of it again. A creature that big should leave a trail. The alien it was dragging should leave scores in the dirt and dust. And if Keith went this way, like the open doors suggest, then wouldn't he have turned the room upside down? Where's the evidence of that?
There is none. Either Keith is actually starting to put some value on stealth, or he skipped this room, which doesn't make an ounce of sense. They can't find a missing alien if they don't make a proper search.
"He's starting at the top," Lance tells himself, giving the study door a gentle rattle to be sure it's shut. "Start at the top, work backwards." Still, he can't make himself go up those tower stairs, and instead, he continues exploring down the hall. Two empty children's rooms check out, one with a crumbling bunkbed and the other with an abandoned crib, both with no signs of life. They leave another layer of uneasiness across Lance's shoulders, the unsettling feeling of should. There were kids here at one point. A baby, even. This side of the hall should be filled with laughter, maybe some tears, but certainly the sounds of life that come with toy chests and baby rattles should be here.
As soon as Lance thinks it, he wishes he didn't. If he hears even a giggle, he's going to jump out of his skin and shoot the first thing that moves, and for better or for worse, he won't miss.
He puts his back to the wall and forces himself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. One breath at a time, before this mansion suffocates him with his own fear. It helps no one if he's scampering around with a finger on the trigger, a lesson he's always trying to learn. Reflex is one thing, and impulse is another. It's true in flying his lion, true in firing his bayard, true in everything. If Lance acts on reflex, all will be well, and if he caves to the itch in his bones that sings for him to go, go, go, then there will be trouble, something he's got to stop chasing one of these days.
He lets his heart run its course for a few moments longer, waiting for it to steady and then squaring his shoulders against the final hallway door. Just one last room, and then he can call this hallway clear and move on. One room at a time. One breath at a time.
Lance turns the handle on the exhale, and to his surprise, cool storm air curls against his face, carrying the tangy scent of Erasmian rain with it, which tugs on his heartstrings with feather-light fingers. It's so close to home, yet so far, and he has to steady himself for a long breath before taking in the rest of the bedroom.
Before him, the lights are on, three bulbs set into a crooked fan overhead, and the window is open, toying with the curtains as it deposits a cache of flimsy purple leaves on the floor, bounty stolen from the forest. It's a little chilly, but refreshing, and the sense of being plastered with dust begins to ease as Lance leans out the window, catching a brief spray of rain as the wind changes. This? Save for the open window, this is a clean room. It's bright and clear, with a well-made bed to his left and a pristine chest of drawers on the other side, pearl-set handles sparkling softly in the light. Even the vanity is perfect, the mirror positively gleaming, the glass free of streaks.
Lance pauses at the vanity, one hand poised to open the center drawer. A shadowy blotch marks his cheek, and when he moves to thumb it away, the darkness just slides over his finger, steady as ever. When he draws back, though, it disappears, and a glance up to the ceiling fan reveals that one of the bulbs has accumulated a hoard of dead bugs, throwing a tiny, misshapen shadow. Nothing haunting about it, if Lance doesn't count the one bug that still seems to be twitching feebly.
Still, he double-checks the mirror, just to be sure that the light isn't playing tricks on him. The knob on the side creaks as he turns it, angling the glass away from vertical, and a closer look with his helmet off shows him nothing out of place except for the faint beginnings of a beard that he'll remove long before it becomes anything of note. The helmet goes back in place.
As he reaches for the knob to put the mirror straight, though, a flicker of movement catches his eye. The potted plant in the corner shivers, leaves recoiling from the open window. Then, the breeze rolls in, more insistent than before, and the fronds of the plant fly up against the wall. One does not lie flat immediately, instead crinkling it midair and whipping around before it finally makes contact with the wall, as if something stands in its way for the briefest moment.
But it's the middle of the night, Lance tells himself, and he's still nervous, no matter how soothing the breeze may be. The chances that he's seeing things are through the roof, and he just has to settle down, keep his wits about him. So he puts his back to the plant, finishes putting the mirror upright again, and slides the vanity drawer open to find a jumble of cosmetics, carelessly abandoned. Digging through them turns up nothing of note, though, and he shuts the drawer.
To his surprise, the round handle turns in his grasp, loose in its fitting. Lance frowns and twists it the other way, trying to tighten it, but it continues to spin all the way around, and around, and around.
But then it spins without his hand on it.
And then the room spins.
And then he's not standing in front of the vanity anymore.