Dear Adèle,
It was good to receive a letter from you. I am glad to hear that you and the family are well. I do hope you can visit Paris someday, it would be simply capital if we could all see each other in the flesh again, for I do miss you, and the rest of the family. A strange thing happened to me today; I was in my dressing-room when I discovered an anonymous note saying 'get out' on it. However: think nothing of it, as I myself do not. It was most likely some prankster. Hoping to see you soon!
Much Love,
Geneviève
Unable to get to sleep after receiving the anonymous note – she would not admit to herself how much it distressed her – she wrote another letter to Adèle. Shivering in her night-clothes, the chilly air sending gooseflesh up her arms, she lost herself in the neat, flowing cursive flowing from her pen. Her mind began to wander, and the scratching of the writing ran shivers down her back.
Her mind wandered to bad places, frightening places. Fear twisted in her gut, but she firmly pushed the thoughts aside with thoughts of meeting Adèle, seeing Mother again when they came to visit her. That calmed her a little. She signed the letter with a flourish and folded it up, smelled the scented paper. But the flowery bouquet only made her stomach turn.
Humming loudly to herself to dispel the silence, she clambered into her bed, but did not close her eyes. The darkness grew steadily more oppressive, until the only friendly space left in the world was the small island of warmth that was Geneviève and her bed. Closing her eyes, she shivered and her eyes flew open of their own accord. The familiar feeling of anxiety clambered into her stomach. She could tell that it was there to stay.
She could hear the landlady. That reassured her some, in a strange sort of way – that she was not the only person alive in the darkness that coated Paris. Oh, but she was being silly! It was only night-time, it would not harm her. The landlady locked up, after all, and she would just go to sleep and…
Geneviève woke with a start. She must have fallen asleep – but an uneasy sleep, as her eyes ached with tiredness and her neck was stiff. It was still dark. Fear jolted in her stomach again. There was someone watching her, she knew – she could almost feel the burning gaze on her. She sat up on one elbow, the sheets chafing her arm uncomfortably. Chills raced down her damp arms, and she gasped as her bleary eyes fixed on two burning yellow eyes that stared fixedly from outside the small window. She closed her eyes – the eyes outside the window made two spots on her closed lids – and opened them again. The eyes were still there. She stared at them until her own eyes burned, and she blinked again, but they did not disappear. She lifted a shaking hand, held it suspended in the air as if to block out the eyes. They stared at her with chilling intensity. Only a cat, she thought, and whispered it aloud to convince herself. Only a cat. It is only a cat.
Cat or not, she tore her eyes away and hid her head under the blankets. The yellow eyes continued to stare even after she fell into an uneasy sleep.
Dear Adèle,
I look forward to seeing you soon.
Love,
Geneviève
Dear Geneviève,
I presume that you are well? Do write to me soon! I have not received a letter of substantial length from you for a while. Have you run out of time for your poor sister? No, I am just teasing. I shall count down the days until we shall see one another.
Your Devoted Sister,
Adèle
Waking, stiff, and with sandy eyes and a ravenous appetite, she rubbed sleep from her eyes to read the note that had been brought to her. Her appetite and her rosy complexion both quickly deserted her. Get out, said the note in the same puerile script of the day before.
The dressing-room door stared at her ominously. She didn't know that she wanted to be in there. Come now, she chided herself. You are being silly. She was getting herself worked up over two notes and two eyes in the dark – only a cat. She had received notes like that before, and she had seen cats in the dark before. But did cats' eyes glow with such an unearthly light at night…? Dispelling such thoughts (and assuring herself that there were simply felines on the prowl) Geneviève entered the dressing-room almost at a run. There was a tinkling and crackling as she entered, and the breath hissed in her throat as she saw the remains of the broken mirror from the previous night. Seven years of bad luck…She gasped as blood ran in gentle rivulets down her ankle.
It was evening again. She was alert, nervousness constantly twisting in her stomach. Walking quickly to the dressing-room, she prepared herself for entering the dark closet for her cloak. Automatically averting her eyes from the huge, unnerving mirror (when had she ever thought that Gabrielle and the children would like it? It was so unsettling.) and hating herself for it, she glanced at her table and bit off an oath. Three candles burned brightly on her table. More bad luck. She shivered, and ran to snatch her cloak from the closet. The mirror reflected her pale face eerily, and her dark curls bounced on her shoulders as she forced herself to simply walk quickly from the frightening room.
Dear Adèle,
I am truly sorry I have not sent any correspondence of late. I am busy and am in a considerate amount of turmoil. I shall inform you of it when you and the family visit.
Love,
Geneviève
The damned dressing-room had her on pins and needles. She dreaded the evenings, when she would have to enter the dimly lit room and snatch her belongings. The mirror would reflect her frightened face: dark eyes wide and her pale face offset by the flush that bloomed in her cheeks. She would avert her eyes quickly. Why? She asked herself every time, and hated herself for not having the self-control to look her fears in the face.
For they were ungrounded fears, right? Simply a product of her overactive imagination and the cruel prank that had been played on her. She began to repeat this to herself when she entered the dressing-room, a mantra that kept her mind off of those unknown fears. For a few days…it worked. No more candles appeared in her dressing-room, no more pranks and no more broken mirrors.
Geneviève walked apprehensively down the hall to her dressing-room, occasionally looking over her shoulder. Laying a hand on the handle of the doorknob, she hesitated for a fatal moment, the door beginning to swing open. Stepping in to the dressing-room, she let out a startled cry as something fell with a crash behind her. Another prank, she thought wildly. Why? Why?
She slammed the door, full to bursting with fear. Bosom heaving with frenzied breaths; she stood in front of the door for a moment, looking at her unfamiliar reflection in the mirror. In a week, she had become someone entirely different. Heavy rings of black circled her eyes, and frown lines etched her forehead. She heard footsteps in the hallway, and whirled, eyes wild.
No one. When her breath had calmed somewhat, she sat down at her table, drawing to her with a shivering hand a drab piece of paper. On it, with a stumbling hand, she wrote Day Eight. Geneviève could not see anything of herself but the simple reflection in the mirror. She could not see what she had become. She was counting the days that the ghosts were haunting her.
Dear Adèle,
I am not ill, I assure you. I will explain it all soon.
Your Devoted Sister,
Geneviève