Warning! This chapter is rather dark in comparison to the previous ones!
The corridor is bleak and shabby. The wallpaper has come loose and hangs down in lengths from the wall. Pictures are crooked. The carpet is stained and threadbare. Cockroaches bustle about the floor. The thick wall of smoke behind Elsie comes inexorably nearer and doesn´t give her a moment to relax. Elsie stumbles over a broken pictureframe. The broken glass is crunching beneath her feet. Flames are bursting out of the wall, trying to catch the hem of her torn dress. Elsie staggers from wall to wall. Her lungs are full of smoke and panic is rising in Elsie, when she feels how difficult breathing has become for her. The crackle of the fire, that has send the smoke as a deadly precursor, gets louder and flickers through the smoke. Elsie thinks, that she has seen a silhouette in the smoke, but wood trusses are falling from the ceiling and the silhouette is gone before Elsie can yell for help. She covers her ears from the noise the wood trusses are making, when they hit the ground, sending a wave of smoke in her direction. Sparks are burning little holes in her sleeves. The taste in her mouth is nearly unbearabel. Coughing is nearly impossible. Her eyes start to tear and her face is covered with grime. She tries to push herself from the wall and stumbles further down the corridor, hoping to escape this nightmarish scenery. And indeed can Elsie make out a dim light, that braves the darkness around, at the end of the corridor. She looks over her shoulder again, but to her surprise is the smoke no longer following her. It seems to linger in the corridor, waiting for Elsie´s next move. She turns back to the light, that becomes brighter and brighter with every insecuring step Elsie makes towards it. But her hope is dashed, when she is reaching the end of the corridor.
Instead of a door is there a gigant portrait on the wall. Little flames are nibbeling at the edges of the frame. It shows the postmistress in her most beautiful gown, standing on a green meadow. Her beautiful green eyes are looking at the bouquet of roses in her hand.
"Noooo," Elsie screams out her frustration and falls on her knees. Not feeling the shards, that are cutting in her knees and hands. Tears are leaving white traces on her dirty face. Elsie looks at the portrait and her eyes widen. Cockroaches and other bugs are crawling over the picture now. The green meadow turned into a grey wasteland. The bouquet is withered. The dress is torn and the colour faded. The once beautiful face is haggered, the skin pale and wrinkly. Cheekbones are shining through the skin. But what Elsie shocks the most are the empty eye- sockets. Suddenly the postmistress moves her head and the empty eye- sockets are staring right at Elsie. Icewater is running through her veins, when she imagines how the postmistress´ stare is traveling over her body. The postmistress is raising her hand and points her bony hand accusingly down at Elsie. "You did this to me," she says in a scratchy voice. "This is all your FAULT," hurling the last word at Elsie. Her face distorted to a grotesque face, repeating her accusation over and over again.
Elsie covers her ears and close her eyes, but she can´t hide from the high- pitched voice, that is slowly crawling inside her head. Elsie opens her eyes again. "No, no, no. This can´t be," Elsie stammers. The portrait has turned back into normal. "You are not real," Elsie shouts at it.
"Do you think so," the postmistress replies and turns back into the old hag.
Elsie sees a big piece of broken glass next to her. "You are not real," she repeats over and over again, when she picks the shard up. The glass splinter are digging deeper in the palm of her hand, when she rests on the wall to get up and her hand leaves a bloody print on the wall. She making her way to the portrait with great effort, where the postmistress is still mocking her. "You can´t hide from me. No one will save you."
"That is NOT TRUE," Elsie tries to yell back but her throat is so swollen and dry form the smoke that she can only manage a caw. She leans against the wall. Getting up from the ground has cost her a lot of power. She looks back at the portrait. "Isobel. Isobel will save me. She loves me. She told me." The thought of Isobel´s words give her new energy and she is pushing herself away from the wall, determind to make her way to the portrait and destroy it but a shrill noise lets her flinch and she nearly tumbles. With a lot of strenght can she straighten up herself. The old hag on the portrait has thrown back her head and laughs.
"You really think that she loves you, don´t you? Awww, isn´t that sweet?" The postmistress plays with the dead roses in her hand. And then she suddenly points the bouquet at Elsie, her face again a grimace. "You really think she could love SOMEONE LIKE YOU? That she is waiting for you?" Elsie tries to shut out her voice and tries again to make her way up to the portrait. She supports herself on the wall, now and then her hand slips and she is crashing with her shoulder against the wall.
The postmistress goes on with her triade. "LOOK AT ME. LOOK WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TO ME." Elsie comes closer with every word she says, slowly putting one foot in front of the other. The shard is digging deeper into her hand, blood drips onto the floor. "You are not real," is Elsie telling herself over and over again.
"Oh, I am real, Elsie Hughes. And you are not worth to get loved by anyone EVER AGAIN," the postmistress spits at her, "because you have done this to me."
Elsie has reached the portrait by now. She looks up. Fire in her eyes. "I know that Isobel loves me. She is here and YOU ARE NOT REAL," Elsie screams and with her last bit of strength she leaps forward.
"What are you doing?" the postmistress asks irritated. "Noooooooooooo," she screams, when Elsie stabbs the shard into the picture. The high- pitched scream of the postmistress echoes through the corridor.
Elsie lets the shard fall and covers her ears again, blood is running down her face from her hands. The scream sets her teeth to edge and then ... silence.
