She gestures toward one corner of the room. “If you go behind those bookcases, there’s a set of shelves on the wall and a small display of items from haunted houses in the area. You may take pictures, if you’d like.”
I thank her warmly, and she heads back to her work, reassuring me that I only need to call for her if I have any questions. I make my way back to the corner, squeezing between packed bookcases and old, dusty cardboard boxes until I see what she was directing me toward. The shelves are small, and there can’t be more than a half dozen or so books and a stack of yellowed newspapers a few inches high. I may not get much out of this, but I’m pretty sure I can stretch whatever I find into two pages of writing.
I carefully grab a couple of newspapers off the shelf and spy a weathered rocking chair across the room out of the corner of my eye. I make my way over to it as I skim the front page, and turn around to sit, laying the papers in my lap. I realize I’m too close to the wall behind me, because the chair makes a weird metallic thump against whatever the rockers have hit. I half stand so I can pull the chair out a bit more, and my eye catches a piece of my reflection when I glance behind me.
It’s an enormous mirror with a very ornate frame, full of curlicues and scrollwork, and it’s framed in pewter, so it must weigh a ton. It’s propped up against the wall, and it’s like something out of an old gothic novel or maybe some Jane Austen story. I’m fascinated by the intricate carvings in the metal, with roses and ribbons intertwining. It’s just beautiful. The kind of mirror that would have hung in a grand parlor or a vaulted entryway somewhere in an opulent old estate. I stare at my reflection and smile, picturing the beginning of a story, of a girl in a high-necked dress, refined and genteel. I catch a glimpse of my reflection, and I smile as I reach out, putting my fingers against the glass.
Her eyes and my eyes lock, and she slowly stops smiling as the room behind me begins to change. The faded roses on the wallpaper give way to stripes, alternating crimson and gold. The arm of the rocking chair is against my leg, but before my eyes it becomes a leather-covered settee, also in a deep shade of crimson. I push my hand forward, and I am through.
I stop a moment to look around, and it’s like I landed in some kind of weird Victorian fantasy. A music player that looks on the outside like an old Victrola, complete with the horn on top, sits on the rolltop desk in the corner, and on a table is a gadget with a hand crank and gears that powers what I know to be a projection screen, for watching movies.
I realize I’m having trouble breathing, and that’s when I look down and see myself. Holy cow, I’m wearing a corset. I can feel it, binding my ribs and waist, under the mountains of fabric that make up my navy skirt and bustle and the smart navy short coat with brass buttons I’m wearing over it. A lacy white blouse with a high collar and a sapphire brooch at my throat round out the ensemble.
My hair is pulled to one side, hanging in artful curls over my shoulder. I pull my skirts back and take a look at my pointed navy shoes with a prominent brass buckle across the bridge and an inch-high heel. I pick up my foot to turn it this way and that as I stare at it.
I smile widely at myself now, taking it all in. I turn as far around as I can and crane my neck to see myself from the back. I look amazing! I wish I could take a picture of this, I really do.
I make my way over to the open window, and my senses register the sound of seagulls as I approach. I look out over the water and down at the docks off to the right. My house sits up on a small hill, overlooking it all, and it is spectacular. The ships at the dock are unlike anything I’ve seen before, bearing massive metallic sails that still manage to ripple and billow with the wind. A few are made of wood, but the rest are metal, sleek and shiny, with scrollwork figureheads and grand murals painted on the sides. It’s like I’ve landed in some kind of steampunk reality.
I dash across the room, throw open the door, and push my way out into the hallway, nearly tripping on my skirts. I’d better slow down until I get used to this. Maybe I should go back and change into something easier to move in?
No, better not. Other me had a reason for putting this getup on. I’d better stick to her plan or people might get suspicious.
I grab the banister in one hand and pick up my skirts with the other as I slowly make my way down the winding staircase. It isn’t until I step out the front door that I realize I live in a lighthouse. I stare up at it in awe. It’s whitewashed and red-trimmed, and the windows around the light gleam in the bright afternoon sunshine. I’m walking backward as I stare up at it, and give a violent start when I run smack into somebody.
“Easy there, my girl,” says my father. “You tear that dress, and your mother will buy you another the color of dun.”