The Case of the Silent Scream by Sidney Wainwright

Author:Sidney Wainwright [Wainwright, Sidney]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-03-04T00:00:00+00:00

Beneath the Hallowed Halls

The battered copy of Malleus Maleficarum was in the bookcase by the fire. Someone had recently disturbed it from the surrounding dusty volumes. That was the clue I needed. I removed the leather-bound volume and thrust my arm between the neighbouring books. At the limit of my reach, my hand grasped something metal. It was coarse, and I pictured the blunted head of an oversized arrow.

I pulled hard at the fitting and dislodged it, withdrawing my hand to discover I’d pulled out a large, weighty key. It appeared to be the same one that was present on the desk when we arrived. A glance to where it had been confirmed my suspicion. I thrust it into the gap between the books once more. It took me several attempts to find the keyhole. At last, I heard something click.

I grasped the key harder, twisting my arm to turn it. The entire bookcase gave way. It hinged outward on itself, forcing me backwards. I wrestled my arm from within the shelf just as it threatened to drag me with it - then, I witnessed the secret entrance for the first time.

A brick-lined flight of steps, lit by a string of electric bulbs, descended from the hidden door. I didn’t glance back at Catherine’s portrait. She was facing the opposite direction so she would not have seen me, anyway. She had been correct, though. Her description was precisely where I had found the studio’s entrance.

With a deep breath, I took to the staircase, my steps echoing off the walls. A cold iron railing seemed to draw me downward. At the foot of the stairs, I parted a velvet curtain. Deep crimson fabric lined the room beyond, from floor to ceiling. All was silent, save for my tentative footsteps.

A warm hue from more light bulbs bathed the space. A posing chair, complete with metal prongs designed to hold a subject’s head still, was positioned at the far end of the strange room, just as it was positioned in Catherine’s portrait. To me, it appeared similar to those electric execution chairs they’d recently started using in America. There were three small marks ground into the floor near where I stood. I surmised that a tripod could have caused them, but no camera or equipment was present.

A metal chain hung from the ceiling in the corner; I assumed it would turn the lights off. When I pulled it, something else happened. The room turned blood red, and I felt off balance for a dizzying moment with the sudden shift.

I brushed aside a gap in the curtain near the chain to reveal a small space beyond. It was just large enough to house a couple of tables that were supported on a collection of wooden boxes. The tables held several chemical baths and there was a short length of twine for hanging prints. There were plenty of materials; glass bottles, old lenses and canisters, but no photographs and no camera.

As I withdrew back into

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