Doctor Who_ The Bodysnatchers - Mark Morris [40]
Everything.
But what could change a man's character so comprehensively? Was her father being forced to consume some kind of... chemical compound or narcotic mixture? Something that altered his mind, reduced him to little more than a slave, a puppet?
Such a notion did not bear thinking about. Indeed, the very idea of it made her sick to her stomach.
She pushed aside her bedclothes and swung her legs to the floor, deciding to go down to the kitchen and make herself some hot milk. Mama, she knew, would have woken a servant for that, but Emmeline was thoughtful enough to allow them what little sleep they managed to get. Besides, she wished to be alone to think, to plan her best possible course of action.
Despite the Doctor's warning, she had no intention of abandoning her father to whatever devils were plaguing him.
She pulled a dressing gown over her long nightdress, stepped into a pair of slippers, and crossed the room to the door. Outside in the corridor she paused once again to listen, but aside from the sonorous ticking of the clock in the hall downstairs she could hear nothing. She crossed the landing, her feet sinking into the thick, heavily patterned carpet, and listened at the door of the master bedroom where once again her mother was sleeping alone. She half expected to hear stifled weeping penetrating the stout oak, or the sound of her mother moving about restlessly inside, but all was silence. Satisfied that her mother was sleeping soundly, Emmeline went downstairs, walking on the outside of the stair-rods to prevent the stairs from creaking.
Though it was dark, she noticed immediately that the parlour door was ajar.
This was unusual, as Mama always insisted that all the doors be closed at night to keep the heat in. Quietly, Emmeline crossed the hallway, passing the grandfather clock, the stand full of canes, the pictures crammed together on the wall around the elaborately framed mirror, and paused outside the parlour. She raised a hand to the door. 'Mama,' she called softly. 'Mama, are you in here?'
There was no reply. Emmeline gave the door a little push and it swung open. She licked her lips, then stepped smartly into the room, which was in darkness. She stood for a moment, trying to identify the shapes that were lamps and chairs and ornaments, side tables, vases and pot plants. On the far side of the room, close to the windows now covered with their long, thick velvet drapes, was a high-backed armchair, which Emmeline, screwing up her eyes, was almost certain contained a dark and bulky mass that may or may not have been a figure.
'Mama,' Emmeline said again, her voice wavering a little,'is that you?'
The mass in the armchair did not respond, nor even stir. Perhaps it was simply a stack of cushions, or her own eyes playing tricks on her, conjuring shapes from the night that were not really there.
Tightening her lips, Emmeline took a slow, measured step forward, then another and another. A chill breeze slipped like a breath across her cheeks, making her shiver inside. She had the impression that the darkness was drawing her in, engulfing her, wishing her to become a part of it. Her eyes were adjusting now, the various darknesses dividing into subtle gradations, acquiring sharper lines of definition.
There was certainly a figure sitting in the chair. If she concentrated hard, Emmeline could see its outline - the dark bulb of its head, its shoulders and arms, the mass of its torso, the curve of its lap, the bend of its legs.
'Who's there?' she demanded sharply. Again the figure did not respond.
Emmeline hesitated, then crossed to the mantelpiece, groping for the box of lucifers that she knew to be there. She found them and extracted one with fumbling hands. Above the mantelpiece was a large mirror, on each side of which was a gas lamp. Emmeline struck the match,