The chandelier lighting the foyer of the house is mesmerising.
Like an oasis. I squint at the indigo gems surrounding the globe. It’s blinding so I look away.
The winding, wood-planked corridor draws me in. I let my hand trail along its rough surface, which feels familiar against my fingertips. But I have no recollection of this place.
As I journey through the passage, my bare feet are carried by a thick burgundy carpet covering a floor of heavy serpentine roots. I can’t se any trees.
I don’t think I know this house, but I trust where my feet are taking me.
Unlike my mind, which is silent but still breathing, something urges my soles on.
Finally I approach the doors of a lift. Its facade studded with tiny mirrors of irregular shapes. My distorted face, broken into a million pieces, is staring back at me.
Suddenly I hear the clunking of gears in motion. Slow. Heavy. Croaking. Like the sound of a voice awoken from a drunken sleep.
The doors open.
‘Are you ready to meet the High Priestess?’ asks the angel-faced bellboy.
‘Yes,’ I say, stepping inside.
He pushes the button for floor 10; the only floor the lift is destined for.