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The House and the High Priestess



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.

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