To reach this door, he had to cross the open landing, which he did on tiptoe. He felt like a child playing some forbidden game. The landing overlooked a foyer of marble. A collection of coats hung from a standing tree. The foyer was lit by a chandelier that was easily three times the size of the one in the hall. The great staircase that connected these lavish storeys was spiral in design and was carpeted in what looked like animal pelts.

Kolkamitza turned his attention back to the door and peeked through its frame. The room it opened unto hosted a canopied bed, an armchair, and two dressers. There was also an uncovered picture window. Reassured by the stillness inside, he entered the room and shone his flashlight against the window glass.

“Do you come bearing my supper?”

The voice lurched out from the far end of the room, where a luxurious armchair was stationed before the window. The window frame was white, which made it luminous as fresh bones against its view of compact soil.

“I’m…I…” sputtered Kolkamitza.

How had he not noticed that there was someone in here with him? The figure was so plain to him now; seated in the armchair, its body dressed in a sloppy heap of silks. Kolkamitza squinted to discern the face but to no avail. He was about to fix his light upon it but was somehow unable. It was not fear that prevented him, but a queer sense of propriety. He simply knew that such an action was not appropriate, not in this house.

The figure in the chair turned its head and now appeared to be staring intently at the window. Kolkamitza followed this example. What he witnessed was a chthonic constellation; a firmament not of stars but of wriggling worms and thickly crooked tree roots and pale weeds as fine as nerves.

“I already told them that I do not care for what they’re serving today. They sent me here. I’ve been informed that I enjoy the view.” The figure’s voice was awful; a wet, lurching sound, like porridge bubbling in a pot. Kolkamitza turned again to scrutinize the speaker. Its head, now in profile, remained frustratingly obscured. Was it wearing a stocking over its head in the manner of a thief? No, there was no mask. But something was insinuating itself between the figure’s face and Kolkamitza’s gaze, something hazy, a fine mist that was the colour of ground thyme. “Would you be good enough to inquire about my meal? There’s little else I’m able to do for them here.”

“Yes,” Kolkamitza managed, bewildered, “yes, I will.”