THE TIME-SLIP
The world came back not in silence but in a low hum....like a violin string stretched too far and trembling at the edge of breaking. When Lila opened her eyes, the ceiling above her shimmered with haze, as though seen through warped glass. The light was strange....yellowed, flickering like gaslight, and thick with the scent of something sterile and old. Ammonia. Bleach. Distant roses.
She sat bolt upright in bed, or tried to. Straps tugged at her wrists.
Her breath stuttered. White sheets cocooned her body, but her wrists were fastened to the brass bedframe with buckled leather straps. Panic bloomed sharp and sudden. The room spun. Her head pounded like a war drum.
A nurse....tall, severe, dressed in a starch-stiff uniform....glanced over from a nearby table. "Ah, you're awake," she said without warmth. "Try not to agitate yourself, Miss Hart. The doctor will be along shortly."
Lila tried to speak, but her throat was desert-dry. "What… what did you call me?"
"Miss Eleanor Hart," the nurse said crisply, approaching with a glass of water. "You've been with us two days. You were brought in ranting about monsters and… pianos, I believe."
Her voice dripped with polite condescension, the kind reserved for lunatics and lost children.
Lila's heart thumped harder. Eleanor Hart. No. That wasn't right. Her name was.....was....
She blinked. What was it?
Memories recoiled like frightened birds. She knew things without knowing how. That song. The ink. The house. A man with sorrow in his eyes, pressing a melody into a piano with blood-streaked fingers.
Lila...or Eleanor....lifted her hand shakily. Her skin bore black marks. Thin veins of ink snaked along the fingers, trailing down her palm and disappearing beneath the sleeve of the hospital gown. The lines weren't random...they formed sketches. A baby crib. A grand piano. A faceless man holding a violin upside down.
She felt them before she saw them.
The sketches. From her journal. From her other life.
But… how?
The nurse tutted disapprovingly and adjusted her pillow. "You've been drawing even in your sleep. Terrible habit. The doctor suspects mania. Or feminine hysteria. It's not uncommon for women your age."
"I'm not…" Lila began, then stopped. The sentence had no end. She didn't know how old she was. Or when. Or who.
Then, the mirror moved.
There was a looking glass mounted to the wall across from her bed, framed in tarnished gold. It had been still a moment ago. Now, it rippled...like water caught in a breath of wind. And in the surface, she saw herself....but not herself.
The woman in the mirror wore a hospital gown, yes....but she had a modern haircut. Mascara smudged beneath her eyes. There was a ring on her finger Lila didn't remember putting there....etched with a serpent eating its own tail. The reflection leaned forward. Its mouth moved urgently, mouthing words that made no sound.
Don't trust the music.
Lila recoiled. "Did you see that?" she gasped to the nurse, who was busy making notes on a clipboard.
"See what?" the nurse replied coolly.
"The mirror. She,....me....she moved! She was trying to...."
The nurse stepped to her side, injected something cool and burning into her arm. "Now, now, Eleanor. Let's keep the dramatics to a minimum. Delusions only linger if we feed them."
Lila felt the world tilt. The mirror blurred.
The last thing she saw before sleep dragged her under again was her own reflection tapping the glass. Blood-ink dripped from its eyes like tears.
When she next woke, she was alone.
The straps were gone, but the ink was still there. The marks on her hands had spread....now winding up her forearms like vines. Some of the lines moved if she stared too long.
On the nightstand was a newspaper. The date made her stomach twist.
March 2, 1927.
The day before… something. Something terrible.
She rose on unsteady feet, wrapped the robe around her shoulders, and shuffled toward the mirror. It was still again. Just glass now.
She touched it. Cold.
"Eleanor Hart," she whispered aloud, testing the name like a stranger's coat.
She opened the nightstand drawer. Inside: a locket, a hairpin, a small bottle of perfume. And beneath it all.......a sketchbook.
Her sketchbook. Bound in soft leather, the pages still damp with ink. But these drawings… they were not from before. These showed a shattered house, a smoking piano, a violin with its strings snapped. One showed a crib tipped sideways, something dark pooling from beneath it.
She turned another page and gasped.
The next image was of a man's face....sharp cheekbones, dark eyes hollowed with exhaustion. Theo.
But this Theo was wrong. His eyes were empty. His smile cruel. A note beneath the image read:
He remembers. I don't.
The door to her room creaked open. A man stood there in a crisp waistcoat, carrying a cane and wearing a patient, predatory smile. His hair was slicked back with precision. A silk scarf tucked into his collar gleamed like oil.
"Miss Hart," he greeted smoothly. "I hear you've had quite the episode. I'm Dr. Renfield. May I come in?"
His voice prickled her skin like static.
Lila stepped back. "Where am I?"
"The Hart & Holloway Convalescent Hospital for Women," he replied, stepping closer.
"Time isn't right," she whispered. "I don't belong here."
He studied her like a puzzle piece. "Most don't," he said gently. "But time has its ways. Especially for those who tamper."
Then he smiled wider....and for a brief second, his face flickered. Something shimmered beneath his skin. Teeth too many. Eyes too black. A shimmer like tar.
Then it was gone.
He extended a gloved hand.
"Come, Miss Hart. I believe we have a great deal to discuss."