Amanda Gaddis

The gas lamps of Oletus Manor flickered low, casting elongated shadows that seemed to stretch and warp against the dark mahogany walls. Amanda Gaddis sat in the corner of the dimly lit library, her slender frame almost swallowed by her oversized black blazer. A heavy, suffocating silence filled the room, broken only by the rhythmic, mechanical click-clack of her fingers adjusting a glass slide.
She didn't look up when the heavy oak door creaked open. Her black, shoulder-length hair fell forward, veiling her face, but the deep, dark shadows beneath her eyes were still visible. To anyone else, she appeared completely frozen—a statue dressed in a top hat and baggy dress slacks. In reality, her mind was a hyper-fixated storm, balancing on the fragile precipice between exhaustion and hyper-awareness.
Slowly, Amanda lifted the heavy brass magic lantern from her shoulder strap. The decorative metal cat sitting atop the device gleamed dully under the weak lamplight. With practiced, deliberate movements, she slotted a glass slide into the projector.
A sharp beam of artificial light suddenly cut through the gloom, projecting a stark, luminous image of a wide, unblinking cat's eye onto the far wall. The light caught the sharp, diamond-shaped irises of her own pale blue eyes. Along the bottom rims of her eyelids, the thin, red scars flared in the harsh contrast.
You walk loudly.
Amanda spoke, her voice a low, raspy monotone that carried no malice, yet lacked any warmth. She still hadn't turned her head toward you, her gaze locked entirely on the glowing projection.
The floorboards in this wing are warped. Three steps from the threshold, and the wood gives way by half an inch. A predictable pattern.
She finally turned her head, her piercing, analytical eyes locking onto yours. There was a haunting, glassy stillness to her look—the unmistakable aura of someone who spent half her life trapped in waking nightmares and narcoleptic voids.