The Mansion of Mirrors (Усадьба Зеркал) – Книга для практики английского языка. Уровень В2-С1

Paul Livin

The Mansion of Mirrors (Усадьба Зеркал) – Книга для практики английского языка. Уровень В2-С1

Prologue

I’m about to tell you a story of horrors and secrets hidden in the mind of a war veteran coming back home and getting back to his job – a music teacher.

Music may comfort us and help us move away from ourselves but sometimes it is a trigger to what we’re eager to run away from.

Plunge into a dark abyss of an old mansion and its corners. Or… there’s much more in this story.

Chapter 1: Into the Darkness of Memory

Bruce Thompson awoke with a sense that the world around him was not entirely real. His eyes hadn’t adjusted to the light yet, and his first moments of consciousness were filled with the heavy feeling that everything he knew might be a lie. He sat in his old car, something faintly reminding him of how he had arrived here, but the memory only brushed against his mind like a faint stroke on the edge of a canvas. The car was parked by a set of gates. On the horizon, the pale sun was rising, casting a soft light across the misty valley.

Faint recollections of the past slipped through the fog of his thoughts, refusing to settle into clarity. He was a war veteran, of that he was certain. But what had he truly experienced in the war? So many years had passed, yet all he remembered were fragmented, deliberately erased moments – shouts, flames, smoke, and faces of people he didn’t recognize. They were not memories. They were the remnants of things that should never have existed.

Bruce couldn’t recall how long he had been teaching music, but it seemed to be his old new calling. A chance to find meaning. A chance to find peace within this damaged mind. He was on his way to a house that didn’t quite feel like it was supposed to. *Mansion of the Hollowbrook Family*, the name on the plaque attached to the rusty iron gates, creaked with age as it swung open.

Ahead, through the thick fog, the silhouette of a vast building emerged. An old structure with tall windows and a dark center, where once there should have been living souls. Now, it was a place where something couldn’t fully leave.

Bruce felt the wind tug at his hair, a subtle reminder of his disconnection to this place. The air was colder than it should have been, like the house itself was holding onto something – some secret or truth that refused to be forgotten.

He couldn’t remember how he had gotten here, but he knew there was a reason. There had to be. This mansion was a strange place to begin his new life, but maybe it was the only place where the broken parts of him could fit together.

As the car rolled through the iron gates, the wheels crunching on the gravel driveway, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the house wasn’t just waiting for him – it was watching him.

Vocabulary

Comfort – утешать

Eager – жаждущий

Adjusted – привыкли (adjust)

Consciousness – сознание

Faintly – слабо

Stroke – штрих

Pale – бледный

Misty – туманный

Clarity – ясность

Deliberately – нарочно

Remnants – остатки

Calling – призвание

Damaged – поврежденный

Plaque – плита, табличка

Rusty – ржавый

Vast – обширный

Subtle – едва различимый

Сhapter 2: The Echoes of Hollowbrook

The mansion loomed ahead, its silhouette sharper now in the early light. Bruce felt a tightening in his chest as the car came to a stop before the massive front steps, the kind that seemed to ascend into the very bowels of the house. The stone was ancient, gray and cracked in places, as though time itself had worn it down. A faint draft stirred through the trees, carrying with it the scent of something old – dust, wood, and decay. The air felt heavy, as though the mansion was holding its breath.

Bruce stepped out of the car and stood for a moment, surveying the sprawling grounds. The mansion was even more imposing up close. The windows, dark and unreadable, seemed to look back at him, like lifeless eyes gazing from the deep recesses of a skull. He hadn’t been told much about the family – just that he was to teach music to the children of the Hollowbrook estate. The invitation had come from a lawyer, and the details were vague, but he didn’t question it. He needed something – anything – to fill the void left by the years, to chase away the nightmares that clawed at him each night.

He grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and approached the large oak doors. They opened with a groan as if the house itself were reluctantly acknowledging his arrival.

Inside, the mansion was dim, its halls wide and echoing. The silence was oppressive, thick as fog. The walls were lined with portraits – old, faded images of men and women whose eyes seemed to follow Bruce as he moved. Their faces were pale, frozen in time, their expressions distant, as though they had long since stopped caring about the world around them.

A woman appeared at the top of the stairs, her figure a blur in the gloom. She descended slowly, her movements deliberate, graceful, and unsettling. She was tall, her face hidden in shadow, and her presence was almost… otherworldly. There was something about her that seemed to pulse with the mansion’s strange energy. Bruce’s heart skipped a beat.

“Mr. Thompson,” her voice was soft, yet it carried a weight. “We’ve been expecting you.”

She was dressed in an elegant, old-fashioned gown, the kind that might belong to another time – another century even. Her long, dark hair fell in waves down her back, and her eyes gleamed with a knowing light, though her smile was faint, almost melancholic.

Bruce didn’t trust his voice immediately. His throat felt tight. “I… I’m here to teach music to the children. Is it… is it just the three of them?”

She nodded slowly, still descending the stairs with that strange, mesmerizing

grace. “Yes. Three children. They’re waiting for you. Please, follow me.”

Bruce did, though every step felt heavier than the last. The air around him seemed to thicken with each floorboard that creaked beneath his feet. The woman led him to a large sitting room, where three children sat, their figures eerily still. They were seated on an antique sofa, their eyes fixed on him in perfect unison.

The room was cold. The children were pale, too pale, and their eyes were too old – there was something unsettling in their gaze. The eldest, a girl with dark braids and an expression far beyond her years, gave him a small nod. The two younger children—twins, it seemed—didn’t move, their faces unreadable. Their eyes, though, were sharp, and their silence spoke volumes.

“This is Alice, and these are Charles and Mary,” the woman said softly. “They’re all eager to begin their lessons.”

Bruce stood frozen at the doorway, feeling the weight of their stares pressing down on him. He had taught children before, many times, but never like this. There was an unsettling calm to them, an unnatural stillness that made his skin crawl.

Alice, the eldest, spoke then, her voice clear and deliberate. “You’re here to teach us music, aren’t you, Mr. Thompson?”

“Yes,” he replied, his voice low. “That’s right.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Good. We need music. Music will help us, won’t it?”

Bruce didn’t know what to say. He nodded slowly, though his mind screamed in protest. There was something about this place, about these children, that made him uneasy. The walls seemed to close in around him, as if the mansion itself were watching, waiting for something. Waiting for him to remember.

The woman – who he assumed must be their mother – stepped forward and placed a delicate hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, Mr. Thompson. You’ll find your way. Just remember… it’s all connected. The music, the children, the house. It’s all part of the same story.”

Bruce looked at her, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

Her smile widened, but it was empty. “You’ll see. You’ll understand soon enough.”

Before Bruce could ask any more questions, Alice spoke again, her voice cutting through the stillness. “The music, Mr. Thompson. Please. Play for us.”

He felt a strange compulsion to do as she asked, though every instinct told him to run. There was no piano in the room, no instrument in sight, but Alice’s eyes were fixated on him, demanding. And the air, thick with the weight of their gaze, seemed to hum with the need for something—a song, a note, anything to fill the hollow space.

He took a step toward the center of the room, and for the first time since arriving, the world around him felt… wrong. As if the mansion were not merely a building, but a living thing, waiting for him to take part in its story.