by Carrie King
Inhaling deeply, she headed down the hallway. As she walked toward the kitchen, her skin felt almost as if it were electrically charged.
"You feel that?"
"Actually, I do," Marcus said, somewhat surprised. "I usually don't feel anything, you know. But this hallway feels heavy. The hair on the back of my neck is standing up."
"Mine too," Angie murmured, glancing into the small study or library, then through the open doorway to the dining room. She would explore those rooms later, but now she felt pulled toward the kitchen.
As she stood in the doorway to the kitchen, she frowned. This room seemed … confused. Almost a mishmash of generations. On the far wall, an old brick fireplace with a large hearth took up nearly the entire wall. She sensed history in that fireplace, determining that it was original to the house. On the wall to her right stood a stove, an old porcelain sink, and then a refrigerator, all looking as if they dated back to the 1950s. On the opposite wall, underneath another multi-paned window, stood a kitchen table under which four wood chairs were neatly arranged.
Immediately to her right stood a wood hutch, but it was empty except for a pot of flowers, the rose blooms long since dead. The flooring beneath her feet was constructed of red tiles in places and wood planks with wooden pegs in others, likely original to the construction of the home.
In a flash, she saw an image; an image that she didn't want to see, and her stomach clenched. It left her feeling hollow.
For just an instant, she saw her sister-in-law on the floor, staring wide-eyed up at an apparition of a young woman wearing a dark, long-sleeved dress. In her hand, the apparition held a butcher’s knife. Laughing gleefully, she plunged it down into Diane's chest. Diane's eyes widened even more, her mouth open with a quiet scream until her eyes dilated fully. Two gasps later, she was dead.
"… you all right?"
Angie forced her gaze upward, away from the floor that now bore no signs of murder or blood, and looked at Marcus, standing beside her.
"She was murdered here, and not by my godson," she said, barely able to speak the words.
It was Beatrice.
"It was Beatrice," she explained to Marcus.
"How do you know that?"
"Because Angus just told me." She gestured toward Marcus' left side. "He's standing there, next to you. You don't feel him?"
Marcus offered a grin. "I was trying not to, but my left arm feels very cold."
Angie nodded at Marcus and then turned to Angus. He had taken on form, translucent, sometimes shifting and sometimes more solid.
"Why? Why did she kill her?"
Marcus stood silently, knowing that she wasn't talking to him, but to the spirit. He kept the recorder focused on her.
Because she wanted to. Because there were only two more to die …
"But why leave the child?"
She was talking about her godson, and that was a very difficult thing to do. To distance herself from the personal aspect of the murder but she had to. She had loved Diane. Jeremy had loved her and his child. But she needed to find answers, no matter how personally difficult it was.
I wouldn't let her. Not the child. They were both innocent, but—
Noise broke her concentration. She saw Marcus glance up with wide eyes as he gestured with a tilt of his chin toward the kitchen table. Angie turned to look, not particularly surprised to find the kitchen chairs stacked on top of the table, tilting precariously yet not falling.
"Poltergeist activity." She turned toward Angus, but he was gone. She sighed. "I wonder if it's his emotions causing that kind of activity, or if it's Beatrice trying to scare us." In the recess of her mind, she heard a woman's laughter.
All right, then. It was Beatrice.
Chapter 68
That evening as she prepared for bed, Angie was having serious doubts and more than second thoughts about taking on this job. It had been a mistake, taking on something that involved her family. She was too close, too involved. Wisdom and common sense had certainly not outweighed her curiosity, and now it was coming back to bite her.
She had seen the destiny of dozens, if not hundreds, of people and spirits over the years and it was never pleasant. Even as a six-year-old, when she saw her first, she had seen him die. Since then she had experienced the death of the young and the old, the sick or the healthy and it was never easy. But watching Diane die had struck her on a level she had never truly felt before. Not that she didn't sympathize with those who had died, but this was personal. This was—family.
I did it for him. He only needed two more. I did it for him!
The voice came out of nowhere and everywhere at the same time. Angie knew that no one else could hear it; that it was inside her head. She looked around but didn't see anything.
"Why don't you show yourself, Beatrice?" she asked softly.
Because I choose not to. But you should know, I did it for him. One more and he will be free of his damned contract with the Soul Taker.
"What contract? What do you mean?"
There was no reply and the air was easier to breathe. She was gone. Angie sat, frowning as she thought. A contract. Angus had called the dark thing the Soul Taker. Ordinary spirits didn't initiate contracts. For that matter, she had originally believed that the entire concept of demons or devils, or even the "big guy" devil himself—Satan—was nothing more than a myth. Not anymore. Not since she was a teen.
Who was the Soul Taker? Was he truly a demon or was he once human? An evil man whose terrible deeds had carried on into his death? And if Angus had entered into a so-called contract with the demon, he too, had taken lives for God only knew how long. He had told her that he'd killed his wife and her lover. How many others had he slain since then?
She felt her body tingling, not quite as severe as an electrical shock, but it was humming. She saw flashes in her mind's eye; a man falling down narrow stone steps, disappearing into the darkness. The decayed and skeletonized remains of a woman wearing a Victorian-type dress and some sort of dungeon. She saw a man walking in a field—the field behind the manor house? There one minute, literally sucked into the ground the next.
She heard a noise but tried to ignore it, focusing on the images flashing through her mind. How many? How many had there been over the centuries.
"Angie! Come look!"
Jolted from her visions, Angie blinked and found herself sitting calmly on her bed, staring at the open doorway. Across the hall, the door to Marcus' room stood open.
"Angie! Come look!"
His voice came from downstairs. Still contemplating the visions, Angie quickly left her room and hurried downstairs.
Marcus stood in the middle of the hallway, pressing against the wall underneath the stairs. "What is it?"
He pushed once more. To her dismay, an opening appeared. Marcus turned to her, excited. "It's a tunnel …" He shone his flashlight into the opening. "There's a set of stone stairs leading downward." Once again, he looked at Angie. "Shall we go?"
It was the tunnel she had read about in the police reports. She stepped closer to the opening, smelled the dank mustiness of dirt, still air, and something else that she couldn't quite identify. Something odd, and once the scent wafted into her nostrils, she doubted if she would ever get it out of her mind. She shook her head.
"Not tonight. Close it up."
"But there's got to be something—"
"No, Marcus. Not tonight," she said firmly. "We'll take a look first thing in the morning, all right?"
Marcus frowned but finally nodded, pushing the doorway shut.
She looked at it, surprised they hadn't seen the hidden seam earlier. She remembered reading that bodies had been found under the house, but she had simply not looked for it when she came in, was something trying to hide it?
She stared at the wall before looking up at Marcus, also staring at the wall, nibbling at his lower lip.
"Don't go down there tonight, Marcus," she said. She had worked with him long enough to know his expre
ssions. His tell was that nibble on his lower lip, he was contemplating the pros and cons. "I mean it."
He finally sighed and backed away from the doorway, leaning against the opposite wall. "Look, Angie, I know that this case is especially difficult for you, but you took the job." He paused, flipped off the flashlight, and turned to her. "You're the best at what you do. You always have been. You've never let your personal feelings or emotions interfere with an investigation…"
"And they're not now," she interrupted. "We're just getting the feel of this place. So far, I've come across two spirits, but I have a feeling there are more. Many people have died on this property." She gestured toward the stairs. "More than one has been pushed down those stairs." She placed a hand on his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. "When we go down there, we need to be prepared."
He said nothing, but eventually nodded. "I understand, Angie. But I also want you to tell me if you've had enough. I'll understand if we have to walk away from this one."
She smiled up at him. She didn't know what she would do without him, not only as an experienced videographer and one of the bravest souls she had ever met, but because he knew her, understood her, and trusted her.
"We'll go exploring in the morning," she repeated. She cast one last look at the wall before turning toward the stairs. "Come on. It's been a long day. Let's get some sleep and we'll start fresh at daylight."
Feeling drained and a little scared she headed back upstairs, Marcus following behind. At the landing, she bid him goodnight and then entered her room, closing the door softly behind her. She pressed her ear to the door and smiled with satisfaction when she heard him enter his room across the hall, his door quietly shutting behind him.
Chapter 69
He was gone. Marcus was gone.
Angie searched the house from the top floor down, she couldn't find him anywhere. As a feeling of dread snaked up her spine, she called for him, but he didn't respond. Maybe he had gone outside to explore, or even gone for a walk, so she looked around the front and back of the house, there was no sign. She even ventured to the edge of the cliff, looking up and down the expanse of the coastline. She didn't see any remnants of his footprints in the sand, but if he had walked close enough to the water, she wouldn't have seen them anyway.
The wind tugged at her hair as she stood for several moments at the cliff's edge, the scent of salt spray, the warm sunshine, and the sound of the gentle waves crashing to the shore below stimulated all her senses. And then it came to her.
The tunnel.
The fool had gone down into the tunnel, by himself, despite her urgings not to. Damn him!
Don't go down there.
She ignored the voice in her head, not sure whether it came from herself or Angus. It didn't much matter. She had to find Marcus.
Growing increasingly concerned that maybe he had fallen down those stone steps and lay injured at the bottom — no, that would not be it. The feeling of oppression from this house was overwhelming and yet she had ignored it. Suddenly she was running back toward the house. Nothing could happen to Marcus. Nothing!
He meant more to her than she had been trying to convince herself for the past couple of years. Marcus was more than her partner, her associate, or her videographer. They had never kissed, had shared nothing more physical than hugging, but they had been through so much together; so many frightening and joyful experiences. He was the one person to whom she could always express her true feelings and emotions. She liked to believe that she provided the same sounding board for him. The thought of him being injured or worse filled her with a sense of dread like nothing she had felt before.
Heart pounding, she entered the house, heading straight for the hallway and that secret door he had found last night. It took her a few minutes to find it by constantly pressing on the wood. Finally, she found the opening. As before, pressure on one of the wood slats opened the doorway, prompting it to create a space a hand's breadth apart and a cold breeze seeped through. Peering into the looming darkness she wrinkled her nose at the scent of stale air, dirt, and dampness that wafted upward from below.
"Marcus!"
She paused to listen for several moments but didn't hear any response.
"Marcus!"
Was that a note of hysteria in her voice?
Still nothing.
With a heavy sigh, she quickly walked back into the front room, rifling through one of their equipment bags, from which she extracted a large flashlight. Clicking it on and off several times, making sure that it worked, she quickly returned to the hidden doorway. She managed to shoulder it open a little wider, but before passing the threshold, she shone the flashlight beam down the stairs. It didn't reach the bottom.
The light illuminated a set of centuries-old stone steps carved from granite, most likely ending at the base of the cliff. What was down there? Had it once served as a root cellar? Stupid question. Root cellars didn't need to be this far underground. She thought about the distance between the house and the seaside. Did the tunnel extend to the base of the cliff? If so, for what reason? An escape tunnel? Why? No, it was more likely, something to do with smuggling?
Cautiously, she stepped over the threshold, the beam of the flashlight illuminating the steps as she slowly headed downward. Cobwebs shifted slightly with her passing, floating eerily, like jellyfish swimming in the ocean.
Don't go down there.
She froze, not even ten steps down, staring into the darkness that extended beyond the beam of her flashlight. "Why not?" she asked Angus.
He's down there, waiting for you.
"Who is?" She didn't receive an answer but she had a feeling, no, a certainty, that it wasn't Marcus. The air felt heavy, as if the oxygen had been sucked out of the tunnel. The rough-hewn walls closed in on her and a wave of dizziness threatened to drop her to her knees as her stomach churned with nausea. She felt an increased pressure in her chest, one that took her breath away and left her doubling over, gagging.
This wasn't the first time that something like this had happened. She often felt the physical death state of those who had passed. Sometimes she felt the power of evil entities, some so powerful they could cause physical harm. She gasped for breath, leaning forward, one hand pressed against the cold, hard-packed dirt of the wall beside her, her other hand braced on her knee.
Something tugged on her shirt. It wasn't pulling her downward, but rather trying to encourage her to go up. Angus? Trying to help her? A stab of pain in her skull caused her to gasp and reach for her head. It felt like someone was stabbing her. The air became so thick and oppressive, as if filled with smoke.
Fight it. Don't let him get into your head.
She focused on Angus, on his presence, it was calming and urged her to move, to go upward. At that moment, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye and she swung the flashlight beam down the stairs.
There, maybe five steps below her, an apparition formed.
Angie held her breath, heart pounding, trying to clear her vision, to fight against the oppressive force of the entity that must be down there waiting for her. The Soul Taker.
The apparition formed into a woman wearing a high-waisted, long-sleeved and high-necked gown. A cameo brooch nestled at the base of her neck. Her dark hair was piled atop her head, secured with a white ribbon.
"Beatrice!"
Her head pounded. It looked like Beatrice was trying to say something. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
Get out. Now!
Why did she hear Angus and not Beatrice?
Angie blinked and the apparition was gone.
Mustering all her strength, feeling like she had just run a marathon, she stumbled up the stairs. Her back turned now toward the tunnel, she resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder. Like a child who believed that monsters were reaching from under the bed or out of a closet, she didn't want to see what might be behind her. She focused on the opening, and after a massive effort, pressed herself through that gap and collapse
d on the hallway floor in front of it.
Gasping for breath, she landed on her hands and knees. The door in the wall slammed shut behind her, triggering a small cloud of dust filled with small bits of sand to land on the floor.
Fighting back the tears brimming in her eyes she recovered, her breath, gratefully filling her lungs. Quiet sobs wracked her shoulders. Marcus … where was Marcus?
Had the Soul Taker got him already? Or was it Beatrice?
The house was silent. No one would answer her.
Chapter 70
Gathering her strength, Angie finally forced herself upward onto her feet and made her way to the front sitting room. She felt so lethargic, so drained of energy, still nauseated, her head still pounding, but not quite as badly as before. Sitting down on the settee in front of the window, she tried to determine her next move.
She was afraid, and not at all hesitant to admit that to herself. When she stopped being afraid, it was time for her to leave this line of work. This time, however, it wasn't just a stranger she was trying to help. It was her partner. And this time, it wasn’t just the fear that kept you sharp, this was bone crushing terror.
"Marcus, where are you?"
Her whisper filled the room but brought no response. The minutes passed and yet Angie couldn't make herself move. There was a possibility that Marcus had simply gone for a walk, but he would've left a note. Besides, she had risen at dawn and he'd already been gone. He wouldn't have gone walking in a strange area in half-darkness.
Her thoughts kept going back to the tunnel. Maybe he was down there, hurt, unconscious, unable to respond. And she was up here, sitting on her ass, not doing anything to help him.
It was obvious that she would have to go down there again. She had to make sure he wasn't down there. And if he was? If he was hurt down there, how could she carry him back up the stairs. The phone reception here was practically none existent. Everything was against her but she had to try.