Angel Manor (Lucifer Falls Book 1)

by Noordeloos, Chantal

  “This place could certainly use a higher watt light bulb. Can’t see shit.” Roger shrugged and tapped the bulb with his index finger.

  “There’s something weird about this place, but I can’t quite figure out what it is.” Lyndon took a tentative step into the empty basement. Roger inhaled deeply, the tip of the joint flaring, throwing weird shapes and shadows across his pale face. His eyes rolled up and he let the smoke flow across his top lip like a reverse waterfall, inhaling it back up his nose. He clicked the torch off.

  “No dust.” Roger’s voice was strained, and he exhaled between his teeth. “It looks like someone has cleaned in here. But that doesn’t make sense. The stairs are plenty dusty and there are no footsteps.”

  “That’s just creepy.” Lyndon bent over and touched the floor with his fingertips. The cement was cold as ice, but no residue of any kind clung to his fingers… the basement was spotless. “Can we go now? I really don’t want to stay here.”

  “We’ll go in a bit. I want to see what’s in here.” His face scrunched into a stoner’s smile, his eyes nothing more than little slits.

  “There’s nothing in here, man… let’s just go.”

  Without warning, a loud metallic sound reverberated through the basement; Lyndon nearly jumped out of his skin.

  “That’s not nothing.” Roger took another toke from the joint and passed it back to Lyndon.

  “Fuck this noise…”

  “Come on, what can it be? Ghosts?”

  Lyndon didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at the joint in his hand and took a hesitant drag. Roger stepped deeper into the basement, Lyndon hanging back while taking a few more puffs on the joint. Roger stopped a few feet away from the door in the back and smiled.

  “I wonder what’s behind this door. Could be a wine store.” He ran his hand across the surface. “If it is, I’m pinching a few bottles.”

  “Wine bottles don’t make noises, mate.” Lyndon rubbed his face with his hand while wrapping his lips around the roach and inhaling the last few sour tokes. The leaves burned against his lips, and he flicked the butt to the ground. His mind was sluggish. This was not a nice buzz. He felt stressed out about everything, and more than a little paranoid.

  “Probably rats or something. Maybe something fell over.” Roger clicked his torch on again and pointed to the darker areas, then squatted to his knees and picked something up from the floor. “More of that white stuff here.” He smelled his fingers and turned to face Lyndon, the torch on his face. “I think it’s salt or something.” He got back to his feet and grabbed the door handle. “Ready?”

  “Naw.”

  The door creaked as Roger pulled it open. Lyndon took a few steps closer, but remained at a safe distance. Beyond the opening was pitch darkness. The beam from the torch crossed the door and landed on a figure of a large, nude woman. Bulbous folds of skin spilled over each other, while large vein-splattered breasts topped with liver-coloured oval nipples rested on her stomach. Her round face was a mask of death, deep-set eyes only showing the whites. Thick meaty chins covered any evidence of a neck, and her skin was an unnatural pale tone. Lyndon cried out and Roger took a step back, his shoe crunching on the salt line, smearing it over the ground.

  “What the fuck, what the fuck?!” Roger screamed.

  “Roger, close the fucking door, ya bawbag!”

  “I’m trying. Come and help me.” Roger threw his full weight against the door, but it wouldn’t budge. His voice was high with panic, and Lyndon took a step forward to help his friend out, but the fat woman flickered for a moment and suddenly appeared on the other side of the door.

  “Nah, fuck that shite, man. This isn’t happening. I’m not seeing this. I’m not seeing shit.” He stumbled back, waving his arms over his face. The figure of the woman was so terribly silent. A fat hand, tinted a greyish hue, rose towards Roger, who just sagged to his knees and flopped towards the ground. The woman moved with uncanny speed, grabbing the falling young man by the hair, her pudgy fingers tangling in his flaming locks. Roger half hung in her grip, his eyes wide with fright, and he stared straight at Lyndon, who in turn thought he was going to throw up from fear. The naked woman lifted Roger’s head a bit higher, then slammed his face down onto the concrete. A sickening dull crack rang through the basement as Roger’s nose exploded like a ripe melon, spraying blood, teeth and torn flesh across the floor. The sight of the blood stirred Lyndon into action. He turned and ran towards the door just as something flickered in his peripheral vision. Before he had time to react, a second naked woman appeared, this one so close that Lyndon struggled with a rising panic. She was tall and thin, her lanky body the same pale grey as her fat companion. Her face was too hard and angular to be pretty; she had a strong, masculine chin, and big white eyes with long lashes made her look like an unpainted porcelain doll. Long blonde hair fell across her small pointy breasts, and the liver-coloured nipples peeked through the greasy strands. Stunned, Lyndon stared at her, from the small breasts to the narrow belly button and down to the waxy blonde pubes that lay between her thighs like a promise of golden treasure. His eyes trailed back up to her face, and she cast him a black-toothed grin. Her image flickered and disappeared for a fraction of a second, but then reappeared right in front of him, her hands shooting out before cold fingers dug into the skin of his temples and cheeks. He felt hot blood run from the wounds. Her white eyes narrowed with malice, and her jagged teeth snapped at him from behind blistered blue lips. A smell of rotting flesh emanated from her, filling his nostrils and mouth. Lyndon gagged.

  She made no sound, and her body was strong despite being light. He could barely feel her weight as she jumped on top of him. For a brief second, she disappeared, and moments later, dark teeth bit into his chin. Serrated incisors cut through skin and fat until they scraped across his jawbone, and Lyndon screamed as a flap of his skin came away. When the spirit flickered out of existence again, he saw his chance and sprinted towards the stairs. He made it up five steps when his foot landed wrong and he fell awkwardly. His legs flailed as cold, sharp fingers grabbed his ankle, dragging him down. Teeth sank viciously into his calf, tearing through the fabric of his jeans, through the muscle, spilling hot blood across his leg. Summoning all the strength he could muster, Lyndon kicked back and scrambled up the stairs. The spirit released him as abruptly as it had grabbed him, and he almost fell again, his fingers clinging to the stone steps just enough to hold on. His body shook as he looked over his shoulder to see the woman standing at the bottom of the steps, just behind the white border of salt. She touched the air experimentally, as if an invisible wall stood between her and Lyndon. Behind her, he saw the fat woman squatting down over Roger’s limp form, her meaty thighs spread wide and her fleshy folds engulfing a large portion of his lower back. She pulled his head back again. Roger’s eyes were bruised and swollen, his nose was a shattered mess of blood and cartilage, and his mouth was a gaping, toothless hole. Fat fingers held his hair and pushed into his mouth, his moans echoing through the basement. Lyndon grimaced, his eyes glancing at the door from which the fat woman had stepped. To his horror, he saw several other naked figures, all female. One, a woman in her late forties, perhaps a little older, used an old-fashioned saw to slice into the flesh of her own leg, a thick black liquid oozing from the wound. Her greying hair framed her oval face in electric wisps, while bulging white eyes peered from sunken, cadaverous sockets. She smiled at him, the way the thin woman had done, and Lyndon decided there was nothing more he could do for Roger.

  Fuck him! He opened that fucking door. I told him not to.

  He turned away and limped up the stairs, his chin and leg throbbing with pain. He couldn’t put weight on the leg so he pulled himself along as much as walked. The dust from the stairs got into his mouth and lay thickly on his tongue, tasting of lime and filth. Once more, he looked back. Roger was being dragged into the back room, his hands clawing on the concrete in an attempt to get away from the eager hands pulling at his legs. For a mom
ent, it looked as if he might get away, but then he was dragged into the pitch black with a heartbreaking wail and the door slammed shut behind him, muffling his screams.

  The woman who stood at the bottom of the stairs looked at Lyndon one last time, and then she too disappeared. Lyndon snapped out of his trance and crawled out of the basement. He pulled himself up by the doorframe and limped out of the South Hall.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” His frantic voice was no more than a sigh in the emptiness of the abandoned wing. “What am I going to do now?” He thought about waking John Norris or Logan Masters. Heck, he would even settle for Jim McLeod right now, though the beardy Scot would probably make fun of him.

  “I don’t know what to say…” Tears streamed down his eyes as he stumbled through the hall. “What if they think it was me who killed him? Who’s going to believe that there’s a bunch of psychotic, naked women in the basement?”

  He didn’t know what to do; all he wanted was to get out of the house. Fatigue gnawed at his senses while the slow buzz of marijuana and blood loss made him sluggish. The hallway felt as if it would never end, and he cried softly. Lyndon didn’t come from a loving home, yet for the first time since he’d been a child, he longed for his mother. The house was so dark without a torch, and fear consumed him. He saw ghosts in every shadow, his paranoia flared up, and more tears came.

  As he entered the main entrance hall, he heard soft, wet footsteps on the marble floor behind him. Lyndon whimpered. He couldn’t look back; the fear was too great. He tried to increase his pace but his right leg still hurt too much.

  “Please, please…” his voice cracked. The footsteps followed him as he shuffled through the rooms, trailing blood behind him in long, slick tracks.

  Relief washed over him when his hand closed over the doorknob of the entrance. The metal was cool under his hot, sweaty palm. He flicked his wrist and pulled the door open, a rush of fresh air caressing his skin as he stepped outside. For the first time, Lyndon dared to look back, and he saw the shape of a woman in a thin, white nightdress. She was different from the other spirits, less malevolent somehow, but there was something in her blank eyes that terrified him, and he stumbled away from the house. Soft humming voices filled his mind, and he scratched at his blood-soaked temples, his nails sinking into the deep wounds.

  “Naw… I got out, please, I got out! Leave me alone!” Something landed under his eye and he slapped at it, the impact of his own hand making his ears ring and his jaw tremble. The skin flap on his chin tore a bit further, and Lyndon cried out with pain. His path was obscured by shadows that flitted around him with increasing speed, and though his leg hurt, Lyndon quickened his pace, desperate to put some distance between himself and that terrible house. “Get out of my head,” he screamed at the whispers, and he broke into a run, his bad leg barely holding him up. “Get out.”

  He failed to see the cliff, not until he was right beside it. The toes of his Doc Martins peered over the edge, and he had to flail his arms to stay balanced. The shadows disappeared instantly, clearing his vision.

  “I can’t let you go, I’m sorry.” The voice was soft and feminine, and Lyndon slowly turned to face the speaker. It was the woman in the white nightgown.

  “Who are you?” his words were no more than sobs. “What do you want from me?”

  “The Angels have claimed you, and it’s time for you to join us, Lyndon.”

  “How do you know my name?” he whined, his shoulders slumped. His heart was heavy and he felt so tired. The idea of having to live with what he had seen, to know what was out there, was a burden he wasn’t sure he could carry. He couldn’t picture himself going back home to his parents, to sleep alone in a bed again. To close his eyes would mean seeing that woman again, her black teeth snapping at him. It would be seeing Roger’s nose explode with blood and gore… it would be reliving those terrible minutes back in that basement.

  “You know what to do,” the woman urged him. Lyndon nodded. He looked down at the cliff and back to the spirit who floated a little above the ground. Then he stepped off. His body plummeted down, and for a moment, Lyndon soared like a bird. It was a magnificent feeling. His body released endorphins, and his trousers tightened against his erection. The world was the most beautiful place from here, and he had never been happier in his whole miserable life. Then he hit the first rocks. The impact shattered his collarbone and shoulder. The next hit broke both his legs, and the third collision smashed his skull, the bone splinters penetrating his brain, killing him instantly.

  By the time his body reached the bottom of the cliff, there was very little left that was recognisable as Lyndon Farrow. His battered corpse landed in a patch of poppies, which gently kissed his dead flesh in the summer breeze.

  Chapter 10

  The heat made sharing a bed a special form of torture, Freya decided, but the way Bam lay shivering against her clammy body, she couldn’t bear to tell her she needed more space. Her friend was hot, yet she had the covers pulled up to her shoulders and goose bumps were visible on her skin.

  That must have been some dream, Freya thought, so she let the tips of her fingers slide across Bam’s arm.

  “You’re awake too?” Bam’s voice quavered.

  “Yeah.”

  “How can anyone sleep in this heat?” Oliver sounded muffled through the pillows. “Three in a fucking bed too. We must be insane.”

  “Sorry, Ollie.” There were tears in Bam’s voice. “I’ll go if you want.”

  Oliver turned around, his eyes shining mildly in the dim light of the bedside lamp.

  “I’m sorry, Bam. I didn’t mean that. I’m just tired. It’s been a weird day.”

  “That it has.” Freya sat up in the bed. She couldn’t sleep anymore, and she just wanted the sun to come up. “Do you remember when we used to sleep like this all the time? Back in school?”

  Oliver moaned, turned around, and threw his head demonstratively into the pillow.

  “Yeah, good times…” Bam’s voice trailed away. Freya’s mind conjured the image of the four young people lying in two singles pushed together to make one bed.

  “Chuck was still alive then.” Bam looked at her with sad eyes.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

  “Don’t be sorry. Those were different days. Chuck… well, things were different then.”

  “Why do you think you started dreaming about Chuck, Bam?”

  “It wasn’t a dream.” There was no venom in Bam’s voice, and she pushed herself up against the headboard until she sat next to Freya. “I don’t think it was.” Her eyes fluttered and she leaned back, a sigh escaping from her lips. “Maybe it was a dream. I’m not sure now. Everything is so messed up.”

  The regular sound of Oliver’s heavy breathing indicated that he had fallen asleep. Freya envied him for his ability to sleep under any circumstance. Sleep didn’t come easy to her at the best of times, and being in a bed with her freaked out friend on a hot summer’s eve wasn’t helping. Something was bothering Bam, and Freya wanted to know what it was. She didn’t believe her friend had been attacked by a ghost, but something had definitely rattled her pretty badly.

  “This ghost or dream, or whatever it was, must have come from somewhere.” Freya ran the back of her index finger down Bam’s arm. “I think you might know why. Care to tell me?”

  Bam crossed her arms over her chest and hugged her shoulders. Her head hung down and tears glistened in her eyes. Freya’s brow furrowed in worry.

  “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

  “I think it’s because I have the potential to be happy here. It’s bringing out all my demons.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When Chuck was still alive, our… our relationship was complicated.” Bam didn’t meet her eyes, her chin resting in the cross where her wrists came together.

  “Chuck was a little overbearing, I remember. He was overprotective.”

  Bam gave a snort filled with bitter resentm
ent, and she turned her head sharply to Freya.

  “It was worse than overbearing, Frey. He wasn’t overprotective, he was possessive. Chuck considered me to be his, and he didn’t like sharing his toy. He only tolerated you two because he liked you.” Bam’s pretty face was screwed up and ugly with the malice from her words.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You have this effect on men, Freya. Look at the builder guy; he’s totally into you.”

  “What does this have to do with Chuck?”

  “The only reason that Chuck hung out with you is because he found you attractive, which was fine with me, because that meant he let me hang out with you too.”

  “You’ve lost me. You really have. What are you trying to say here?”

  “That Chuck treated me as his possession. That he ruined any chance I had of happiness with other guys. Not because of love, but because he was a horrible person.” The tears came so sudden and with such ferocity that Freya was taken aback by Bam’s outburst. “And I let him, Frey. I let him rule me, and I did everything that he wanted.”

  “What did you let him do?”

  “I let him decide who I could date, what I could wear… I let him touch me, Freya…”

  The words hit like a mallet to the head, and every muscle in Freya’s body tensed. Her back pressed into the headboard as she tried to comprehend what her friend was telling her.

  “You… let him… touch you?” She tried to keep her voice steady, void of emotion, but the image of Chuck touching his sister made her stomach cramp up. “He forced himself on you?”

  “It’s more like he guilt-tripped me into sex. Chuck always had this power over me, and I would do anything for him. He knew that.”

  “He raped you.”

  “I wouldn’t call it rape. I never said no.”

  “This is disgusting.”

  “You’re making me feel dirty.” Tear-stained eyes turned to her, and guilt knotted Freya’s thoughts.

  “No, not you… him. You were a victim in this, Bambi…”