The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1)

by Tamara Thorne

  “That’s amazing. And all those beautiful Oriental rugs, they’re real?”

  “Those are reproductions. You’ll see some originals hanging on walls, but most of them disintegrated over the years. Parnell and his son, Gavin - not to mention his grandson, Caleb - believed in using beautiful things, not putting them under glass, I’m afraid. And by the time Great Uncle Henry, then Uncle Albert inherited, most had been tossed out or relegated to the east wing. A lot of old family possessions are stored there.”

  “How wonderful it must be to have such a rich family history.”

  “The Mannings have always enjoyed history.” He smiled. “Particularly, their own.” He paused. “Belinda?”

  She looked at him.

  “I have the impression you don’t care for that painting. Am I correct? Be honest, now.”

  “I think it will give me nightmares,” she said. “To be honest.”

  “Well, then, consider it gone. Would you like to choose another?”

  “I would,” she said, feeling awkward. “But …”

  “But what?”

  “Would you choose it for me?”

  “If you want. What do you like?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “Very well. Nothing dark or drear.” He checked his watch. “I have a meeting in a few minutes. Enjoy your day.”

  “Thank you.”

  He left, shutting the door behind him. She stared at the foggy gallows painting again, wondering if the last governess had minded it, or even noticed it. Mist seemed to swirl around the tall wooden gallows - an artist’s trick, she thought. Then she noticed a dark figure hanging from the noose. She moved closer. It was a woman in a long dress. As she stared, it seemed to become clearer, as if the fog were lifting.

  First the chill and the voice in the bathroom. My robe untying itself. Now a painting was changing before her very eyes. It must be new job jitters. If it doesn’t pass in a few days, maybe I should visit Dr. Akin and get something for my nerves.

  She pushed it from her mind and sat down to begin planning her curriculum.

  * * *

  The desk had been cleaned out, as had most of the cabinets and closets spanning the wall behind it, though she did find a few manila files tucked away labeled Thaddeus and Cynthia that contained teaching notes and schoolwork - drawings, some simple math and English, and comments by Celeste Montgomery, the previous governess. Now, Belinda sat and thumbed through another of Cynthia’s files.

  Miss Montgomery had been concerned about the girl’s attitude and felt the child disliked her. At least it isn’t just me. She flipped to a quiz about the Bible. Mr. Manning had made no mention of religion and had not requested she teach it. It struck her that Celeste Montgomery might have been instructing as if they were in a religious school, not a secular one. She wondered if the former governess had been terminated for teaching a little hellfire along with the alphabet.

  The first yes/no question was Does anyone know where the Holy Grail is kept today? Cynthia had written in, Indiana Jones. Belinda smiled. Miss Montgomery, however, had X’d it in red and written Unacceptable - F across the entire quiz. Belinda glanced at the other questions. One was about the size of Noah’s ark; Cynthia wrote in Bigger than the Titanic, and stinky.

  “Good for you,” Belinda said, chuckling.

  “Laughing in an empty room? That’s bad luck, you know.”

  Belinda turned in her chair and saw Mrs. Heller standing in the doorway staring down at her. Feeling like a child herself, she shut the folder as she stood to face the icy woman. Maybe she’s why Mr. Manning likes the doors locked. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Heller, I didn’t hear you.”

  “Of course not.”

  Belinda wanted to assert herself; she could tell this was a woman who would walk all over anyone who allowed it. But worried she might be fired if she did, Belinda decided to ignore it. “How may I help you?”

  “I came to help you, Miss Moorland.”

  Belinda stared at the woman, having a hard time believing Mrs. Heller ever went out of her way to help anyone.

  “The schoolbooks you’ll be using for the children’s studies are in the old chapel room in the east wing.” She thrust a small piece of paper at Belinda. “I’ve written down some simple directions to the room.”

  Belinda took the handwritten map from Heller. “But Mr. Manning told me I would be ordering new textbooks.”

  Mrs. Heller gave her a sharp look. “Nevertheless, you will be needing these as well.” She pointed at a spot on the map. “It’s this room. It has a large cross carved into the door.”

  “Seems easy enough.”

  Mrs. Heller scoffed. “Your confidence is admirable, if not altogether ignorant. Ravencrest is far more complex than you realize. I’d recommend you take your cell phone in case you get lost, but there are so many areas without reception in the east wing that I don’t think it would do you any good.”

  Belinda stared at the woman. “I wonder why cell reception would vary so much here.”

  The administrator’s eyes drilled into her; it was everything Belinda could do to keep from looking away. “Here,” Heller said, pulling a large key from her pocket. “You’ll have to unlock the door to the east wing. Be sure to lock it again when you’re done and return the key to me immediately.”

  Belinda screwed up her nerve and raised her chin. “So, what should I do if I get lost?”

  A crimson smile spread like a stain across Mrs. Heller’s face and her dark eyes twinkled with amusement. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. As you said, ‘Easy enough.’” She turned and left the room.

  The clacking of her heels was unnerving and Belinda shut the door, muting the sound.

  The Chapel

  The old chapel was also on the third floor. Belinda locked her office in the west wing and began walking down the hall to the long corridor near the front stairwell. She passed door after door, and stopped in front of one to peek inside, but it was locked up tight. When she saw the stairwell, part of her wanted to race back down to her room, but instead she turned and walked down the hall to the door of the east wing.

  This hall, although enclosed, was similar to the mezzanine walkway on the second floor. Side tables and portraits dotted the corridor, but they were less interesting, less well executed and less cared for than those on the second or first floors. They were still nice, but the faces in the portraits looked angry or doleful. Grayer. Forgotten. Perhaps it was because the light was dim here, and becoming ever dimmer as she approached the heavy door that shut off the east wing.

  Fear seeped into her when she reached it. The door was old and made of dark paneled wood. The rails were intricately carved with leaves. Faces of mythic green men peeked out from between them, vines growing from their mouths in long, winding tendrils, their eyes seeming to follow her.

  The lockset, dull bronze, looked as if no one ever polished it, and she wondered if the housekeeping staff avoided the east wing. That’s not a comforting thought. She put the key into the lock and turned it. At first it didn’t move, but after she jiggled it, all the while avoiding the watching eyes of the green men, the lock clicked over and the door groaned, creaked, and yawned open by itself. She saw nothing but darkness. Stale air curled into her nose.

  Reaching in, she felt around for a light switch, shivering as her hand swept through a cobweb, but she made herself keep hunting. Why didn’t I bring a flashlight? Her skin crawled as unwelcomed images from horror movies imposed themselves on her. She had decided to go down to the kitchen and get a flashlight from Grant, when her hand finally found a pushbutton switch.

  Dusty light bloomed in wall sconces that looked to be converted from gas lamps. Everything was so old she was probably lucky there was any electricity at all. She could see to the end of the hall. It held a dust-covered, rickety chair and a few forgotten paintings that hung against peeling cabbage-rose wallpaper. A colorless moth-bitten runner covered the floor.

  Belinda crept inside, ignoring the eerie creak
under her steps. The door began to swing shut, and gasping, she grabbed it, then pulled the old chair into the opening so it wouldn’t close her in.

  Under a dusty sconce, she studied the map, then proceeded to the end of the hall. Another dark passage crossed it in both directions. She felt for a switch, found it, took a deep breath, and turned left. She tiptoed past a dozen doors, hoping all were locked; as it was, it was everything she could do to keep from panicking.

  Half expecting to see little Danny Torrance careen around the corner on his Big Wheel - or worse, those creepy twins - she turned onto another hall. The switch wouldn’t work, but dim light from a window at the end of the passage showed her the way toward the chapel.

  As she approached, the corridor seemed to telescope out, lengthening farther and farther. She imagined phantom fingertips at her back. Stop it! This isn’t a horror movie! She made for the window and saw the door, heavy wood with a cross carved into the wide center rail, just as Mrs. Heller had described.

  She thought she heard a noise, a small scratching nearby. Rats, she told herself. It’s only rats. Never had she expected comfort from the thought of rats. The knob turned easily.

  The chapel was the size of an elementary school classroom. Even before she found the light switch - Working, thank heaven! - she could see the shapes of pews by the bloody red light from a large stained-glass window. Jesus carrying his cross, being whipped, blood dripping into his huge upturned eyes from the crown of thorns. She trembled. It was horrendous.

  She turned on the lights. The pews were simple and unadorned, the bare wood floor stained and ugly. She walked up the aisle between the pews. To the left, a dark wooden pulpit lay on its side as if it had been pushed over by an angry spirit. Straight ahead, on the altar, a stack of books waited.

  Why here? Why are the books here, of all places? She walked to the altar and picked up the top book. It was a Dick and Jane reader from the 1950s. The next was titled Algebra for Beginners. She set both aside without opening them; neither was appropriate. The other books were just as outdated.

  A sharp sound startled her. She turned to the empty doorway. “Hello?”

  Only silence replied and she returned to the books, flipping through them in search of anything that might apply to the children. Several moments later, it came again - a sharp smacking sound from outside the room. Belinda stepped out and peered down the long, darkened corridor, first one way, then the other. “Is someone there?” Her voice echoed against the walls. The slapping sound came again. And again; a steady smack! smack! smack! like a hand on bare skin. She thought she heard the distant wailing of an infant behind it, then realized it was undoubtedly the call of a peacock somewhere out on the grounds.

  “Who’s there?” Belinda nearly choked on fear. She stepped into the dim hallway and with trepidation, followed the smacking sounds, straining to tell which direction they came from.

  On silent feet, she crept back down the passage. The air felt heavy, colder than just moments before; she was surprised to see no frosty plumes as she exhaled.

  A noise came from behind her; a whispery fluttery sound, like a swarm of scuttling insects. At first, it sounded far off, then the sound rushed her, coming up fast from behind, louder and louder, until she felt something cold caress the back of her neck. She gasped, whirled, and braced herself.

  Nothing was there. The whispering stopped, as did the smacking sounds and the cries. Her ears were filled with the pulse of her own pumping blood. Trembling, she stared down the long hallway. I’m making an appointment with Dr. Akin. This isn’t normal. The thought comforted her, despite what it implied: I’m losing my mind. Deciding to head back to the chapel room, she turned. And stopped.

  A small high sound escaped her. Her blood turned to ice. Time ceased.

  Three women - Nuns! - stood before her in a V formation, the central one close enough to touch.

  Belinda felt the scream die in her throat.

  The nearest nun tipped her head and blinked solid black eyes at her - there were no whites at all, just endless glossy black. It was a garish contrast to the gray skin of her face, and the blue tint of her thin lips. The other two nuns flanked her, their faces just as gray, their eyes just as black.

  In unison they smiled, their lips peeling back to reveal blackened, impossibly pointed teeth set into raw, bleeding gums. The first nun raised a clawed hand, pointed a gnarled finger at Belinda. “For you.” The whisper brought with it the stench of rot, of dead things, of time. “For you,” echoed the other nuns.

  The leader held a persimmon out to Belinda. “Eat.” The word was a gust of rancid wind and Belinda’s abdominal muscles tensed as her stomach threatened to expel its contents. “Eat,” echoed the other two sisters.

  Belinda took a step back. Then another. The three nuns, as if tethered to her by an invisible string, moved with her. But they didn’t walk, they floated. “No,” said Belinda. “No. Please, no.”

  The nun’s smile faltered, and as if sharing the same mind, the other two mirrored her expression. The persimmon rested in the clawed hand hovering before Belinda’s face. Then, like strobe lights, the sconces flickered. She wanted to run but the rapid flashes disoriented her. The closest nun began to change and Belinda gasped. With each new burst of light, she saw her own face superimposed over the nun’s.

  She stared in horror at this terrible flickering mirror-image, backing away, as the nun - now her doppelganger - moved toward her, proffering the persimmon. “Eat.” The other two nuns repeated the word. “Eat, eat, eat.” The three of them chanted, their commands overlapping.

  Belinda felt her sanity slipping away. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks, and she stepped backward. The lights pulsated faster now; the nuns moved closer with jerky lunatic movements in the bursts of light. “Eat, eat, eat.”

  Unable to peel her gaze off her false twin each time her own face flashed over the nun’s features, Belinda screamed. Black empty eyes. Gray skin. Grisly bleeding mouth. But still recognizable. And closing in.

  Belinda squeezed her eyes shut. “Nooo!” Her voice shrilled down the corridor, bouncing off the walls, echoing back at her.

  And then it was over.

  Belinda opened her eyes. Not quite over. The lights were on. The hall was silent.

  But the three nuns stared at her, doleful expressions on their faces. As one, the trio turned, gliding down the hall, away from Belinda.

  She watched their backs with unbelieving eyes. As they floated into darkness, the central nun left a thick trail of blood behind her. The coppery scent of it invaded the hallway and this fresh horror renewed Belinda’s terror. Her skin was covered in gooseflesh and cold sweat as she ran down another lit hall. There couldn’t be many more turns before she reached the cabbage-rose corridor that led out of the east wing. She came to another passage and took the corner fast, grappling to keep her balance, her heart pummeling against her ribs, her feet pounding on the hard floor.

  And then the lights went out. She was blind, Gretel without breadcrumbs. Somewhere behind her she heard distant, cackling laughter.

  Keep your hand on the wall and go forward. That’s how you get out of a maze. She wasn’t sure it would work, but she had to try. She began walking, her fingers feathering across the wall, terror mounting each time she came to a doorway. What if it’s open now? What if … God, stop thinking like that!

  The air went frigid and she heard the cackles again, closer. She started to run, but tripped on the carpet and fell to her knees, then scrambled up as fast as she could. Her sense of direction was gone, but her fingers tingled with memory and she found the wall and continued on.

  She saw her breath puff through the icy air. They’re coming! They’re coming! I’ve got to get out of here! Her hand hit another doorway and found no door. She ran past it, refusing to think about it, not caring if she ended up crawling as long as she got out.

  Follow me …

  The new voice stopped her. It wasn’t the nuns; it was the voice of a yo
ung child. “Who’s here?” she whispered. “Who’s here?”

  Follow me …

  Further down the hall she saw a blur of red. She halted and stared. Before her eyes the vision transformed into the figure of a little girl in a long red dress that sparkled and shone like velvet kissed with snowflakes. The girl was no more than five, with blond ringlets, pink cheeks, rosebud lips and eyes of blue steel. She beckoned Belinda forward.

  Follow me … Hurry!

  “Who-?” Belinda stopped, shivering with cold, and heard the cackles approaching from behind. She almost looked back but the little girl’s voice saved her.

  Hurry! Hurry!

  The child turned and fled up the hall. Belinda gave chase, following her through the darkness. They turned twice more and Belinda saw light spilling across the threshold. She was almost free.

  The little girl’s voice called out. Run! Run!

  Belinda raced toward the heavy carved door, but it slammed shut with booming finality, inches from her face.

  She clutched the doorknob, yanking it, pulling with all her strength. It wouldn’t budge. She screamed at it to open, pounding it with her fists.

  The little girl was gone. Belinda’s screams went on in the darkness.

  BOOK 4: CHRISTMAS SPIRITS

  Ravencrest: Present Day

  “Hey, careful!” Walter Hardwicke said as Thad slammed out of the back of the limo.

  “Sorry,” Thad called. He was already halfway to the kitchen door, his book bag on his back and a drawing clutched to his chest. Behind him, he heard the door slam again; his sister, Sour Cynthy, was slouching along behind him. Oh, well.

  Nearing the kitchen, he saw Riley Doring on a ladder fixing one of the old-fashioned pole lanterns that lit most of the walks at Ravencrest. Thad stopped at the foot of the ladder and looked up. “What’cha doing?”