The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1)

by Tamara Thorne

  He was in a vast array of tunnels and vents, very dark in places and filled with slatted light in others. He scuttled toward one on his short deformed legs and settled himself in dust that made him sneeze as it blew motes that almost twinkled in the light from beyond the slats. He squinched his eyes down and peered into an empty room. A dining room. He could see chair and table legs, blue carpeting dappled with sunlight. He’d never seen this room before, but he knew he was somewhere familiar. Clarity came. This is Ravencrest! I’m in the walls of Ravencrest. And fled. Where am I where am I where am I?

  What am I?

  He scuttled forward and suddenly fell, down and down, coming to a painful crash landing near another slatted vent. He looked out and saw white marble trimmed in onyx. Ravencrest. The witch did this. The witch the witch the witch kill the witch witch witch! He began giggling, ignoring brisk footsteps that came to a halt by the vent. Men’s shoes, trousers. He giggled again. The man didn’t move, but spoke softly. “Damned rats.” The feet moved on.

  The words meant something for an instant, and then the thought was gone. He looked down at his hands, saw manicured nails on knotted, stubby fingers. Brightly colored ruffles of satiny material surrounded them like the clownish sleeves of a harlequin. Not my clothes. Not my fingers. I have the fingers of a surgeon… He brought the hand to his face and touched it. He felt a head too big for its body, a massive head, the face seamed and gizzardy. He tugged a hair from his head and held it in the light. It glinted copper.

  KILL THE WITCH! And then he forgot again, his thoughts replaced with Champagne and pussy. Giggling, he ran, his arms grazing the ground, heading for the way back to the second floor. Something told him there would be help there. But by the time he was back peering into the dining room again, he’d forgotten why he was there.

  A moment later, he heard noises. People entered the room. Children. Eric Manning - he recognized his voice. And then another voice, a woman’s, joined them. He listened, trying to focus. “Belinda,” he whispered. He had to talk to Belinda.

  3 a.m.

  She awoke at three in the morning, knowing she was being watched.

  Belinda sat up and looked around the room. Nothing was out of place. The moon cast silver light through the windows, lending pale color to the green carpet and lavender quilt.

  “Belinda.”

  She snapped her head in the direction of the strange gravelly sound, sure she’d heard her name. Nothing moved. She turned on the bedside lamp and got up. Slipping into her robe, she walked to the bank of windows and stared out. Below, the world was still, silent, and blanketed with thin fog. Three deer grazed in the nearest garden. One looked up at her and she thought these must have been the eyes she’d seen staring at her from the forest. The deer returned to grazing.

  She heard a scratching noise. It came from the wall.

  “Belinda.”

  She gasped. The voice didn’t sound human. It sounded thick and shrunken, like a troll was gabbling at her, but there was no doubt she’d heard her name. The whispery scurrying noise continued and she followed it. As she neared the wall, she heard what sounded like excited breathing.

  “Belinda.”

  It came from somewhere low. She bent down to peer at the narrow wall vent near her bare feet.

  Glinting eyes, green mad eyes, stared up at her through the slats.

  Belinda screamed.

  BOOK 6: DEAD GIRLS

  Calvin Bowers

  The sun slipped behind the mountains as Calvin Bowers - Cal to his friends - wandered down narrow, winding Riesling Road. All the streets, even the humblest ones, had fancy-ass wine names like Chianti Avenue, Zinfandel Street, and Chardonnay Circle. He lived in the “bad” part of town on Cabernet Sauvignon Avenue, and he was headed for Chablis Lane.

  Riesling Road was at the lower end of town, though how anyone figured which end of Devilswood was the “upper” and which was the “lower,” Cal had no idea. He wasn’t interested in Devilswood’s anatomy. He didn’t give a flying fuck about the place. In fact, there was only one part of town that commanded Cal’s attention, and that was the bedroom of the very hot Shelly Harrington.

  A truck appeared, its headlamps low and yellow, and Cal stuck his thumb out. The truck didn’t stop but was kind enough to honk as it passed, as if to laugh at him. “Fuck you, pal!” Cal raised both his middle fingers for the pickup’s rear-view mirror then continued walking down the winding road, fantasizing about his upcoming night with Shelly.

  She and Cal were from two different rungs on the ladder - Shelly was a cheerleader who got good grades while Cal barely got by with Ds - but there was one thing of Cal’s that the busty blond rich-bitch couldn’t get enough of: his great big trouser snake, Alibaba. That and his acne-free face with baby blues and dimples no girl could resist kept him in good standing with the female population of Devilswood High.

  Shelly had shaken hands - so to speak - with the beast below his belt on many occasions; she was especially taken with the way he could make it wiggle and said Alibaba was more talented than her Rabbit Pearl vibrator. He and Shelly had gotten it on under the bleachers after football games, on the mezzanine of the gym during a school dance, and she’d even given him a handjob in the school library, in the Architecture section, where no one - not even Ms. Finch, the ancient thyroid-eyed librarian - paid visits. These were all good times, but he hated the lack of privacy. Then, at last, the fates shined down on Cal Bowers.

  Aida Harrington, Devilswood’s meanest drunk and Shelly’s windbag of a mother, had taken a near-fatal overdose of barbiturates with her daily dose of Russian vodka, and ended up in rehab. Upon her return to sobriety, she and her husband, the ever-optimistic Dr. Harrington, began attending weekly Narcotics Anonymous meetings. Under the illusion that the town of Devilswood was still unaware of Mrs. Harrington’s little problem, and not wanting to raise any eyebrows, the Harringtons drove all the way to Bakerton for their meetings.

  This gave Cal enough time to give it to Shelly nice and slow without any fear of being caught. And he’d been doing just that every week for the past month and a half. The only trouble was that neither he nor Shelly had cars, so he headed over early, on foot, timing it so he’d arrive as shortly after the Harringtons’ departure as possible - to ensure he got in as much time with Shelly as he could. He didn’t care a thing for her personality, but she was blond, big-titted, and as tight as a Hello Kitty coin purse. Her kind of hotness needed to be appreciated in sections. There were still plenty of things he wanted to try with her, and given she had the IQ of a housefly on Valium, he knew he could talk her into just about anything.

  A new set of headlamps sliced through the fog and growing darkness.

  Cal turned, stuck his thumb out and walked backward along the side of the road. The car’s lights glinted off the studs in his black leather jacket.

  Slowing as it neared, the dark car glimmered under the moonlight; even the rims, silver disks of metal, glittered like polished mirrors. The windows were limousine black, and gravel crunched under the tires as it came to a stop.

  Cal stared into the windows but it was like trying to see through obsidian. He started to reach for the passenger door handle but something inside him stalled. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure he wanted this ride.

  The driver gave the horn a quick beep.

  It startled Cal into motion. He opened the door and slid onto a tan leather passenger seat that appeared as pristine as the exterior. “Thanks, man.” He slammed the door.

  “Where to?” The driver didn’t look at him, just stared at the road ahead. The car’s beams pierced the low fog like twin blades. “Out by Querida’s Bakery, if you’re going that far.”

  The interior light, the kind with a delay, dimmed and went off just as the driver faced Cal. Despite the shadows, Cal saw the whites of eyes, the glint of teeth, and hairy hands that gripped the steering wheel like dragon claws. “As it happens,” said the driver, “I’m headed just that direction.” The smile widened. “Bet
ter buckle up.”

  Cold fingers of unease crept down Cal’s spine as he reached for the seat belt and buckled himself in. The driver pulled onto the road.

  Usually, Cal liked talking to the folks who stopped for him, but this time was different. He didn’t want to talk at all, and as he stared into the curdling fog ahead he counted the minutes to Shelly Harrington’s place. “When you see the bakery, turn right at the stop sign.”

  A minute later, Querida’s Bakery appeared, but the driver didn’t slow. Nor did he turn right at the stop sign, but blew right through it. “Um, that was the turn,” Cal said.

  The driver didn’t reply, just kept going.

  “Hey, man, let me off here.”

  “I know a shortcut,” said the driver.

  “But she lives around the corner from the bakery. We don’t need a shortcut.” Cal tried the door handle, but it was locked.

  “We’ll be there in a couple minutes. I know exactly where to take you.”

  Cal had a pretty face and an anaconda in his pants, but he was no jock; he was slender, not that tall, and had never even been in a schoolyard fight; he got by on charm. He tried it now. “Nice car,” he said, keeping his voice smooth as they left Riesling Road and started heading up an even narrower dirt track. The moon disappeared behind the trees.

  “Yeah, nice,” the driver said. “Almost there.”

  “Almost where?” Cal asked, putting a happy spin in his voice, thinking he should sound like nothing was wrong. Because there’s nothing wrong, is there?

  “Have you ever seen the stars from the overlook?”

  “Huh?” Cal thought he meant the hotel from The Shining then realized they were probably on the road to the make-out spot where kids with cars liked to park. Oh, shit. “Hey, man, I’m on my way to see my girlfriend.”

  The driver nodded.

  “I mean - I’m not gay.” He paused. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I want to go to my girl’s place, you know?”

  The man laughed. “I understand. I just need to check on my own daughter first. She’s up there with some football player from the high school. I need to make sure she knows I’m watching.”

  “Oh, okay.” Cal relaxed a little, but still wondered why the driver hadn’t let him off near the bakery. “I guess that won’t take too long. I really need to get to Shelly’s pretty soon though.”

  The driver’s teeth glinted in the darkness.

  The dirt road wound into the trees until they were completely surrounded. “I thought you got to the overlook from Claret Drive,” Cal said at last.

  “This way’s faster.” The driver glanced at him. “You’re in a hurry, right?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” He decided to try the charm again. “Does your daughter go to Devilswood High?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s her name? Maybe I know her.”

  “I doubt it.” They rode in silence another minute, then the driver swerved and bumped to a stop at the very edge of the road. “Damned squirrels. I think I just blew a tire.” He turned off the ignition and got out then leaned in. “A little help, if you don’t mind?”

  “Sure.” Jesus tap-dancing Christ, that’s all I need. Cal got out and joined the driver at the back of the car. The man opened the trunk. It was empty.

  “My rotator cuff is giving me trouble,” the driver said. “Would you mind lifting the liner? The spare and the jack are under it.”

  “Sure, man. You got a flashlight?”

  “Sorry, it burned out.”

  “Okay.” Cal bent and felt for the edges of the liner. He barely heard the rattle of the plastic bag as his head was encased in darkness. He couldn’t breathe.

  “Don’t fight it, young man. It’ll only make this harder.”

  Cal struggled to tear the plastic from his face, grappling for it and trying to twist away. Then something struck the back of his head. Silver-white light bloomed and he tumbled forward into the trunk.

  A Request from Alice

  Belinda slept fitfully; she’d left the drapes and sheers open to enjoy the night breeze and sometime later the full moon had moved into place, waking her with its intensity. She got up and drew the drapes then adjusted the thermostat. Just as she did, she heard noises in the wall again, at the same vent as the night before.

  Belinda ...

  Refusing to let herself panic, she returned to her bed and switched on the table lamp. Telling herself it was the harmonics of stray breezes - Or a rat! Please don’t be a rat! - she put a waste basket in front of the vent. She shivered, thinking of the green eyes she thought she’d seen glinting through the grate the previous night. More noises came from the vent - little noises, wet slurps, mouth sounds mixed with breathing. They were there an instant, then gone. Control your imagination!

  She opened her bathroom door, flipped on the lights and stepped from one fluffy white throw rug to another, as if they were clouds keeping her from falling into the cobalt night below. Opening the medicine cabinet, she got out the pills Mrs. Heller had given her: It was hard to believe the bottle came from Dr. Akin since it wasn’t even labeled. She shook a pill into her hand. It might be a generic tranquilizer … but Grant’s warning played in her head. She put it back and closed the cabinet door. In the morning, she would call Dr. Akin and ask. Meanwhile, she would count sheep or something.

  Back in bed, she lay staring at the ceiling, unable to trick herself into sleep. She picked up her cell, thinking she’d check her mail, and saw the dozens of text messages from both her ex-roommate and her mother. She nearly set the phone down, but sighed and opened the text window instead. Grant had been right about not hiding. Might as well read them so I can delete them. The ones from Momma were the usual passive-aggressive jabs. They began with Don’t you Love Me anymore? and progressed to The Lord Commands you to Respect your Mother, to I think I am having a Stroke and God will Smite you if you ignore Me!!! Then the notes would start over, with the don’t-you-love-me texts giving way to the odd biblical threats. “Give it a rest, Momma,” she whispered and checked Randi Tucker’s messages. The first one said, Lindy, are you okay? Your mother is beside herself.

  I’ll bet she is. All her life the woman had been beside herself. In high school, Belinda saw an old film at her friend’s house called Who Slew Auntie Roo? It had shocked her, primarily because Auntie Roo looked and sounded like her own mother. But there had been more - the movie never left her because she would often dwell on how Auntie Roo kept the mummified remains of her daughter locked up in the house to talk to and coddle. She came to realize that’s what Momma tried to do to her - keep her locked away from the world, keep her innocent and ignorant. It was no way to live and her resentment had built into an anger she still carried around like a poison pill. It was something she knew she had to get rid of, but not yet … not yet ...

  Yawning, she scanned through Randy’s ten messages. I miss you. Your room is waiting. Are you ready to come home yet, Lindy? I changed your sheets for you :-), and then several in a row announcing that if Belinda wouldn’t come home, Randi would drive out to check up on her. Belinda sighed. I’ll have to tell Grant not to let her through the gates. She yawned.

  The cell slipped from Belinda’s hand, startling her. She smiled to herself. If I can doze off while reading this stuff, there’s hope for me yet. She set the phone down, not bothering to turn off the dim lamp, and drifted toward sleep ...

  First, there were the scents of lavender, spring water, and night-blooming jasmine. Then she sensed someone in the room with her. She opened her eyes and saw the lady in the red gown from the gallery portrait sitting on the edge of her bed, watching her with sad eyes.

  Alice Manning!

  I need your help. The apparition’s mouth didn’t move but Belinda heard her voice, soft and insistent, inside her head. And she was not frightened.

  “I don’t understand.”

  My daughter. Alice’s eyes implored. You saw my real daughter.

  “Your real daughter?”<
br />
  Prudence. She is trapped on the other side.

  “The other side? What do you mean? In Purgatory?”

  On the other side of the door! Please help her! Dr. Lanval will know what to do.

  “Who’s Dr. Lanval?” This must be a dream.

  Your Dr. Lanval, not mine! The phantom’s voice filled with frustration.

  “I don’t have a Dr. Lanval. Do you mean Dr. Akin?”

  Dr. … Lanval… Dr. … Phister! He will know what to do. Please help her!

  Alice Manning’s ghost looked up at the door, eyes terrified. Belinda turned and saw the knob moving, heard it wiggle back and forth.

  Carmilla Harlow. She is here! Don’t let her touch my baby girl again! Alice disappeared in a burst of chill air.

  Belinda blinked, realized she wasn’t sitting up, but lying on her side in bed and she could still hear the doorknob. She had locked it before bedtime. The ghost - was that a dream? Did I dream that? - said it was Carmilla Harlow at the door. Who the hell is that? The name sounded familiar but she couldn’t place it.

  Curiosity overcame fear when she heard a jangle of keys. Belinda leapt from the bed, and yanked the door open just as she heard a key being inserted. She stared at the woman before her. “Mrs. Heller, what do you want at this hour?” She was too angry to be frightened.

  Heller plastered on a smile. “I had a dream about you, dear, and wanted to make sure you were safe. You were about to jump out of your window and my dreams are often prophetic. I came to save you, should you need saving.”

  Belinda straightened her back and kept her eyes on Cordelia Heller’s. “I assure you, I will not be jumping out any windows, Mrs. Heller, however I appreciate your concern. It was very kind of you to check on me.” She started to close the door but Heller stopped her with a hand. Belinda took in the black nails, the eyes that were perfectly made up even in the middle of the night, and the long black negligee that was too transparent. Cordelia Heller was naked underneath.