The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1)

by Tamara Thorne

  “I do.”

  “Very well. You understand I’m going with you.”

  Finally, she smiled and looked like a sweet young girl again. “I was hoping you’d say that!”

  “Good. After dinner, come to the coach house. We’ll need to make preparations.” His heart thundered as he spoke. Belinda was less afraid of entering the east wing than he was. She was, indeed, very courageous. He would do what he could with his own methods and magick to try to ensure a safe outcome, but he had no idea how much it would help.

  Midnight

  Ravencrest Manor at midnight. Within the great house, Cordelia Heller was awake, casting spells, amused that Phister and the governess thought she didn’t know what they were up to. And in the carriage house, Grant and Belinda prepared for their rescue attempt, exchanging information, checking flashlight batteries, and repeating simple protection spells to one another.

  Outside, the sky was black velvet embroidered with cold silver stars awaiting the moonrise. Greek statues stood silent sentinel over the grounds, and if their eyes moved, no one noticed.

  The persimmon tree’s leaves flirted and danced with a dark breeze as something moved deep within the earth. New buds formed and green fruit turned red in the dark. A night bird landed on a branch then fell to the ground, dead.

  The scent of night-blooming jasmine wafted, consuming the wisteria’s sweet perfume, strangling it.

  Silence. The world held its breath.

  The East Wing

  By half past midnight, the mansion slept. Belinda could feel the presence of Alice and Thomas Manning as she stood at the heavy east wing door, watching Grant whisper spells in Latin, his hands playing over the runes hidden among the leaves and faces. She didn’t know what he was saying, but she felt the power of his words in her solar plexus.

  At last he brought the brass key from his pocket and slid it into the lock. The heavy click echoed in the silence as the bolt unlatched.

  The door yawned open on an abyss of darkness. Belinda’s heart rose high in her throat.

  Grant gave her a tight smile. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded and swallowed, not sure she was ready at all. She touched the round silver amulet that hung from a thin black ribbon around her neck; it held a mix of fragrant herbs Grant had given her to wear - herbs he’d claimed would give her some protection this night.

  They stepped into the dark corridor and Grant pushed the old-fashioned light switch, then they stared down the long hall. The lights were as dim as she remembered, providing just enough yellowed glow to reveal the cabbage-rose wallpaper and cast tall dark shadows in the doorways. The stale musty air smelled of dust and neglect. There was no evidence of life, yet Belinda knew that something - many things, in fact - dwelled here; and that whatever walked these halls did not abide by the same laws of science as the rest of the world. She shuddered.

  “You have your flashlight?” Grant whispered.

  “Yes.” She took it from the back pocket of her jeans.

  “Good.” Grant tested his own and the cluster of LED lights caught pigments in the faded carpeting and wallpaper that Belinda hadn’t noticed before. She tried hers. It lit dust motes and a cobweb ready to catch in her hair. She played the light over old dust-clotted paintings lining the walls, their frames grayed with dirt and age. Clouded ancestral eyes watched her.

  “Best shut it off, Belinda, until you need it.” Grant put his own light in his pocket.

  “I hope we don’t need them at all.” She shivered, though the corridor was not cold.

  “As do I.” Grant paused. “Where did you first see Prudence?”

  “Another hall that led to this one.”

  “Will you recognize it?”

  “I don’t know, maybe. I was coming back from the chapel and the nuns were after me. The lights had gone out. Prudence appeared and led me to this corridor to hide in one of the rooms when the nuns were catching up. It’s nearby. There was a desk.”

  “Yes, I know the room - that’s where I found you, remember? Shall we check it first?”

  Belinda nodded.

  They began walking and turned up the hallway. “It’s not far. Just a couple more doors. I believe this is it,” he said, retrieving his flashlight. “What do you think?”

  “I’m sorry, they all look alike to me.”

  Grant opened the door and played his light over the massive desk Belinda had hidden under. She shivered, recalling the hems of the nuns’ habits, seeing and smelling the dripping gore they left behind.

  “Sense anything?”

  “She’s not here. There’s nothing here. This is just a room. We should keep going.”

  “Very well.” Grant switched off the light and pulled the door closed.

  ***

  The Harlequin had been scavenging in Ravencrest’s kitchen when his own true love and the butler came in the back door together. He’d barely hidden in time and then waited for another twenty minutes while they brewed coffee and talked in hushed tones about ghosts and how dangerous what they were about to do might be. He sat under the big table, only a yard from their feet and listened, growing more concerned by the moment. His love, his - Belinda! That’s her name! Belinda! Belinda! - spoke of bloody nuns and little girls and the butler added details, warning her of more dangers they might encounter.

  The Harlequin did not want Belinda to go into this east wing they spoke of. He didn’t know what or where it was, but he understood it was dangerous and resolved to watch over his beloved and keep her safe. He wished he could speak up now, show himself to her, but he couldn’t. She wouldn’t recognize him; she would only see a monster, not the man he was certain he’d once been. The man he sometimes briefly recalled.

  He rubbed his back, painful with bruises from his encounter with the witch, and smiled to himself. He’d hurt her worse than she’d hurt him. His bite, he hoped, had been poisonous.

  At last Belinda and the butler left the kitchen. Afraid he’d lose them, the Harlequin avoided the ventilation system and instead followed them at a distance, keeping to shadows, scuttling silently up the stairs. He’d waited behind a narrow table on the third floor, watching while the butler mumbled and touched the carved door for long minutes. Then he unlocked it and they both went inside. The Harlequin followed.

  ***

  She knew they were coming. She knew they were here to rescue her, but she couldn’t get to them. The Witch had trapped her in the north corridor and she couldn’t get out. This was a place she avoided, always, and the Witch must have known that when she used her wicked magick to trap her among the things that lived there.

  Prudence cowered and sent thoughts to Belinda, trying to get her attention, to bring her here.

  ***

  Belinda’s gift, Grant decided, was strong, and he doubted she was even aware of it. But the way she’d firmly said there was nothing in the room meant she was either a fool or in the way of knowing, and his own instincts insisted the latter was true. He hoped those instincts would help, not hinder.

  “Let’s head toward the old chapel. Perhaps we’ll find Prudence roaming those halls.”

  “Or the nuns.” Belinda hesitated. “I hope we can avoid them, but they might headquarter in that chapel.”

  “Possibly, though I would expect they move throughout this floor. The old hospital and orphanage rooms are along the far north hallway. I’d think that could be their primary habitat. There’s another chapel there, too.”

  “Let’s try to avoid that hall, if we can.” Belinda looked determined. “I think retracing my steps might be smart.”

  Grant nodded. “By all means, Belinda, we must listen to your instincts.”

  She glanced at him. “But what are your instincts? You’re the one casting spells.”

  “Your gift is what will guide us, not my spells.”

  She nodded, a hint of surety in her eyes.

  “Lead on, Belinda.”

  As they began walking slowly - very slowly - along the dim corr
idor, Grant could feel a change in the air pressure. His ears reacted first, buzzing and plugging like he was on an airplane. He’d felt the sensation many times in Ravencrest and knew it meant spirits were nearby. Then, as they turned onto the corridor that would lead them to the old chapel, static swirled around him, causing the hairs on his neck and arms to lift in goose bumps. Whatever was here was potent.

  “Prudence?” Belinda whispered. “Prudence, are you here?”

  “Do you feel it?” Grant asked as the temperature began dropping.

  Belinda nodded, fear showing behind the resolve. “Yes.” She halted. “I don’t think it’s Prudence. She didn’t feel like this.”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  Belinda shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  He feared she was lying. They kept walking and the lights began flickering.

  They paused, not breathing.

  “I hope they don’t go out,” said Belinda.

  “That’s what we’ve got the flashlights for.”

  As they continued, Grant’s legs became heavy, as if he were trudging through cold mud. A chill tiptoed up his back, raising the hairs on his neck even higher, and he noticed that Belinda’s arms were covered in gooseflesh, too. Something was close to them - very close.

  They turned down a short hall. At the end was a grimy stained glass window.

  “That’s it,” said Belinda.

  They stopped in front of the chapel door. Grant stared up at the cross carved into it. He tried the knob. It was cold - ice cold. He jiggled it. “It’s stuck.” He gave it a hard shake but it wouldn’t budge.

  Belinda stepped forward, placed her hand on the knob and twisted. It turned, unlatching almost reverently as the door creaked open. Grant and Belinda exchanged uncertain glances.

  “It seems to like you more than me.” Grant tried a smile but it felt strained.

  “Prudence?” Belinda took a slow step forward and peered into the room. Several things happened at once. A wheezing, rushing sound rent the air and a torrent of wind sucked inward, like desperate empty lungs gasping for breath.

  Belinda screamed, clutched the door, and hung on as the room tried to suck her in.

  Grant grabbed at her, then a burst of silver-white light exploded, whisking Belinda away as it blinded him, pushing him backward, hurtling him against the corridor wall. His flashlight flew from his grip as he hit the ground, the air knocked out of him.

  The door crashed shut, clipping Belinda’s shriek. As quickly as it had come, the wind died.

  “Belinda!” Grant was on his feet, pounding at the door. “Belinda!”

  “Grant!” She banged on the other side.

  He grabbed the knob and winced away. It was as if he’d touched a piece of dry ice. The metal was frosted over now, untouchable. He punched the door, kicked it. It was too strong, too sturdy. “Hold on! I’ll get something to break it down.”

  “Grant!” She continued pounding.

  “Hang on, Belinda!” Grant retrieved his flashlight and ran down the corridor. There were some old tools in one of the rooms near the main entrance, tools left behind by carpenters long ago. He couldn’t recall seeing a crowbar, but there had to be something he could use.

  ***

  The Harlequin did not like this place, but he continued on, even when the halls turned cold and his ears felt full of static. As he turned onto another corridor, the lights began to flicker, but he kept moving, following … following Belinda! Belinda! The Harlequin paused, suddenly not sure what he was doing. Or where he was. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to iron out the wrinkles in his thoughts.

  Belinda! She and the butler had disappeared from view and then he’d heard heavy wind, a door slam, and screaming. He followed the sounds, forgetting to be afraid in his concern for the woman he loved. Belinda!

  He approached another hallway and then ducked into the shadows as he heard running footsteps approach. He watched as the butler raced past. Belinda was not with him.

  ***

  “Grant!” Hot tears spilled down Belinda’s cheeks. She pounded the door. He’d said he was going to get something to break it down but the thought of being alone here terrified her.

  Weeping, she turned her back to the door and leaned against it. The wind was gone. The room was silent. She wiped her tears away, sniffed, and looked around. Sickly red light flooded the chapel from a dust-covered stained glass window on the west wall. The moon had risen.

  She looked up at the old pulpit that had been tipped over - and the terrible images of the crucifixion displayed in the window. Papers were strewn on the floor around a stack of books on the altar. She stared at the dust-caked pews.

  Belinda slowed her breathing, hoping her thoughts would take the cue from her body.

  The temperature dropped and the air felt thick, heavy. She hugged herself, burying her head in her hands.

  Then she heard the faraway sounds of slapping, like a hand - or a cane - connecting with bare flesh.

  Belinda’s head shot up. “No,” she whispered. “Please, no.”

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  The sounds grew closer.

  She shot to her feet and grabbed the knob, howling when its iciness burned her palm.

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  It was close now, but she didn’t know which direction it came from - it seemed to come from everywhere.

  Belinda looked wildly around the room for a place to hide. She ran for the pews, diving between them and making herself small.

  Crack! Crack! Eat!

  The slapping sounds began to shift into something else. “Oh, God, no, please no.” Her murmur quaked and, despite the frosty room, she began to sweat.

  Crack! Eat! Eat!

  There was a whispering sound, the brush of skirts across the hard floor.

  Belinda squeezed her eyes shut.

  Eat, eat, eat …

  The chant was hypnotic, maddening, like the incessant buzz of insects.

  Eat, eat, eat …

  The rustle of the nun’s skirts drew close - too close - and Belinda clapped her hands over her ears and did something she hadn’t done since childhood: She prayed. “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name…” She focused on the words, trying not to choke on the dust enveloping her. Her own whispers became a rushed flurry of noise … “Thykingdomcomethywillbedoneonearthasitisinheaven!”

  The air was icy now, and though she kept her eyes closed, she was certain her frosted breath would betray her. She clipped the prayer, shutting her lips, barely breathing.

  Several moments passed. She listened hard and heard nothing. Slowly, she removed her hands from her ears and strained to hear something, anything.

  The old chapel was silent.

  She became aware of the scent of moldering wood from the pews and the dust that covered them. Her heart slowed, and she dared to breathe, slowly, carefully.

  Silence.

  Belinda opened her eyes.

  Huddled between two pews, knees pressed to her chest, she stared at the back of a pew and chanced a glance overhead. Nothing.

  The prayer. Maybe it worked. Belinda unfolded herself and crawled toward the aisle. Poking her head out, she looked one way, then the other. They’re gone!

  She climbed out of the pews and stood, her back and knees aching.

  That’s when she saw them.

  The nuns Faith, Hope, and Charity stood near the altar. They opened their mouths, screaming in unison, and in a flash, they were in front of Belinda, shrieking, black eyes rolling back to the whites.

  Belinda’s screams were lost as she threw herself back. She hit the floor, scrambled to her feet, and ran for the door. The knob was still iced over and when she touched it a shock of pain burned and frost rose like smoke from the metal.

  In perfect synchronicity, the nuns threw their heads back, cackling.

  “Get away!” The words tore from her throat, shrilling through the room.

  The sisters fell silent.

&
nbsp; All three heads tilted to the side like a lunatic display of puppetry. Three pairs of eyes blinked. Three mouths smiled. But only one hand - the one belonging to the central nun - held out the red persimmon.

  Eat, eat, eat …

  They floated toward her, and Belinda made a mad dash toward the altar. She gripped a book as the nuns shifted position, turned toward her, and glided closer. Eat, eat, eat …

  Belinda screamed and tore pages from a leather-bound volume.

  Eat, eat, eat … The coppery scent of blood began filling the room as the central nun’s insides fell with a splat, her entrails dragging behind her.

  Belinda coughed, gagged on the rotting smell, and dashed to the door. Using the pages in her hand as a barrier, she gripped the icy doorknob. The nuns shifted, moved closer, and Belinda turned the knob hard. It worked.

  She threw the door open and sprinted from the room.

  As she raced down the corridor, the persimmon hit the floor and rolled into the hall.

  ***

  The Harlequin leapt back as the door burst open and his Belinda, his beloved, ran from the room. For a brief instant, they locked eyes, hers terrorized, his the same. But she kept running, not acknowledging him, not slowing, and disappeared into another hallway. He turned, making ready to follow.

  Eat, eat, eat!

  The Harlequin paused. He was hungry.

  Eat, eat eat!

  A plump red fruit rolled across the threshold and came to rest at his feet.

  Eat, eat, eat!

  Hungry, he scooped the fruit into his misshapen hand. His fingers punctured the persimmon and it bled sticky sweet juice. He licked his thumb. The fruit was overripe, nasty and decayed, but he was too hungry to care. He shoved it into his mouth, ignoring the nuns who watched him.