The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1) (41 page)

***

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 corridor, 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.

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.

***

Prudence knew Belinda and the Knight were in the east wing looking for her even as she cowered, locked in the old art studio. The Witch had been casting spells, confining Prudence to the room. She kept her head down, refusing to look at the horrors the Witch had sent to torment her. The Witch knew what she feared.
 

Belinda and the Knight were still far away. She concentrated, trying to send Belinda a message, trying to project her own image to the governess, so that she might lead her here. She gathered her energy, focused on the task, ignoring the screams and the blood, the smell of death and the groaning, clutching visions surrounding her.

***

Belinda!

Belinda, running toward the main corridor, halted. “Prudence?”

Belinda!

“Where are you?”
 

And then, clear as day, she saw the girl in her sparkling red dress standing in a hallway that led in a new direction. An instant later, the image vanished.
Did I really see that?
She knew she had and took off after it.

Turning a corner, Belinda crashed into someone, and screamed.

***

“Belinda! Thank heaven!” Grant dropped the hammer and threw his arms around her. “Thank heaven!”

“I saw her,” said Belinda. “At the end of the hall.” She pointed.

“That leads to the northern corridors. Let’s go.” He picked up his claw hammer, his fist tight around the handle.
 

They walked quickly, and turning the corner, saw a flash of red dress up ahead.
 

Belinda …
 

“It’s her. It’s Prudence.”

“I
saw
her,” Grant said, awestruck. “I
heard
her.”
 

Belinda …
The little girl disappeared around another corner.
Follow me ...

They ran toward her, took another turn and stepped into a blackened hallway.

Grant tried the lights. They flickered once, twice, and died.
 

Belinda clicked her flashlight on. They followed the beam to the next intersecting hall. Twenty feet down, Prudence Manning appeared, beckoned, then walked through a closed door.
 

***

“She’s in there!” Belinda yanked the doorknob back and forth. “It’s locked!”
 

“Stand back!” Grant hefted the claw hammer and brought the head down hard against the door. He struck again and again, splinters flying, until he broke through. Then he turned the hammer around and used the claw to pry away the wood.