The Whispering Dead: Gravekeeper Book 1

by Coates, Darcy

  Keira threw her head back and laughed. The chuckles shook her, refusing to abate until tears pricked at her eyes. She wiped them away as she finally managed to regain her breath and stretched her legs out to warm them. “Okay, I think that’s enough with the pity party. I’ve got work to do.”

  The clock above the mantel said it was nearly ten. Keira didn’t trust Blighty’s streets to be completely deserted, so she rose and began gathering equipment as she waited.

  There wasn’t much to put together. She set the flashlight and a small kitchen knife on the round table, then pulled on extra layers of sweaters and pants. After swapping Adage’s donated sneakers for her thicker boots, she paced.

  The clock seemed to move agonizingly slowly, and Keira, trapped with her thoughts, felt half an inch from insanity by the time it chimed eleven. She’d intended to wait for midnight for caution’s sake but figured eleven was close enough.

  “Don’t wait up, Daisy.” Keira tucked the flashlight and the knife into her jeans’ pockets. The night was bright enough that she wouldn’t need the flashlight until she reached her destination, and she hoped the knife wouldn’t be necessary at all. She crept out of the cottage, put her chilled hands into her pockets, and hurried through the mist.

  The tendrils clung to her like hundreds of disembodied fingers. She kept her eyes focused ahead until she’d passed through the bushy divider that separated her cemetery from the normal world. Just like she’d noticed the day before, the air was a degree or two warmer away from the tombstones.

  Adage’s windows were dark, but Keira still took care to keep her footfalls quiet as she slunk past. She picked her pace up again once she reached the lane and hurried toward the main street.

  As she’d hoped, the town was silent. A few buildings still had lights on, but there were no cars or pedestrians on the road. Keira pulled her hoodie up to hide her face just in case. What she had planned wasn’t strictly illegal, but it would probably be frowned upon and prompt a series of questions that wouldn’t be easy to answer.

  She jogged through the town’s residential section and into the rural areas. The street was almost unrecognizable under the moon’s cold light. Keira had begun to question whether she was going in the right direction, until the wall of ivy to her left identified the Crispin estate. She was tempted to slow and peek through the gate once again, but instead fixed her eyes ahead and quickened her pace.

  Before long, the mill loomed into view. Keira slowed to a brisk walk. Her breathing was rough, and she was looking forward to washing the sweat off once she returned to the cottage, but the run had done its job of warming her core. She paused on the edge of the field, then took a deep breath and stepped into the long, weedy grass.

  Now that she was expecting it, she registered the change instantly. The temperature began to plummet as tiny chills crawled up her limbs.

  It felt different that night, though. During her first encounter with the mill, she hadn’t realized what was happening until she was standing in the thick of it. This time, she was prepared for the sensation of suffering. She let it wash over her, felt its thousand facets, and tasted its intensity. The emotional imprint was strong enough to sway her for a moment, but then she swallowed, pushed the sensation down, waited until her head was clear, and kept walking.

  She pulled the flashlight out of her pocket as she moved toward the window Zoe had looked through earlier that day. The glass was blurred with grime and shrouded in cobwebs, but she leaned close, turned on the flashlight, and aimed it inside.

  A jumble of shapes emerged under her light. Great machines, long dormant, dominated the room, and a medley of abandoned furniture was scattered around it. It was hard to see clearly through the glass, so she stepped back and looked for a way in. The huge doors stood farther down the building. Keira could visualize the workers filing through every morning and the metal doors slamming shut behind them. Shivers dug their way down her spine.

  As she neared the doors, she saw their handles had been chained together. She rattled the binds, but they didn’t come loose. The metal looked ancient—it had probably been installed when the mill closed—but like the brick building, it hadn’t yet deteriorated enough to break.

  Zoe and Mason said kids went into the mill. There must be a way inside.

  Keira began circling the building and shone her flashlight over every part of the wall she passed. Most of the windows were broken, but none were large enough or low enough for her to worm her way through.

  At last, at the back of the building, she found a window that had come out of its frame completely. A stack of decayed crates and barrels were packed underneath to act as crude stairs.

  She wasn’t sure she could trust the rotting wood to take her weight, but it seemed the only option. Keira put the flashlight’s handle between her teeth and carefully lifted herself onto the first crate. It groaned but didn’t collapse. She kept her breathing shallow as she shuffled onto the highest barrel, then eased toward the window. The opening was barely large enough for her to fit, but she managed by squeezing her shoulder blades together and wiggling her torso through. She hung there as she spat the flashlight back into her hand and shone it on the ground below.

  The kids had stacked piles of wool below the window to cushion their landing. Even from her perch ten feet above, she could smell a disgusting musk that was the result of centuries of exposure to the elements. She held her breath as she dropped onto it.

  The bundle of wool exhaled a series of sharp cries as she landed, and dozens of tiny shapes flicked away from her light. She’d accidentally disturbed a mouse nest. Mason might have come here as a child, but I doubt any of the most recent generation have stepped into the building. I don’t blame them. If I had the choice between this and TV, I know which I’d pick.

  Keira straightened and turned her flashlight across the mill. It was an open room—probably bitterly cold during winter and boiling hot in summer—with a row of offices along one wall.

  The machines took up nearly half of the building, and the other half was filled with long, low tables where the workers could sort through the wool. The shadows they cast fluttered along the brick walls and across the ceiling. Keira exhaled, and the plume of telltale mist drifted away from her.

  “Frank?” She hated that her voice was shaking, but so were her legs. “Frank Crispin? My name is Keira. I’m here to help you.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  As the echoes of Keira’s voice faded, she lowered her guard and allowed the mill’s emotions to flood around her. Generations of suffering, fear, and pain hit her like a punch and dropped her to her knees. Keira retched, doubling over, but her body wasn’t trying to expel food. It was trying to purge itself of the echoes of past lives.

  She knew the sensation would stop if she tried to block it, but instead, she opened herself to it, welcoming every hateful, hurtful memory the spirits wanted to give her. To her surprise, the pain had an end. She started to taste different emotions. There was hope—the poor worker woman whose wealthy aunt had invited her to visit. Joy—a healthy child had been born. Love. Laughter. Kindness. Generosity.

  Keira touched her face. Her cheeks were wet with tears she didn’t remember shedding. The flood of memories, both the pleasant and the painful, swelled inside her, threatening to overwhelm her, then abated, like a receding wave.

  Keira sucked in a breath. Dizziness made her want to curl into a ball and wait for the sensations to pass, but she had a task to complete. She found the aching muscle and pulled on it to open her second sight.

  The mill was full of the translucent spirits. Some had striking features and black eyes; others appeared as dull blurs. Many watched her, but others paced restlessly or sat at the tables. She saw old-fashioned construction uniforms; those were the workers who had perished while building the mill. She saw a large man with his shirt unbuttoned and a sweaty face; death from a heart attack, she thought. Several women, sickly looking, clustered together in the same way they must have t
aken solace from each other in life.

  And then there were the accidental deaths. Limbs torn off by the whirring machine rotors. Faces blistered from boiling water. One woman had blood dribbling from her eyes, cheek, and lips, where she had been beaten to death.

  Keira counted more than thirty spirits, and their clothing styles spanned at least fifty years. She took another breath to clear her head. “Which of you is Frank Crispin?”

  None of the spirits moved for a moment, then the sweaty man with the unbuttoned shirt approached. He was too old to be Frank—he looked at least fifty—but his clothes suggested he ranked above the menial workers surrounding him. A foreman, Keira thought, or perhaps one of the accountants. His smile was unexpectedly kind as he beckoned to her.

  The muscle screamed from the prolonged use, and Keira struggled to keep it active as she rose and stumbled after the foreman. He led her to a clear section of the floor, then glanced upward. One finger pointed toward the ceiling, then lowered as though drawing an invisible line and traced around his throat.

  Keira looked up. A metal pipe ran above their heads, four feet out of reach. “Is this where Frank hung himself?”

  The foreman nodded, the sweat dotting his face glistening in her flashlight’s beam.

  “But his spirit didn’t linger?”

  He spread his hands and shook his head.

  Damn.

  She turned to look across the mill. Its spirits, so faint they were nearly invisible in the low light, had gathered around, watching her with dead eyes. Seeing them trapped there, waiting for something or someone that would likely never come, was agonizing.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, but she found it difficult to verbalize what she was sorry for. Everything, I suppose. I’m sorry that you died here. I’m sorry that you couldn’t move on. I’m sorry I can’t help.

  Unbearable pain radiated through her head. She relaxed the muscle, and the figures faded from sight. The relief nearly dropped Keira to her knees again, and she grabbed the back of a nearby chair to stabilize herself.

  Prickles sparked where her skin touched the wood. They coursed up her arm, stinging like a low electrical current. She blinked, and suddenly, her eyes showed her a new sight.

  She was still in the mill, but it was no longer night. A bloodred sunset sent violent stripes of color through the narrow windows and painted them across the floor. A thin, dark-haired man walked through the room. His black suit was disheveled, and his face blotchy and wet with tears. A length of rope hung from one hand, dragging over the floor and creating paths through the dust. Keira blinked again and saw the man throwing the rope over the pipe. Then he was tying one end into a noose. Climbing onto the chair Keira had rested against. Tightening the rope. Kicking the chair away.

  A choked cry escaped Keira as she watched Frank Crispin spasm on the end of his rope. Then she blinked and was back in the present, shaking and exhausted, one hand pressed over her mouth to silence the cries. Her legs collapsed and sent her tumbling to the ground.

  Icy chills ran along her arms and her back, and she had a horrible idea that the mill’s spirits had clustered forward to touch her. She tried to pull on the ability that allowed her to see them, but it did nothing except stab pain across her skull. She’d overused the muscle.

  Keira put her hands on her knees and focused on breathing deeply. Bit by bit, she began to block out the emotions, gradually reducing her exposure to the mill’s effect until her head had cleared enough to think.

  Frank Crispin isn’t here. If Emma is waiting for him, he’s already moved on.

  She raised her head. The mill, mottled by shadows, appeared desolate in her flashlight’s beam, but she couldn’t forget the thin, baleful faces that had watched her. She wanted to say something, but words failed her. Comfort would be hollow. Promises couldn’t be met. Sympathy would feel trite. All she could manage was to echo herself. “I’m sorry.”

  Chills grazed her cheek, brushing at the tears there. She shivered as the liquid turned to frost. The invisible fingers lingered for a moment, then retreated.

  Slowly, feeling as though she’d stepped in front of a freight train, Keira regained her feet. She stumbled to the pile of wool below the window. The sill was high, but she rested her forearms on it and scrambled up. As she slid through the opening, she managed to twist her body and hold on to the ledge while lowering her legs toward the external wood pallet steps. She ended up with her body outside and her head poised in the window. Keira directed the flashlight into the mill a final time, looking over the last resting place for dozens of souls and said a word that made her stomach shrivel in misery: “Goodbye.”

  The walk back to the parsonage was a slow, bitter one. She’d seen Frank’s death, but no help had come from it. He’d moved on—probably at the same moment as he’d died—and her instincts told her that bit of information wouldn’t be news to Emma.

  On top of that, the cluster of souls waiting inside the mill set her heart aching. They had already been there for decades. Who knew how much longer they would linger in the loveless, lifeless shell of the building? Would they be stuck there until the Earth dissolved and life was extinguished? She exhaled and pushed her hands into her pockets. She hated herself for not being able to help. But with one day left in Blighty, she was no closer to saving the first spirit she’d promised assistance to.

  The thoughts consumed Keira so completely that she forgot to feel anxious as she walked through the cemetery’s mist. She paused at the gate leading to her cottage and turned back to the gravestones. Her headache was still strong enough that she knew attempting to invoke her second sight would be stupid, so she spoke to an invisible audience. “Emma? I went to the mill. Frank died in it. But he’s no longer there. He moved on.”

  The graveyard was still. Keira waited, watching the mist, and finally shrugged. “I guess you already knew that. I’m sorry, Emma.”

  Inside, the cottage was blissfully warm, and Keira shed her extra clothing. The bed was tempting, but a layer of dried sweat forced her into the shower. Even though she washed quickly, by the time she’d braided her wet hair, it was nearly two in the morning.

  She belly flopped into the bed and groaned happily at how soft it felt. A small, warm shape jumped up beside her and began kneading at her back. “G’night, Daisy,” Keira mumbled, and she was asleep even before the cat had finished licking her face.

  Chapter Twenty

  Spears of light cut across Keira’s face. She squinted and rolled onto her other side, dislodging the warm cat from her shoulder. Daisy stretched, yawned, and flopped onto her other side.

  “Morning,” Keira mumbled as the cat started purring. “Thanks for sticking with me last night. I’m not normally such a miserable wet blanket, I promise.”

  The cat rubbed its head against Keira’s back, and she chuckled as she reached over to scratch Daisy’s chin. “You’re hungry, huh? Gimme a minute.”

  As she rolled out of bed, she checked the clock on the fireplace mantel. It was nearly ten. Keira groaned and scrambled into some clothes. That’s so not fair. I swear I was asleep for no more than five minutes.

  She hopped into the kitchen, put the kettle on, and set about giving Daisy her breakfast. As she watched the cat eat, some of the sadness from the previous evening threatened to suck her back in. It was a bright, crisp morning, and the sun that flooded through the windows gave the cottage a welcoming glow. The weather, the comfortable surroundings, and the little cat all reminded Keira of how much she was about to lose.

  Suck it up. Keira braced her shoulders, turned, and plucked a clean cup off the draining board. She added a tea bag and flexed her neck as she waited on the kettle. Your problems are obnoxiously trivial, everything considered. You’ve gone and attached yourself to this area, probably because you don’t remember anything before it. But Glendale could be equally nice. You might even make friends there. And I’d hazard to guess, it probably has its fair share of ghosts for you to worry over.

  Despite
trying to make light of the situation, Keira felt a fresh cut of grief as she remembered the trapped souls she was leaving behind. She inhaled deeply, plucked the kettle off its stand, and filled her mug. The rest of the water went toward cooking a bowl of rice. She leaned against the kitchen counter while the water boiled, her legs crossed and the cup clasped in her hands to ward off the early morning chills. She watched as Daisy finished her meal and went about exploring the cottage.

  I have one day left in this town. I should spend it wisely. If only Emma would talk to me, I’d know where to look, instead of running all over the countryside like this. She asked for help, which means her problem must have an answer I can find, but what else is there to explore?

  Keira only had one remaining theory: George Crispin hadn’t been the killer. It seemed increasingly unlikely after Adage’s testimony, but without any stronger lead, she had to follow it.

  “That’s the problem, though. What sort of evidence could survive forty years without the police finding it?” she asked Daisy, who was eyeing the wardrobe beside the bed.

  The cat crouched, wiggled her hind quarters, and leaped for the narrow ledge on top of the cupboard. She made it—barely—and Keira raised a cheer.

  The rice seemed close enough to being cooked, so Keira drained the excess water and ate it out of the saucepan. She ran over the conundrum in her mind as she chewed. The answer came to her after a moment, and it was so obvious that she could have smacked herself for not figuring it out earlier.

  For evidence to survive this long, it can’t be physical. It can’t be something that will decay or be washed away or break. It has to be something like…memories.

  Adage had said Emma’s closest friend was Polly Kennard. The florist had been so distressed by her companion’s death that she’d left the town for close to a decade. If anyone in Blighty was going to have the key to unmasking Emma’s killer, it would be Polly.