Chantal Noordeloos
Angel Manor by Chantal Noordeloos
First published in 2014 by
Horrific Tales Publishing
This edition published in March 2015
http://www.horrifictales.co.uk
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Copyright © 2014 Chantal Nooordeloos
The moral right of Chantal Noordeloos to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
eBook Edition
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
"[Chantal's] writing pins you in place and delves deep into your soul to find those things you'd rather keep hidden. It is sharp, focused, and direct. It strikes when you least expect it and burrows into your soft, unprotected places. The heart. The brain. The guts. The soul."
JG Faherty, Bram Stoker and ITW Thriller-nominated author of Carnival of Fear, Legacy, and Fatal Consequences. [email protected]
Acknowledgments
Ahhh, the acknowledgments… my moment to thank everyone who has helped me through the insanity of publishing a book. This is the moment where I get to dazzle everyone with beautiful words that will make those special people feel invaluable. In truth this actually the moment where I sit in front of a blank screen for hours, feeling the train of blind panic approaching the station, because I want to get it right... but I don't know what to say.
*cracks knuckles* So... here goes nothing.
This is to all of you who believe in me. Who take the time to pick up this book, or any other work written by me, and read me. To those of you who take the time to write a review (I love you for it)
I have to wave my pom-poms for the very awesome Stephen Bryant who made my cover. He took my ideas and made something so stunning that the first time I saw it, I may have gotten a little teary eyed.
A great big thank you to my editors, Lisa Jenkins and Simon Marshall Jones, who have made this manuscript into a real book. Who have hunted down all my mistakes and beaten them in submission.
A hug and a kiss to my awesome beta readers, Vix Kirkpatrick and Kerri Patterson, who read the manuscript when it was still far too big and messy. They gave me their time, critical eye and honest opinion... what more could a writer want? You girls are amazing.
And finally all the love to the people who got me through the rough moments. A special shout out to my loving husband, Daan Noordeloos, and to my very dear friend Jim McLeod, who both have my back when I need them to.
I am very fortunate to have so many great people who support me. Even if I didn't mention you by name in this acknowledgment, know that you mean the world to me. Thank you all.
To Graeme, who is the Statler to my Waldorff.
To my nun-fearing Jim, who will always haunt my pages,
And to Chris, whose voice will forever chase my demons away.
Prologue
Summer Solstice 1822
The blood trickled over the sagging breasts of the Mother Superior, staining her white skin crimson. The limp body of a five-year-old boy hung slack in her arms.
“Reverend Mother…” Sister Agatha’s voice trembled. “There must be a kinder way to kill the child, one not so… inhumane?”
The nun looked up at her, her wrinkled face a canvas of red splatter framing pale-blue eyes which almost seemed to glow. The older woman straightened herself, letting the child drop with a wet smack, her wrinkled hand still wrapped around one of his arms as the lower part of his body hung slack against her ankle. He looked like a limp doll, a toy she hadn’t quite finished playing with.
The nun’s lips curled into a sneer, and her eyes narrowed. “Sister Agatha, I know you are new to the order, but when you took your holy vows, you were instructed in the rules of the convent. This is your first solstice, and I understand that our methods may seem harsh to a newcomer, but we have a sacred duty.” The woman dropped the arm and stepped over the young boy. Trails of blood trickled down her torso and across her legs, covering them in a slick red layer. “Do you think I enjoy this?”
“Yes,” Sister Agatha wanted to scream, “You’ve lived too long in this world of torment and murder, and it has turned you into a monster.”
“No, Reverend Mother.” Agatha lowered her eyes, focusing on the blood pooling around the young boy’s body.
“I know this isn’t easy, Sister.” Calloused hands grasped her cheek and chin, forcing her to look into those terrible eyes. “But we follow God’s will. If we don’t, the consequences will be disastrous, and for more than just a handful of unwanted children. No one cares for these wretched souls.”
I do, Sister Agatha thought, but she held her tongue. The screams of dying children reverberated through the stone convent. Her eyes pleaded with the Mother Superior.
“Have you considered the ritual that I found? It would save so many of them. There would be no need for all this bloodshed.”
“You would ask us to make such a great personal sacrifice for a ritual that might not work?” The older woman shook her head, a condescending smile playing on her wrinkled lips. “Sister Agatha, we’ve discussed this. There is only one way to ensure the safety of the seal, and we can’t take any risks. This is not a game.” The blood-stained hand moved down Sister Agatha’s neck, passing over her shoulder, and gripped her bare arm, squeezing the flesh. “We thought you were ready for this when you made your vows. You are no stranger to death. You were especially chosen for the blood already on your hands.”
Agatha’s voice was barely above a whimper. “I am indeed no stranger to blood and death, but I killed sick and deformed children, not healthy ones. I’ve never seen such gratuitous torment as I have here.” Her eyes darted around the chapel to the naked figures of the other Sisters. The sound of lashes drew her eyes to the stout figure of Sister Helene, who cracked a long bullwhip across the backs of a trio of bound children, each no older than seven. Their fragile skin tore as the leather thong licked across their flesh, spilling crimson tears.
In the centre of the chapel hung a twelve-year-old boy, suspended upside down from black ropes. The blade of a large rust-covered saw sliced through the flesh of his groin, a red waterfall gushing from the wound, spraying across his chest and face. The agonised screams the boy made sounded otherworldly, every morbid vibrato note hammering against Agatha’s mind. A wave of nausea hit the back of her throat.
The bodies of fallen children lay scattered around the room, their blood coagulating in a pool covering over half the chapel floor. The whimpers coming from the survivors were little more than a pitiful hum.
Agatha had thought her mission noble when she’d first joined the order, but this suffering overwhelmed her with nausea and regret. There was a better way than this needless waste of young life; Agatha was sure of it.
“We could save thousands of lives by sacrificing but a few. Sister Anne and I have studied the texts, and we’re pretty confident we can do it… tonight even. We’ve made all the preparations, just in case you changed your mind. The sacrifice required is relatively small compared—”
The Reverend Mother’s hand lashed out, connecting with Agatha’s cheek with a loud crack. Pain spread out in t
iny pinpricks across her face. Shocked, she clutched her face and looked at the Mother Superior.
“Enough of this!” Spittle flew from the Reverend Mother’s lips. “Your rituals are pagan. We serve our Lord here as we were instructed. You had best mind what blasphemous words you utter here, Sister Agatha. The Lord does not look kindly upon heathens.” The older woman’s face relaxed slightly, and her expression turned from angry to stern. “We will never speak of this again. Now go and make the sacrifices required of us.” The old woman shoved her forward with a force that belied her frail appearance. Agatha slipped on a puddle of blood, her legs sprawling under her like an awkward doe’s. She fell to the ground, her wrists and elbow hitting the floor hard. Pain shot up through her arms, her naked body shivering on the cold stones. She looked up to see the Mother Superior walk away, leaving bloody footsteps in her wake. Agatha’s eyes followed her until she passed the body of little Margaret. The young girl lay with her neck twisted at an impossible angle, eyes staring lifelessly at the horror within the chapel.
I must find Anne. Sister Agatha scrambled to her feet, her hands and legs stained with cold, sticky blood. She glanced at the carnage around her and then she ran, the soles of her feet slapping against stone, the impact rattling her teeth.
She ran from the chapel, through the narrow passages, and across the great cloister. The Sister felt the cold eyes of the twelve stone angels lining the walls of the large open area look down on her. Slowing her pace, she glanced up at the imposing statues. Even knowing stone couldn’t judge her, she found it difficult not to imagine God peering down through those blank eyes. A shudder ran through her spine, and she picked up her pace, not stopping until she reached the library.
“Anne…” Her voice reverberated off the high walls, echoing parts of her words back at her. “Sister Anne?”
A voice came from behind her. “Sister Agatha…”
Agatha turned to face her ally. Anne was dressed in a long, white chemise, her red hair loose and flowing like liquid fire over her shoulders. Anne ran down the stairs, the white nightgown fluttering behind her.
“Did you inform the Reverend Mother that we are ready to perform the ritual?”
“I tried.” Agatha bit her lip, tasting the salt of her own sweat. “She won’t listen to me. She thinks the ritual is too pagan, that it would be an insult to God. And she believes that the risk is too great.”
Anne’s face fell and she shook her head. “I cannot believe that the sacrifice we make during the solstice and the equinox is God’s will. It would be foolish not to at least try. Think of all the lives we could save… I don’t understand why…”
A thought formed in Agatha’s mind. “Can we perform the ritual ourselves?”
“What?”
“Can we perform the ritual ourselves? Without the help of the order.”
“We… we could, but the sacrifice would be much greater. The Sisters might share the children’s fate. And we still need a willing sacrifice along with the victims.”
The light of the fading sun streamed through the stained glass window, illuminating the picture of an angel. His wings were spread, and he covered his face in an expression of shame. The light danced off Agatha’s blonde locks as she straightened herself.
“I will be the willing sacrifice.”
Anne gasped, putting her delicate fingers in front of her mouth.
“But it was your task to act as Guardian. To ensure the spell stays in place… to teach future generations how to keep the seal from breaking.”
“That task will be yours. There is no one else. Anne, if we want this bloodshed to stop, if we want these to be the last victims, we have no other choice.”
Faint screams echoed through the convent. The candles flickered as an unfelt wind blew past them, casting dark elongated shadows across the bookshelves.
Anne sighed. “I agree, as you said… there is no other choice. Very well, I shall take on the task of Guardianship. But if this doesn’t work…” Sister Anne clutched her chemise tightly around her neck and shuddered at the thought.
“Then you must continue what the order of the Angels started, Anne. You must create a new order.”
“I don’t know if I can… not on my own.”
“Do you have any other choice?”
Anne’s shoulders sagged. “That’s what it all boils down to now, isn’t it? Choice.” The two women stared at each other, the tension apparent on their young faces, until a nearby scream broke their eye contact. Anne looked up to the last hints of sunlight glimmering through the window.
“We must act quickly. The sun is setting, and I will need the last of the daylight to perform the ritual. We need the power of the solstice.”
“What must I do?” Sister Agatha’s voice and body trembled. She’d seen plenty of death, but facing her own was different. Her mortality weighed heavily on her, but the thought of those children’s faces was too much for her to bear. Sister Anne grabbed a book that lay open on one of the rough oak tables, the thin paper threatening to fall apart in her hands.
“I need you to draw this symbol on the floor.” Sister Anne’s finger pressed down so hard on the page that the tip went white. “It needs to be large enough for you to lie in the middle.” She handed the book to Agatha, who was surprised by the weight of it. The leather felt smooth in her hand, and the pages smelled of time long past and a little of mildew. Sister Agatha stared at the symbol. To her relief it was no more complicated than a circle with a triangle on the inside.
“I think that shouldn’t be too hard a task, as long as you don’t expect the circle to be perfectly round. What do I draw with?” She looked over the top of the book, and the expression on the other woman’s face made her heart sink. “What?”
“You need to draw it in the blood of a virgin.”
“All the children are virgins.” Agatha thought about the bodies in the chapel.
“Taking the blood of the dead children isn’t enough, Sister Agatha. That won’t make it a sacrifice. You must find a living victim for the blood circle; otherwise, you will interfere with the magic of the spell.”
Agatha nodded, her face a mask of conviction, and turned on her heel. The slow, heavy drumbeat of determination pounded in her chest as she strode back towards the chapel. A movement caught her eye, and she turned to see Beth, the youngest of the children, slip past one of the stone angels. Beth was only four years old, and she was Sister Agatha’s favourite. The girl was exceptionally smart for her age.
“Beth?” Her voice quavered when she spoke. The girl looked at her with big, grey eyes from under blood-matted black curls, her bottom lip trembling.
“Come here, child.” Sister Agatha squatted and held her arms open. The girl’s face was filled with doubt, but after a few seconds she ran into Agatha’s bare arms. The small limbs wrapped around her, the tiny face nestled in the crook of her neck, and Agatha felt how cold the child’s skin was. She slid her hand over the girl’s shoulder and tangled her fingers in the mass of curls at the back of her head. Her slender fingers closed around a tuft of hair and she yanked the child away from her. Her mouth was a thin line, her eyes hard. Sister Agatha scrambled to her feet, her fingers still clinging on to the little girl’s hair. She wanted to say something comforting, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she pulled Beth along while the angels looked down on her. Beth struggled, but the child’s strength was no match for hers, and the nun could tell that the little girl was exhausted. It has been a long day.
Agatha stopped at the large wooden doors, throwing the girl to the ground before them with more force than she intended. A sense of urgency coursed through her body as she fumbled with the latch, and after a brief struggle, she managed to open the door. The scent of fresh grass, intermingled with the faint smell of wild flowers, greeted her, and Sister Agatha felt the last lingering warmth of the setting summer sun on her naked body. She beckoned for the child to come closer.
“Beth…” Her words were no more tha
n an urgent hiss, and she pointed her finger at the floor next to her. “Beth, I don’t have time for this, come here.” The girl blinked at her and crawled closer. Sister Agatha grabbed the child again and hoisted her to her feet.
“I’m afraid.” The girl’s voice was sharp with panic.
“As well you should be. I need you to do something, Beth. I need you to run far away from here. Don’t look back. Don’t tell anyone what you have seen here or where you came from. Can you do that, Beth?”
The little girl nodded, tears pouring down her face, and she wiped the snot from her nose with the back of her hand. The only garment she had on was an off-white shift, but at least she wasn’t naked like most of the other children.
“Don’t send people to the convent, Beth. This is a bad place. You have to keep our secret.” The girl nodded again, her face filled with hesitation, and after a small pause, she pressed her body against Agatha’s in a brief hug.
“Go now.”
The nun watched the girl run from the convent, towards the valley the locals called ‘Lucifer Falls’. Then, as quickly as she could, she closed the door and replaced the latch. An overwhelming sob rose in her throat. Sister Agatha walked away from the door, but fell to her knees only a few steps further. She looked at the stone angel standing only a few feet away, its finger pointing as if it were condemning her actions.
“Forgive me, Lord. I had to save one…” Tears ran past her cheeks and trickled in lukewarm paths down her neck. “Just one.” The rays of the sun slowly retreated across the floor and she remembered Sister Anne’s warning that time was running short. Without any further hesitation, she ran to the kitchen and found what she needed. Her hand wrapped around the handle of a large knife, and she turned to run again.
“Sister Agatha…”
Agatha froze, her shoulders tense, as she looked up into the face of the Mother Superior. The nun’s voice was harsh and demanding. Agatha hid the knife behind her back.
Angel Manor (Lucifer Falls Book 1) Page 1
