Angel Manor (Lucifer Falls Book 1)

by Noordeloos, Chantal

“If this place is haunted, I’m out of here,” Lyndon said, his hands moving with agitated gestures as he talked.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Lyndon.” John’s voice had the stern, no-nonsense tone of a drill sergeant.

  “Awww, is wittle Wyndon scawed of ghosts?” Roger pouted his lips and fluttered his eyelashes at Lyndon, who responded by punching him in the shoulder.

  “Shut up!”

  “Come on, guys, don’t fool around.” Logan glanced around the group. His stare was met with silence, and Freya wasn’t sure how to react herself. She wanted to be dismissive again, but wasn’t sure if she could a second time.

  “Let’s see what work needs to be done, okay?” He wiped his nose with a paper tissue and handed Freya one too. Bam had her own pack and she shared them with Oliver. Freya was amazed that Bam appeared to be taking the bloody nose so well, acting very calm as far as she could tell, but she didn’t trust it one bit. She’d heard the panic in her voice only minutes before, which left her wondering if Bam was just afraid of Oliver’s wrath.

  Oliver, who seemed rather unperturbed by the whole thing, grabbed one of the builder’s lights and beckoned to Freya. “Let’s go check out how many rooms there are.”

  Freya nodded, deciding this was neither the time nor the place to push the nosebleed matter, and followed Oliver. She looked back at Logan and smiled at him. He returned it with a small salute with his index and middle finger. The young crew seemed to be ill at ease after the nosebleed incident, but the strict voice of John Norris cut through the stillness of the East Wing, forcing the boys to focus on their tasks.

  There were fourteen rooms on the bottom floor in total, all various sizes and in various states of disrepair. Someone had painted the windows black, and the light from outside struggled to get through the parts where the paint had peeled, casting eerie shadow patterns across the floor. The most unnerving of all was an old dining room. The floor was covered with broken crockery lying in shards across the decaying carpet. A broad antique table, which looked to be in rather decent shape, was surrounded by eight high-backed Victorian chairs. The velvet on the seat cushions had worn thin and frayed, but otherwise there was little damage. A large centrepiece sat on the table. Freya guessed it used to have flowers, but only an elaborate vase remained, covered in cobwebs that spread out from the centre to the rim like a fragile tent. Through the delicate webbing, Freya saw plates, cups, and cutlery made of silver. Oliver plucked at the cobwebs to reveal more of the perfectly-set table. He pulled out a sizeable silver serving dish, the ladle clinging to a black sticky substance lining the inside.

  “That’s a little creepy. I wonder why this table is still set, and how long it’s been here.”

  “I find this whole place unsettling.” Freya rubbed her arms. “I think it would be best if I don’t come back in here until it’s all been stripped bare. It’s just freaking me out too much.”

  “It’s just a house, Frey,” Oliver warned, his tone sounding like an automatic response, his eyes firmly focused on the table.

  “This is exactly the kind of darkness my mother is afraid of. I don’t need to feel this kind of crazy. Set tables in dark rooms… cobwebs, it’s more than I can handle.”

  Oliver blew a stray curl from his cheek. “You’re being stupid.”

  “Maybe, but I like to think I’m more problem eschewing. I’m going to stay in the part of the house that doesn’t look like it’s Pinhead’s vacation home, and I’m taking Bam with me. She’s been acting crazy enough lately. I don’t need her in hysterics either.”

  “Fine, stay in the West Wing. You’ll only be in the way here, anyway.”

  She touched his shoulder but he pulled away. “You’re so tetchy lately. I feel that every time I say anything negative about this house, I’m insulting you somehow. What’s up with that?” The muscles in his neck stood out, and she saw how tense his shoulders were.

  “I need this to work, Frey. I don’t want to go back home to my old life. It was bad, and this is a new chance for me. There’s something about this house… it just speaks to me. Whispers sweet nothings in my ear about having my own kitchen, cooking the food I want to cook. It will be awesome. Imagine if this takes off? Imagine if guests come to this hotel just to taste my food?” Freya pushed her hands in her pockets and rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. It had been a while since she’d seen that spark in Oliver’s eyes. For a moment, she’d forgotten that this meant more to him than it did to her, that this was living his dream. Or at least part of it. He had always wanted to cook, and the hotel would provide the perfect opportunity for him to do so. While she was worried about hiring hotel staff and working the front desk, Oliver was dreaming of kitchens and menus.

  Freya let out a deep sigh and slapped the side of her leg with some determination. “I’m sorry. I need to stop being such a big baby about this place.”

  “No, that’s okay. I think it might be better if you stay in the West Wing. When the rest is done, when this place doesn’t look so filthy anymore, you won’t feel so freaked out.”

  “I think I let Bam get to me. The bloody noses were pretty freaky.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know what keeps causing that, but I have to admit, that weirded me out a little too.” He nudged her with his elbow. “Disadvantage of staying on the west side of the house is that you’ll see less of Mr Fantastic.”

  Freya flicked Oliver’s ears with her thumb and forefinger.

  “I think that might be a good thing.” Freya shook her head. “I’m going to grab Bam and take her with me to the supermarket.”

  “Don’t forget to get loo paper.” They smiled at each other and Freya turned to leave. For a moment, she froze as she looked into a pale female face with gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes.

  “Oliver…” she gasped.

  “What?”

  She wanted to tell him about what she’d seen, but it was gone as fast as it had appeared, and Freya wondered if she’d seen it at all.

  “Er… do we need more bread?” She didn’t dare say anything else.

  “No, we’re okay for bread. When we get the new kitchen installed, I might start making my own.”

  “That sounds great.” Her voice cracked slightly, but she doubted Oliver had noticed the uncertainty. Freya stumbled out the door, the blood drawn from her face, the lime debris unstable beneath her feet. Déjà vu tugged at her mind, nudging her to remember something from years ago. She had been here before… no, not here… it had been in the South Hall. The one time she’d come with her mother. The memory was so vague. Aunt Miriam and mom were fighting in the living room, and the wings hadn’t been closed off then. She closed her eyes and suddenly she remembered the incident as clear as day.

  Paul, the eldest of her cousins, took her hand and told her: “This house has secrets. There’s a monster here, and if you listen carefully, you can hear him cry.”

  The hallway had appeared so long to her infant eyes. The roof was high, and the large windows let in bright rays of light that reflected off the shining marble floor. Their steps still echoed through Freya’s memory, and if she concentrated, she could hear their voices.

  “I’m afraid.”

  “You should be. Our monster is really scary. It lives in the basement.”

  Freya’s heart raced, and her little palm was sweaty and slick against Paul’s skin.

  “Do you want to see it?”

  She nodded, her throat too thick and dry to answer. Her knees wobbled, but she steadied herself. They walked further down the hallway to the middle, where the sunbeams diminished and the shadows deepened. Behind a stout metal door lay the basement. A large chain hung to one side, wrapped around a crank. Paul pushed down on it, and the door creaked open.

  “Why do you have to do that?”

  “Because, if the monster escapes, we need to be able to close the door quickly.” Paul gave her a pinched smile. He was a rather unattractive boy, Freya noted. His hair was flame-red, and his face was long and milky white, splat
tered with honey-coloured freckles. Pale grey eyes, as grey as her own, peered from beneath barely visible golden eyebrows.

  “Are you too afraid to go down there?”

  “No.” It was a lie. She was terrified, but she didn’t want him to see her fear. With a raised chin, and a knotted stomach, she placed her foot on the first step. Once more, she glanced back at Paul, who towered over her, his face set in a curious grimace. Then she turned and walked down the stairs, her steps slow but deliberate. When she reached the bottom, a loud bang, followed immediately by darkness, told her that the door had been shut. Something grabbed her around the neck and pulled her back. Freya screamed, and a warm stream of urine bloomed in her tights, leaving a hot damp trail against the grey wool. Somewhere through a haze of panic, she heard laughter, but she couldn’t focus enough on it to stop wailing. She kicked out, and the hands let her go with a curse.

  “Shut up you stupid brat!” The voice was young and familiar… a boy. Freya fell to the ground and sobbed until her throat was a dry, raw mess.

  “You’re such a baby.”

  The door above opened and the light poured in, streaming down the stairs like a waterfall of safety. Paul’s figure cast a looming shadow against the light. Lucas and Constance hovered over her, but Freya kept her eye on the door, determined to escape.

  “Did it work?”

  “Didn’t you hear her scream?”

  “No, dummy, you can’t hear a thing once the door is closed.”

  “Get up.” Constance pulled at her arm, but Freya shrugged her off. “Don’t be so stupid. Get up. Or we’ll leave you down here with the real monster.” Constance pointed at a second door just visible on the other side of the basement.

  Much like her brothers, Constance had a long, horsey face, pale and freckled. Her mouth was more gums than teeth, which made her look a little slow. With the back of her hand, Freya wiped the cooling tears from her cheeks. She sniffed and looked at her cousins, then got up.

  “What you did was really mean.” Her voice was still strangled from crying. She took a few steps back until her heel hit the stairs.

  “Watch out for the salt, you daft cow.” Lucas grabbed her arm and pulled her forward.

  A hint of genuine fear crossed Constance’s bland features. “Fix it,” she hissed. “Put the salt back.”

  Paul hurried down the stairs, and suddenly all three children were brushing the scattered salt into a neat line, their eyes round with terror. Freya blinked, and her eyes scanned the floor and the stairways. Words she could not read were daubed on the walls with black paint, accompanied by symbols that made her skin crawl.

  “What is this place?”

  Paul got to his feet and stood right in front of her, his pale grey eyes hard. “A prison.” As if to confirm his words, a loud noise, as if someone was beating a rod against a metal door, clanged through the basement.

  “What was that?” Her voice quivered. Constance just shook her fiery red head, her braids swaying across her shoulders. “I don’t think this is funny.”

  “You need to check the lock, Paul.” Lucas turned to his brother, whose eyes were transfixed on the door at the end of the basement. “You need to see if it’s still safe.” Paul froze for a moment, and then he raised his hand. Freya saw his fingers tremble.

  “Paul, go.” Constance’s voice seemed to snap the older boy out of his trance, and he ran towards the door. Freya wanted to take a step forward to see what he was doing, but Lucas pulled her arm again.

  “No you don’t. Upstairs with you. You don’t need to be here.” His mouth was a thin line. “Now go.”

  He didn’t have to tell her twice.

  Freya turned and ran.

  ***

  She hadn’t thought about the incident in years, and Freya was surprised at how deeply she’d suppressed the memory. But now it seemed as if it had happened yesterday, and even the faces of her cousins, who had been no more than pale blurs in her mind, were now sharp and clear. The thought of the basement made her skin crawl. She knew it had been just her cousins playing a trick on her, but she had been so young and impressionable at the time, and that childhood fear still lingered. A shiver ran up her spine and an acid taste rose up her throat.

  Pull yourself together, girl. Now you’ve got yourself seeing actual ghosts. They don’t exist; you’re just letting your imagination get the better of you, Freya told herself, but her whole being screamed, I don’t want to be here.

  Chapter 8

  The curtains billowed in the gentle breeze, the folds of fabric flapping with a continuous rhythm while shadows danced across the floor. The night was muggy, and the air hung thick in the bedroom, creating pearls of sweat on Bam’s near-naked skin. She wore a sheer chemise nightdress, a baby pink colour, with a matching pair of knickers. The set wasn’t exactly comfortable, though it felt cool enough, but Bam had a suspicion that Oliver would knock on her door that night. He had told her that he wanted to discuss something with her, and that he would come find her later. Of course when he came, she would pretend that she’d merely forgotten and had dressed for bed. She didn’t even care if he believed her or not. However, the idea of opening the door to him like this was enough to make her jittery.

  If only it wasn’t so stiflingly hot. Bam had opened all the windows, and still the room felt oppressive. She’d pushed all the curtains of her four-poster bed open to let in as much fresh air as possible, and the blankets lay discarded on the floor. The room was lighter than normal, the moon and stars peering through the open window like welcome guests. Bam fell back onto her bed and exhaled. Things had been crazy in the house ever since the builders had arrived, and she thought it might be a good idea to take a break soon, maybe get away for a few days. Freya was so uptight about the house, and Oliver was just busy the whole time. Bam hadn’t felt comfortable since the day she’d seen blood on the walls, and the opening of the East and South Wings hadn’t increased her love for the house. She closed her eyes and tried to think cool thoughts.

  A soft breeze tickled her right leg, as if fingers were tracing their way from her knee to her thigh. When she felt it again, Bam bolted upright. But there was nothing there, and she pulled a face at her own paranoia. When she’d first seen the cobwebs, she’d been afraid that the whole house would be riddled with spiders, and she still hadn’t been able let go of that idea. She laughed at herself and lay back down on the bed, but as soon as she closed her eyes, she felt another tickle in the same place. This time she merely raised her head, and to her surprise, she saw a dark shadow move near the foot of the bed. Quick as a snake, Bam pulled her legs up and crawled to the headboard. She hugged her knees, looking into the darkness with wide eyes and a pounding heart.

  “Who’s there?” she whispered. “Oliver?”

  The darkness remained silent, but a chill had enveloped the room. The heat wasn’t nearly as oppressive as it had been only seconds ago. She crawled back to the foot of the bed and pulled on the blankets lying on the floor. Her eyes scanned the dark, and she did consider running to the living room where Freya and Oliver were probably still watching TV.

  Something moved again in the black, and she yelped, pulling the covers up to her chin with a jerk and sliding back towards the headboard.

  “F… Freya?” her voice trembled as she covered herself with the blankets, hoping they would somehow magically protect her. “This isn’t funny, guys, I’m really scared.” There was a whine to her tone, and she could feel the tears sting behind her eyes. The blankets were twisted in a knot, and no matter how hard she kicked and squirmed, she couldn’t get the fabric to cover her.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw movement to the right, and she heard strange hollow footsteps around the room. A tear escaped the corner of her eye while a taste of bile climbed her throat into her mouth. Floorboards creaked.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” More tears spilled from her eyes, and she sat curled up tight against the headboard, still fighting to get the covers in place.


  “Shhhhht.”

  Bam wasn’t sure if she’d heard a voice or if it was the wind playing tricks on her, but the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

  “Bambi.”

  She was sure it was a voice now, and to her horror, she realised who it belonged to.

  “No.” The word came out of her mouth as a moan, and she pulled her knees tighter to her chest, the blankets now forgotten. She pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes with such force that her eyeballs stung. “No, I’m dreaming and you’re not real.”

  “Have… you… missed… me?” The voice was slow, sounding as if each intake of air was a struggle, each word a battle.

  “You’re not real. You died. You can’t be here.”

  But she knew her words were empty, because her brother’s place was at her side. Wasn’t that something he had always stressed? How connected they were?

  A figure stepped from the shadows. Not a person… he was too frayed at the edges to be real. Instead, he looked like a reflection peering up from dark, muddy waters, rippling in the current.

  A sob, the kind that made her throat feel like she’d swallowed nails, escaped from somewhere deep in her soul, and the tears flowed freely now. “Chuck.” The word came out in a wet heart-breaking lament. Grief pulled her shoulders and head down as if gravity had increased, and her mind was drowning in a flood of memories and emotions. “Oh, Chuck.” She rested her temple on her knees and gazed at the shape of her dead brother through her tears.

  The figure floated closer, the temperature in the room dropping a few degrees. Goosebumps rippled up Bam’s skin in a flash. Her whimper was barely audible, but her body was immobilised in a combination of terror and fascination. Seeing her brother again tugged at her heartstrings. Her relationship with Chuck had not been a healthy one in his lifetime, but it had been a familiar one. Seeing him brought forth a longing she’d forgotten she had, the feeling of being part of something. Of being important.

  “Bambi.” The whispering voice was gentle. Invisible fingers stroked her cheek with a touch as light as breath. “You brought me here, Sis. I can exist here. I can be with you again, if you let me.”