Her arm screamed in pain when she raised it to grab the brass handle, but she bit through it. She pushed down with every ounce of strength she had left, but the door wouldn’t budge.
“No, please, no.” Tears poured from her eyes again. The familiar scent of rot tickled her nostrils, and before panic could make master of her, something grabbed the back of her head and slammed her face against the glass. A deep star appeared in it, intricate as a spider’s web. Lindsay’s eyes rolled into the back of her head and she fought to stay conscious.
“You don’t get to leave yet. I told you I would fuck you to death.” The dry cold penis pushed into her exposed anus with such force that she almost fainted. He pressed her against the window, the cool glass a painful hard barrier for her soft warm breasts. The blood on her face left a smear on the cracked glass. Then the fingers pulled at her hair again, and he smashed her face into the glass several more times until it gave way, leaving only large jagged shards. Chuck pulled her head back one final time and drove her eye into one of the long spikes. The pain was brief. The glass cut through the soft tissue of her eye and embedded itself in her brain. Her body twitched a few times before it became still and Lindsey felt the house embrace her in the cold and the darkness.
***
Bonnie pressed herself against Emma, her body trembling with cold and fright. She wished that Emma hadn’t turned on the light, because the sight of the women was more than her sanity could handle. And yet, the idea that she would die in the dark didn’t appeal to her either. Her mind found it difficult to grasp what was going on around her. The scent of rotting flesh hung thick in the air, and though the women were obviously animate, they didn’t quite seem alive. There was something wrong with the colour of their skin, with the way their eyes were glassed over, the way dark blue veins lined their skin. It reminded Bonnie of the time she and her sister found Nana after she died in her sleep, but seeing the same deathly stare in the hollow-set eyes of the women who surrounded them was so much worse. Bonnie couldn’t conjure up a single moment in her life that was more terrifying than this one.
Her eyes darted to the right, where a homely looking woman with small, sagging breasts and a thick cluster of reddish brown pubic hair walked back and forth like a caged tiger in front of the other women. In her hands, she held a linked chain, which extended in three loose ends that dragged behind it like metal tails. Each end was tipped with a metal hook, and the links themselves were covered in steel spikes that pressed into the woman’s pale flesh. When she walked, the chain cut into her skin, causing thick lines of black blood to run down her back.
“Emma?” Bonnie had difficulty finding her voice.
“We need to move backwards, get to the stairs.” Emma spoke in low calm tones, the tears already drying on her cheeks, which gave Bonnie a surge of hope. Their hands found each other, and their fingers interlocked. Emma took a careful step back and Bonnie followed her lead exactly. Then another step, never looking away from the semicircle of women. The woman with the chain stopped and bared her teeth at the two girls. Bonnie stifled a scream. The thin woman pulled the chain from her shoulders, the skin ripping even further, and raised it above her head as if she were wielding a simple whip.
“Now,” Emma cried, and they turned to make a run for the stairs. To her horror, Bonnie saw that they were further away than she’d thought. How can they be that far? We just fell down them. How did we end up in the middle of the basement?
She picked up her pace, Emma a few steps ahead of her, still holding her hand, and then a metallic sound filled the basement. Emma stopped in her tracks as the three ends of the metal chain coiled around her, the hooks digging into her skin through the little black dress she wore. Emma looked at Bonnie, just for a brief second, but the expression of fear on her friend’s face broke Bonnie’s heart. Then Emma was pulled from her grip with such force that she stumbled to keep her balance. Emma landed on the floor, blood pouring from her wounds, and the naked woman leered as she pulled the struggling girl towards her, the way a cowboy would haul in cattle. Bonnie made a decision then, and she turned and ran. She was going to make it, she knew, and when her foot hit the first step, she almost smiled with relief, but then cold hands wrapped around her ankle and pulled. Bonnie lost her balance and fell, her chin connecting with the concrete stairs. Her jaw shattered, blood and teeth spilling from her lips. Her face skidded across the steps until she landed on the floor, the hands still pulling at her without mercy. She blacked out, and when she woke up, she was on her back. Above her, in a cobweb of metal, hung Emma. She was naked, like the women around her, and blood poured down from several cuts on her body and face, tinting her white skin red.
Bonnie attempted to call out her friend’s name through her shattered jaw, but all she was rewarded with was pain. She tried to move her arms and legs, but they were tied down, her limbs spread out. Emma’s face turned in her direction. Instead of eyes, she had hollow sockets from which blood poured; her tongue and teeth were missing too. One of the naked women, a tall, fat one with a chest like grey udders, put a large machete under Emma’s left breast. The round, firm flesh hung perkily over the metal. The ghoulish woman smiled at Bonnie, as if she were enjoying having an audience, then her smile turned into a wicked grimace and she brought the machete up, slicing neatly through the firm tissue. Emma screamed so loud, Bonnie’s bones vibrated under her skin. Her voice screamed along in unison with the painful wail of her friend.
The machete, dark red with blood, found its way to Emma’s belly, and the woman wielding the blade looked at Bonnie again. Bonnie wanted to look away, but somehow she couldn’t. It was as if someone was holding her head and she couldn’t close her eyes. Then the woman pushed the blade into Emma’s abdomen and cut across. A coil of wet, slippery intestines slid from the folds of open skin like a grey garden hose. Emma made a strange sound, somewhere between a cry and a moan, and then she hung still while her intestines uncoiled and fell to the floor with a wet thud.
Tears rolled from Bonnie’s eyes, past her ears, and round to the back of her neck. She was alone now, and she knew it would be her turn to die. The woman with the machete smiled at her again, revealing those horrible black teeth, then she pointed at something behind Bonnie. Two more women, one young and pretty with long blonde hair and soft features, the other old and haggard with grey hair and a long, bulbous nose, stood near a large metal device. Bonnie wasn’t sure what it was, or where it had come from, but it looked like a wheel from the Middle Ages. The two women each held a lever, and they started to turn. The wheel spun under the pressure, the sound of rattling chains filled the basement, and Bonnie’s arms and legs were pulled further apart. She lifted her head and looked around the room. The women had all gathered around her, their faces eager and hungry. The chains cut into her skin, pulling at her bones and muscle, and only then did Bonnie realise what was happening.
“No, please…” she moaned, but her words turned into screams when her limbs were stretched beyond their limits and her body was lifted into the air. Her eyes darted to the women who were turning the wheel; their momentum seemed to be gaining. Her muscles tore under the pressure and her bones slid from their sockets. With an agonising slowness, her skin began to tear, and Bonnie screamed with a pain she’d never before experienced. Blood gushed from the tears, welling up against her pale flesh. The scream only lasted a few seconds as she came apart. The last vision she had was of her legs flying in different directions, blood and tissue trailing behind them. Then the world went dark, and the house welcomed her soul into its midst.
Chapter 23
Oliver wasn’t at his usual spot at the breakfast table, and Freya thought about peeking around the corner of his bedroom to see if he was up. She decided against it, a little relieved that he wasn’t awake. Oliver seemed out of sorts lately, and his presence bothered her. She didn’t want anything to spoil the semi-good mood lingering from the night before. This was the first time since Bam had died that she felt anything other th
an deep rooted despair. True, the house was haunted, but she had spent a rather delightful evening with Logan, and it made her almost giddy… almost. She was ashamed by the knowledge that a man could have such an effect on her, and she promised herself that she wouldn’t take the Angel Manor ‘situation’ lightly just because she was falling in love. Oh God, I am… aren’t I… falling in love? I must have the worst timing ever. She poured herself some coffee and leafed through the picture book they’d found in the attic. She had given up on the notebook; someone else would have to decipher that one for her.
Yellowing tape held faded photographs to the pages. There were pictures of an older Angel Manor, of some of the owners, and of the interior. She didn’t recognise any of the people in the pictures until she saw a tired looking nun and a young woman standing in front of the ruins of what looked like an old church. Freya peeled the photograph from the page and turned it around. Written in faded pencil were the words: ‘Beth and Agatha, 1844. Convent of the Holy Angels.’
She’d seen the nun before… in the house, so Beth had to be her ancestor. She stared at the young woman. She appeared to be in her twenties. A piece of parchment paper was taped on the opposite page, a newspaper article from 1822.
‘Fire at Lucifer Falls – the Convent of the Holy Angels at the top of Lucifer Falls burned down last night during the summer solstice celebration. It is estimated that twenty-eight Brides of Christ and around fifty children between ages four and fourteen died in the fire. The only survivors are Sister Agatha and one of the orphans. The cause of the fire is as yet unknown, as is the fate of the convent. The church will decide whether or not to restore the holy order.’
Freya pictured the frightened faces of the ghostly children, and she suspected they hadn’t perished in the fire, that a deeper darkness had taken them. Her jolly mood dissolved as she turned back to the picture.
With a sigh, she pulled the piece of paper from her pocket again and studied the curly handwriting of her now dead friend.
Oh Bam, if only I had listened to you. If only I’d believed you, maybe you’d still be alive. Freya thought about how the house held on to its souls, and she wondered if Bam was roaming the halls too. She also wondered if the angels would torment Bam if they found her, and she had to push the thought away in fear of crying. She had to find peace for all those who were bound to Angel Manor, and if a psychic woman could help her with it, then so be it.
***
Just outside the small village to the east of Lucifer Falls, Freya found a spot where her mobile phone could pick up reception. She cursed herself for not thinking of it earlier instead of relying on payphones. A little recess in the underbrush allowed her to park her car safely to the side of the road, and she opened the driver’s door to let her legs dangle out of the side. Her fingers trembled as she dialled the number on the piece of paper. The phone rang a few times before a female voice, with the slightest hint of a French accent, answered.
“Hello?”
“Is this Miss, or Mrs, Florifera?”
“Speaking, dear. I’m a Miss, but you can call me Marie-Claire. How can I help you?”
“My friend Bambi called you a few weeks ago?”
“About the house on Lucifer Falls?” The voice sounded eager now. “Yes, I remember.”
“I… would like you and your people to come and have a look at it. It’s haunted, and… and… we need an expert.”
“I see. What did you have in mind? An exorcism?”
“Um… if that’s what’s needed. I don’t know what needs to be done. But there are spirits here and they’re stuck. I just need help.”
“Yes, Bambi told me that when we spoke. She wasn’t sure about the ghosts, but you seem pretty convinced?”
Freya wanted to blurt out that Bam was dead, and that she was afraid the house might have something to do with it, but she worried that if she said this, the woman would change her mind and not come.
“Yes, I’m very sure Angel Manor is haunted. Not a doubt in my mind.” Freya wondered if she sounded convinced or perhaps a little insecure because of the way her voice shook. “Can you help?”
“Of course. I can be there by tomorrow morning if you’d like. Would that be okay with you?”
“Yes, Miss. I appreciate it. Bam… Bam didn’t tell me about payment. How much do you charge?”
The woman on the other end of the phone laughed, her voice pleasant and warm.
“Keep your money, but I would like to use the pictures I take and the story of Angel Manor for a book I’ll be writing. If that’s okay with you? I don’t have to use your real name. I can change that much.”
“I don’t mind. But please, just come and help.”
“We’ll be there tomorrow around noon, dear. I’m looking forward to it. We hoped you would call, you know.”
“Thank you.” Freya said, brushing away a single tear. “I’ll make sure we’ll have some tea ready.”
The woman on the other end of the line laughed again, her voice as clear as a glass bell, and Freya felt deeply stupid for her comment.
“Can… can I ask you something?” Freya squeezed the phone, the sharp edges digging into the palm of her hand.
“Of course.”
Freya cleared her throat. “Have you ever heard about ghosts being dangerous? Have ghosts ever killed anyone?”
There was silence on the other end for a moment.
“That’s a tricky question. But if you mean can spirits cause physical damage, then you don’t have to worry. I’ve not come across any evidence that spirits are able to harm people. However, they can manipulate their surroundings. And they can influence the mood, and sometimes even the minds of the living, so they aren’t completely harmless either.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose and inhaled before she spoke. “But having them in the house… it’s not dangerous? I don’t have to evacuate everyone?”
“No, I think you should be fine. The spirits will most likely try to reach out to the living, though. So it will be good to help them pass on. But even malevolent spirits tend to just be mischievous at best, though I wouldn’t recommend anyone being exposed for a long period of time. The dead aren’t the same as they were when they were alive.”
Freya thought of Bam. “Thank you, that’s a bit of a relief.”
“No problem, dear. Listen, I have to run off now, but I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye!” The voice transformed into a dial tone and Freya’s thumb found the black button to put the phone into sleep mode. She leaned back, a deep breath escaping from her lungs through her lips, and let the tears flow.
***
Oliver woke up around noon. His head throbbed as if he had been on a three-day drinking binge, his forehead was hot and clammy, and he was pretty sure his temperature was raised. The more solid Anne was becoming, the more his body seemed to suffer from her touches. In the mornings, he felt so drained, and every muscle in his body ached, but her caresses, though cold and painful, were filled with lust and promise. She filled a void that Oliver had never even known he had. She was the perfection he sought. No living girl could compare to his spirit woman, and Oliver loved giving himself to her, and to the house.
The doorbell rang, the deep sound vibrating through the whole house, and Oliver slipped on his bathrobe and slippers. He walked to the door with slow, sluggish movements and opened it. A man stood in the driveway, inspecting the row of angels. When he spotted Oliver, he waved and took the stone stairs two steps at a time.
“Mr Formynder?”
“Jardin, my name is Jardin. Miss Formynder isn’t here right now.”
“My name is Harry McDougal, I’m here to install yer phone lines.” He was a middle-aged fellow with a thick beard which could have used a trim. Faded brown corduroy trousers clung to his thin legs, and his large belly was clad in a too-tight white t-shirt. A red plaid shirt hung open and loose, matching his red cap. In his right hand, he carried a square black case with a red sticker on the top.
“Come in,
Mr McDougal. Would you like a cup of coffee?” Oliver waved his hand to welcome the man in.
“Aye, black please, two sugars,” the man replied with a toothy grin, and Oliver almost grimaced at the sight of the yellow teeth, but he managed to keep his face pleasant.
“Coming right up.”
“As far as I know, this house has had a phone line before, right? We got a signal, but it just seemed rather outdated.” McDougal put his thumbs through the loops of his trousers and hoisted them up as he spoke, then rocked back and forth on the soles of his feet like a cowboy.
“Yes, I believe so.”
“I’ll have to see about ye’re master socket. It would be helpful if ye could show me ye’re junction box, then I can have a look to see what we’re dealing with here.” The man nodded. “I should be done in a jiffy, I should think.”
“But first… a cup of coffee.” Oliver forced a sickly smile.
“Aye, first coffee. Are ye okay, lad? Ye’re looking a little peaky.”
“I’m fine, thank you. A bit of flu,” Oliver lied. He led the man to the kitchen and offered him a chair.
“I was very excited when I got this job. This house is a bit of a legend ye know?” McDougal accepted the coffee cup and put his thin lips to the rim, his moustache spilling over the top.
“Oh?” Oliver tried to sound interested, but he wasn’t feeling it. He didn’t care what people said.
Angel Manor (Lucifer Falls Book 1) Page 22
