Angel Manor (Lucifer Falls Book 1)

by Noordeloos, Chantal

  A pale arm wrapped itself around his chest, and fingers pinched his chin, forcing him to look at Darren, who was retreating towards the window.

  The young man pleaded with the advancing females, holding a thin silver crucifix up in the air in an attempt to ward them off. Ruben knew that was the kind of superstitious nonsense that could only work for a true believer. Unfortunately, Ruben suspected that it didn’t really matter whether Darren was one or not. These ladies were nothing like the spirits he had ever encountered. These naked females seemed to be moulded from flesh and blood, the same as the living. The women closed in on Darren, who had run out of places to manoeuvre to, and they raised the metal spikes in their hands. Darren fought back, but they each grabbed one of his arms, and though Ruben could see him struggle, they held on to him as if it didn’t matter. He kicked and snapped his teeth at them, but the women remained unperturbed. They pushed him into the window, pinning him under their weight, and then brought the spikes down into his closed eyes. Darren screamed, and Ruben’s stomach burned with terror. He couldn’t look away. The hand had his face pinned, and when he closed his eyes, the sharp points of the clippers pierced his back. The rusted metal cut through his shirt and the top layer of his skin, drawing hot blood that stuck to his clothes. He opened his eyes again and felt the metal retreat from his back.

  Darren still screamed, and the two women, working with the elegance of synchronised swimmers, pulled back their spikes. Darren’s eyeballs came out of their sockets, trailing spidery webs of bloody tissue along with them. Gravity became too much for the wounded man, and he sagged to the ground. The women inspected the eyeballs, each moving as the exact mirror image of the other. Thin fingers gripped the soft tissue as they pulled the eyes free. With satisfied smiles, they popped the eyeballs between their teeth and swallowed them before lifting their spikes in the air once more and clinking them together in a grotesque toast. Then they turned back to Darren, driving the spikes into his arms, torso, legs and face as they saw fit, while he desperately fought to defend himself. Thick, dark blood oozed up from deep cuts, but the spikes drove home time and again. His face was mutilated, his jaw hung slack against his neck, and his ear had been torn clean off. Ruben’s knees buckled once more. The woman behind him lost her grip for a brief second, and he struggled from her grasp and ran. Her fingers touched the cloth of his shirt, but sheer terror gave him a speed he didn’t know he possessed. He almost stumbled over his own feet, but he managed to regain his balance. Ruben was determined to find Marie-Claire if it was the last thing he’d ever do. His heart pounded in his throat as he made his way to the end of the corridor.

  It’s not going to be a dead end this time, he thought with a mixture of desperation and determination. It’s not because I won’t allow it to be. He barely noticed the horde of women walking through the corridor behind him, and he didn’t allow himself to look back. The door loomed out of the darkness, and Ruben threw himself towards it. He wasn’t out of the woods yet, but there was hope.

  Chapter 30

  She had been lost for hours when the clock struck twelve, and Freya’s anxiety was building with each passing minute. Then the screams began, and the stress was too much for her body to bear. A wave of nausea hit her and the yellowish liquid she vomited splashed on the marble floor, oozing in different directions. The sight of it made her sick a second time, and the noxious pool on the floor grew. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and moved as far away from the mess as she could.

  The house was like a maze, and it seemed alive somehow. The corridors refused to stay the same, and though she hadn’t seen a single set of stairs yet, she was sure she had run through several different floors. The impossibility of what was happening was no longer relevant. Freya just needed to stay alive. The screams from below gave her renewed energy, and she knew she had to find a way out. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to find more: the front door or Marie-Claire and her team. Her solitude was the most frightening of all, and she regretted running away from Oliver; he may have gone completely crazy, but at least he was another person.

  Something stirred in the darkness beyond. A figure. Freya’s heart leapt, and she ran towards the movement.

  “I’m here,” she cried. “I’m so lost. Please help me.”

  The figure turned, and Freya stopped in her tracks. It was a woman, old and naked. The sight of her was so unexpected and ridiculous that Freya fought to stifle a laugh.

  “Who are you?” The words escaped her mouth before she realised what she was doing. “Are… are you one of the spirits?”

  The woman looked too real to be a spirit. She looked alive. No… not quite alive; her skin was too pale, and the black veins that shone through it were too dark. There was something about her eyes too, and Freya wondered if the woman was blind like Florifera.

  “You are the child of the blood.” Her black mouth was lined with deep gashes, and the teeth inside were dull grey stumps covered in dark mucus. They reminded Freya of the substance they’d found on the walls on the first day.

  “Pardon?” Freya blinked and took an involuntary step back.

  “I can smell it. You are a guardian.” The old woman raised her head and sniffed the air. Her grey hair hung in wet strands across her wrinkled cheeks, the ashen skin of her scalp showing between the thin roots.

  “Eh… where exactly did you come from?” Her mind struggled desperately to catch up with the situation.

  “Come here, child. You have a role to fulfil.”

  “What role would that be?”

  “The master who sleeps demands sacrifices. We don’t want him to wake now, do we?”

  “Uhm, no?”

  “He demands your blood, child. And your suffering.”

  Freya took another step back, and the stooped figure stepped forward, beckoning her with a gnarled hand. “Come, child. Let me bathe in your blood.” The woman’s hand opened and closed, but the hungry expression on her old face was enough to snap Freya out of her trance, and the girl turned and ran.

  The rubber soles of her Doc Martin’s made a screeching sound on the marble as she skidded across the corridor. She heard the bare footsteps of the old woman behind her, too close for comfort, and her heart leapt when she came to the end and saw a set of stairs leading upwards. She grasped the wood railing and hoisted herself forward as fast as she could, taking two steps at a time. Something grabbed her ankle, and Freya screamed.

  ***

  The spirits in the attic were hysterical, and Logan struggled to have a clear thought. The ghostly children ran and screamed, which was bad enough by itself, but their fear affected the house somehow. Walls built up out of nowhere, and the ground beneath them cracked open in dark gaping chasms that led to the floor below yet wouldn’t stay open long enough for anyone to actually jump through.

  He needed to keep a level head and get his guys away from danger, but Logan couldn’t think of a way how. The screaming, the chaos, and the constant changes grated on his last nerve, and he had to do his best not to break down. John and Jim were as useless as he himself felt as they each tried to guide the guys away from the shape-changing elements in the room. He felt as if he was lost in the funhouse of a freaky fucking carnival.

  The deafening sound of wood cracking overtook the screams, and suddenly everything stopped. The children stood to the north wall, huddled together with fearful eyes as they stared at the centre of the floor. Something was breaking through the wood. Hands clutched the boards from below, and Logan watched as pale figures pulled themselves up from the hole. Seven women crawled from the opening like twisted spiders. The children’s screaming was replaced with whimpers. The women’s movements were jerky, as if they were string puppets, their limbs waving in awkward angles as they rose to their feet. When the nearest one, a tall and very skinny woman with long black hair, looked up at him, Logan urged the boys to move. She took a step in their direction, her thick bush of pubic hair looking like a cluster of spiders between her long, bony leg
s.

  “Fuck man, that’s the creepiest fucking bitch I’ve ever seen.”

  Logan could feel Terrence tremble in his grip, and he looked like he was about to burst into tears.

  “Don’t look at her. Just move.”

  He tried to follow Jim, but the attic creaked again and a wall sprung from the ground, forcing Logan and Terrence to jump back.

  They’re separating us, Logan thought in horror as he tried to find a way around the wall. There wasn’t one.

  ***

  John Norris couldn’t believe his eyes. This went from being a nice day out with the lads to being stuck in an attic with ghosts and crazy naked women. The ever-changing surroundings were incomprehensible, and all he could think about was getting himself and the two young men he’d firmly gripped around the arms to safety. Mason and Angus were crying, but John had no time to deal with their emotions. They ran across the floor, away from the women, away from the walls that sprang out of nowhere… just away. If he had to jump out of a window to get out of this madhouse, he knew he would risk it. He didn’t even notice that he was getting further separated from Logan and Jim, and even if he had noticed, he wouldn’t have cared.

  He scanned the attic, looking for where the light was coming from. It was difficult to make out because he wasn’t seeing things for what they really were. He blinked with the vain hope that his vision would clear, but there was more in his eyes than just dust or tears. It was like being on drugs. John pulled Mason away from a wall just as it folded in on itself, morphing into a new shape, and pushed Angus to safety from a large broken plank spearing up from the ground. He failed to see the hole beneath him, and his right foot stepped on empty air. John’s automatic reaction was to cling on to the two guys as he fell backwards. Angus was the first to lose his balance, and he plummeted down the dark chasm in the wooden floorboards. Mason still stood on the edge trying to catch his balance when John turned, but the falling Angus grabbed at him, and he fell too. John moved as fast as he could and managed to wrap his hand around the guy’s wrist. Down below, he saw Angus connect with the marble floor. He lay still, his eyes wide open, looking directly at John. He couldn’t tell if the boy was dead or just stunned, but Mason demanded his immediate attention. The boy was slipping in his grip, and John reached out with his other arm and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him up as best he could. An ominous crackling noise filled the air, and he realized that the floor was in the midst of closing itself again. Panic struck his heart as he frantically tried to pull the struggling Mason up.

  “Damn it, boy. Help me out here,” he groaned, his forehead slick with sweat. There was terror in Mason’s eyes, and John felt sick. For such a skinny guy, Mason weighed a ton in his arms.

  “Stop panicking, Mason. I got you, son.” He tried to keep his voice calm, but the floor was starting to crumple in on itself, and he was hanging half down the hole. “Come on boy, I need you to pull yourself up.”

  “There isn’t time. You need to let me go.” Mason’s eyes shot to the narrowing hole. “Let me go, Mr. Philips. I’ll be okay. You need to pull back.”

  “No, son. Come on, there’s still time.” The crackling intensified, and splinters of wood pushed against John’s clothes.

  I need to let go. If I don’t…

  He never got to finish his thought. The floor closed with unexpected speed, trapping John the way a predator snaps its sharp jaws around its prey. His skin tore, and hot blood soaked his shirt. The wood merged with his organs, tearing through his stomach, liver and bowels. John still held on to Mason, his blood showering the young man’s face and glasses. He could hear him cry, but the sound was so far away. He was alive when his torso disconnected from his midriff and fell down to the floor below, his hand still wrapped around the boy’s. He died before they hit the ground. His soul was welcomed into the depths of Angel Manor.

  Chapter 31

  “What’s happening?”

  Marie-Claire heard the fear in Julie’s voice, but she herself felt oddly calm. She knew the house had some power, and she had suspected the equinox would feed it, but the magic she felt was so strong that she could see as if she had first sight. Everything in the house was clear to her third eye, and she could even see the shadows of the living as contrast against the background of the house. A darkness, not black but more purple, lined with thin veins of light, spread out before her. It was in the walls, in the floor, and all around her, spreading like cancer. The essence of the house, Marie-Claire thought, and she felt it tug at her consciousness. It called to her, promised her a glorious death if only she would give in to it. It asked her for a sacrifice, and it wanted those around her as well. The voice, made of wordless promises, whispered to her soul, and Marie-Claire struggled to keep her mind clear.

  “The house is alive. And we must find a way to release the spirits within, or the consequences will be dire.” Marie-Claire stood and faced her two remaining companions. “Whatever we do, we must stick together. I feel that the house wants to divide us. I sense its hunger and I do believe it wants us all dead.”

  “That’s comforting.” Pierre’s voice was dull.

  “Can we get out?” Julie’s voice trembled, but Marie-Claire hardened herself to the woman’s fear and banished the feelings of guilt from her mind.

  “I think offence is the best defence, as the sports fanatics might say.” The words came out of her mouth, but her mind remained focused on the growing purple cloud around her. It was strong, but she knew that she could be stronger. She wished Ruben would return with her supplies, but she was prepared for him not to make it back in time. She had underestimated the house, and she wasn’t planning on doing it again.

  “I need you to go through the kitchen cupboards. Find me as much salt as you can, and we need something to write on the floors with. We’re going to fight back.”

  ***

  Freya screamed, the sound coming from the depths of her being, and she jerked her leg away from the hand.

  “Freya.” The familiar voice cut through her screeching, and Freya fell quiet instantly. She didn’t dare to turn around. It wasn’t the old woman behind her, it was something far worse, and at the same time, more comforting. Tears fell from her eyes. For a moment, she wanted to drop to the ground and lie there, holding her knees.

  “I… I can’t do this. Not now.” She hung her head.

  “Freya…” The voice was soft and pleading.

  “Please, Bam. I’m so scared. I can’t face you right now.”

  “I’m trying to help you. You need to get to safety. You need to live, Freya. Don’t you understand? I… I need you to.” The voice sounded so much like it had when Bam had been alive, and yet there was something hollow about it, something different. An echo of death. “The house is allowing me to save you.”

  “And Oliver?”

  There was silence, and for the first time, Freya found the courage to turn around. She saw her friend looking so much like she had in life. Bam was even wearing the same clothes as the last time she’d seen her. But her hair looked different somehow, her eyes were darker and deeper set, and her skin looked like it had been made from a hundred molten candles.

  “Oliver is with the house. He belongs to it.” Bam shook her head slowly.

  Freya bit her lip. “So do I.”

  “No… not in the same way. You… you haven’t given yourself to it. You’re fighting it. But you’re blood. The house can’t exist without you. You are an essential part of the magic.”

  “Is there a difference?” She furrowed her eyebrows.

  Bam nodded, and Freya noticed how small and childlike her friend looked. There was a strange smell too, one she had smelled before. Bitter almonds.

  “You need to follow me, Freya.” Bam half turned, motioning with her hand.

  “Will you lead me to the others?”

  “No. The others will die. The house needs more souls. It hungers.”

  Freya took a step back, her body tense. “I need to find Logan and
Marie-Claire.”

  “No, it’s too late for them. You need to come with me. I will show you the way out.” Bam reached out her hand.

  Every fibre in her body wanted to give in, to follow her best friend to the exit, to get away from the house and its darkness, but the thought of leaving everyone else behind sounded like a heavy price to pay. Could she live with herself? Freya had no answer to that.

  “Bam…” Her voice wavered, and she felt as if she had swallowed a golf ball. “I don’t know…”

  The sound of wood ripping drowned out her voice, and Freya looked up to see a large hole opening up in the ceiling. Seconds later, a young man fell through, and before she could scream, a second one followed. Someone grabbed him, and Freya stood frozen as John Norris struggled to keep the boy, Mason, from falling. For what seemed like forever, she watched them fight as the hole began to close. Then, with a snap, the floor became one again, tearing the gentle, quiet man in half. Mason fell, still holding onto John, and her hand went up to her lips to stifle a moan.

  Mason landed on top of Angus, who lay so still that Freya feared the worst. A pool of blood had formed underneath his hair, and it dawned on her that she could see everything clearly. The corridor seemed to be lit with a diffuse white light, too bright for moonlight.

  It wants you to see. Like a cat bringing you a dead mouse.

  The spell broke, and she rushed towards the young men. Mason was curled up in a little ball on the floor. Something crunched under her foot, and when she lifted it, she saw Mason’s shattered glasses. She avoided John’s dismembered torso, though to her dismay, she saw that Mason’s fingers were still entangled with the dead man’s. They lay across Angus’ chest like a macabre version of Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam. Only this wasn’t the Sistine Chapel.