Come to Castlemoor

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  I was calm, analytical. Such cults had existed over the centuries. I had read of several of them. There had been one centered around Stonehenge, and human sacrifices had been performed, people butchered on the stones. A similar cult had existed in Monmouthshire, and there had even been one in Scotland. All had been disbanded, the cultists imprisoned, and supposedly such bizarre religious cults ceased to exist. In the course of his research here in Darkmead, my brother had discovered just such a cult actively surviving in our civilized age. It seemed incredible.

  It was like something out of one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels of mystery and romance. I could hardly believe it. This was the age of Victoria and Disraeli, the age of steel and steam and industry, and yet I had proof that the cult actually existed. I glanced at the hood and robe still draped over the chair. In this day and age … And yet, I thought, the vast moors offered perfect cover, far from the eyes of the civilized world. The superstition of the local people was an asset. They were ready to believe in the “ghosts” that danced among the ruins at night, and sophisticated outsiders would only smile and pass the whole thing off as a rather charming example of native nonsense. Yes, I could see how the cult could exist, and I no longer doubted its existence.

  Nicola had seen a man coming up from the dungeons. He had dark-golden hair, brown eyes, a pale, tormented face. She had thought him Jamie, but just now she had said he was someone who looked like Jamie. She had glanced at the portrait of my brother. The last piece of the puzzle fit into place. The picture was complete.

  “They got Jamie,” Bertie Rawlins had whispered when he spoke to me in the crowd around the bonfire. “It was him they found.”

  My brother had been abducted. Jamie had been murdered, his face and body disfigured. Buck Crabbe “found” the body and identified it. Jamie’s body was sent to London, buried beneath a tombstone bearing Donald’s name. But why? Why had they gone to all that trouble? Why had they murdered someone else and indulged in the elaborate pretense? Donald had discovered “the secret of the stones,” but why hadn’t they just murdered him? Why had they abducted him and kept him alive? Why had they run that risk?

  I remembered Bertie’s last words: “The moon dance—they’re waitin’ for—the moon.”

  I stepped over to the bookcase and selected several heavy volumes. I was amazed at my own calm. Another Kathy, far off, watched with incredulity as her twin spread the books out on the desk and turned the pages. My brow was unfurrowed, my gaze level. My lips were pursed with determination as I ran my finger down the pages that mentioned the moon dance. For perhaps ten minutes I read, pushing one volume aside for another, and each book told me, the same thing. I understood at last why they had not murdered Donald immediately.

  The moon dance was an ancient ceremony especially reserved for enemies of the cult. It was held twice a year, under a full moon, and those who dared desecrate the sacred ground or blaspheme the religion were sacrificed in a particularly gruesome manner. Although the offense may have been committed months before, the offenders were held captive, reserved for this special ceremony.

  Donald was alive. He was in the dungeons of Castlemoor.

  Burton Rodd had left to drive Nicola and Dorothea to the station, and as it was in the next county, it would be hours before he could return. Edward was in the next county, collecting songs, and he would not be back until tomorrow. For several hours, Castlemoor would be empty, except for a few servants—and the man who was languishing in the dungeons, waiting for death, or salvation.

  I had no idea why I should be so calm. Hysteria would have been the normal reaction. Why wasn’t I hysterical? Why didn’t I fall across the sofa in a swoon? I felt bloodless, numb, all emotion suppressed. Later, I would give way to them. Later, I would let them wash over me like a great tidal wave, and I would react, I would cry, I would experience every emotion at its fullest, but not now. Now there was only the thing I must do, and I knew I had to concentrate every fiber of my being on going through with it. There was no time to feel, no time to think, no time for caution. I saw a woman in the mirror across the room. Her face looked hard, cold, no longer young, no longer beautiful.

  I found a pen and scrap of paper and quickly wrote a note to Bella and placed it on the hall table where she could not avoid seeing it. I picked up a small oil lamp not much larger than a cup and dropped a box of matches in the pocket of my dress. I took my forest-green velvet cloak from the closet and put it on, left the house, and hurried up the slope toward the castle.

  The wind was savage. It caused the cloak to whip about my shoulders like fluttering wings and tossed my voluminous skirts up about my legs. It tore at my hair and sent it whirling about my head in tangled auburn waves. The sky was heavy, wet, gray. The air was damp and laden with the smells of rain and mud and new grass. I could see the castle now, a ponderous gray monster, waiting, menacing. The topmost branches of the oak trees scratched against the battlements. I walked beneath the trees. The boughs bent down and almost touched the ground along the south wall.

  I pushed aside the branches laden with thick green leaves, and I found the door Nicola had described. It was very small, and the wood was warped, the hinges crusted with rust. The latch hung loose, long since broken. I tugged at the knob, but the door wouldn’t open. The wood had swollen, and the door was stuck in the frame. Nicola must have slammed it when she went back inside. I wrapped both hands around the brass knob and pulled. The hinges screeched loudly. The door flew open. I stepped into a long, narrow hall that smelled of mildew and decay. The floor was damp. I took a few steps, and a great gust of wind blew the door shut behind me. There was nothing but darkness and damp and the fierce howling of the wind outside.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I was paralyzed with terror. Damp, darkness, wind, slick walls closing in on me, heart pounding rapidly—for a moment I was lost and I knew I could never go on. I reached into my pocket and took out the matches. I struck one—the acrid smell of sulfur, a tiny yellow explosion, wet walls brought into relief. I lighted the small oil lamp, and a warm-orange glow blossomed inside the glass. The glow spread, licked the walls, dispelling the menacing darkness around me. I started down the hall. It was very narrow, the rough walls pressing close on either side, the ceiling so low that I had to stoop a little to keep from brushing my head against it.

  The hall twisted and turned and seemed to be slanting down toward the bowels of Castlemoor. The sound of wind was far behind me now, but there was a slight, scratching noise like tiny claws, a rustling, rushing along the floor. I dared not look down. If there were rats, I didn’t want to see them. I brushed aside a tattered curtain of cobweb, dusty gray, and found the doorway that led into a much larger hall, with a smooth concrete floor. In the glow of my lamp I could see ornate wall brackets that held the burned, charred remains of torches long since extinguished. The air was fetid, and I had the feeling that it had been decades since this hall heard the sound of normal footsteps. The brick walls were dusty, espaliered with a growth of moss-green fungus.

  I had no earthly idea where I was. I had lost all sense of direction. Castlemoor was like a great labyrinth, and these lower regions were even more complex. I could almost feel the groaning weight of the place hovering above me. I moved down the hall slowly, my heels tapping loudly on the concrete floor. The noise echoed loudly, bouncing from wall to wall, and it sounded as though I were being followed by a legion. I went up a flight of narrow stone steps, down another hall, down steps, across a broad, tiled space, up a short flight of steps, darkness all around me, broken only by the glow of my lamp. I heard the sound of running water, though I couldn’t tell where it came from, and felt gusts of clammy cold air that swirled around like icy fingers stroking my cheeks and arms.

  I stopped to gather my forces. I had been moving up and down halls for at least twenty minutes, and I knew I couldn’t possibly find the dungeons unless I was first able to locate the halls I had traversed the night of my visit. The tapestries, the portraits, the furni
ture, would guide me, and I was sure I could find the hall that led to Nicola’s room, but here I was hopelessly lost.

  I could feel the panic gathering force. It threatened, strong and alive, ready to take over and render me helpless. What if I couldn’t find my way? What if I continued to travel these halls until the lamp went out—rats, darkness, damp, dust, ceilings that groaned, terror. No, I wouldn’t allow myself these thoughts. I pushed them aside forcefully, determined to let nothing hinder me. I raised the lamp high, pools of orange light spilling about me.

  At the end of the hall, the wall seemed to curve, and I saw a staircase of rough, stone steps that curled up around it, steep, without benefit of railing or banister. I realized that this must be the lower level of one of the towers, and the staircase must lead up to the floors above. I hurried down the hall and stood in the well of darkness, looking up at the spiral staircase that reared up so dangerously. The steps were damp, and I knew one slip could mean a fatal fall. I set the lamp down and pulled off my shoes. I moved up slowly, staying close to the wall, afraid to peer down at the yawning space around me. I climbed up, up, higher and higher, and realized I must have climbed what would have amounted to three stories in a regular house. I grew dizzy. The hand clutching the lamp trembled. There must be a door somewhere, I reasoned. The stairs had to end.… The stone was cold to my stockinged feet. The clammy air swirled, fiercely now, and it reverberated against the circular walls with the sound of whispers, loud and violent. It was as though an army of phantoms was protesting my intrusion, warning me to come no farther.

  The landing was flat and narrow, not two yards across. It dropped down sharply to the floor, hundreds of feet below. I was trembling. I had always had a great fear of high places, and now this fear was magnified. It seemed some evil force pulled at me, compelled me to peer over that edge and jump into the black void. I leaned against the wall, panting, gripping the lamp tightly, and trying to master the sensations that plagued me.

  The door was small, and it was locked. I set the lamp down and tugged at the door, frantic, ever aware of the yawning space behind me that beckoned. I knew I would never have either the strength or the nerve to go back down that curling spiral staircase. I had to force the door open. I pulled with all my might, to no avail. After a moment of near-hysteria, common sense prevailed. I took a hairpin out of my hair and forced it through the lock, twisting, turning. The lock clicked. The door swung slowly open toward me, revealing the back of a tapestry that must cover it from the other side. I put my shoes back on, retrieved the lamp, and lifted the edge of the tapestry, slipping under it and stepping into a room that looked vaguely familiar.

  It was small, semicircular, the walls concealed by blue and gray tapestries with faded gold-and-rose designs. Large white pots sitting around the floor contained dark-green rubber plants and ferns, layered with dust. Dorothea and I had passed through this room, hadn’t we? I walked through it and proceeded down a long, narrow hall with torches burning in wall brackets, making my oil lamp unnecessary. The walls were adorned with old portraits in tarnished gold frames. Yes, that gorgeous woman in farthingale and neck ruff looked familiar, as did the raven-haired man in black velvet, his cruel face and glowering eyes so like Rodd’s.

  A door stood half-open. I stepped through it, finding myself in the vast, cavernous room where we had gathered that night of my visit. It was very dark and icy cold. I started across the parquet floor, my heels tapping, the oil lamp making a moving orange glow that washed over me and only heightened the darkness all around. I was certain now that I could find my way to the dungeons. Nicola and I had left through a door across the room, gone down a hall … yes, I was on firm ground now, no longer lost. My spirits lifted. In a few minutes I would see my brother again. I knew he was in the dungeons. I knew he was still alive. Together we would expose this whole sordid mess to the world outside. I quickened my step. The lamp spluttered. My footsteps echoed throughout the room.

  Someone coughed.

  I blew the lamp out quickly, instinctively, more a reflex than a conscious action. Layers and layers of cold black darkness surrounded me. The room, half as large as a soccer field, seemed to close in on me, growing smaller and smaller. I stood dead still, not daring to move, hardly daring to breathe. I had heard a cough. There could be no doubt about it. I felt a presence here in the room with me, a sense, a smell, a feeling that was unmistakable. Someone was watching me with eyes grown accustomed to the darkness, while my own were still blinded by the glow of the lamp. Blue and orange globes floated in front of me, glimmered, faded, disappeared, while the blackness thinned, grew misty. Shapes of furniture seemed to spring out of the dark, grow sharper, and I was gradually able to discern form and dimension.

  My terror was so great that I hardly felt it. It was like a numbness, so intense that it allowed nothing to penetrate. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I looked around the great room, nests of shadows floating from each corner like silent black waterfalls. The lighter pieces of furniture took on definite shape, faded color, lavender velvet, ivory satin, veiled with black mist. I saw something solid at the edge of one of the floods of shadow—tall, dark, straight, still. The tangible force of presence seemed to emanate from there. It was a man. I could barely discern the glimmer of eyes that pinioned me to the spot. There was a movement, a blur, and the form disappeared, drowned by the shadows.

  I waited. At any moment I expected to see a dark form rushing toward me, hear a bloodcurdling cry, see the blade of a knife glittering wildly before plunging down at me, to end it all. Minutes passed. The evil was so strong that it filled the room, swirling around me, gathering force. I watched the cascade of blackness, waiting. I could hear the wind, far away, the noise penetrating the thickness of stone and concrete, and the ticking of a clock. There was a loud creak, as though someone shifted body weight from one foot to another, then a gush of air, held breath finally released. Silence prevailed. The shadows stirred. The clock ticked—a second, a minute, five, an eternity.

  Nothing happened.

  The terror subsided. The numbness began to wear off. I must have imagined the whole thing, I told myself. There was no one else in the room. It was my nerves, tension, an overactive imagination. The evil was still in the air, as real as a strong perfume, but I tried to convince myself that it came from within, from my mind. My skin seemed to sting with pricks, and I could feel the blood coursing through my veins. I must have been standing in the same position for ten minutes, maybe more. Nothing had happened, no bloodcurdling scream, no lunge, no knife. A nervous laugh rose up inside, but I was still too shaken to give vent to it.

  I moved slowly toward the door Nicola and I had left by the night she took me to her room. I could see it clearly, at the outer edge of one of the rippling black waterfalls of shadow. I tried to make no sound, but my skirts rustled and my heels tapped gently on the bare wooden floor. I held the lamp tightly, although I dared not light it yet. The room seemed to watch my progress toward the door, and I could feel hostile eyes burning into my back, causing my flesh to creep. Twenty yards to go, fifteen, ten. I wanted to scream and make a mad dash for the door. I moved slowly, slowly, my shoulders trembling.

  I was at the edge of the cascade of shadows. I peered into it—dense blackness, moving, stirring, and there, against the wall, a tall form, eyes, teeth, breathing. I paused, staring. Nothing was there. Something moved—a tapestry rippling. I reached the door, pulled it open, and darted into the hall.

  I had to lean against the wall for a moment to regroup my forces. One torch burned in a bracket at the end of the hall, and it gave enough light for me to see that I was on the right track. Down that hall, around a corner … yes, I knew the way now, but I was too weak to move on just yet. My shoulders still trembled, and I felt my cheeks wet with tears I hadn’t known I had shed.

  Nerves, I told myself. Of course there had been no one in the room. I had imagined it. Everyone had left Castle-moor except a few servants, and what could a servant possi
bly have been doing in the room, in the dark? I had come too far to let myself lose control now. I must go on. I must find Donald and get him away from this place. There was no time for nerves, no time to linger. I moved quickly down the hall.

  I turned a corner and started down a small passage with wet brown concrete walls, torches burning at spaced intervals. I vaguely wondered why the torches should be burning if everyone were gone. Did they burn all the time? Perhaps. There must be some logical explanation. I turned another corner and started down the hall that would eventually lead me to the steps that went down to the dungeons. My footsteps echoed loudly.

  Too loudly.

  I stopped, glancing over my shoulder. The echoes lasted just a little too long, long enough for me to realize they weren’t echoes at all. I listened. The sound stopped.

  Someone was following me.

  I stared at the end of the hall where I had turned the corner. A torch burned smokily there, washing the wall with flickering yellow light. There was a shadow on the wall, black, stamped clearly against the yellow, head and shoulders projected in profile. Someone was standing just out of sight around the corner, leaning forward. The shadow moved, magnified to gigantic proportions by the light as the figure moved closer. The torch spluttered, and the shadow disappeared. Others took its place, weird, gyrating wildly—a tree branch, a galloping horse, two dancers.