by Lani Lenore
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Hallowed
Lani Lenore
A memory fleeting
Your soft touch
In the dark, the night
The deepest blush
Stirring whispers
This desire, no lie
My sweet caress
Your perfect sigh
Of monster and man
I’m yours; my plea
Unleash, now
The beast in me
Chapter One
Her eyelids fluttered. Fingers twitched. Awake.
Someone was standing over her, but she could not see face or feature through the dim haze of her vision. Everything was a blur, as if her eyes were not fully formed, merely gelatinous orbs cradled by her skull. But she was aware of the man’s presence.
She could see a silhouette drifting in faint orange light, but her sight would not oblige her further than this—neither would her arms lift so that she could reach out to touch him. She was locked down by weakness, and he was a mystery. He was set apart from her—beyond the grasp of comprehension—and that realization made her drowsy. She had just woken up, but she was tired—so tired.
Before her eyelids settled to rest against one another, she heard him speak from within the fog. His voice was distant, clouded as if it had come to her through a depth of water, and it resonated in her ears.
“It’s time to wake up, child. You’ve had enough sleep.”
Gradually, as if straining against the sun, she opened her eyes, but no one was there to greet her.
The room was dim, and she was alone. Her body ached, and though she tried to think of a reason for her discomfort, she had no guess as to why she was sore. Groaning, she managed to lift her head, but only had a moment to look around the room before her heavy, throbbing cranium fell back against the feathery pillow behind it.
Where am I? Closing her eyes once again, she began to think about the room she had just glimpsed, trying to link objects to memory, but coming back with no recollection to put herself here.
She tried to remember all she could about the room—everything from the walls covered in rose-covered paper to the polished table with the lantern that lit the room dimly. She was lying on a bed that was soft and clean, with sheets of fine linen and a frame of carved wood. There had been a fireplace in front of her, unlit. There was a longcase clock standing to the left of it, each tick making her head throb. The ceiling was what she remembered best, for it was what she had woken up to. It was of dark wood, accentuated with the lines and shapes of the boards running through it. Though she remembered the details of the room, she recognized none of them from before this moment. If her mind were a book, it would be filled with blank pages, and only now was she jotting down these observations to be recorded in memory.
I don't know this place, she realized. I'm lost.
Since she recalled none of this—not visuals, smells nor sounds—she began to wonder what she did know, and found that she couldn’t even recollect her own name. Nothing about her life before this moment would reveal itself to her, and though she tried, it still refused to surface. She was sure that she must have some history of life, and she wondered why she’d forgotten it. She could not even remember what she looked like.
Strange how I have forgotten my own face. Who am I? Why don't I know? My head…
A new sensation was surfacing to accompany her rising panic: she was cold. Freezing, in fact. Prickling bumps rose on her flesh. Though she was lying on a bed, she was not covered by quilts or sheets, and her dress did little to keep her warm. Managing to open her eyes once more, she saw that the gown she wore was of a pale golden color. It sloped across her smooth shoulders and let her look down into her own cleavage. Thin sleeves reached to her wrists, and her first guess was that it was a decorative night gown, but the thick skirts told her that she’d worn it for occasion. But what? Strands of hair clung to her cheeks, and she lifted her hand to rake it away, dragging nails across skin. The hair was long, and holding it in front of her face, she saw that it was wavy and golden brown.
Unable to gain recognition in this mapping of herself, she sighed and rolled a bit, thinking that it was only the strength of her curiosity that made her exhausted body able to rise. Managing to get up from the bed, she stepped onto the rug with bare feet. The carpeting was soft, and she felt it distinctly against the bottoms of her toes. She stood on legs that were weak, and stumbled, but with a few steps forward, she was able to manage herself. She noticed her hands then, pale with no jewelry or markings, except a bruise on her right wrist from some unknown incident.
Looking up, she noticed a long mirror across the room and headed toward it. The reflection of the glass was inviting and she stepped closer, anxious to know who she would see looking back. At the same time, she felt a tremor of uncertainty for this meeting. She was soon to meet a long-lost friend, one who’d been a constant companion and yet now had fallen by the wayside. They would see each other again after a time she could not determine. She wondered if she would know her.
In the glow of the lamplight, she saw the girl who lived in the mirror. They wore the same clothes, but despite her hope, she did not recognize herself.
The young woman in the glass looked back at her with large blue eyes. Her face was round and smooth, without blemish. Her hair hung in disheveled waves; her skin a bit pale, but her cheeks were pink. Her lips were full, flush from the cool air. She was young, perhaps early twenties. Her body was long and thin, with humble round breasts on her slender frame. She would be modest to say she was a pretty girl—though was frightened to no end by the fact that she did not recognize herself at all.
How is it that one can live within her own skin so long and suddenly not recognize herself, not to mention forget everything else she’d ever known?
Shifting her eyes, she noticed a flowing sheet of dark curtains beyond the mirror, hiding the outside world from her. Turning away from her own image, she moved towards them, hesitantly discovering what she might, but curious nonetheless. Bravely, she gripped the soft material and gave it a firm tug. The drapes slid apart on the brass rod with a hiss, revealing a night sky with clouds that flickered from silent lightening within them. The wind blew roughly against the windows, whistling by, but there was no rain. This view of the sky, she took in without complaint, but the view below disturbed her more than she might have expected.
Down in front of her was a vast forest of dark trees. The timber spanned out as far as her eyes could see, sloping down the mountainside, and that image combined with thoughts of confusion and panic made her feel trapped within this space. She was confined by the room and the structure and the trees. She felt the rise of cold sweat over her forehead.
I have been made a prisoner.
As if it would help, she gripped the curtains and pulled them shut again, closing herself off even more by shutting her eyes, making herself unable to see the extent to which she was trapped. She was not being foolish. She felt she ha
d every right to be afraid.
But…
Opening her eyes and prying her clenched hands from the curtains, she gained some control over her fear by applying logic.
Consider this, she instructed herself. This is apparently a large manor filled with fine things. It is not as though I was tied and gagged in a cage, or lost in a dark wilderness. This place is civilized and safe. Someone here will be able to tell me who I am.
She managed to calm herself by that somewhat. She seated herself on the bed again, bowing her head in an attempt to soothe the way it was spinning, but couldn't help to notice her shaking hands as they rested on her lap.
Her eyes lifted toward the door, but before she could take herself to it, something on the bedside table caught her eye—glimmer, flickering softly in the lamplight. Reaching, she lifted up a silver necklace with a locket ornament on its chain. Though she worked at it with her fingers, she could not persuade it to open. Perhaps it was old, or not meant to release. For fear of breaking it, she gave up the effort. Whatever secret lay inside would be kept forever.
Is this mine?
She looked at the bedside table as if it would offer up evidence, and to her astonishing luck, she found a letter there, folded neatly, seal broken. Unfolding the stiff, yellowed note, she made out the characters easily.
My beautiful Celia,
I look forward to meeting you tonight. You’ve been on my mind since we met, and if you do not come, it will surely break my heart. I cannot truly express…
A large water stain blotted out part of the message, and past it, several lines below the darkened spot, she could see a few more clear lines.
My dear, do not worry. I will protect you. You will not have to be afraid for long, for I will keep you safe. Do not doubt how I feel for you. Soon, we will be together forever.
The note was not signed, and the writing seemed somehow uneven, contrasting the lines above the smear to those after it, but it was enough for her to believe that this piece of paper belonged to her.
Celia, she thought. My name is Celia.
It didn’t seem familiar, but she could not argue with it. She had nothing better to offer.
Putting the letter under the pillow for safekeeping, Celia looked once again to the locket, thinking that if the note belonged to her, so must this necklace. She fastened it around her neck, letting her fingers run down the cool chain. Her eyes moved toward the room’s sturdy door, and she felt suddenly nervous at the thought of opening it. Not knowing what or whom would be beyond that door made her stomach feel as if it were filled with crawling spiders.
I have nothing but to gain from opening that door, she reasoned with herself. I shouldn't be afraid. I must learn who I am.
With that resolution, Celia moved to let herself out.
The sound of the latch retracting when she pressed the handle echoed down the dark corridor beyond. Lamps were lit along the hall, flames flickering in their glass globes, but the greatest amount of light came when silent lightning flashed through the casement windows at the end. Sounds were dead here in this cold place, and except for her figure emerging from the room, the hallway appeared empty.
In the first moment that her bare feet came across the threshold, she felt unsure of whether or not she should call out for assistance. She did not know the faces that would greet her, and the thought made her skin grow hot with worry. She could not even hope to recognize her own family.
Instead of facing this fear immediately, she chose to wander down the hallway to her left, which opened up into further corridors. Finding her way in this place would be like a rat twisting aimlessly through a maze, but Celia hoped she would eventually weave her way to a reward—something that made sense.
She pressed on down the darkly wooded passage, step by step, examining the walls to notice the numerous doors and lack of windows. How large was this place? How could anyone have need of so many rooms? She could not say where she had come from or whether this mansion was her home, but she knew that the wall sconces were French in design and made of brass.
But if I don’t live here, why do I know that?
Celia busied herself with wondering this until a faint sound resonated against the silence, stopping her in her tracks.
The disturbance was similar to the groan she had uttered upon waking. It was a tired, helpless sound—a sound of weakness and pain, but she could not designate its location. She took a careful step forward, pitting her ears against the strained silence, waiting for the sound to come again.
A different noise came instead, a latch being undone, and a door several paces in front of her inched open. Instinct took over, deciding that anyone who might emerge from that room could be her enemy. She huddled against the wall as if there was a need to hide, awaiting a glimpse of the person she feared.
Why am I afraid? She wondered, even as she pressed her back against the wall as tightly as she could. Why am I not tumbling to my knees, begging for help to relieve me of this nightmare? Yet still, she could not bring herself to move.
A black-haired woman clothed in dark, servant’s dress with a white apron spread across it passed from beyond the door. She was thin and young, but her face was like a porcelain mask beneath the fringe of her hair, and Celia could not quite make it out. The maid took one step forward and then turned on her heel stiffly to seal the room behind her. Celia studied this, still thinking of the mysterious sound she had heard and wondering if it could have come from within that room. Just a moment before the door was shut and locked, Celia managed to glimpse a strange pattern of shadows that vexed her further—a lattice of crisscrossing lines—but she didn’t comprehend what she had seen before the thick wooden door banished the image. Turning the lock with a jangle of keys, the servant moved gradually down the hallway without noticing Celia—even though she would have been in plain sight with a simple turn of the woman’s head, yet the servant had seemed almost oblivious to her surroundings.
How strange. She might have seen me.
I’m glad she didn’t.
Celia’s brow furrowed as she looked on, but felt that she was not wrong for keeping silent. The maid moved away with steps that were slow and carefully measured, and once her shadow had disappeared, Celia took a quiet step toward the locked door.
What was that noise she had heard? What was the shadow she had seen? It was not as if she believed that she could get into the room, for she had seen it locked, but perhaps there was some way she might see into it through the keyhole. It was worth her effort. Waking up without knowing so much, there were so many things to be curious about.
She peered around the corner to view the hallway, making sure that the maid had not sought to return. She was contented further by the distant sound of the woman’s departing footsteps. Satisfied, Celia moved closer to the door, but there was only silence within. She wondered if she’d imagined the groans that she’d heard initially. She was still several paces away, but she began to reach out her hand, seeing the shadow of her arm stretch across the wall—
“Young miss.”
Celia gasped at the voice behind her, though it was barely loud enough to shock her ears. The address was from a strictly feminine throat, but came as an emotionless monotone. A cold chill ran up her spine, and she turned abruptly, clutching her dress as if it would console her. When she saw the one who had approached, she froze, her blood seeming to halt in her veins.
The woman’s face was familiar, but this was not the sort of fortune that could put her mind at ease. Instead of being able to feel joy that she’d uncovered a memory, Celia was surprised to see the face of the same maid that had just come from the mysterious room and walked away from her. How was it possible that the woman had now turned up behind her?
Up so close, Celia saw that the servant’s face was not a shade darker than she had originally thought, her complexion as white as a mask. Her dark eyes glittered like gems, fixed on Celia’s own, her mouth a thin red line. It was smiling slightly, unapologetic for the
fright.
“You are expected at dinner,” the maid said, refusing to acknowledge that she’d startled the girl.
Expected?
Celia looked down at herself, knowing—somehow—that she was not in proper attire for a formal dinner. She did not even have shoes on her feet, and her hair was a mess.
She opened her mouth to protest, but it did her little good. The maid reached out and touched her arm, wrapping thin fingers around her wrist. The sensation was gentle at first, friendly in nature, but quickly became as harsh as a tightened vise. Celia winced, but the maid did not seem to notice her pain. She looked up toward the face of her captor, and the maid produced a short smile for her. Celia would almost swear it was sadistic.
“Please come with me,” the maid said in that same toneless voice. “They’re waiting.”
Chapter Two
The maid with the bob of hair as black as raven’s feathers led Celia through dim corridors and down numerous stairs. The house was large and sprawling, and though Celia glanced at the walls as they hurried past, the place did not seem familiar to her. She failed to map the way they had taken, for her concentration kept returning to the maid’s harsh and unrelenting grip on her wrist. More than once, Celia tried to wrench free, but she could not manage to loosen the woman’s hold. Her fingers were as solid as the iron ring of a shackle.
“Could we stop for a moment?” Celia entreated, but the servant did not halt or answer. Stumbling a bit in the quick pace, Celia stubbed her toe on a raised floorboard, which sent jolts of hot pain through her bare foot, but the maid did not even slow when she gave a little cry.
“I need to ask you something,” Celia insisted after the ache began to dull. “Would you please listen to me? I’m very confused.”
Her pleas were ignored, for the woman acted as if she had no ears to hear with. The house flew past, and most of it was lost to the night. They pressed onward diligently, slowing only when they came down a flight of stairs to stand before a pair of thick doors. To Celia’s relief, the maid finally released her wrist in order to twist the handles.
