PANDORA
Page 381
“What for?” asked Holland.
“We need him to perform a mass.”
“Is that really necessary? Anyway, Jardine will refuse,” Holland said bitterly.
“Look, we have to use the Salazars’ faith against them,” Allen said. “If that fails, we’re lost—what use is brute force against their cunning? You’ve seen what they can do.”
The unmistakable noise of twigs snapping sounded behind them just beyond the path. Small bushes were being pulled apart, it seemed; someone or something was approaching.
“It’s Beatriz,” Allen whispered. “She’s coming for us!”
“Don’t worry so much—I’m sure the two of us could overpower her,” Holland replied. “Anyhow, it might not be her at all.”
“Yes; I hope you’re right.”
They had almost convinced themselves that a cat or a fox was certainly responsible for the disturbance when a human voice rang out, then trailed off.
Allen rushed towards the driveway, beckoning to his colleague to follow. His eyes focused rigidly in front of him, never once straying towards the forest. Gathering pace, running without regard for stability, they tried to ignore the feeling of being pursued. They felt something unseen and unheard followed, taunting them for their fear, their weakness. Before it had the chance to confront them, they reached the outskirts of the town.
CHAPTER XV: THE BANQUET
REVEREND IAN JARDINE laid the dining table with meticulous attention to detail. He had already placed his guests in their proper places and awaited the new arrival—she would surely appear this night. He looked about the room and rubbed his hands with no little satisfaction: there, propped upon a chair at the table’s head, was the body of Alfred Morley. The late Rebecca Pierce sat alongside him, young Lucas in her arms.
Jardine caught himself looking at the window, remembered, and laughed abruptly—the rectory’s windows were boarded; Jardine had broken-up the few sticks of furniture he possessed to facillitate the banishment of the outside world.
He faced his guests, a captive audience, and began reading his Sunday sermon aloud. The absence of light within the room became more pronounced as he raised his delirious voice in exhortation—thin strands of darkness raced across the walls until they took on human likeness. As the reverend gesticulated wildly before unseeing eyes, Morley’s bloated corpse slipped slowly to the floor.
A latecomer entered the room and beckoned to Jardine. He dropped his bible and rushed towards her open arms. She appeared to embrace him lovingly, at first.
CHAPTER XVI: THE DYING LIGHT
NOT A SOUND COULD BE HEARD from the rectory as Allen and Holland made their way to the door. They knocked with increasing volume and shouted but no entrance was forthcoming. Finding the windows blocked to access, they decided amongst themselves to force their way in, for they were now concerned as to Reverend Jardine’s welfare.
Holland, the largest of the two, barged the door several times, all in vain. Eventually, both men charged, and the hinges gave way. Holland located a lamp, and soon they crept along the passage towards the central room, a weak yellow flame casting strange shadows upon the walls.
Allen stumbled over Jardine’s outstretched feet, and the lamp rolled across the floor. Holland helped Allen up, retrieved the lamp and guided its light towards the figure lying before him.
Flesh had been torn from Jardine’s face. Even the skull itself had been ravaged, the bone around the eye sockets broken and leaning back into the cavities. His hands were frozen in their final attitude—he had tried to cross himself, it seemed.
“We’re done for,” Allen said, and, as his companion stared at him, the slats they had removed from the windows slammed back into their former positions. The two covered their ears as the door screeched to a close behind them. Holland instinctively wrapped a hand around the lamp for fear it would be extinguished. He timidly backed up to the wall, placing his hand against it for some kind of security or stability.
“It’s no good, we’re lost . . . .” Allen mumbled. Holland gripped his shoulder and marched him to the door.
“Come on! We can—”
Allen’s face fell into shadow, and another’s loomed large in Holland’s vision. The weak light shifted again, and now Allen’s eyes were wide, a pitiful look of pleading took over his expression as the lamp’s jagged glass ran across Allen’s face.
Holland wanted to intercede but, in truth, he was too bewildered, too frightened to do anything except cower in the corner of the room.
Twice more, Alatiel drove the broken glass into her victim, but Allen fought back bravely, blindly. He finally caught hold of her arm and held it until they both crashed to the floor.
At last, Holland groped his way through the darkness towards them. As he approached, light returned to the room. The lamp spark back into life again and fierce flames crawled along Allen’s limbs until they reached his face. Whether Allen’s injuries restrained him or some invisible force held him down, he could not raise himself. He screamed and begged for help, but each time Holland stepped forward he was driven back as the flames reared up as if to warn him off.
The screaming stopped, and the fire petered out to nothing. The sickly odour of burnt flesh reached Holland’s nostrils, and he staggered away. Leaning against the wall and slowly sliding downwards, trembling all over, he waited to die. But when Alatiel finally showed herself, looming over him and poised to strike, she called out “Gabriel,” in tones signifying confusion and desperation.
She began to fade back into the gloom. Her face came apart, piece by piece, until only points of coloured light remained. Likewise, her body began to drift away on the air. Her milk-white hands reached for Holland but held nothing, and he could likewise feel only empty space, as if the two of them were ghosts. A despairing scream echoed around the room, then silence reigned.
CHAPTER XVII: THE EBONY CANE
BEATRIZ SALAZAR approached Salvació’s gate and stopped in her tracks when she saw what Allen had done. The wooden star caught alight and burned away slowly. Beatriz howled, started to weep and shielded her eyes from the pentagram. She picked up her skirts and made for the house.
She hammered at the door until Cristian’s voice could be heard above the noise.
“It is finished—over. You deserve nothing but death,” Cristian said.
Beatriz could see him through the window. He sat in his armchair, a drink in his hand. A lone candle accentuated his gaunt face. There was an air of resignation about him; he did not even glance at her.
“I have spoken with Gabriel Holland this night. He believes you took Aurelia from me; is this true?”
“I did it for you . . . for us!” Beatriz screeched, pounding the window to emphasise her words.
“‘For us . . . .’” Cristian mimicked her voice with cruel accuracy. “For yourself! I could never love you.”
He dashed his glass to the floor, his sweeping arm disturbing the candle.
She opened her mouth to speak, to confess perhaps, but Cristian could no longer hear her voice; as the pentagram finally burned to ashes, Beatriz made only halting, choking sounds.
At last, Cristian raised himself and ran outside. He took hold of Beatriz and led her to the mausoleum, his hand resting gently against her back and urging her forwards. Only when they reached the door did she resist, and then all pretence of Cristian’s compassion ended.
At daybreak, when Gabriel Holland finally reached Salvació House, smoke was rising slowly from debris strewn far across the ground. The door of Aurelia Salazar’s mausoleum was wide open. Holland stepped inside and immediately covered his mouth because of the odour. He concluded that someone had burned Aurelia’s body inside the chamber. He didn’t notice the ebony cane behind the door.
Outside once more, he looked for signs of life but it appeared he was alone. No-one from the town had come to the Salazars’ aid; even the most curious of neighbours and those beholden to the couple had kept their distance. With no witness in sig
ht Holland went from room to room on the ground floor, matches in hand, and set about reducing the house to ashes.
Only one of Salvació’s upper-level rooms remained untouched by the initial fire. Within it, her fingers poised against blackened glass, the painted woman waited in silence for human company.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Steven Katriel writes Gothic Horror, Paranormal Fantasy, and Literary Fiction. He has lived in Wales, UK all his life. In recent years, he wrote history articles for a community magazine. Steve’s literary heroes and heroines range from Oscar Wilde to Hilary Mantel. He has a passion for past times and this is reflected in his writing.
http://stevenkatriel.wordpress.com/
Table of Contents
Young Adult 13+
Breaker’s Code by Conner Kressley
Shade by Kelly Anne Blount
The Forgotten Ones by Laura Howard
Young Adult 16+
Into You by Riley J Ford
Dead Girls Never Shut Up by Susan Stec
Lie To Me by Angela Fristoe
Four In the Morning by Christi Goddard
True Connection by Rachel Walter
Invisible by DelSheree Gladden
Young Adult Crossover (18-25)
Awakening by Apryl Baker
What Truly Knows by Louise Caiola
New Adult
Summoned by Rainy Kaye
Her Sweetest Downfall by Rebecca Hamilton
Made to Forget by Samantha LaFantasie
Adult
A Prescription for Delirium by Noree Cosper
The Water Wolf by Thomas Sullivan
Cleopatra’s Needle by Carole Lanham
Eyes of the Seer by Peter Dawes
Traitors Trilogy by Heather Kenealy
The Portrait of Alatiel Salazar by Steven Katriel
Table of Contents
Young Adult 13+
Breaker’s Code by Conner Kressley
Shade by Kelly Anne Blount
The Forgotten Ones by Laura Howard
Young Adult 16+
Into You by Riley J Ford
Dead Girls Never Shut Up by Susan Stec
Lie To Me by Angela Fristoe
Four In the Morning by Christi Goddard
True Connection by Rachel Walter
Invisible by DelSheree Gladden
Young Adult Crossover (18-25)
Awakening by Apryl Baker
What Truly Knows by Louise Caiola
New Adult
Summoned by Rainy Kaye
Her Sweetest Downfall by Rebecca Hamilton
Made to Forget by Samantha LaFantasie
Adult
A Prescription for Delirium by Noree Cosper
The Water Wolf by Thomas Sullivan
Cleopatra’s Needle by Carole Lanham
Eyes of the Seer by Peter Dawes
Traitors Trilogy by Heather Kenealy
The Portrait of Alatiel Salazar by Steven Katriel