Making the split-second decision to head into the fray, I limp over as close I dare and yell, “Hey, this way—you don’t want him. Come here.” I wave my hands wide, trying to draw her attention my way.
The creature pauses long enough to look in my direction but doesn’t change its trajectory. However, the distraction is enough for Wade to plant a fierce kick to her wrist. With a deafening crack, the brittle joint severs, leaving her hand still clutched onto his boot but no longer attached to her wrist. Scrambling backward, he clambers to his feet and races in my direction, with the zombie seconds behind. She moves decisively, completely ignoring the fact that she has only one hand.
“Quick, behind that headstone,” Wade yells, pointing to a large piece of granite to my left.
The thing is massive, nearly as tall as I am, but it offers little in the way of protection. I have no idea what he thinks we’ll accomplish hiding behind it, but regardless, we both race toward it.
I hobble-run as fast as I can, but the pain is almost debilitating. As we come up on the tombstone, I skitter to a quick turn, and my footing gives out again. I plummet into the snow, rolling sideways in a totally ungraceful maneuver. Wade is nowhere in sight, but the zombie is on me in seconds, dropping to the ground as it latches onto my thighs with its leftover hand and stump.
Scurrying backward, I try to get far enough away so I can stand, but the creature claws at my legs, digging in and pulling herself farther up my body with her good hand. Biting my lip, pain tears through my right ankle from both the sprain and the bony fingertips as they bear down on my flesh. With my good foot, I rear up, kicking down as hard as I can at the place between her neck and shoulder. The momentum is enough to loosen her grip as she skitters down my leg and nearly falls off.
A loud, thumping sound reverberates through the otherwise-still cemetery. It starts off low, but then starts to grow louder until a grinding sound takes its place. Terror rises, as does a scream in the back of my throat, as I try to get upright and see what’s causing the sound.
Somewhere close by, Wade yells, “Get out of the goddamn way.”
Using all the remaining strength I have in my left leg, I plant another kick on the creature’s face and struggle completely out of her grasp. I no sooner pull back my legs than an enormous granite headstone comes crashing down onto the zombie’s outstretched form. The weight of it flattens her upper torso, severing her head from the rest of her body. It rolls forward unceremoniously and lands face-up in the snow.
Shuddering away the adrenaline, I scoot back another foot or two for good measure. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to break my gaze away from the severed head.
“How did you know that was going to work?” I say, clutching at my chest and sucking in large gulps of frigid oxygen.
Wade plops down into the snow, knees first, then drops onto his back, gasping for air. After a moment he says, “Years of watching way too much TV.”
I stay seated upright, scanning the graveyard for any more signs of moment. At first, everything is all calm and quiet, but suddenly, the dead body in front of me begins to turn a strange ashen color. Large chunks of it begin to break apart, disintegrating from the bone until all that remains is a pile of remnants that no longer resemble a human at all.
“What the—?” I sputter, narrowing my gaze.
Wade sits upright, instantly alert. “What is it?”
I outstretch my arm, pointing to where the zombie had just been. “It’s…gone. How can it be gone?” Shifting to my knees, I crawl on all fours to get a better look. I reach out and poke my index finger into the ashes and they continue to fade away, as if the molecules themselves are being erased from existence.
“How in the hell?” Wade says, suddenly by my side. “How is this possible?”
I shake my head. “Your guess is as good as mine. I’m in totally new territory here.”
“Can you see the other one? Did it disintegrate, too?” Wade asks, pushing up to a stand.
“I can’t see anything, so maybe it did. Help me up and we can go look together,” I say, holding out my hand.
Furrowing his brow, Wade grabs hold of my hand and yanks me to my feet.
“I don’t know what’s going on here, but one thing I do know is, we have to get outta this cemetery before anyone sees the mess we’ve caused,” Wade says, frowning. “The last thing I need is more rumors. Besides I’d hate to have you dragged into all of the conspiracy theories.”
Scanning the graveyard, it only takes a moment to realize he’s right. There’s a large trail of disruption leading from the columbarium all the way to our location.
“Yeah, we better go. We’ll have to do some research when we get back to Windhaven. This is definitely not the place for specula—”
In the distance, my periphery catches movement and I home in on it. I squint, trying to get a better view, but I can’t quite make it out. Suddenly, the movement sweeps in front of the large brick wall at the edge of the cemetery. Dressed from head to toe in white, it becomes glaringly obvious that it’s a person.
“What is it? What do you see?” Wade asks, stepping up beside me.
“Did you see that?” I say, refusing to even blink until the person is no longer in view.
“See what?”
I take a deep breath, finally looking Wade’s direction. “You were right to be concerned. There was someone in the cemetery with us.”
Chapter 9
A Home For The Dead
I might be supernatural, but even that doesn’t prepare a person for coming face to face with zombies. Real, flesh-falling-off, scary-as-all-hell… zombies.
The thing is, even with all the stuff I’ve learned at school, zombies have never come up. And I’ve been learning a lot of stuff about my craft and my abilities. You’d think it would be a pretty big deal.
Hobbling over to the computer section of the Windhaven Academy library, I take a seat at one of the computers and cast a sideways glance to Wade. “How is it zombies are real, but they’ve never come up in our coursework? It’s like no one wants to talk about them.”
“We’re also kind of newbies to this whole school thing. As much as we’ve seen, we can only consume so much information at once. I’m sure there’s info out there—we just gotta know where to look,” Wade says, sliding into the chair beside me.
I nod, bending down and rubbing at my pulsing ankle. “Thus, the library.”
“How’s your leg?” Wade asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“I’ll live. It just aches a bit,” I mutter, setting my hand in my lap. The truth is, it’s painted a lovely shade of black and blue, but at least I can walk on it now.
“Good.” Wade says, eyeing me suspiciously before turning back to the computer. “The way I figure it, there’s probably a lot of stuff out there we don’t know about. But if we can dream it up, it probably exists. I mean, the ideas for some of the modern entertainment stuff, like zombies, had to have come from somewhere. Don’t you think?”
“Good point,” I say, turning to the computer screen. Quickly, I enter my login details to get into the school’s vast archives of the magical, paranormal, and straight-up supernatural. After a few seconds, the search bar pops up and I quickly type in “zombies,” then press enter.
Wade leans in, placing his left hand on my right thigh as we wait. It doesn’t take long before the results come back.
“There’s only four,” I say, making a face. “Does that seem right to you?”
“That does seem odd,” Wade says, narrowing his gaze. “Open the first one.”
I click on the link and it opens a small landing page with a reroute.
Zombies > see also Revenants.
We exchange a glance, but I click on the link for Revenants. Something about the word reminds me of a conversation I had last semester, but I can’t remember who it was with.
As the first page loads, I read the details out in a hushed voice, “Revenants are animated corpses and/or remains that have bee
n revived from death to haunt the living. The word revenant is derived from the Old French word, revenant, meaning the ‘returning.’ See also the related French verb revenir, meaning ‘to come back.’ Instances of revenants, both in name and in reality, have declined since the 1700s. This is believed to be thanks to the rise in scientific exploration, as well as the implementation of supernatural schools across the United States. Academies, such as the Windhaven Academy in Massachusetts, channel supernatural talents in a constructive manner, avoiding some of the darker elements of magic, such as revenants.”
“Well, I guess this explains why we haven’t heard much about them,” Wade mutters, shifting back in his seat.
“Yeah, for starters, everyone uses a different name,” I say, chewing on the side of my lip.
“Yeah, but I’ve never heard of revenants. Have you?” Wade chuckles. “I mean, there was that one movie with Leo DiCaprio—but that wasn’t even about zombies. Granted, he was kinda left for dead…”
“I must have missed that one,” I say, shaking my head. “Well, okay, so basically, we know zombies can happen—but we don’t really know why or how.”
“Obviously, someone’s behind it. It says they’re revived to haunt the living. So, spellwork has to be involved in it.”
“Who in the world would want to do something like this?” I say, unable to hide the disgust in my voice. It just seems ludicrous to me.
“Someone with an agenda…and the power to pull it off,” Wade says, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Should we go to the police? I mean, tell them what happened to us in the cemetery the other day? Now that we know this part, maybe they can help?” I offer.
Wade looks doubtful as he places a curved hand over his mouth. “I dunno. I’m really torn about it. People already think I’m involved. If we go to the police, even the supernatural ones, will it just bring more suspicion? It says there, it’s a darker element of magic. What if there are laws against this sort of thing.”
“But you’re innocent. That has to stand for something, right?”
Wade sighs, running the back of his hand across my jawline. “And that’s why I love you so much. You really do think everything works out in the end.”
“You don’t?” I say, quirking an eyebrow.
“I want to,” he says, his eyebrows flicking upward. “I’m just more realistic than that. Good people get hurt. Bad people sometimes win. When you bring in the supernatural, I’d wager those odds go up.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because power corrupts,” he says, casting me a knowing look and standing up. “Having abilities, no matter how slight, can give a person a superiority complex. Especially if they’re already a tad on the unstable side. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Wade looks up at the clock on the wall. “Lunch is nearly over. We better get moving. I don’t want to miss Powers and Technology. It’s been a good class so far. You coming?”
I nod, glancing quickly at the screen. “Yeah, I’ll be there in just a minute. I want to do a little more reading on revenants, and I’ll head out. Postmortem Communication isn’t far from here.”
Wade bends in, brushing his lips against mine. “Okay, meet you in an hour?”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, grinning.
He saunters out, walking through the library like he owns the place. Despite all the craziness going on around him, he still has such magnetism and an air of confidence about him.
Running my hand along my neck, I twist around to face the computer. Hitting the back button, I click on the next two links. They have all the same information as the first one, with small variations.
The fourth link, however, goes into the details between the mindless undead and those with independent, cognizant thought. Revenants are controlled by an outside force. Liches on the other hand, can somehow retain their minds—even when the rest of them has been desiccated.
I shudder at the thought of skeletal remains wandering around, somehow retaining their ability to think and make decisions. The mindlessly controlled ones are scary enough.
Leaning back, I stare blankly at the screen.
Why would anyone want to raise the dead and turn them into revenants? So far, what have they accomplished, other than launching a local investigation and causing suspicion to be thrown around?
My eyes widen.
What if whoever has been raising the dead has deliberately sent the revenants to Wade? And if that’s true, why?
It doesn’t make any sense.
Taking a deep breath, I turn back to the computer. Abigail told me that if the dead weren’t found and laid to rest, worse things would follow. It’s pretty clear now, she meant they’d become revenants. So, my guess is, this sort of thing has happened before.
I tap my fingertips on the edge of the keyboard, thinking.
She also mentioned, I need to do some research on the house in order to get a better picture of what’s going on. Abigail and Warren were part of the founding of Windhaven but I’m not sure how it all ties back to Blackwood Manor.
Biting my lip, I put the cursor in the search bar and type Blackwood Manor. I fully expect for it to come up with a big fat nothing, especially after having to go to the county library to get more information last semester. However, that’s not the case. Nearly sixty results come back.
Scanning through them quickly, the majority of them are focusing on the house and its relationship to the energy of the town. Eyeing the time, I frown.
Do I race to Postmortem Communication? Or do I stay here and dig a little deeper?
“Ah, screw it. It’s one day,” I whisper, returning my gaze to the computer screen “Besides, this way, I can get more information out of Abigail later.”
I click on the first article, bending in to see exactly what kind of information a school would keep on my house. Of course, the piece is small, but talks about the house and its unique location. Evidently, people believe it was built on a vortex of energy—like a gateway that makes it easier to see and summon the dead.
Maybe that explains why my abilities didn’t present themselves until I was there? Clicking through the next few links, the majority of the articles talk about the house and the way it was a beacon for those with supernatural abilities. In a way, it served as a stake in the ground, giving silent permission to those with power to join forces.
From the moment Abigail and Warren broke ground, other families with abilities were drawn to Windhaven, building their homes nearby. The Gilberts and the Cranes—Dominic’s family—were the most notable.
Scanning the next page of results, one catches my eye and looks promising. I pull my seat in closer and give it a click.
August 26, 2005
Blackwood Manor’s Magical Memory
Written by: Alexander Dunham
Windhaven, Massachusetts, is known for its supernatural draw, thanks to the Windhaven Academy and its magical teachings. Every year, thousands of supernatural hopefuls enroll into the elite super-school, hoping to learn how to master their gifts and become an even stronger version of themselves. However, hidden in the woods of Windhaven is a manor with a magical history all its own. Yet its significance seems to have been lost amongst the new generation of witches, shifters, and other magic-wielders.
Blackwood Manor is residence for one of the oldest families in Windhaven, the Blackwoods. Built in the 1700s, it was thought to be erected on hallowed ground in order to work in relationship with the Blackwoods’s innate abilities. Both Warren and Abigail Blackwood were known for possessing strong powers in the postmortem realm, gifts that were rare then and even more rare now. Together, they were a formidable team. Warren could both see and hear the deceased, making it easier to communicate with the dead. Abigail, on the other hand, was born a necromancer, with the ability to summon the souls of those who had passed and, under the right circumstances, bring them back to life.
Unfortunately, Abigail met an untimely
death herself and her loss drove Warren into madness. He began creating additional rooms in the home at a feverish pitch. Those close to the family believed it was to make rooms for all of the children they would have liked to have had. However, in talking with the current descendant living in the home, Mr. Lyle Blackwood, he paints a very different picture.
“I think it would be a special kind of hell being able to see and hear spirits, but not being able to bring them back—especially when the one who could, is the one you lost,” Mr. Blackwood said. “I’m sure being a postmortem medium in the pre-supernatural revolution wasn’t easy. On one hand, Warren had people knocking on his door all the time, trying to get him to speak to their dead relative, friend, or whatever. Or if they needed help with exorcisms and hauntings. Then, on the other, people were scared to death of what he could do. He couldn’t win.”
When asked if he believed the rumors of why Warren built so many rooms, Mr. Blackwood had this to say: “It had nothing to do with children. He just wanted to keep himself busy. Some people in the community thought he killed Abigail. In reality, all of our family records indicate he loved Abigail deeply and was extremely distraught after her death. He couldn’t deal with all of their accusations or requests, so he threw himself into a different kind of work, hoping it would alleviate his pain. Together, they only had one son, William. So, building and remodeling became something they were able to do together as William got older. Then, it turned into an obsession that was passed down from generation to generation. My father was the same, until he passed the house on to me a couple of years ago. We’ve each added our own special touch to the house, continuing Warren’s legacy and adding our own personal mark.”
Mr. Blackwood was more than gracious, granting a tour around the sprawling estate. He pointed out various features of the home, including the additions he, himself, has made to the manor. They include transforming what used to be Abigail’s parlor into a bedroom for his young daughter.
Soul Legacy: A Supernatural Ghost Series (The Windhaven Witches Book 2) Page 7
