The Forgiving by Wesley McCraw

Author:Wesley McCraw [McCraw, Wesley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wesley McCraw
Published: 2013-07-15T23:00:00+00:00

10

Up the Stairs

Night had fallen.

The threesome stood at the bottom of the entry room stairs. Around them, the sounds of the house caught their words before they spoke. Presumably, a draft jingled the cut-glass chandelier hanging above the staircase, but now the cause seemed like it could be anything. Ghosts. Demons. Psychic energy.

Isabel looked through the coatroom and down the front hall, which led all the way around to the dingy workroom and the circuit breaker. They could wait in the workroom for Ophelia; they could turn the power on if it went out again. But the thought of descending into that lower hall made her breath catch and her skin crawl. The place was evil. She didn’t even want to stay in the entry room because the lower hall was just around that corner in the distance, lurking out of sight.

Moans emanated from the chapel behind her. The lights flickered and threatened total darkness. A skittering sound flittered back and forth, though quiet enough that it could have been a memory.

“This place sounds so creepy,” she said. “It’s like we’re on a creaking ghost ship or something. You feel that?”

Having broken the tension by speaking, she was finally able to move and went to lock the front door. There wasn’t a deadbolt or a latch; the door couldn’t be locked without a key. She peered through the trefoil window. The Puritan woman still stood outside the gate under the light of the street lamp with her rifle at her side. The key to the gate was right there behind the tree. The crazy woman could just come in if she wanted.

Howard put his hand on one of the newel posts, on the head of a lamb. “Come on. We need to get the flashlight while the power is still on.”

Going upstairs was a bad idea, and getting a flashlight seemed to Isabel like an exceedingly poor motivation. Nothing seemed like a good idea, though, and she refused to just stand around while her fear kept intensifying.

Grip would follow their lead. He'd do whatever they thought best.

So without argument, the three climbed the stairs, dreading what they would find behind the red doors, yet climbing anyway. The steps creaked underfoot as if in pain.

As Grip climbed, clinging to the banister, he looked to the ceiling. The arches, spikes, and little crosses of the Gothic crown molding reached out like fingers. He looked back over his shoulder down to the first floor. Blood rushed to his head. The dizziness felt like falling.

Isabel found that the knobs of the red doors didn’t turn. Liquid waits beyond these doors, she thought. Which was crazy and strange, like a thought from someone else. The doors were a floodgate. “HELP ME” had been written in blood. All the upper story windows were barred. Someone or something is locked behind these doors. What if the prisoner asking for help was guilty of horrific acts? What if the prisoner wasn’t alone?

“You still have the key?” Howard asked.

He and Grip watched expectantly, and it didn’t occur to her that she had a choice.

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