The Kalbrandt Institute Archives - Book I: Hauntings by Chris Chelser

Author:Chris Chelser
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: series, ghost stories, diversity

After a moment’s hesitation the bead began to move again, this time to a pre-written phrase that read “je ne sais pas”.

‘If you do not know the reason, maybe it is time to reconsider. You were waiting for him, but now you do not have to wait any longer. You can both go.’

Adan prayed to his pendant for good luck. If this realisation sank in, his task here would be completed much easier and faster than he had anticipated.

But the bead replied with another standard phrase from elsewhere on the sheet: “Pas encore”.

‘Why not yet? Are you still waiting for something?’

The bead shot over to the word “vous”.

‘You mean him. You are still waiting for him? But he is dead, like you?’

The bead returned to “pas encore”.

Adan’s heart skipped a beat. If that was true, then…! ‘Is that why I was not allowed into the upstairs rooms? Because he is there, still alive?’ No, that was impossible! There had been two men, now there were two ghosts.

Only one of which he had identified.

It was a long shot, but he couldn’t ignore it. At the Institute he had seen amazing things; miraculous recoveries from mortal injuries. He couldn’t risk not making sure this wasn’t similar.

Not awaiting Chevalier’s bead, Adan bolted for the stairs.

The instant he reached the threshold of the parlour, a frigid wind blew him clear off his feet.

‘Finally caught on to me, did you?’ he spat at the unseen presence. ‘I told you I would be back. And this time you will not get rid of me so easily!’

He scrambled up, aided by a warm touch on his elbows. In the kitchen, something rattled. Adan ran up the stairs, while in the hallway the kitchen door flew off its hinges and a single kitchen knife shot out like a bullet from a gun. Instinctively he raised his arms; the knife buried itself into his as yet uninjured palm.

He cried out and made to cradle his bleeding hand. He couldn’t; a terrible cold had grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards the wall. As he stumbled, a warm sensation filled his palm and the knife was pulled from the wound and discarded only moments before his hand was smacked flat against the wall, smearing his blood over it as the force threw him this way and that.

Adan fought for all he was worth, but despite the warmth on his arm and the back of his hand, the cold was stronger. It made him trip down the stairs. The only reason he didn’t fall was because the warmth held him up before he lost his footing altogether. When he finally managed to free himself, his raw and bloodied hand grabbed at the banister at the very bottom of the stairs. By the faint glow from the lamp in the parlour, he could make out the black stains his blood had left on the wall. They formed a ragged pattern that looked familiar only at second glance. He went cold, this time in dread.

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