Page 23 of An Inheritance of Monsters

She’d had a fiancé, too. While the lore of the island was quite clear on his fate, I’d found more than a few dissenting accounts claiming Madeline had been responsible for his death.

After all, his version of suicide was pretty messy. And scattering his own body far and wide would’ve been difficult to do shortly after death.

‘Far and wide’ being the length of the library itself, and through the enormous stained glass window that covered us with shades of ruby and amber as we set up a camera.

Madeline, according to the accounts, had never been considered a serious suspect by investigators. She’d claimed a wild animal had broken in through the window, smelling her dead fiancé’s blood after he jumped from the third floor mezzanine.

They had been inclined to believe her, as such a small woman would be incapable of the kind of ferocity that came after.

Crispy aimed the camera towards the centerpiece of the room: a beautiful parquet floor, inlaid with different shades of wood and bronze chips that radiated like a mandala from the center of the library.

I sat on a wooden reading desk, contemplating the tale of Madeline as Sierra readied her candles and cards.

There were no natural predators on the island—neither wolves nor bears.

I thought of Rask’s claws and strength.

Sierra huffed a sigh as she arranged her tealights just so, creating a circle around her. In the middle of the mandala, with her blonde hair and white dress catching the glow of the window, she looked positively angelic.

I bit down on my irritation. Angelic was good. She brought viewers to the channel with this act.

And I didn’t want to sit here and listen to her talk aboutaurasandsinisterpresencesandspeak to me, Madeline, when I could tell her damn well there was not a single ghost in this whole library.

I slid off the desk, the Black Book tucked in my jacket, and motioned to Crispy, catching his eye.

“Gonna walk around,” I mouthed at him, and he gave me a thumb’s up, still adjusting the camera and boom mic.

I vanished into the stacks, into sweet, blessed silence.

Out of the central spiral of the library, the darkness seemed to press in. The warm light of the stained glass window vanished within thirty feet, and I could only see flashes of it when I looked back over my shoulder.

Along with flashes of something else in the corners. Something darker. A faint shadow, following in my footsteps, unheard but deeply felt.

The sense of leviathanpresencestirred my nerves.

I dug in my backpack for a flashlight. Unlike the modernized kitchen and bathrooms, this part of the house had been designed for oil lamps—for the people who had originally built it. There wasn’t a single overhead light.

The books were much older, as well. Many were bound in cloth, their titles stamped on the sides in gold leaf.

I touched one, trailing down the aisle. A hint of Sierra’s voice reached me—“I implore the spirits of this house to reach out!”—and I walked a little faster.

A minute or so later, I understood the warren I’d walked into. I’d come across doors set in the far wall. One opened on brick, just like the one in the kitchen. Another wasn’t a door at all, but a carving that just looked like one.

There was a window set in the ceiling, looking at the interior structure of the house.

It was like a madman had taken over once the main sections were built.

I paused, my flashlight trained on a new door.

Would this one lead into another drop, going straight into the bowels of the island… or was it simply a door?

Only one way to find out.

I reached out and gripped the knob, the shadows stirring, and once again something behind me breathed.

Waiting. Assessing.

My flashlight didn’t so much as tremble.

---