Page 32 of Chain Me
“Why am I not surprised?”
I turned away. I would take that as an insult rather than a harmless quip. Only he could make the cold boundaries I’d grown up obeying seem more trite than tradition.
In fact, he made everything about my past life seem trivial.
Like the days when I could sit beside someone and not recall what their touch felt like, rough with possession. I tried to suppress the thought, but my breath quickened anyway, signaling my unease like blood in shark-infested waters.
Thankfully, he parked the next second, choosing a spot near the shade of a weeping willow, and I used the task of unfurling myself from my seat belt to fill the awkward silence. When I finally pushed the door to my side open, Dublin was already there.
He warily extended his hand, as if expecting me to bite it rather than accept it. When I did the latter, he helped me to my feet. Together, we faced my childhood playground and I pretended like I wasn’t affected by his scrutiny.
Neglect reduced the landscape to a wilderness of overrun grasses and weeds. Without its typical manicured appearance, the area resembled something right out of a horror film. The crypt itself was by far the most unsettling fixture. Square-shaped and framed by Romanesque pillars supporting a sharply pitched roof, it was an anomaly compared to the Gothic style of the main manor.
“You used to play here as a child,” Dublin reiterated. “For enjoyment?”
I could sense the typical mixture of scorn and pity he usually showed whenever I mentioned personal anecdotes. This day, however, I decided to inhale the damp, humid air of the overcast day and give in to nostalgia.
He wasn’t forgiven—but I could pause my ire for history’s sake.
“Shall I give you the grand tour?”
The door wasn’t locked. Ironic considering that most of the people buried here had spent their entire lives keeping their secrets under lock and key. Inside was a small entryway formed of gray marble floors and dark walls. A lone statue lorded over a spiral staircase built into the earth, leading deeper into the crypt.
“Is something wrong?” I looked back and found Dublin lingering beyond the doorway, his frown more pronounced than usual. “Don’t tell meyouhave an aversion to death?”
“It’s not that,” he said gruffly. I waited, but he didn’t elaborate further.
Sighing, I started forward without him. “I can bring it to you—”
“I would have thought you Grays had some elaborate protocol regarding your sacred structures.”
I faltered and braced my hand against the wall for stability. Was that another joke?
“Do come in,” I snapped rather than decide. “Welcome to the glorious Gray family tomb.”
Without so much as a retort, he finally entered the entryway, and memories stirred as I led the way with him on my heels.
“My parents brought us here often,” I admitted, brushing my fingers along the stone walls as my voice echoed. Dust coated my fingertips, depressingly thick. “It was the one thing I ever saw my father take pride in, apart from the fortune. He called it our ‘enduring legacy.’”
At the foot of the stairs was a light that, once flipped, revealed the cavernous interior containing five chambers that branched from the central room. In the center stood another statue, one of a crying angel, her eyes downcast in sorrow.
“That’s been here for generations,” I remarked.
Slipping past her, I wandered the circular space and tried to see it as someone on the outside might. Like a vampire perhaps. In death, we Grays were every bit as interesting as we were in life. Our tastes in minimal design had changed little over the centuries. Such as a fondness for our namesake color.
I crept into the alcove designated for the most recent generation, aware of Dublin’s gaze on the back of my neck.
“Is this the urn you and your sister used?” he wondered.
I peered over my shoulder and found him staring up at the old marble container on the shelf across from the somber angel. “Yes. It was one of the most reliable ways to reach Georgie back in the old days, if you can imagine that. I should look inside it.” I started toward him, hope bubbling in my throat.
Maybe after weeks of silence, she would decide to reach out by recalling an obscure tradition from our childhood?
I changed course only when I noticed Dublin watching me. How pathetic would that seem?
Somewhere around very and depressing, I decided.
I turned instead and approached the wall where my parents were interred. Joined in eternal rest, they dominated the top two places. The layout resembled that of a vertical grid with each tomb marked by a stone placard engraved with the occupant’s name. Per chamber, each wall could hold up to eight corpses in rows of two.
