Page 102 of Heart of Snow
My fingers finally landed on damp brick, but as I wondered if I should follow the wall left or right, something cold brushed my neck. I pushed my back to the wall and clasped my hands over my neck for protection. A few thick heartbeats went by before I found the courage to run, keeping one hand to the rough brick wall as my shoes clattered across the floor. I kept running until my foot kicked against something, and I went sprawling forward, landing hard on a set of stairs.
The way out!
Laughing from sheer relief, I scrambled up the steps to the first slits of light I’d seen. At the top of the stairs was a rough wooden door, and I passed my hands wildly over its edges in search of a latch. The cold touch of metal on my fingers announced the handle, and I gave it a hard twist, but it didn’t budge. I shook it back and forth, rattling the door in the frame, pounding the door with my fist until the side of my hand was riddled with sharp slivers. I screamed, my voice raspy against the scratch of thirst in my throat, but no one came.
Sinking to the ground, I sat for what must have been hours, watching the light under the door fade from white to gray to inky black. The cold air turned icy. I hugged my knees to my chestand leaned against the door, trying to swallow the burning thirst in my throat. My stomach had quieted its gnawing complaints to mere grumbling, but it was only a matter of time before starvation stabbed again. If help didn’t arrive soon, I’d truly belong with the corpses. Death might come from cold or hunger or thirst; it didn’t much matter. Every prospect was as slow and hellish as the next.
Tears leaked out of my eyes, and I rubbed them against my knees, but they were instantly wet again. I missed Father. I wished I could rest my head on his lap once more and have him pet my hair while he hummed to me. I wished I could see Samuel healthy again and laughing his infectious laugh. Mostly I wished for Friedrich. I wanted one more of his rare smiles, bright as sunshine after a rainstorm, but one more would never be enough. Even a lifetime of his jests, his quiet contemplation, his faithfulness wouldn’t satisfy. And his kisses, tender and caring... I thought on his kisses until my head drooped to my knees, and I fell into a fitful sleep.
Hours or days or minutes could have passed before I awoke with a jolt, forcing my sore body into rigid surveillance. In the silence between breaths, mice scampered over the floor, but their staccato scurries blended with a new sound. A slow scraping, like long fingernails running down the underside of a coffin lid.
I’m still dreaming, I told myself, but when the hissing started again, I jumped up and searched for the door handle. No matter the terror that fueled my frantic wrenching, the handle refused to move. As the scratching behind me intensified, I beat my sore and lacerated fist against the door, focusing on the pain in my hand—the one thing I knew to be real.
A stream of ice-cold air slipped past me, and I flipped around, looking into the pervading blackness, but there was nothing. Iturned and beat the door with renewed vigor, then another gust shot past.
It’s just wind.I swallowed hard despite the drought in my throat, but the fingernails scraping below multiplied.
I couldn’t stop myself from glancing over my shoulder down the dark steps but kept pounding against the door, trying to call for help just as a sudden iciness touched upon my cheek and brushed over my neck. A cold breeze tickled my ear, and a raspy voice whispered, “Margaretha.”
Slamming my back against the wall, I crossed myself, whimpering a prayer that was drowned out as fists started beating inside coffins like drums. The scratching and hissing continued, competing for notice, the sounds lashing over each other in haphazard repetition like a tumult of waves. Then, from below, the coffin lids ground open, and I knew the dead were coming to claim me.
I threw my hands over my ears, pushing my back into a corner and squeezing my eyes shut as I slowly sank to the floor.
“It’s not real. It’s not real,” I whimpered, shaking my head.
Another gust of air passed over me, and suddenly my wrists were seized in a tight grip, trying to pull me down into the belly of the crypt. I flailed against it, refusing to open my eyes and see the specter before me, but it had strength enough to rip my hands away from my ears, flooding my mind with the grating screeches of the dead.
“No, no!” I shook my head again, but over the cacophony of voices came a gentle uttering of my name. A warm hand settled against my cheek, and my eyes fluttered open to find Friedrich’s storm-gray, familiar gaze. He crouched before me, his fingers caressing my face. He had found me. He had saved me.
Throwing my arms around his neck, I knocked him onto his backside as I burst into tears. “The-the voices, the bodies.They’ve escaped. They seek my death,” I rambled, tears still streaming down my cheeks.
Friedrich lifted a lantern up to the crypt, then studied me with worried eyes. “There’s nothing, Margaretha. You’re safe now.”
“But the hissing. The scratching. It won’t stop!”
“This wound.” Gently pulling back the hair at my temple, he hovered the lantern beside it. “This was a heavy blow. No wonder you’re hearing things. Are you hurt anywhere else?”
I watched him fuss over me, checking the cuts on my fingers, my face, my neck. His eyes and touch were all tenderness, and my heart rate slowed to a tranquil rhythm under his tender care.
Setting down the lantern, he lightly rested his hands on my face as he met my gaze. “What you’re hearing isn’t real. I’m real. I’m here with you now.”
I focused on his warmth, on the concern in his eyes, and the scraping and scratching seemed to dim. Friedrich really was here beside me, and just when I’d believed I had only memories of him left to cherish.
He took hold of my arms, pulling me to my feet and out of the tomb, away from nearly all the clamor, save the quiet hissing that had followed me almost since my escape from the glass coffin.
We walked across the small landing to the base of the church’s steep stone stairs, where Friedrich retrieved his satchel. As he riffled through it, his hands shook, betraying the strain he, too, had been under. My heart warmed, and I had to rub a hand across my nose or risk another round of tears. He gave me a flask filled with water, which I guzzled down, coughing out spurts and trying to swallow more.
“Margaretha, you must sit.” Shrugging out of his jerkin, he spread it over the ground.
Nodding, I let him wrap me snugly in his cloak. He helped me down onto his jerkin, then settled against the wall beside me, studying me as he rested his arms across his upright knees.
He was still worried for me.
I sent him a quick, reassuring smile, then took another swig of water, and as I did, I noticed the door to the crypt hanging ajar, with the handle and lock chopped out. A dull hatchet rested on the ground beside it.
The drumming of fists. The hammering. It was Friedrich I’d heard.
I pushed the stopper back into the flask and returned it to Friedrich, meeting his anxious gaze.
