Page 50 of Once Upon A Haunted Castle
Part Three
’Tis the wind… and nothing more
Tap, tap, tap….
Havilland’s head came up.
Lying in bed next to her snoring, sickly husband, she heard the tapping outside of the chamber door.
They were crammed into a small, dark chamber on the ground floor of Whitecliff’s keep that must have been a storage room at some point, or even a guard room from the size of it. There was a hearth in it, barely warmed by a few smatterings of peat that the disagreeable servant had put into it, and hardly lit by an oil lamp made out of a broken cup with liquid fat in it and a hemp wick. It gave off a minimal amount of light into the tiny room that was close to the entry, so close that the sounds of the wind howled heavily against the small door the chamber, rattling it.
… orwasit the wind?
Tap, tap, tap….
Hearing the tapping in the darkness again, Havilland sat up, wary of the unnerving sound. The wind didn’t make such rhythmic beats and she swore that the tapping was against the chamber door. A big burst of wind and lightning came and the door rattled as she saw flashes around the edges of the old door frame.
Beside her, Jamison was sleeping the sleep of the dead, terribly ill and without much comfort. The host and his rude servant didn’t have anything she had asked for, no herbs to help her tend him, so the only option was to ply Jamison with more wine to kill off whatever poisons were infecting his chest and put him to sleep. He very much needed rest.
But he was feverish and after Havilland had put him to bed upon the tiny, dirty pallet they’d been offered, she’d remained awake, bathing his fevered face with cold water and a rag that the servant had provided. She had to do something to ease his sickness but there wasn’t much relief to be had, unfortunately, so she did what she could until he fell into a deep, heavy sleep. The wine had finally done its duty.
And he was still sleeping, his snoring as loud as the thunder outside. He hadn’t heard the tapping. If the thunder hadn’t awoken him, surely a gentle tapping wouldn’t. Fearful, yet inherently curious, Havilland carefully rose from the pallet so she wouldn’t disturb him. Their saddlebags were close and she fumbled in one of them until she came across one of Jamison’s razor-sharp dirks. The man always carried a small arsenal with him and Havilland seriously considered taking two dirks, but she soon thought better of it and put the second one back into the damp leather bag. Once dirk was all she needed to shove in the ribs of someone who deserved it.
Tap, tap, tap….
More tapping at the door. Now, annoyance was joining her sense of curiosity. Her fear had mostly fled but her sense of caution was still strong. The wind howled and the lightning flashed again as she moved to the door. Hand on the latch, she hesitated a moment before yanking it open.
Havilland had the dirk in her hand, defensively, fully prepared to threaten whoever was doing the tapping. But there was no one at the door; the room beyond was dark and vacant. There was no one at all, at least from what she could see. Puzzled and fighting down a tremendous sense of disquiet, she was about to turn back into her borrowed chamber when something poked at her foot.
Startled, she looked down to see the big black bird at her feet. He was ruffling his feathers, poking at her feet again.
Tap, tap, tap….
“It wasyou!” she gasped at the bird, keeping her voice down so Jamison wouldn’t hear her. “Go away, you naughty bird. Go, I say!”
The bird croaked at her. Then it hopped away, stretching its wings, before turning around and coming back to her again. Havilland frowned at the bird as it tried to tap on her feet again. She shoved it away with her foot.
“Cease,” she hissed. “Go away!”
The bird croaked and chirped, odd sounds coming from its big beak. It waddled away and she went to close her chamber door but then the bird returned, quickly, and tried to tap at her foot again. She was about to shove it away from her again when she heard a sound out in the darkness.
Tap, tap, tap….
The tapping sounds were clearly not coming from the bird. Her unease returned as she gazed off into the darkness, wondering where the sound was coming from. Quite obviously, she should have shut the chamber door and crawled back into bed beside her husband, ignoring what she had heard, but she couldn’t seem to manage it. The bird was still croaking away, making odd bird noises and wandering the floor. It would move towards her and move away again, back and forth, until Havilland began to think that the bird wanted her to follow it. It was very strange the way the bird seemed to be trying to get her attention.
Was it even possible?
Havilland wasn’t sure what made her think that the bird was trying to coerce her into following it, but something told her that the bird was doing exactly that. The way it moved, the way it poked at her. Perhaps she was mad, reading more into the silly bird’s behavior than there actually was, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the bird wanted her to follow.
It wanted to lead her away.
So he wants me to see something, does he?Glancing back at Jamison, Havilland could see him in the faint light from the weakly glowing hearth. He was dead asleep and didn’t need her at the moment. Perhaps the least bit curious about the bird, not to mention Whitecliff as a whole, Havilland didn’t see any harm in following the bird. In fact, maybe she wasmeantto follow him. Perhaps someone needed her help. Perhaps there were strange forces at work and she was needed, her only guide being the big, black bird. It seemed ridiculous to even think such things, but there were many thoughts rolling through Havilland’s mind at the moment.
Fear and interest made strange bedfellows, indeed.
Was there something waiting for her, somewhere in this dark castle?
… or, perhaps, someonewas waiting for her?
