Page 51 of Once Upon A Haunted Castle
She had to find out. Curiosity over the bird’s strange behavior finally won and, with a lingering glance at her husband, Havilland collected the oil lamp that had been bleeding weak light into their tiny chamber and shut the door very quietly.
Oh, but how the wind did howl overhead, bursting through holes in the wall, or through uncovered windows, soaring through the derelict old castle and causing phantoms to jump from the shadows. It was dank and dark, the smells of rot and mold assaulting her nostrils, as Havilland timidly pursued the bird back in the direction of the keep entry.
She remembered this area because it was where she and Jamison had entered the keep, with the host’s big hall back over to her right. The peculiar man had long since vacated the cavernous chamber, or at least she thought he had, because it seemed dark and cold now, the fire in the hearth having reduced to burning embers. Nothing stirred in the darkness.
The big raven caught her attention, hopping and skipping, and she quickly moved after it, dagger in hand, her senses attuned to every sound, every movement. Oil lamp held aloft, she could now make out some features of the darkened entry. It was a large room with three big lancet windows cut high above the door, windows meant for light and ventilation. Tatters of oilcloths hung over them, blowing in the wind. Havilland paused in her pursuit of the bird, holding the oil lamp high to get a better look at the windows; rain poured in and she could see that the ancient, torn oilcloths still retained their hint of a purple color.
Tap, tap, tap….
The wind surged and the tapping could once again be heard. It seemed to rise and fall with the surge of the wind. Heart thumping with anxiety, with fear, Havilland extended the oil lamp to the room, looking to see where the sound might be coming from. Not far from her, the bird chirped and chattered, flapping its wings, and waddled through a small, arched doorway near the entry and into the darkness beyond. Taking a deep breath for courage, Havilland followed.
The oil lamp in her hand lit up a small, windowless chamber with three doorways in it; one to her left, one to her right, and one directly in front of her. It was low-ceilinged, a passageway of sorts, and Havilland lifted the lamp up, over her head, to get a better view of her surroundings. It smelled like death, so very dank and musty. It made her nose itch. The bird had disappeared and as she timidly headed to the doorway to her left, she suddenly heard the bird chatter in the doorway to her right.
Havilland’s head jerked towards the source of the sound and she stuck the lamp into the doorway only to see that it was a spiral stairwell that led up as well as down. She could hear the bird down the stairs, fluttering its wings and making odd bird noises, so she very carefully made her way down the spiral stairs, trying to hold the lamp up to see so she wouldn’t slip and break her neck on the narrow flight. Down and down she went, the smell of mold and damp growing heavier, until she came to an old, broken door.
It was heavy, this door, and partially open. The old iron hinges were rusted into position so there was no hope of moving it, but there was enough of a gap that she could make her way through it. She could hear the bird on the other side of the door so, fighting off a creeping sense of foreboding, she slipped in through the narrow opening in the door and into more darkness beyond.
It was oddly quiet on this level, down and away from the storm above. Havilland was on the lower level of the keep now, the floor hard-packed earth and uneven in spots. The walls were made of rocks and there were earthenware jars, bushels of things long since molded and eaten away, and other items that suggested that this was a store room. It was also low-ceilinged, and dark, and she could hear the bird on ahead, through another low doorway, skittering and fussing about something.
The eeriness of the place was making her feet heavy, making it difficult to move, but Havilland forced herself, moving in the direction of the bird. As she went, she was also inspecting the old and forgotten things around her, wondering if there was something that she and Jamison might be able to salvage and take with them on their journey. The weather had been so poor that it had ruined most of their possessions, so anything to replace them would have been welcome. But what she could see around her,allshe could see around her, was ruined from age and neglect. As she inspected what looked to be a pile of furs in terrible shape, the wind whistled down the spiral staircase behind her.
Tap, tap, tap….
Havilland froze at the sound. It was seemingly very close now and, once again, in concert with the wind. She was now making that connection; whenever the wind blew, the tapping came. It was very odd. Furthermore, she deduced that the source of the noise seemed to be in the room beyond where the bird was still fussing.
Fighting down her fear, she slowly moved forward, dirk in one hand and oil lamp in the other, wondering what she would find when she found the source of the tapping. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know but curiosity drove her. She couldn’t resist. Hesitantly, she peered into the darkness of the next room.
This room was small, with a doorway on the far end that adjoined another dark and soulless abyss beyond. The raven was puttering around next to one of the stone walls, simply walking in odd little circles as if pacing. It was strange behavior but, then again, everything about this visit to Whitecliff Castle had been strange, including the daffy bird. Everyone had been strange or surly, or both. With a heavy sigh, one of reluctance, Havilland took a few steps into the stone-walled chamber, looking at the bird.
“Now, what?” she asked quietly. “You have taken me down here. Now what would you have of me?”
The bird flapped its wings and squawked at her. Havilland lifted her shoulders. “What do you want of me?” she asked again. “You led me down here and…Sweet Jesú, I am talking to a bird. I must be losing my mind. I must have lost it completely to have ever thought the bird was trying to lead me somewhere.”
Now she was feeling foolish, looking around the dark chamber and thinking that she should hurry back to Jamison. He was warm and safe and comforting. This chamber was dark and cold and smelled like a tomb. In fact, the very air itself was heavy with death, a sensation she didn’t like in the least. This castle, so dismal and wretched, bespoke of death in of itself; most of it was dead, other parts of it were waiting to die. There was no glory left here, only desolation.
Whatever had possessed her to follow this foolish bird?
Now anxious to leave, Havilland turned for the door when a faint wind whistled in through the door and a familiar sound filled the chamber.
Tap, tap, tap….
Startled, Havilland yelped and spun around, fulling expecting to see a horrid specter of ghosts past standing behind her. Surely it was a phantom creating that sound! But the tapping seemed to be coming from the very wall that the bird was pacing in front of, and the bird continued to hop about, walking in circles, poking at the stone.
… poking at the stone?
Now, Havilland’s curiosity was in full force, a crazed urge to see what was making the ghostly, persistent sound. What on earth could the bird be trying to tell her, directing her to this old and crumbling stone wall? Was there something valuable behind it? Or was it the pathetic cry of someone who needed help, perhaps someone who had been imprisoned, now crying out for assistance?
All of these thoughts raced through Havilland’s mind as she went to the wall and peered closely at the stone. She could see that there was no mortar; the stones had simply been piled up, one atop the other. There was something in there, tapping at her. Setting the oil lamp aside and the dagger beside it, Havilland began to pull at the stone.
The first few stones came out easily. They weren’t heavy and she set them aside, returning to the stone and continuing to pull them down. The bird was becoming increasingly excited, jumping up and down before finally flying up into the opening that Havilland had created. The bird disappeared inside and, puzzled as well as vastly curious, Havilland continued to tear away the stone, tossing the rock aside. Was there a great treasure chamber beyond? Her imagination was running wild.
Pulling out another stone, the movement unbalanced the pile and the entire wall suddenly collapsed. Havilland had to jump back out of the way to avoid being hurt by the crush of rocks. Dust flew up, clouding up the air in the small chamber, and she coughed as she tried to fan the cloud away. It was quite a bit of dust.
As the particles swirled and then finally began to settle, Havilland could see there was now a wide gap in the wall. There was also something beyond. She couldn’t quite tell what it was, this shape in the darkness, so she fanned furiously at the dust cloud and stepped closer, climbing on the stones that had fallen and trying to gain a better look at what was inside. As the weak light of the oil lamp penetrated the dusty mist, the scene behind the collapsed wall came into focus.
The first thing that greeted her was a skeletal smile.
Startled, Havilland realized she was looking at a skull, but not just any skull; it was attached to a bony body that was chained against the wall, remnants of woolen clothing swathing the moldering bones. Beetles were still consuming the remains, skittering off into the shadows when the light from the oil lamp hit them.
