Page 17 of Buried Souls
I stand frozen before the fractured mirror, a pallid wraith in a tattered gown that was once green but is now completely blood soaked and black, lace clinging to me like cobwebs spun from grief.
My reflection trembles and more lightning flashes across the sky that begins to weep. A soft crack follows, like porcelain under strain. Then the sound of something wet, something alive, sighing as my skin loosens from its moorings. Pale flesh slips from my collarbone in delicate ribbons, the color of wilted roses, falling soundlessly to the wooden floor. Beneath, shadow and bone shimmers faintly, as though the soul itself is trying to claw its way free.
The air thickens with the scent of iron and electricity. My eyes, once blue, are black as unlit wells. I raise my trembling hand—half woman, half ruin—and watch, horror stricken, as a hollow smile that’s not my own spreads across my lips as the last of my humanity drifts away like ash in the stillness.
Somewhere from up above, from the dark rafters or haunted attic that I have yet to discover, a choir of unseen crows begins to sing, and it snaps me out of my catatonic state and back to reality just as hysteria begins to set in, my brain on the verge of imploding.
I lift my hands in front of my face, the historian in me demanding I use my logic.
My skin stands intact, only an occasional scratch marring my skin from my run through the woods. No maggots fester in my flesh. No blood oozes out of my nails.
I inspect the rest of my body, where the same sight greets me.
It’s as if I imagined the whole incident.
“I’m losing my mind,” I mutter, ripping the dress off andthrowing it back into its box. An old oversized shirt that should reach below my knees catches my eye, one that will make do for the time being. Until I return to some form of civilization, at least.
I’ll be leaving as soon as the storm lets up; I’ve wasted enough time as it is. The thesis won’t be writing itself. I have to make haste if I want to hand it in by its due date.
Grimacing at myself in the mirror one more time, I make my way out of the room, inching the door open ever so slowly. I hold my breath, praying to God that there isn’t a certain dark eyed devil waiting for me around the corner.
My head makes its appearance first, followed by the rest of my body as I carefully inspect my surroundings. The hall stands empty, only the darkness and the sound of my beating heart keeping me company. It stretches long and narrow, swallowed in shadows and silence, as though it wasn’t built to connect but to delay.
The air is thick, unmoving, the kind that presses in on the lungs like the weight of water. Dust blankets everything like ash from a long-dead fire, muffling my footsteps, though I can still feel the sound of them echo behind me. Like someone walking a breath too close.
The walls are paneled in dark wood, warped by time and moisture, their once-fine carvings now half-eaten by rot and age. Cracks split the plaster above like veins, and from the corners of the high, vaulted ceiling, long ropes of cobwebs drop like curtains, swaying faintly, though no breeze stirs.
Portraits line the corridor in ornate, blackened frames. Their subjects—long-faced men and mourning-veiling women—watch me with clouded eyes, their features worn smooth with age. Some faces have been scratched out entirely. Not by time, no. By fingernails. Fresh gouges, too.
A single candle gutters in a scone halfway down the hall, itsflame bent low. As if bowing in fear.
The historian in me is giddy with excitement at the sight of such gothic splendor, but I force it down and make haste, tiptoeing down the hall towards a wide staircase, lest anyone catch me out and about. I’ll leave the house tour for another time; the last thing that I need is to be accused of wandering around without permission.
The staircase goes down in a half-spiral, made of ancient wood that gleams as if still slick with polish. The banister twists like the spine of a great serpent, and at the top of it crouches a carved newel in the shape of a kneeling figure, hands covering its face, mouth open in a silent scream.
The stairway vanishes into blackness below, each step consumed by shadow. No light touches the lower floor. Only a faint, pulsing sound drifts to where I stand at the top of it. Like breath held too long.
The closer I step towards it, the colder the air becomes. Not the clean cold of wind or winter, but the wet cold of something buried deep in the ground, undisturbed for years...until now. And somewhere—down below—it’s waiting.
Lightning flashes.
I jump, squeaking like a mouse. Thunder claps, the ominous sound echoing throughout the house, my insides knotting up from anxiety.
“I’m going to have a heart attack in this place.” I exhale, my hand clutching the shirt as I hurry down the steps.
CHAPTER 9
“Voices in the Dark”
The house appears even more empty than when I first stepped foot into it, if such a thing is even possible, as if the males that had been occupying it not too long ago were a fragment ofmy imagination, their bickering a hallucination of my exhausted mind.
A fire still burns in the hearth, its flames stuttering against the press of the house’s breathless dark. A sound stops me, just as I’m about to take a step forward. Soft. Deliberate. The unmistakable creak of a footstep above me.
I freeze, heart suddenly thudding hard in my throat. The house is old, yes, but that step had weight. Rhythm. Intention.
Slowly, my eyes lift to the staircase.
It’s empty.
