Page 7 of Buried Souls
The hinges groan—a long, mournful sound that echoes through the cavernous entryway like a warning. Inside, the air is cold and thick with dust, carrying the faint scent of wilted roses and something else. Something faintly metallic, like old blood.
Shadows cling to the corners, shifting just beyond the reach of the late afternoon’s remaining glow.
I step inside, the door creaking shut behind me, sealing me in with the silence of the house.
And the world outside fades away—forgotten.
CHAPTER 4
“Faces in the Mirror”
The door latches behind me with a softclick, too deliberate for comfort.
I remain still, listening. But it’s as if the silence inside thehouse is alive. Watching.
Pitch black darkness welcomes me as I step into the foyer, the floor beneath my boots creaking with every step. Groaning like a beast in pain. My skin pulses, my nerves going haywire as I descend into the dimly lit space.
The entrance hall rises around me like a cathedral built by forgotten hands. The ceilings are impossibly high, ribbed with age-blackened beams that drip cobwebs like lace spun by the dead. Faded tapestries hang limp on the walls: half-rotted scenes of saints and serpents, their woven faces worn smooth by time and dust. Ever so carefully, I stride further inside, treading lightly so as to not alert anyone of my presence.
My stomach grumbles, insides screaming to be fed.
“Dreaming of food won’t help you in this case, Elena,” I mutter under my breath. “Better go see if there’s something to eat.”
Frowning at myself for having a whole conversation out loud, I descend into the dusky hall. An audible gasp escapes me and my jaw drops to the floor at the spectacular sight that greets me.
An impressive open space reaches all the way to the top of one of the towers, its high walls decorated by enormous paintings spanning the entire length to the ornate ceiling. Ones of forest beings and nymphs, others with bears dancing around a bonfire, the colors so vivid that it’s as if at any moment, the many creatures will come twirling out of the canvas and sweep me off my feet.
A grand staircase looms ahead, its banister claw-carved and glistening faintly with rot, absent of any carpeting. The wood worn with age. Motes of dust dance in the air like ash, disturbed by a wind that doesn’t exist. A chandelier above sways ever so slightly, though there is no breeze. Its crystals tinkle faintly: an eerie, delicate chime. Likes bones brushing in the dark.
And the walls... the walls breathe with the cold.
To my left, a corridor yawns open, swallowing the light. To my right, a parlor. Velvet drapes drawn shut, yet shadows move behind them. Something else fills the loud silence: a whisper—but not a voice, not words, no. Something older. Like the creak of time shifting in its grave.
The house doesn’t feel abandoned.
It feels...paused.
Held in place by some unseen hand, as though it has been waiting.
The air, it tastes of forgotten dreams and mildew. Beneath the layers of dust, the scent of rosewater lingers, clinging to the walls like a memory that refuses to die, but then the sweetest aroma attacks me as I stand gawking at the magnificent chamber.
Notes of thyme and paprika invade my nostrils, spreading over me, and I inhale as my lids lower, the delicious scent igniting the many receptors on my tongue as images of roasted boar and seasoned potatoes fill my mind.
My feet move, taking me to a lavishly furnished kitchen, with rich charcoal tinted cabinets and plates filled to the top with—
Food.
Impossible.
I stand still as a statue, gawking.
The kitchen is enormous, carved in more shadows and stone, its vaulted ceiling ribbed like the belly of a cathedral or some ancient temple. Dark wooden beams stretch overhead, strung with dried herbs that crumble as the air stirs around me. Dozens of candles, unsnuffed and burning low in twisted scones, cast a golden, flickering light that bleeds across every surface.
But it’s the food that draws my eye. And my unease.
A long, central table of polished blackwood groans beneath its burden. Silver platters reflect the firelight like still water, heaped with feasts that should have rotted centuries ago: pheasant glistening with fig sauce, a juicy ham studded with cloves, bowlsof sugared plums, and bread still warm enough to steam when torn.
A pear rolls lazily off a porcelain plate and thuds to the stone floor.
