Page 33 of Buried Souls
My voice comes out smaller than I intend. “Hello...?”
The sound is swallowed instantly by the empty air. No answer. No echo. Only the steady drip of water somewhere below—slow, deliberate, rhythmic. I descend the first few steps, each one groaning under my weight. The air grows colder, thick with the scent of damp stone and mildew. My candle flame shrinks, as if afraid.
Halfway down, I pause. A framed portrait I failed to notice before hangs crooked on the landing wall: a man and a woman, both middle aged, are captured in a moment of time, but it’s the woman that catches my eye. She’s in a faded yellow dress, her painted eyes, for some reason, reminding me of the ghost’s. Her hair appears to be a dark brown, like the color of burnt mocha, yet it’s too hard to tell. I stare at the painting—ather—unable to escape the sense of familiarity.
I tilt the frame back into place, and as I do so, a chill brushes my ear.
“Elena...”
My blood turns to ice. The whisper is unmistakable: my name, drawn out like a sigh, so close it might have come from the darkness itself. I spin around. No one. Only my trembling reflection in the cracked glass of the portrait.
My throat tightens. “Who’s there?”
Nothing.
“Hello?”
The whisper comes again. “Elena...” Fainter now, drifting down the corridor that leads back up and away from the stairs. The same corridor where I’d first seen the ghost.
For a moment, I debate on retreating to my room. Of closing the door, burying my head under the blankets, pretending none of this happened. But something in me—the same force that drove me out of bed, or maybe my natural need to explore and get to the bottom of things—urges me forward. If this is all real, if thisghostis real, there is a reason why it chose to appear before me.
I tighten my grip on the candle and turn back up, toward the corridor. The flame flares, a sudden desperate brightness, and in that instant, I see it again.
A shape at the far end, motionless. Watching.
And when I blink, it’s gone, once more.
“Where’d it go?”
I spin, eyes flitting about. The wall at the far end stares back at me. Except—it’snota wall. Another staircase, this one much narrower, hidden in thick shadows, stands there. It seems to go only up, to the top of one of the towers. Instinctively, I climb it with haste, not wanting to miss my chance of seeing the strange apparition again.
Another corridor greets me, this one much shorter, the walls here different: no portraits, no candle scones. Just smooth, cold stone, covered in ivy and twisting vines that seem to swallow itwhole. There’s an ever-so-slight hum in the air. A vibration in my bones.
At the end of the passage, a door. Heavy. Wood blackened with time, its surface etched with symbols and images of forest creatures and strange, otherworldly beings that belong in a horror tale. I trace them with the pads of my fingers, marveling at the precision and detail that went into carving them.
I open it with a single, silent push.
Inside, a circular room awaits. The air is thick with centuries of dust and decay. The stone walls are damp, veined with cracks that glisten faintly in the dim candlelight. Heavy iron scones cling to the walls like skeletal hands, each bearing a single, flickering flame that casts long, restless shadows across the chamber.
My gaze falls to the center of the room—and I gasp.
Five coffins, one smaller than the rest, arranged in a solemn half-circle upon a raised platform of black marble, stare back at me. Each coffin is carved from dark, aged wood, their surfaces etched with fading sigils, claw marks of time, and traces of tarnished silver ornamentation. Some lids sit perfectly sealed; others seem slightly ajar, as though disturbed by something unseen.
Above each coffin hangs a portrait in an ornate, dust-choked frame. Heavy black veils drape over the paintings, concealing the faces beneath. The fabric stirs ever so slightly, though no breeze touches the air, as if the figures behind them still move, still watch. A faint scent of mildew and candle wax mingles with something older, metallic, and bitter, as if smelling of death, itself.
Somewhere beyond the walls, something scratches softly—patient, deliberate—as though waiting for the right moment to return to its resting place. I shift uneasily. My foot catches on something on the floor, and I look down. A small, brass plaqueglitters at the base of the nearest coffin. I kneel, brushing away the dust. A name is engraved there.
Krasimir Bear.
My breath catches. I rush to the next one, hurriedly cleaning its plaque.
Vedrana Bear.
And the next one, the smallest of the five.
Karina Bear.
Realization dawns on me. It’s a crypt.
