Page 34 of Buried Souls
The Bear family’s crypt.
Before I can continue my exploration of the coffins, the flame from the candle in my other hand flares to life, then steadies. The door bangs shut, then opens just as violently, rattling the walls. My heart pounds as I remain crouching, senses on high alert.
“It’s a draft. It was only the draft,” I mutter out loud, trying to convince myself that I didn’t wake any of the dead. Yet the image of the apparition from the stairs remains in my mind.
Hours seem to pass as I remain unmoving, ears straining for the slightest hint of a sound that shouldn’t belong in this place of eternal slumber, and as if on cue, a whisper—low and dry, like dead leaves dragged across stone—fills the air.
“Who’s there?” My voice comes out as a rasp, the hand holding the candle shaking slightly.
The portraits above seem to lean in closer.
The veils tremble.
My gaze shifts to the door, the very same one that’s wide open, like a gaping jaw ready to devour me whole. Pitch black darkness stares back at me, the glow from my candle reaching only a few feet before being swallowed. Somewhere behind me, faintly, wood creaks—the sound of a coffin lid shifting.
Every cell in my body turns to ice. My heart is on the verge of exploding. Blood rushes to my ears, the pounding so loud, I canbarely hear my breathing that’s coming out ragged and strained.
“Who—who’s there?” I repeat, my voice a barely there whisper.
No answer; only the slow, unmistakable sound of another lid opening.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
The hairs on my body stand on end.
A large lump of crippling anxiety sits in my throat.
My mind is a blank. A black, endless expanse of nothing.
I’m aware I should move. Should get up and remove myself from this cursed place. And yet—I’m unable to. My body is not my own.
I’ve never been so terrified in my life.
The flame wavers. I lift the candle towards the portraits once more. One of the veils has fallen, revealing the painting beneath. A woman’s face, rosy and lovely, painted in strokes of uncanny precision. The very same one from the landing below. The eyes gleam, as if wet and alive.
And they’re looking straight at me.
A blot of red forms in the corner of one eye. A blot that soon turns to streaks of thick, crimson liquid that drip down the canvas and onto the floor.
It appears as if the painting is bleeding.
This isn’t real.
This isn’t real.
I’m dreaming.
I’m—
A breeze moves my hair.
A breath caresses my cheek.
And a voice, deep and low, whispers to me: “Run.”
CHAPTER 16
