Page 49 of Her Dark Lies
The heavy iron door to the crypt is usually barred by a massive padlock on its handle; it is now cracked open several inches.
He halts, catching his breath. Who is here? Who would be so careless as to leave the door to the crypt open? Especially with the life-changing evidence lying within?
The scent of must and mossy dirt wafts out from the black beyond. It is cool, so cool he shivers. Darkness bleeds before him. This isn’t a movie set, with a burning fire and ready-made torches to be dipped and lit. This is emptiness. Vast nothingness. This is the personification of death—the unknown blackness beyond.
He listens intently for the tiniest whisper, for a footfall, a breath, the scratch of claws through the dirt, the struggle of a minute life in a sticky web, but there is nothing.
With a deep breath, he steps into the darkness.
29
The Crypt Keeper
The flashlight is bright in the still air, illuminating the path, but Jack moves slowly. The crypt is only accessible by traversing a long dark downward-sloping tunnel of dirt, framed out overhead with thick wooden trusses that date back to the fortress’s inception, well before the Villa was built. There are several tunnels and levels excavated below the fortress; typical to the islands in the area, some of the tunnels lead down to the grottos, coves, and beaches.
The sea caves were used for many things over the centuries. Some were practical—escape hatches, boat storage, a way to ferry supplies up to the fortress. In some cases, they were more metaphysical. As lore had it, several of Isle Isola’s grottos were used as nymphaeums, shrines dedicated to the Roman nymphs and sea goddesses. And of course, on Isola in particular, Venus. They were even rumored to be places for witches to gather and hold rites.
Jack always believed the grottos were designed for practical, not supernatural, purposes, but as a child, he wasn’t comfortable alone in the dark with the specter of witches holding rites down the darkened tunnels or sea goddesses rising from the depths. The fortress held a dungeon at one point, too, rumored to be somewhere down here, but he and his brothers never found it. Not that it mattered—his grandfather had gated off all the grotto tunnels with heavy iron driven into the rock as a security measure. The Comptons couldn’t risk enemies trying to enter the Villa through the ancient tunnels, nor curious little boys slinking through the darkness.
The crypt though—this is someplace they’ve all been, semiregularly. His great-grandparents William and Eliza are buried here, as is his grandmother May, plus a number of previous inhabitants of the fortress, monks and kings alike. The crypt is actually a series of rooms, and Jack, as a child, explored them all. It stopped being a fun place to visit after they laid his grandmother to rest, though. When they lost May, he was old enough to conceptualize what was happening behind the square doors on the wall. For months after her interment, he woke at night screaming, besieged by images of her moldering body waking in the darkness several floors below him, clawing her way out of her hole in the wall, wandering the hallways to his room. He’d insisted on a chair beneath his bedroom door handle for months.
He supposes some families would be happy to have their dead so close. Because of his childhood nightmares, he still finds it deeply disturbing.
The island itself is a mausoleum to the past. There are cemeteries and graveyards scattered about as well, including one attached to the church where he and Claire will be married, but that houses the inhabitants of the island, not the landowners themselves.
He hears something, a sound, deep in the darkness ahead, and pulls up so hard he stumbles into the wall and drops his flashlight. It lands hard, extinguishing the beam. He is plunged into darkness, heart thudding in his ears.
What is that?
Crying. He can hear crying.
The sound is eerie, but entirely human.
He takes a deep, shuddery breath.God, Jack. Are you eight or thirty-eight? Still scared of the dark?Blowing out one more quick breath, feeling silly at his reaction, he picks up the flashlight, thumbs it back on, and starts forward again. He arrives at the interior doors to the crypt to find them open, and his grandfather, a lit candle in his hand, standing by May’s resting place, wiping his eyes. Wax drips down the gnarled joints, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Gran?” Jack calls softly, not wanting to scare the old man.
“Eh? Who’s that? Brice? What are you doing here?”
“No, Gran. It’s me, Jackson. Are you okay?”
Jack angles his flashlight so he can see Will’s face but isn’t shining the beam into his grandfather’s eyes. He’s afraid Will won’t remember him, but there is recognition. Recognition, and resignation.
“Hello, son. I’m just visiting my May. It’s been a while since I came down here.” Though it’s clear he’s been crying, his voice is hearty, and not at all confrontational.
“Me, too.” Jack puts a hand on the plate that marks his grandmother’s dates.Beloved May. Born April 7, 1945. Died June 29, 1989.
The anniversary of her death is coming soon. No wonder his grandfather is here, mourning.
She was only forty-four when she died. His great-grandmother Eliza was only thirty-three. They both saw a great deal in their short lives, but it still hurts that he didn’t get to meet Eliza, or see May grow old.
Compton women die young.
Morgan was only twenty-five when she died...
“Do you remember her at all, Jacky? She loved you to pieces. I’ve never seen a woman so proud to have a grandchild before. She thought you hung the moon, and though you couldn’t even crawl yet, the moment Ana put you in May’s arms, you stopped crying and looked up at her with such wonder. She fell in love in an instant, and you did, as well. You used to toddle after her everywhere she went. You couldn’t stay away. Like magnets, you were.”
Jack smiled. “I do remember her, Gran. I remember her hair, and her smile, and the way she always smelled like pine needles, so fresh and clean. She wore red lipstick, all the time. And great-grandmother’s pearls, of course.”
