Angel Manor (Lucifer Falls Book 1) (14 page)

“That’s not fair. My mother is afraid of this place because her parents used to torment her here. But my mother never told me that the dead came to visit, Bam.” Freya wagged her finger as she talked, her eyebrows knotted at the top of her nose. “She might be a bit nuts, but you’re the one who’s talking crazy here.”

Bam pinched the bridge of her nose and gave Freya a mute stare. Something softened in her friend’s face, but the sadness was still apparent.

“We’ve got builders here now, Bam. Money is being invested, and we’ve ordered the materials. I can’t back away from this now. It’s too late.” She ran fingers through her hair. “It was you and Oliver who wanted this in the first place.”

“I know.” She couldn’t bear to look at Freya. “I know, and I’m sorry. But… I can’t do this anymore.” She pulled open her wardrobe and wrestled a suitcase from the bottom. The smell of cedar wood and fabric softener flowed from inside. The plastic handle dug into her palms, and Bam struggled to get the case free. With a rough jerk, she pulled the suitcase away, dragging a red silk dress behind it, but she didn’t care anymore.

“Bam, come on. What are you doing? It’s one AM; where are you going to go at a time like this?

“I was almost raped by a ghost, Freya. I can’t stay here.” Her fingers trembled as she unzipped the lid of the case and flipped it open. With a soft huffing sound, the lid bounced on the mattress, and Bam walked back to the wardrobe, where she plucked clothes from the hangers.

“How about we stay in Oliver’s room? The three of us, like old times. If we’re there, nothing can hurt you, right? Please don’t leave in the middle of the night. Just go in the morning, when it’s light.”

“You promise you won’t leave me?” she pouted, blinking the tears away that threatened to well up again.

“I promise. We’ll eat biscuits and natter all night if you don’t want to sleep, okay?” Freya leaned towards the door. “Ollie?” There was no response, and she held out her hand to Bam. “Let’s get out of here first, go to Ollie’s room.”

Bam took her hand, a surge of gratitude washing over her, but the fear still clung to her like a dark cloak.

Tomorrow, I’ll leave.

Chapter 9

Lyndon Farrow and Roger Mace moved through Angel Manor, their footsteps crunching through the debris of the South Wing. Both boys tried their best to be quiet, but it seemed as if the house had other plans. The meagre light of their torch illuminated a stream of white across the dark floor. In the distance, they could hear the old clock chime, but the noise was soft enough not to startle them.

“Watch where you put your feet, you elephant!” Roger pushed Lyndon, and he almost lost his balance. He felt a surge of annoyance, but he kept quiet. No one messed with Roger, except maybe Terrence, and Lyndon wasn’t about to try.

“You’re not exactly twinkle toes yourself, pal,” was the only retort he dared to give. He listened to the hiss of raindrops beating against the windows.

Roger clicked the piercing in the side of his lower lip against his teeth and punched Lyndon in the arm. He pointed at a heavy door. “Let’s go to the basement, in case Norris or Masters come looking. I don’t want them to catch me smoking dope again.” He pulled a joint from his jeans pocket, placed it carefully between his lips, and lit it, taking a long drag and holding it. After a few seconds, he exhaled a cloud of pungent smoke. “I don’t know why you wanted to go in the house, anyway. It’s fucking creepy here at night.”

He held the spliff between his thumb and forefinger and passed it to Lyndon, who in turn inhaled deeply.

“You’re such a numpty. This place is fucking awesome.” Roger pulled at the metal basement door, the weight forcing him to use both hands. His red hair, cut into spikes with a slanting uneven fringe at the front, made him look like the singer of an indie band. The door opened with a loud metallic creek, and Roger grunted with effort. Lyndon quickly moved forward to help his friend.

“Why is this door so heavy?”

“Don’t fucking know.”

“Looks like it’s knackered.” Lyndon pointed at a broken pulley.

“That probably helped keep it open or something. Stop your fucking whinging, bawheid.”

They propped the door open with some rubble, and Lyndon prayed the stones would hold. He piled on a few more just in case. Roger grabbed the joint back and took another hit. He shone his torch down the stairs, and to Lyndon’s dismay, there was very little to see. Just a set of concrete steps covered in a thick layer of dust.

“Has anyone even been down there?” Lyndon tried to sound nonchalant, but his voice shook when he spoke and a clump of nerves knotted together in his stomach.

“Naw, pal. We’ll be the first. Should be fucking epic though, two-hundred-year-old basement. Maybe we’ll find some rats or shit. Who knows, there might even be something down there that’s worth selling. I’m hoping they left some antiques lying around that everyone forgot about or something.” Roger handed him the spliff and nodded his head towards the entrance, indicating for Lyndon to walk through.

“You got the torch.” His eyes glanced at the light in Roger’s hand.

“And I’m lighting your way.” Roger’s thin, pale lips pulled into a tight smile, and his watery blue eyes were harsh. Lyndon considered arguing, but he decided against it and descended the old stairs. The faint light of the torch swayed in front of him, colouring the steps with a bluish white hue, but it did little to illuminate anything, or to take away the fear blossoming in his stomach like a poisonous flower. The darkness from below seemed to engulf the light completely, and then Roger moved the torch to the wall, leaving Lyndon standing in darkness.

“What the fuck, Roger?” His voice went a few octaves higher with panic. “Bring the light back!”

“Look at this, man. There’s writing on the wall.” The big, circular beam of light wavered over grey bricks, revealing painted black letters. Whoever had scrawled them had done a sloppy job, and the pigment had run down in thin streaks, giving the words the appearance of bleeding.

“This place is messed up.” Lyndon almost forgot his fear of the dark, the ominous letters somehow appearing so much worse. “That’s not normal graffiti, Rog.” He shook his head, his mouth twisted in a grimace.

“Pussy.” The light beam moved from the wall and aimed straight into Lyndon’s face.

“Cut it out.” He followed the light down the stairs. Something caught his eye, and he stopped walking. “Shine the light over here…” He pointed to the ground, and Roger followed his finger with the torch. There was a thick line of white stuff at the edge of the stairs. Lyndon jumped over it, and Roger followed his lead.

“Coke?” Roger quipped, but Lyndon couldn’t force himself to laugh. The basement was cold and dark, and he decided he hated this place more than anywhere else in the world. If anything happened, he was out of here. He didn’t give a shit if Roger thought he was a pussy. Roger’s torch caught the string of a light switch, and Lyndon pulled it. Soft yellow illuminated the basement. It wasn’t a lot of light, but it was enough for them to see by.

“This place could certainly use a higher watt light bulb. Can’t see shit.” Roger shrugged and tapped the bulb with his index finger.

“There’s something weird about this place, but I can’t quite figure out what it is.” Lyndon took a tentative step into the empty basement. Roger inhaled deeply, the tip of the joint flaring, throwing weird shapes and shadows across his pale face. His eyes rolled up and he let the smoke flow across his top lip like a reverse waterfall, inhaling it back up his nose. He clicked the torch off.

“No dust.” Roger’s voice was strained, and he exhaled between his teeth. “It looks like someone has cleaned in here. But that doesn’t make sense. The stairs are plenty dusty and there are no footsteps.”

“That’s just creepy.” Lyndon bent over and touched the floor with his fingertips. The cement was cold as ice, but no residue of any kind clung to his fingers… the basement was spotless. “Can we go now? I really don’t want to stay here.”

“We’ll go in a bit. I want to see what’s in here.” His face scrunched into a stoner’s smile, his eyes nothing more than little slits.

“There’s nothing in here, man… let’s just go.”

Without warning, a loud metallic sound reverberated through the basement; Lyndon nearly jumped out of his skin.

“That’s not nothing.” Roger took another toke from the joint and passed it back to Lyndon.

“Fuck this noise…”

“Come on, what can it be? Ghosts?”

Lyndon didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at the joint in his hand and took a hesitant drag. Roger stepped deeper into the basement, Lyndon hanging back while taking a few more puffs on the joint. Roger stopped a few feet away from the door in the back and smiled.

“I wonder what’s behind this door. Could be a wine store.” He ran his hand across the surface. “If it is, I’m pinching a few bottles.”

“Wine bottles don’t make noises, mate.” Lyndon rubbed his face with his hand while wrapping his lips around the roach and inhaling the last few sour tokes. The leaves burned against his lips, and he flicked the butt to the ground. His mind was sluggish. This was not a nice buzz. He felt stressed out about everything, and more than a little paranoid.

“Probably rats or something. Maybe something fell over.” Roger clicked his torch on again and pointed to the darker areas, then squatted to his knees and picked something up from the floor. “More of that white stuff here.” He smelled his fingers and turned to face Lyndon, the torch on his face. “I think it’s salt or something.” He got back to his feet and grabbed the door handle. “Ready?”

“Naw.”

The door creaked as Roger pulled it open. Lyndon took a few steps closer, but remained at a safe distance. Beyond the opening was pitch darkness. The beam from the torch crossed the door and landed on a figure of a large, nude woman. Bulbous folds of skin spilled over each other, while large vein-splattered breasts topped with liver-coloured oval nipples rested on her stomach. Her round face was a mask of death, deep-set eyes only showing the whites. Thick meaty chins covered any evidence of a neck, and her skin was an unnatural pale tone. Lyndon cried out and Roger took a step back, his shoe crunching on the salt line, smearing it over the ground.

“What the fuck, what the fuck?!” Roger screamed.

“Roger, close the fucking door, ya bawbag!”

“I’m trying. Come and help me.” Roger threw his full weight against the door, but it wouldn’t budge. His voice was high with panic, and Lyndon took a step forward to help his friend out, but the fat woman flickered for a moment and suddenly appeared on the other side of the door.

“Nah, fuck that shite, man. This isn’t happening. I’m not seeing this. I’m not seeing shit.” He stumbled back, waving his arms over his face. The figure of the woman was so terribly silent. A fat hand, tinted a greyish hue, rose towards Roger, who just sagged to his knees and flopped towards the ground. The woman moved with uncanny speed, grabbing the falling young man by the hair, her pudgy fingers tangling in his flaming locks. Roger half hung in her grip, his eyes wide with fright, and he stared straight at Lyndon, who in turn thought he was going to throw up from fear. The naked woman lifted Roger’s head a bit higher, then slammed his face down onto the concrete. A sickening dull crack rang through the basement as Roger’s nose exploded like a ripe melon, spraying blood, teeth and torn flesh across the floor. The sight of the blood stirred Lyndon into action. He turned and ran towards the door just as something flickered in his peripheral vision. Before he had time to react, a second naked woman appeared, this one so close that Lyndon struggled with a rising panic. She was tall and thin, her lanky body the same pale grey as her fat companion. Her face was too hard and angular to be pretty; she had a strong, masculine chin, and big white eyes with long lashes made her look like an unpainted porcelain doll. Long blonde hair fell across her small pointy breasts, and the liver-coloured nipples peeked through the greasy strands. Stunned, Lyndon stared at her, from the small breasts to the narrow belly button and down to the waxy blonde pubes that lay between her thighs like a promise of golden treasure. His eyes trailed back up to her face, and she cast him a black-toothed grin. Her image flickered and disappeared for a fraction of a second, but then reappeared right in front of him, her hands shooting out before cold fingers dug into the skin of his temples and cheeks. He felt hot blood run from the wounds. Her white eyes narrowed with malice, and her jagged teeth snapped at him from behind blistered blue lips. A smell of rotting flesh emanated from her, filling his nostrils and mouth. Lyndon gagged.

She made no sound, and her body was strong despite being light. He could barely feel her weight as she jumped on top of him. For a brief second, she disappeared, and moments later, dark teeth bit into his chin. Serrated incisors cut through skin and fat until they scraped across his jawbone, and Lyndon screamed as a flap of his skin came away. When the spirit flickered out of existence again, he saw his chance and sprinted towards the stairs. He made it up five steps when his foot landed wrong and he fell awkwardly. His legs flailed as cold, sharp fingers grabbed his ankle, dragging him down. Teeth sank viciously into his calf, tearing through the fabric of his jeans, through the muscle, spilling hot blood across his leg. Summoning all the strength he could muster, Lyndon kicked back and scrambled up the stairs. The spirit released him as abruptly as it had grabbed him, and he almost fell again, his fingers clinging to the stone steps just enough to hold on. His body shook as he looked over his shoulder to see the woman standing at the bottom of the steps, just behind the white border of salt. She touched the air experimentally, as if an invisible wall stood between her and Lyndon. Behind her, he saw the fat woman squatting down over Roger’s limp form, her meaty thighs spread wide and her fleshy folds engulfing a large portion of his lower back. She pulled his head back again. Roger’s eyes were bruised and swollen, his nose was a shattered mess of blood and cartilage, and his mouth was a gaping, toothless hole. Fat fingers held his hair and pushed into his mouth, his moans echoing through the basement. Lyndon grimaced, his eyes glancing at the door from which the fat woman had stepped. To his horror, he saw several other naked figures, all female. One, a woman in her late forties, perhaps a little older, used an old-fashioned saw to slice into the flesh of her own leg, a thick black liquid oozing from the wound. Her greying hair framed her oval face in electric wisps, while bulging white eyes peered from sunken, cadaverous sockets. She smiled at him, the way the thin woman had done, and Lyndon decided there was nothing more he could do for Roger.