The Awakening. Amanda Stevens
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walls of Oak Grove Cemetery, that darkest of all burial places, where even the dead didn’t wish to linger.
The mist thickened and the air grew colder. An unnatural wind tore at my hair and the hem of my nightgown. I covered my nose and mouth as the smell of fresh death rose up from a sea of open graves.
Straight ahead, the Gothic spires of the Bedford Mausoleum peeked up over the treetops. The distant tinkle of a wind chime lured me into the woods and when I emerged into a clearing, I found myself at the bottom of a long staircase. At the very top, light shone through an open doorway where shadows danced upon the walls.
I didn’t want to go up there. I didn’t want to see inside the mausoleum. But the melody of the wind chime wrapped around my senses, drawing me upward as if a string around my wrist had been tugged.
The air grew steadily colder as I climbed. The night became crowded with ghosts. The diaphanous beings drifted up behind me on the steps, brushing their frigid fingers through my hair, pressing icy lips to my ears as they whispered about unspeakable secrets.
I could feel my energy wane as their appetites threatened to consume me. But I kept climbing, on and on until I reached the summit. A silhouette appeared in the doorway blocking my way into the mausoleum. It was Devlin, barefoot and shirtless, his hair unkempt, his eyes inflamed with an emotion I didn’t want to name.
I put out a hand, thinking he would dissolve the way Mama and Aunt Lynrose had, but instead I felt the warm ripple of muscle. I closed my eyes on a shiver.
He caught my wrist and I thought he meant to pull me against him. I wouldn’t have resisted no matter his betrothal. But he held me away, the intensity of his stare deepening my unease until I suddenly found myself wanting to break free of him.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said harshly, holding me fast. “You don’t belong.”
“Where are we?” I tried to look around him into the mausoleum but he stepped in front of me, shielding my view with his body. I could hear all manner of sounds inside, inhuman screams and groans that chilled me to the bone. “What is this place?”
“Go,” he said. “Before they find you.”
“Who?”
“You can’t be seen here. This is a place for the dead.”
“Then why are you here?”
He said nothing to that, merely stared at me longingly before he turned in resignation to go back inside. I stepped across the threshold into that cold, dark space filled with shadows and torchlight and noises that lifted the hair at my nape. But Devlin was nowhere to be seen.
I wasn’t alone, however. Claire Bellefontaine crouched on the stone floor before a pool of blood. Light shimmered in her silvery gold hair and something dark and feral glinted in her blue eyes.
She lifted a finger to her ruby lips. “Shush. Lest she awaken.”
Then she pointed to the doorway and I whirled. The ghost child hovered at the top of the stairs. She wore the same clothes as before, but now I could see a flash of silver in her fist.
Familiarity tugged at me again, but the memory flitted away as her face morphed into a corpse bird. I could see the iridescent sheen of her feathery hair and the dead gleam of those beady eyes in the torchlight. Her head hung at a sickening angle, but when I would have moved to help her, she emitted a high-pitched scream that knocked me back against the wall.
I crumpled to the floor, hands to my ears as I cried in horror, “Please stop. You’re hurting me.”
“Mercy,” she said before she tumbled backward down the stairs.
I rose and rushed to the doorway. She was already gone, but she’d left something behind on the top step. A charm bracelet gleamed in the torchlight, but when I bent to pick it up, my fingers found nothing but mist.
I awakened with my fingers tangled around the ribbon at my throat. The weight and purpose of Rose’s key should have reassured me, but my heart pounded so hard, I had to sit up in bed to catch my breath. I searched the shadows, all the darkened corners. Nothing was amiss. Angus snoozed on in a puddle of moonlight, oblivious to anything but his own dreams.
Shoving back the covers, I rose and padded into the hallway to check the alarm system. The activated light glowed reassuringly, but I still found myself glancing over my shoulder as I walked to the kitchen for a drink of water. Then I took a quick look around the house before returning to the front window to glance out at the street.
It was well after midnight and traffic had long since died away. The night was quiet and peaceful, lit by a crescent moon and the streetlights along Rutledge. I saw nothing untoward. Even the shadows were static. There was nothing inside or outside that should have kept my heart racing, and yet my uneasiness mounted the longer I stood at that window.
My scalp prickled a warning as I suddenly vectored in on the cause of my disquiet. Halfway down the block a sleek black sedan with darkly tinted windows was parked at the curb. The headlights were off, but I could see the silhouette of the driver behind the wheel. As if prompted by the fierceness of my concentration, he opened the door, briefly illuminating the interior of the car. He appeared to be alone. He got out and came around to recline against the front fender.
I could see him clearly underneath the streetlight. Even from this distance, there was no mistaking his identity. I’d seen him on my front porch only hours ago.
And there was no mistaking his intent. He had been sent to watch my house.
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