6
Rayne
Specter
But silence? The absence of breath, not a single creak from the boards beneath my feet, no howl of wind outside. As if this space was enveloped, cocooned outside of reality. But within cocoons, something usually lived.
Salem’s previous room was ice-cold. The fire had gone out, and the humidity from her shower was gone. Not even the scent of her perfume remained. Instead, the aroma of mold and vegetal rot hung in the air.
Ingrained habit made me reach for the cross around my neck, tugging it back and forth along its chain as I stepped into the bathroom. Water was splashed all over the tile, the faucet lay in a puddle beneath the dripping pipe. Honestly, the situation was almost comical.
If it wasn’t for something Salem said.
They were wearing red, I think.
Squatting down, I stroked my fingers over the boards where Salem claimed she saw the figure. They were wax-smooth, but a strange discoloration caught my eye. It was only visible from the right angle: the faint damp imprint of bare feet.
The bedroom door slammed shut, and I leapt to my feet.
Hitting the light switch did nothing. How many countless times had I checked the wiring in this damned house?
How many hours had I spent replacing and testing sockets and bulbs?
Only to have them sapped, continually. As if light couldn’t live in this place.
I knew one thing for certain: Salem’s door had been locked when I tried to get in. Luckily I’d had my master key on me, otherwise I might have broken down the door when I heard her scream.
Whatever she’d seen couldn’t be stopped by doors and locks.
With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I approached the door. The knob was ice-cold when I grasped it. My breath fogged in the air.
It was locked. The knob wouldn’t turn.
Swallowing around the knot of tension in my throat, I pressed my ear against the door.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
As if someone was softly, continually, tapping their fingers against the other side.
The tiny cross dug into my palm as I gripped it tight. Prayers choked me, struggling to be given voice. But my tongue couldn’t form those pleas anymore. There was no faith to carry them.
Out the window, across the water, the lighthouse glinted.
As if its fire was still lit, as if it still had enough life to be a guide in the dark.
A guide... or a trickster. Countless lives had been lost in the seas around Blackridge.
Some said the ocean surrounding us carried more human bones than our own graveyards.
Then, as if someone had pressed their lips to the crack of the doorframe, the whispers began. Harsh, gargling, choked. I imagined blood foaming around cracked, rotten lips.
“To the bones, to the bones, to the bones, to the...”
On and on it went, and I dared not move, or scarcely breathe. But slowly, like a balloon losing its air, the whispers grew weaker. Fainter.
Then, it stopped.
The lighthouse was dark. The hall was quiet. When I turned the knob, the door swung open easily, and I stepped out into the empty hall.
But the cold still lingered.
“Leave her alone,” I whispered. “It’s not her fault. She has nothing to do with this.”
Goose bumps prickled up my back. I heard nothing. Saw nothing. Yet I was entirely certain that someone was standing directly behind me.
I could feel their cold breath on my neck. Determinedly, I started walking. Fists clenched, head refusing to turn. When I passed the window, the moonlight cast my shadow onto the floor. It cast another shadow too.
Behind me. Looming over me. Hand outstretched as if to touch me.
I shook. I didn’t turn.
“I’m not afraid of you. Leave her alone.”
The shadow leaned closer. Rancid breath touched my cheek. Harsh, cold words grated from a rotten tongue: “The blood... the blood... in blood... do I... call thee...”
Don’t look.
Don’t run.
One foot in front of the other, I held my breath until I reached the stairs. Only then did I look back.
And I was alone. So very alone.