Chapter 20
FAILED DESCENT
My flashlight bobs through the fog. A crow caws overhead.
I point the beam of light at it, up into a canopy of gnarled branches and sparse leaves.
Through it, the night sky is murky, but the rain has stopped.
Soggy detritus squelches underfoot as a I creep along the path, a length of rope over my shoulder, a utility belt around my waist, and this high-powered flashlight in hand.
I borrowed all three from the shed behind our carriage house.
Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howls.
Goosebumps tiptoe across my skin and for a moment, my thoughts run wild with the Hollow Walker and his hounds, hunting for souls. My mother, sprinting through the trees, branches clawing at her face.
A twig snaps behind me.
I spin around, shining light into the overgrowth.
A raccoon’s beady eyes glint in the dark.
Closing my own, I tell myself to settle down.
Getting to the well is the easy part.
Climbing into it will require a bit more bravery.
Freaking out over a howling coyote that is at least a mile away will do nothing to bolster my nerve. With a shaky breath, I reign in my imagination and continue onward. When I reach the well, I drop the rope and shine the flashlight into its depths.
Light gleams over uneven stonework slick with moss and reflects off the water below.
Jude doesn’t know I’m here.
Neither does Twig.
The former would try to talk me out of it. The latter would want to join me on my side quest. But what can Twig do with his arm still in a cast? He and Naomi are better off keeping tabs on Lainey.
I scoop up a pebble and drop it into the shaft.
A second later, I hear a faint plunk.
If I had to guess, the descent will be twenty-five to thirty feet.
The question is, how deep is the water once I reach it?
I scope the area for a rock of suitable size.
I find a hefty stone near the bushes where I first discovered the moon-eyed creature and tie one end of the rope around it.
I lower it into the well, hand over hand.
When the stone hits water, I can feel a shift.
I let it sink until it strikes the bottom.
Then I pull it up and measure the length of wet rope.
Two feet.
My heart lifts.
“I can handle two feet,” I say aloud.
An owl hoots in reply—my curious audience of one.
I anchor the rope around the closest tree, pulling until the knot digs into bark.
I’m a good rope climber. Back in elementary school gym class, I could scramble to the top faster than most boys.
But I add a series of knots down the length just in case.
I tighten the utility belt around my waist, clip the flashlight into place, and ease myself over the crumbling rim of the well.
The beam from the flashlight swings as I descend.
The air is damp and heavy. Every time my boots connect with the stone, tiny fragments break loose and plink into the water below.
I don’t let myself think too hard about what I’m doing.
I just move, lower and lower, my muscles tight with adrenaline, when the fluttering of wings and a high-pitched screech echoes through the shaft.
A bat flies right by my face.
With a choked scream, I lose my grip.
Flailing for a handhold, I fall the rest of the way, landing hard in a shock of cold. My boots sink into sludge as I scramble to my feet, the flashlight dripping with water and muck.
“No, no, no,” I cry, quickly unclipping it from my belt and wiping the lens with the sleeve of my hoodie.
For one heart-stopping moment, the light flickers and dies.
But then I give it a shake and the beam returns.
I set my hand on the stone and will the panic away.
“You’re okay,” I tell myself. “Everything is fine.”
The flashlight is working and as far as I can tell, I didn’t break anything in that fall. I do a mental check to verify. My bottom is going to be sore and my knuckles are scrapped, but all limbs are accounted for.
I take a breath and point the light at my feet.
I’m standing in two feet of freezing cold water polluted with sediment from the fall.
If I’m going to find the key, I’ll have to do so by touch.
Squatting slightly, I move aside a half-submerged bucket and begin groping with my hand.
My fingers move over a tangle of rope that was once a pulley system when a sharp sting bites my palm.
Hissing, I jerk back and squeeze my hand into a fist.
After a beat, I hold my palm beneath the flashlight.
Blood oozes from the gash.
I can’t tell how deep it is.
I also can’t do anything about it down here.
So, I resume my search, more carefully this time.
I use the bucket to sort through the detritus. A broken bottle. Shards of glass. Several rusted nails. Chunks of mortar. A few soaked rags. A handful of coins. A clay smoking pipe. A scrap of ribbon like those tied to the tree in the midnight garden. And creepiest of all, the hand of a china doll.
My teeth begin to chatter as I continue my search. My frozen fingers crawl over every crevice, sifting through the sludge, until my hands are numb and wrinkled like prunes.
The skeleton key is nowhere.
It’s as if it has vanished without a trace.
Like Simon and his family thirty years ago.
Up above, I can hear the patter of rain.
My palm continues to bleed.
And when I shine the flashlight up along the stone, I swear there are scratch marks. As if once upon a time, something tried very hard to get out.
It’s time to go.
Despite my rope climbing prowess, the ascent is awful.
The rope is slick. My frozen hands struggle to maintain a grip.
My elbows and knees keep knocking into the stone.
And the wound on my palm burns like fire.
There’s no way I would make it if not for the knots I tied.
Gritting my teeth, I focus on reaching one, then the next, until I haul myself over the rim with a burst of fear-fueled strength.
I collapse onto the ground—all at once relieved and terribly disappointed. If we’re going to keep Harper and Kate far from Lainey, we need them to believe us, and for them to believe us, we need proof. But how can I show them proof without the key?
It should have been down there.
And yet, it wasn’t.
How is that possible?
Did someone beat me to it?
The thought wedges itself in my brain like popcorn stuck between my teeth. Leaving the rope tied to the tree, I drag myself to my feet and hurry home. Fueled by adrenaline and an inexplicable sense of urgency, I snag Dad’s keys, hop into his Bronco, and drive to the cemetery.
I all but run to St. Fortuna’s, unsure what to expect or what I’m hoping to find. I can’t get into the crypt without the key. And even if I had it, I can’t move that stone slab of a door on my own. But when I reach the ruins, I see that I don’t have to.
Somebody has already moved it for me.