Chapter 33
Astor
“Pri, are you messing with Sabine?”I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the kitchen doorway.
Prishna wipes her hands on a dish towel as she turns away from the sink. She’s prepping the dinner I requested she cook tonight for Sabine and me. And based on the sulky expression on her face, she’s not happy about it.
“Define messing with, sir.”
“Sneaking pictures of Valerie into her room, along with a doll’s body from Chloe’s room. And whispering outside her door. You know, creepy-ass things.”
Prishna fists her hands on her hips. “Mr. Stone, why would I do that?”
“Because you don’t like her.”
“I don’t like a lot of people.”
I can’t argue with that.
She continues. “But that doesn’t mean I sneak into their bedrooms with,” she uses air quotes, “creepy-ass things.”
“You haven’t been yourself lately.”
“Nor have you.”
I can’t argue with that either.
“Did you ask Cillian?” she asks, placating me.
“He’s the one who told me about it. Sabine mentioned it to him.”
“Did he do it?”
I roll my eyes. “Cillian has his own demons that occupy 99% of his time.”
Prishna shrugs. “Well, if he didn’t do it, and I didn’t do it, Sabine is either lying or we have a ghost in this house.”
Ten minutes later, I find myself in my office googling—you guessed it—ghosts.
I have officially lost my mind. And I blame it all on Sabine.
But the thing is, ever since Cillian told me what Sabine said, I realized that since coming back to the manor, I’ve felt particularly unsettled too. More than usual—and not all because of Sabine’s entry into my life. I get a weird, uneasy feeling as I walk through the hallways, the library, the master bedroom. An instinct, though I can’t put my finger on what it’s trying to tell me.
My ghost search takes me all over the Internet. Apparently, there are many people who believe in the afterlife.
Eventually, I land on something called a vengeful spirit. This is the spirit of a dead person who seeks revenge for a cruel, unnatural, or unjust death. The spirit will haunt the dealer of their death for months, sometimes years, following them wherever they go.
Considering I’ve made a career of killing people, it’s safe to assume that vengeful spirits occupy a mile-wide radius of wherever I am standing. The article then goes on to say that, in certain cultures, a vengeful spirit is also defined as one who failed to receive a proper burial ceremony.
Valerie.
I reach for my drink and notice my hand is unsteady.
Must be tired.
I take a long sip, staring at the screen, the only light in the room.
Before I can stop myself, I click into the surveillance video of Valerie, days before she was taken, wandering the garden in the middle of the night. Before she died in an unnatural way and never received a proper burial ceremony.
A vengeful spirit . . .
Like a moth to a flame, I lean into the monitor, my chair squeaking against the silence of the room. I study her pale face, white nightgown, and long snowy hair.
Mesmerized, I draw even closer to the screen, feeling my pulse increase.
Valerie’s lips are moving as if she’s talking to someone. Her steps are unsteady, and she appears to be agitated. She lifts a long skinny arm and points to something just out of view of the camera.
Suddenly, she stills, completely frozen. Not even a strand of her hair is moving in the wind.
Is she scared? Or is she listening as someone responds to her?
“What is it?” I whisper, my heart pounding.
Like whiplash, her face turns to the camera, her eyes glowing unnaturally in the light.
I lurch backward, almost tipping over the chair.