Craven Manor(56)

Crows shuffled above Daniel as he jogged up to the front door. He didn’t think they were sentient enough to communicate with Bran, but he kept one eye on them. Too much chatter or the flap of wings as they flew away would be enough to alert Bran to the intrusion.

He released a held breath as he passed through the doorway and into Craven Manor. It was nearly impossible to see without a light, but Daniel couldn’t risk burning any of the candles. He had to make his way by touch and memory, helped by the thin portions of moonlight glinting through the grimy windows.

Leaf litter crunched under his feet as he crossed the foyer. The fire had gone out long ago, but its embers still released warmth into the cold night air. Daniel found the stairs and began climbing. He cringed as the aged wood groaned under his weight.

Two eyes watched him from the landing. Daniel’s breath caught as they affixed on him, then he pressed a hand to his heart as he realised he was seeing the portrait. Not much of the painting was visible—just the eyes and a hint of the nervously smiling lips.

On the landing, he turned towards the stairs to the third floor. The higher he went, the harder it became to see anything. Spiderwebs made him twitch as his questing hands brushed through them. A creak echoed from deeper in the house, and Daniel had to force himself to keep his eyes ahead. Just a board flexing as it cools. That’s all.

He hung close to the bannister as he ascended. Even before he saw the door, he heard the noise of fingers being scraped over wood. It had filled him with horror before, and its effect was no less potent that night—but for a wholly different reason. Instead of fearing what would happen if the woman was allowed out, he felt sick to think of what she’d endured. For two centuries, she’d been trapped in that tower, clawing every day to be allowed out, but never heard or seen. He risked a whisper. “I’m here, Eliza.”

The scrabbling seemed to grow louder as he stepped into the landing. The hallways extended to the left and the right, swallowed in shadows. The stone pathway ahead was a pit of oppressive black. Only the noises floating out of it proved it still existed. The gasping, urgent breaths had become audible beneath the scratching.

Daniel finally dared to take the torch out of his bag. He turned it on and pointed it down the passageway. The beam was small and pale—he’d deliberately chosen a cheap LED torch to keep its light subtle—but it picked out flashes of the black door, the white cross, and the bronze lock.

“Eliza?” He hadn’t heard any sounds to suggest Bran had left the gardens, but Daniel still kept his voice quiet. The clawing was definitely louder. The gasps sounded hungry… and desperate. Daniel lowered the bag to the ground and dug through it. “Just a moment, Eliza. You’ll be out soon.”

He found the bottle of water, unscrewed its cap, then knelt by the edge of the door. The line of salt was clear and bright in the torchlight, and Daniel drenched it with water. It was the only thing he’d been able to think of to get all of the salt out of the textured stone. He spilt the entire two litres over it then used his hand to brush the liquid away.

Keening noises punctuated the gasps. Fingers scrabbled around the underside of the door, searching for an opening. Daniel threw the empty water bottle aside and took the last item out of the bag: a hammer. There was no way to keep this part of his task silent. He took aim then brought it down against the lock. The impact sent a jolt through his arm and jarred his shoulder, but the metal fell away with a clatter. Using his foot, Daniel pushed the lock out of the way, then he reached for the handle.

The noises inside had ceased. Daniel imagined Eliza waiting on the other side of the door, knowing her freedom was seconds away. He twisted the handle. The metal made a horrific screech as it moved for the first time in two hundred years, but the latch clicked as it came free. Daniel pulled open the door and stepped back to give the ghost free passage.

Nothing moved past him, though. Daniel lifted his torch and directed it through the black doorway. His beam picked up two feet of stone passageway then narrow stairs climbing into the darkness. No one—ghost or human—stood on the other side.

Has she already passed over, maybe? Was opening the door enough to give her peace? He craned his neck to see up the passageway, but the circular staircase twisted out of sight.

“Eliza?” His instincts begged him to back away, but Daniel stepped through the door. The air felt colder inside the tower—and not just by a degree or two. His breath misted when he exhaled. Tiny flakes of frost grew on the stone walls. Daniel touched one of them and recoiled as the chill burrowed into his skin.

He couldn’t leave without being sure the ghost had been set free. He climbed the first stair, stopped to listen, then took another step, a third, and a fourth. The tower’s staircase wasn’t opulent, like the rest of the building. No windows lined the twisting passage, and the walls were bare. The stairs were narrow and steep, and they curled at such a sharp angle that several times, Daniel felt afraid of missing his step.

This isn’t a guest room like the other chambers in the house. It’s a prisoner’s abode.

The higher he climbed, the colder he felt. Wind whistling through tiny cracks in the stone built into a mournful tune. Daniel kept his torch moving across the walls and steps, constantly on guard for either a ghostly figure coming down towards him or Bran coming up behind him. He began to feel as though the stairs would never stop. His leg muscles ached, and heat in his core battled the chill that was crawling into his skin. He tried to remember how tall the tower was from when he’d seen its outside. It had reached a little higher than the roof, but not so high that he thought it justified so many steps.