Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(101)

“Scorpio,” Lizbeth correctly identified. “And Cassiopeia, isn’t it? That one, right there.”

“I believe so.”

“But it’s not a map—these aren’t in proper alignment. They’re a series of decorations, that’s all,” she concluded. “They’re nicely done, I’ll grant, but they’re no proper zodiac. And look at this knocker. Have you ever seen its equal?”

I shook my head, and held out my hand to merely touch it—not use it, I assure you.

It was brass, and oxidized, but otherwise rarely used; there were no telltale places where the patina had rubbed away under a visitor’s regular summons. At first I thought it was created in the form of an elaborate octopus, but when Lizbeth adjusted the light again, I reevaluated. “It’s not an octopus or squid, but . . .”

“Some kind of cephalopod, surely? Not one I’d recognize. My sister, she would’ve known.” My hand reached out, and she stopped me. “Don’t touch that.”

“I wasn’t going to strike it.”

“I know, but—” She frowned, and I think her eyes were wet. Perhaps that was my fault. Perhaps it wasn’t anything but the atmosphere. “It looks unholy. Unhealthy. It has—look, Simon—spines, and teeth. You’ll prick your finger upon them, and sleep for a hundred years.”

“What a terrible fairy tale.”

“I was never any good at stories like that.” She pressed her shoulder against the wood and set her ear against it, too. “But never mind. Listen . . . I don’t hear anything, so let’s keeping moving.”

Before I could stop her, she tried the door’s latch.

(Would I have stopped her, given the time? No, I don’t think so. It was only the jerk of a knee, the nervous impulse to stay outside—and leave this place, run as far away from it as my fat old legs could carry me.)

The latch released. The door retreated one slim inch, at Lizbeth’s slight pushing. That inch scraped and squealed, but not as badly as I might have expected—but as I’d absolutely anticipated, not a shred of light or sound exited Chapelwood through that tiny gap. Only a small gust of mildewed air puffed to greet us, smelling of dust, mold, and old death. And something else, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I didn’t even try.

“It sounds like no one’s home.”

“Not here—upstairs.” She sniffed, one nostril crinkling and rising while the other one flared. “Do you smell that?”

“I smell something. Whatever it is, it’s unpleasant.”

“Reminds me of the ocean. The shore, in the sun—after the tide goes out.”

I nodded. “But worse. No, it makes me think . . .” I hated to say it, but she was forcing me to make the connection—though I’m sure that wasn’t her intent. “The bodies in the morgue, in Fall River. All those years ago, when I visited those strange brothers at their funeral home. This smells like that, almost.”

She pushed the door farther, adding her thigh to the leverage. “Then I’m glad I didn’t accompany you on that errand.”

“No good would have come of it.”

She stepped inside.

“You are fearless, madam.”

“Hardly. But I’m confident that we’ve not yet reached whatever terrors lurk below. Or above . . . ,” she added in a weird murmur.

“The sky is strange tonight.” I said it as some mild, anxious form of agreement.

“Everything is strange tonight. Right now, we’re as safe as we’re likely to get—neither underground, nor under that naked sky. Help me, Simon,” she pleaded. “Look for a way downstairs. Or look for any sign of how these people might come and go, or where they gather.”

“Of course. But turn up the light, if you don’t mind. My eyes aren’t as strong as they once were—and they were never very sharp in the first place.”

She obliged, and soon the lantern was as bright as we could expect it to become. It showed us the whole great space—not a foyer and a sanctuary, but one huge open area full of pews in disarray. They weren’t lined up in tidy rows; they were pushed aside and stacked, as if this was someplace they were stored—rather than used for their traditional purpose.

Above, we saw rows of stained-glass windows mounted so high against the ceiling that I couldn’t make out any of their details. Perhaps on a sunny day I could’ve seen something more distinct than “black, blue, and green shapes,” but that was the best I could surmise by the light of our little lantern. Up front, where a pulpit should hypothetically go, there was a large piece of furniture better suited to an altar. I would’ve been more alarmed if it hadn’t been knocked onto its side, suggesting that, like everything else, it was rarely (if ever) touched.

“This is the strangest church I’ve ever seen . . . ,” I observed.

Lizbeth agreed with me. She walked down the center aisle, such as it was—holding the lantern over here, over there, trying to tease out more information from this bizarre and unlovely chamber. “It looks less like a church than a place where churches store old fixtures. It reminds me of Storage Room Six.”

“Indeed. I wonder if it likewise eats paperwork.”

“It consumes worse things than paperwork, if anything. Health, reason—sanity . . .”