The Order of the Occasionally Occult or Arcane

Episode 002: Poltergeist at Ravenscroft Manor (Part Two)

In the Hall of the Order, heavy footfalls echoed across pillars made of ancient, hewn stone. Bartholomew Threeves watched expressionless as one of the lesser Fae – Malcolm – ran towards him, holding out his hand.

There was only one reason Malcolm would return this early from his dispatch.

“My lord,” Malcolm gasped, skidding to a halt in front of the throne. He said nothing more, but held out the object – another polaroid photograph, from the same camera that had captured the image of the runes.

From time to time, Threeves marveled at the humans and their ingenuity. Although they were too dull-witted to sense magic, much less control it, there was something to their science that made him envious. None of the Fae would ever bother with such an understanding of the world when they had magic so readily at their disposal.

Threeves took the photograph. It was poor quality, underexposed, and taken from a long distance away. He understood, though, why Malcolm had taken it, and why the male’s face was pale, even underneath a sheen of sweat.

She stared back at him, through the grainy film, eyes wide and glistening. He’d hated those eyes, had never gotten them out of his head after seeing them.

For a while, he’d considered plucking them out.

“Where was this taken?” he rasped, his voice like stone against stone.

Malcolm heaved, fighting to regain his breath. “Ravenscroft, sir.”

Threeves crushed the photo in his fist. In an instant, heat worked through his arm and into the palm of his hand, until it was nothing was left of the artifact but cinders.

“Go retrieve them,” he said. Malcolm nodded and started to turn, but Threeves stopped him. “Malcolm,” he said.

“Yes, sir?”

“Do not let him find out who she is.”

Fear flashed across Malcolm’s face, and then the Fae ran, back the way he had gone.

Threeves sank into his chair, a cold rage seeping through him. Ice formed on his throne and on the floor and spread to the walls, climbing up the stone pillars like vines. He had wondered for some time if she had survived, and if so, where she had been hiding.

There is no before, he reminded himself. And there never would be again.

---

Jasper slammed the door of the mustang and cowered inside.

The shadows gathered around and the rain drummed hard against the roof, like thousands of tiny feet stampeding over the hood. He hardly remembered the run across the marshes, sloshing back over the washed-out road. He was soaked again, chilled, covered with mud and sweat, but he was safe. Back in the cover of the mustang.

Jasper squeezed his eyes shut and focused solely on his breathing.

In. Out. Deep. Slow.

All the while, nausea rolled over him in wave after agonizing wave, and he lost feeling in hands in feet. If he tried to open his eyes, his vision came in and out, tunneling and then expanding, and the resulting vertigo made his stomach turn even more.

He felt like a toy boat on an angry ocean, tossed about, ready to capsize.

The passenger door opened and Jasper startled. A figure slid into the passenger seat, bringing in the torrents of rain with her, and though delayed by several seconds, Jasper recognized Delia.

She held something out to him.

A crystal decanter, filled with amber-colored liquid.

If he’d been in a rational state of mind, Jasper wouldn’t have accepted anything from this strange woman, much less ingested it. As it was, however, he took the bottle without a second thought and drank. It burned on the way down. The rich, bright taste chased away the bombardment of voices in his mind, and Delia watched him with those emerald eyes that had haunted him since their last meeting.

When his center of balance returned, Jasper rested the decanter against his thigh and leaned back into his seat. Delia did not speak. This silence lasted for nearly a minute before Jasper, against his better judgement, broke it.

“How did you know?” he asked, gesturing to the decanter. His voice came out as a raspy wheeze.

“I could smell it on you, the last time we met,” she explained. “I had a feeling.”

She hadn’t yet blinked.

Jasper said, “where did you get this?”

“Lord Ravenscroft’s stores.”

“Stole it, then.”

“Borrowed, Jasper. I’ll put it back.”

There was something about the way she said his name that left him completely paralyzed, as though it should have been familiar, but wasn’t. He didn’t stop her as she reached into his pocket and took out the empty flask, and didn’t interrupt as she refilled it with the contraband drink. Only when she replaced it, careful not to touch him, did she speak.

“How long have you…you know.” She shook herself, miming his reaction to human skin.

“As long as I can remember,” Jasper said. He shouldn’t have told her anything, but the words he spoke – words he never said to anyone – came out easily. “My whole life.”

“You’ve never been able to touch anyone?” Delia’s eyes only widened, luminous in the dim light. “Your mother and father? Friends? Lovers?”

Jasper only blinked. There was that hole again, that emptiness which should have been filled with memories but instead was nothing but a void.

There is no before.

“Don’t have any of those,” he said in a monotone. “Don’t have the time.”

It wasn’t something he thought about – he was too busy to be lonely, and Jasper had never considered himself to be the sentimental type. Still, Delia leaned back, her perfect mouth slightly ajar.

“Now,” Jasper said, as the drink returned some of his sensibilities, “I’ve answered your questions. It’s time you answer mine.”

As though it had been waiting for his command, the mustang’s doors locked. The loud click startled Delia, fear flashing across her face like a billboard. Something very deeply buried in Jasper’s sternum twinged at the sight of her fear – the something that hadn’t like to hear her scream, or see her afraid –

Jasper pushed it down. Now was not the time.

“Your name is not Catherine,” he said. Shadows gathered around the car, pressing in on the windows. “I don’t think it’s Delia, either. So first you’re going to tell me your name. Your real one. And remember – you’re not in the position to lie to me.”

She had seen how easily he’d stopped her attackers at the festival; how quickly he’d turned them to piles of ash. She must have remembered, because she said, “my name is Aurora.”

Aurora. The sound made Jasper’s ears ring. Finally, she blinked, slowly relaxing into her seat. Her voice trembled but was measured as she said, “what else do you want to know, Jasper?”

Again, his heart twinged at the sound of his name, as though she’d somehow reached through his sternum and was slowly squeezing it to death.

Jasper struggled to swallow. “I want to know why you were in 1971. And why you’re here in 1888. If you answer me honestly, it will help in your case when you stand trial.”

Crossing the rift without permission of the Order was illegal – and if she was truly traveling through time, she had to know that.

Aurora gave him half a smile. “Trial?” she repeated. “The Order does not own all of space and time now, do they?”

So she knew of the Order, then. Perhaps that was how she knew his name.

Jasper schooled his impatience into something neutral, although all he wanted to do was scream and demand answers. Tonight had been grueling enough, and even with the alcohol to calm his senses, he was far from feeling peaceful.

“Simply tell me what you were doing, and things will go better for you,” he said.

Aurora blinked slowly. Her owlish eyes glistened in the dim light.

“Same thing as you,” she said, after a long pause. “Hunting a monster.”

Jasper frowned. “You were after the Moonbeam Sirens? Why?”

She rolled her eyes. “Not that one. The…other one. The scarier one.”

The Shadow Man.

“You saw it, too.” Not a question – although Jasper couldn’t rid his voice of the surprise.

Aurora gave him a sidelong glance. “Of course I did, Jasper,” she replied smoothly. “I knew it was there before you did. I followed it through the rift, to 1971. After you left the festival, I tracked it here. Is that sufficient for you?”

All the fear had leeched out of her voice, and now she simply sounded tired.

“You think that the creature in Ravenscroft is the same thing?” Jasper asked. He’d had his suspicions, of course, but hadn’t been sure.

“As soon as I heard from Isabella, I knew it was.”

“And how do you know her?”

There was that devilish smile. “That’s one too many questions, mister,” she said. She flashed her teeth at him. At the same time, the shadows around the car quavered, as though someone was pushing back against them.

Aurora’s face brightened as she registered Jasper’s shock. “Did you think you were the only one they answered to?” she asked, white teeth glittering. The rain pattered angrily on the roof, and suddenly the interior of the car felt very, very small.

“There is only one Master of Shadows,” Jasper said, although even as he spoke he was beginning to doubt if that was true.

“Indeed.” She winked. She was making a mockery of him, and it was beginning to grind his gears.

“Tell me what it is you want,” Jasper demanded. “And then get out of my car.”

“I’m not the one who locked the doors, Jasper,” she answered.

“Tell me.” The other crept into his voice, wakened by anger. Deep in his mind it blinked, yawning, stretching claws made of darkness. Made of nightmares.

Aurora’s smile faltered at the tone. “What you should know, master of shadows,” she sneered, “is that this thing has a name. In the other realms they call him Umbraxis.”

A chill settled at the base of Jasper’s spine. The name was familiar, although he couldn’t place where he’d heard it before.

“He was thought dead, or at least banished,” she continued. “And then he started to appear again. First in California, in 1971. And then here, in 1888. I have been tasked with finding him and sending him back to where he belongs. It appears you’re on the same mission, although I don’t think you’ve realized it yet. It occurred to me, down in the cellar, that it would be in our best interests to work together.”

Jasper simply stared at her, sifting through her words and her expressions and her sultry smile and trying to find the lie. The trick. The other growled, wanted to be set free, to take over. He took several deep breaths.

In. Out. Deep. Slow.

“I have one more question,” Jasper said, once he’d regained his composure.

Aurora quirked an eyebrow.

“No one can travel the rifts without the magic of Bartholomew Threeves,” he said. “At least, not deliberately. Not with any control. So how…how are you managing to do it?”

Aurora didn’t answer. Her smile turned into a flirtatious grin, and she blew him a kiss before stepping out of the car.

Jasper didn’t remember unlocking it.

---

It was nearly nightfall by the time Jasper and Aurora returned to the manor. They were soaked, but there was little to be done about it. Hawthorne led them back to the study, where everyone but Lord Ravenscroft had gathered.

Zephyra was sitting beside Isabelle, patting her hand and murmuring encouraging nothings to her as she sipped a cup of tea. While they were staring at Jasper, Aurora slipped into the shadows and returned the stolen decanter to its place among the shelves.

“Mr. Jasper, I do hope you’re feeling better,” Isabella said. If she noticed his dripping figure, she didn’t say a word about it. “I apologize for such a display…it’s not typically in my nature to faint or swoon.”

Jasper moved to stand near the fireplace. He was growing deeply chilled from his extended period in the rain, and hadn’t packed a change of clothes. The fire would have to dry him off.

“No apologies necessary,” Jasper said.

“It’s understandable,” Zephyra said. She continued to pat Isabella’s hand. “I imagine this week as been very shocking.”

“Indeed.” Isabella took a shaky breath and sipped her tea.

“Where did you get off to, Jazz?” Orion asked, his expressing cajoling. Aurora stayed in the shadows, out of the direct line of sight, and her owlish eyes glinted when they met his.

“I needed fresh air,” Jasper said, restraining his irritation as well as he could.

“Looks more like you went for a swim.”

Jasper pinned him with a glare.

Thank the Order for Zephyra, who said, “Isabella, why don’t you tell us what your brother was up to, in the weeks leading up to the attack?”

When Isabella hesitated, Aurora stepped in. She sat in the chair Jasper had taken the first time he’d been in this room, and her sudden nearness made his heart jolt. He wanted both to move closer and to flee, and compromised by pretending he was made of stone. He hardly even breathed.

“It was the news of the year,” Aurora explained. Relief washed over Isabella’s features as she spoke. “Jonathan was preparing for his marriage to Iris Hatfield before it happened. It was to be the wedding of the century.”

It occurred to Jasper in that moment that whatever lies Aurora continued to tell him, she’d been truthful about at least one thing: she and Isabella were friends. Isabella’s face filled with light when she recognized Aurora’s support, and it gave her the strength to continue.

“We have invited guests from all over the world,” Isabella explained, following sympathetic smiles from both Aurora and Zephyra. “Father is extremely well-connected, and wanted to invite all of his most valued connections. They were to stay here, at the manor. My brother had been opening up some of the unused rooms – it’s such a big house, you see, and we rarely use more than a quarter of them – and not long later, it happened.”

Jasper began to understand. If they were dealing with an unruly spirit, perhaps it had lay dormant in one of the unused rooms. If Jonathan had disturbed it, perhaps it had lashed out and he’d been an unintentional victim of its anger.

That didn’t explain, however, the broken pocket watch or the runes clawed into the floor. If he was right, and the watch had broken in the fall, then it quite possibly marked his time of death. Why would he have been wandering the halls at night?

“Tell me, Miss Ravenscroft,” Jasper said, “did your brother suffer from fitful sleep? Or sleepwalking of any kind?”

“Not that I can recall,” Isabella replied. “If anything, he was quite the opposite. The staff would complain about how dreadful it was to wake him in the morning.”

Jasper thought a moment, the gears in his mind turning slowly but reliably. They would come to the right conclusion eventually; he just needed a little more time.

As if on cue, a grandfather clock chimed nine times, deep in the house. Jasper turned to face Isabella in full, his back to the hearth.

“The strange writing on the floor reads, have I ever told you the story of the man who fell in love with the moon? Do you know what that might mean?” he asked.

As he said it, Aurora straightened in her seat. Isabella frowned, and then, in spite of herself, began to smile. “Of course I do,” she said. “It’s practically a fairy-story around here.”

“I’d like you to tell it to me, please,” Jasper said. “And then I’ll need you to show me around the house.”

“But what if the creature appears?” Isabella asked, fear returning to her voice. “The ghosts are always more active at night.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Jasper assured her, partly because he’d had his share of paranormal experiences, and partly because, if his guess was accurate, he had six hours before the poltergeist would show itself again.

---

This is the story of The Man Who Fell in Love with the Moon, as it was relayed to Jasper by Isabella Ravenscroft in the hours after his arrival at Ravenscroft Manor.

At least one hundred years before Isabella’s birth (although perhaps longer, given that the details were never exactly clear), James Ravenscroft, related to the current Ravenscroft family, allegedly went mad.

He’d been in the colonies during the rebellion and had taken a gunshot wound to the hip. It had left him completely immobilized, and though he survived, he, being unfit for duty, was sent home by his commanding officer. The effect it had on his mind and well-being made him a danger to himself and the family. They quietly locked him away in the southern tower about six weeks after his return.

James had seven older brothers, the eldest credited with fathering the current Ravenscrofts. With no threat to the bloodline, the family saw no reason to ever let James return to society. He was bound to a chair or bed, whatever anyone bothered to put him in, and had servants to care for him night and day. Eventually, he became nothing but a rumor in the surrounding villages, with some doubting he had ever existed at all.

He did, of course; Isabella insisted it was so, otherwise what happened next would have had no consequences on the family. The servants began reporting to Lord Ravenscroft Senior that his son had started raving about the moon. He slept in his chair by the window, watching for it every night, and raging when the inevitable storms of the marshes swept through. He wrote nearly incomprehensible poetry about it, drew pictures of it, and told anyone who would listen that one day, he would marry the moon.

Everyone thought he was quite mad. Until one day, the servants opened up his chambers in the southern tower and found that James Ravenscroft had vanished without a trace, and he had left his chair behind.

They searched all around for him, including around the base of the tower, in case he had thrown himself down in a fit of madness. They found nothing. They involved the police next, assuming that it was an abduction, but when months passed and no ransom note arrived, Lord Ravenscroft had no face but to face the truth: his son was gone.

In response, he sealed the southern tower, convinced that the madness that had taken his son still lived in the walls, and resolving to never let it take another.

Then one night, exactly one year after James had disappeared, a servant girl named Abbie woke in the pre-dawn hours with a headache. She opened the window of her room for some fresh air, and upon looking out across the moors, she saw the strangest thing: a youthful James Ravenscroft, walking easily through the marshes.

Of course, she ran to wake the housekeeper, and that following day the grounds we searched for the missing man. Nothing was found, of course.

And James was never seen again.

---

Jasper knew, of course, exactly what needed to be done next.

With Isabella to guide him, they trekked back through the empty house to the southern wing. The storm battered viciously against the walls and windows of the ancient house, as though something was trying to get in. Though they walked in silence, however, Jasper still hadn’t seen any of the ghosts, nor even a trace of them.

Perhaps they were truly frightened, after all.

There were traces of Jonathan’s excursions everywhere they walked, though. Sheets tossed about, doors left hanging open; evidence of cleaning and opening of once-sealed rooms. They came to a long corridor which smelled faintly of vinegar and rot. At the end stood a heavy oak door, barred with iron fittings, standing cracked. Jasper heard the faintest whistling from the other side as a draft squeezed through the opening.

Isabella froze in front of it, her face drained of color. She clutched her lantern in a white-knuckled grip and croaked, “I won’t be going up.”

The southern tower, then. Jasper considered her as he said, “I thought you were used to the ghosts.”

“Not in there.” She shook her head, dark curls tumbling loose. “The Ravenscrofts sealed it for a reason. My brother was warned against opening that door, and he ignored it. You see where that left him.”

It was not obstinance but fear that kept her feet pinned to the floor, and for that, Jasper pitied her. “Alright,” he said. “All of you stay here. I don’t need very much light to get up there.”

“Jasper – ” Zephyra started, but he fixed her with stare. If the poltergeist were to appear now, he would be able to hold his own, but it would take both Orion and Zephyra to protect Aurora and Isabella. No more humans were allowed to die on these missions – not, at least, while he was around.

The door was cold to the touch and groaned as Jasper dragged it open. It followed a track of deep grooves in the floor, evidence of the way it had settled into the house while it had been sealed. The whistling grew louder as it opened, stale air creeping out of the darkness. There was something familiar here, though; and his shadows answered to it as he began his careful ascent up the ancient, winding stairs.

Jasper had only made it a few steps before he felt a presence behind him. He turned and saw Aurora, carrying her heavy skirts in her arms.

“What are you doing?” he growled.

“I’m going up,” she insisted. “If we truly are hunting the same thing, I need to see this, too.”

“How are you able to see your way? There aren’t any lights.”

“Don’t worry about that. Just keep moving before I’m forced to push you aside.”

Jasper had no doubt that she would. Having no desire to suffocate amidst the billowing ridiculousness of her dress, he pushed on.

He didn’t like that she wasn’t where he could see her. Although he didn’t know what magic, if any, she possessed, he didn’t want her behind him until he knew what type of threat she was. Given that she could travel through the rifts – and wouldn’t tell him how – he was fairly certain that, malevolent or not, she certainly wasn’t helpless.

And the idea of ghosts certainly didn’t scare her.

Several grueling minutes later, knees creaking and whining with pain, Jasper and Aurora made it to the top of the tower. Immediately he understood why James’ disappearance had been such a mystery: even an able-bodied person would have struggled on the stairs. It was incredibly high, and even if James had dragged himself down on his elbows it would have taken him hours, and he wouldn’t have gotten very far.

At the top was a door that matched the one at the base of the tower, and this, too, had been left open from Jonathan’s last excursion. When Jasper stepped inside, the temperature dropped by at least ten degrees, and something rippled over his skin that felt like a thick fog. When Aurora followed him, she gasped.

“There’s a sight,” she whispered, taking in the room.

It looked as though it had been immaculately preserved, as though the occupant had simply stepped out for a moment and would be back presently. There was the chair Isabella had mentioned in the story, sitting near the window. There was a bed, with a deep indent still present from the body that must have lay there, day after day. On the bedside table was a pot of tea, and a teacup; and on the walls were countless paintings, drawings, and sketches of the same woman.

Jasper approached the nearest wall to take a closer look.

Everything was shrouded in heavy cobwebs, the dust undisturbed except for a few footprints on the floor – Jasper’s or Jonathan’s, it was difficult to say at a glance. And this woman…

Looking at her left him feeling empty, somehow. The way that, even in the crudest of sketches, she stared back at him, as though she could truly see him.

“I’d go mad, too,” Aurora said softly, from the far side of the room, “if this was all I had to do all day.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. She leaned into the wall, and even from here he could see that the sketches of James Ravenscroft had somehow found their way off the page and onto the wall. Sketches of madness. Of…infatuation.

“It’s clear to me that Jonathan upset something,” Jasper replied, his eyes traveling up the wall and into the vaulted ceiling. A chandelier hung, although it was nearly invisible in the darkness and the thick cobwebs.

“You think it could be an angry spirit?” Aurora asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You know something, don’t you.”

His gaze snapped back down to her. Normally, this was Zephyra’s job – interrogating him to help him process whatever thoughts he was having. Since he’d left her downstairs, Aurora would have to do.

“You mustn’t laugh,” he said in a monotone.

She gave him that frustrating expression, raising her eyebrow and looking bored.

“I can see them,” Jasper explained. Why was he telling her this? Why did she need to know?

“Who?” she replied.

“The ghosts,” Jasper said. “I can see the dead. Everywhere I go. It’s the reason for…”

He didn’t finish, but gestured to the flask in his pocket. Aurora simply stared at him, although she didn’t laugh. She didn’t doubt him, either – she simply said, “and are there any ghosts here?”

“No. That’s the part the worries me.”

For a place so haunted as Ravenscroft should be, he explained, it was odd that he’d been up and down the whole of it and he hadn’t seen so much as a wisp.

“Perhaps it’s James, scaring them,” Aurora suggested. She nodded to the pictures of the woman. “Perhaps he’s angry about this.”

“Ghosts can’t hurt the living,” Jasper said. At least, none of the ones he’d met had. “And they don’t usually scare each other.”

“Can they become something else?” she asked. “Suppose he ­was ­mad – could such a strong emotion drive a ghost to become something…worse?”

He didn’t know. Jasper didn’t pretend to understand anything about the spirits of the dead, or why they would or wouldn’t stay in the afterlife. All he knew was that he saw them, and they frequently asked him to do things, and he frequently said no.

Unless, of course, they got really pushy about it.

Jasper shook himself. That was it. “What if James is here, and he wanted Jonathan’s help?” he asked, speaking more to the darkness than to Aurora. The shadows whispered back, incomprehensible as always, but comforting all the same. “What if Jonathan told him no?”

Being only human, Jonathan wouldn’t have the power to turn down a relentless ghost – only Jasper seemed to manage it, and his magic made it barely possible. He turned around the room, taking in the mess of papers and paintings and cobwebs and then –

His gaze fell on something on the opposite wall, hanging just above the headboard of James’ bead.

It was a portrait, but not of the woman in every other piece. It was of the marshes that lay before Ravenscroft Manor, and in the center, a large, yellow moon.

Jasper stepped in front of it and then turned, comparing the views. The picture over the bed was identical to what James would have seen laying there, day after day. He could almost imagine it, the moon perfectly centered in the windowpanes. There was no moon tonight – not with the raging storm battering against the windows – but if it had been clear, it would have been beautiful.

Then he saw something else.

The painting had been recently disturbed.

“What is it?” Aurora asked, watching him carefully. Jasper didn’t answer. He cleared the room in a few strides, and, careful not to disturb the bed, got as close to the painting as he could. There were no cobwebs around it as there were around the other pieces in the room. It was dusty, however; and in the thick dust, Jasper saw fingerprints.

His eyes brows met as he studied it.

“It’s been moved,” he noted. The shadows answered, whispering their agreement.

Aurora came to stand on the other side of the bed. “I’ve read a lot of mystery novels,” she said. “If there’s not something behind it, I’ll eat my shoe.”

Jasper reached for the painting. It was grimy in his hands, coated in years of dust and mold, but it moved freely. He removed it and placed it carefully on the bed.

Nothing was behind it.

At least, that was what he thought. Aurora, however, had no qualms about disturbing the scene. She climbed up on the bed, great puffs of dust rising around her. She ran her long, nimble fingers over the bricks in the wall, and after a moment, she looked at him with a mischievous smile.

“I was right,” she said, as she found a loose brick.

The mortal tumbled away as she scraped at it with her fingernails, and for a moment, Jasper forgot that they were likely enemies. He forgot, even, that they were hunting a dangerous creature that had killed a man and would likely try to kill again. All he could think about was that smile, and the flutter in her stomach of something behind the wall, a mystery –

The brick came free.

Aurora pulled it out with a cheer, peeking inside the hole. She scrunched up her nose while she did it, a strangely intimate gesture of focus.

“Nothing,” she said. She looked at him, clearly puzzled.

Jasper jumped up onto the bed and was met with the same cloud of dust. He coughed a little as he, too, peered into the space where the brick had been.

Nothing. Not a not, a piece of jewelry, anything that may have been valuable enough to hide in the wall.

“Perhaps Jonathan already found it,” Aurora suggested.

“Perhaps that was why he was killed,” Jasper agreed. When he turned to look at her, she was entirely too close.

She didn’t touch him. Aurora had already learned the hard way what a disaster that could be. For a moment, though, Jasper forgot about that, too. Nausea taunted him, a distant reminder of what happened when he touched living flesh. Jasper had never minded it, had never noticed what a nuisance it was before that moment.

“Everything alright, Jasper?” she asked, and though it came out in a mocking tone, there was something strangely vulnerable about the way her voice rasped when she said it.

Jasper stepped off the bed. “It looks like there’s nothing else here,” he said. “Nothing Jonathan would have found, anyway. Maybe there was something in the wall, in which case he put it somewhere else –"

He was stopped by a squeak. In moving to return the brick, Aurora had turned it over, and something fell out of it.

“Why, it’s hollow!” she cried, her voice pitched with delight. The object had landed on the bed, and she sat down beside it.

It was a book. Small, bound in leather, cracked with age – but a book, all the same. And it had been hidden within a hollow brick.

Aurora opened it and her expression changed to one of utter confusion. “It’s…that funny language,” she said, holding it out to Jasper. “The one written in the foyer. You can read it, right?”

He took it, careful not to brush her fingers with his own. She was right: the book was written in the same runes that had been carved into the stone floor. The same ones he’d written on his car. The ones only he could read.

This is the diary of Elysande Eltheron, read the opening line.

Jasper had only a moment to register that first sentence, before a horrible howling sound filled his ears, and the room was pitched in complete darkness.

Click Here to Continue to Part Three

---

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