Page 25 of Chasing the Flame
I don’t know why I need to check it or why I instinctively know there’s something here. What’s even stranger? The thumping has now stopped, and the temperature is returning to normal. It’s like something wanted me to see this.
Running my hand along the edges of the top shelf, my fingers find nothing but smooth edges—at least, until I move to the middle. A small groove lines the spot directly underneath, mirroring exactly where the handprint is. The moment my finger connects, a soft click sounds, and I watch completely enthralled as the bookshelf moves to the side, exposing a small, hidden room.
“What the actual fuck…” It leaves me in a rush, confusion flooding me, making it hard to comprehend what I’m seeing. This can’t be real, can it?
Inside stands an altar, and as my gaze sweeps across the varying tools littering the small table, a chill runs down my spine. Behind the altar stands an image illustrating twisted branches reaching into a darkfigure. My eyes widen, connecting with yellow orbs that send my pulse racing. From there, horns sit atop the figure’s head, and its clawed hands reach toward me as if beckoning me toward the darkness.
My gaze roams over the table again, taking in creepy-looking jars filled with bones, nails, and pieces of what appears to be flesh. Nausea churns in my stomach, swirling around like a vortex. I take a deep, steady breath, forcing myself to take in everything before me.
Bottles, scrolls, an athame still covered with flakes of dried blood, and a bowl filled with bone fragments used for divination litter the desk in the corner of the room. Behind that desk sits a towering bookcase filled with bottles of things I can’t even begin to put a name to. Terror claws its way through me, but I make my way into the small room, determined to unearth every discovery.
Ancient scrolls lie on the worn old desk, and I study them, searching the foreign languages for something familiar while my fingers graze each paragraph. I linger longest on a bottle with dubious contents, my stomach churning in discontent. A whiff of formaldehyde assaults my nostrils, and I gag at the stench. I’ve never liked the smell of a funeral home, and this is certainly no different.
When my fingers graze the top of the lid, something shifts in the room. The hairs on my body stand up, an intense and deep knowing centering in my gut. Bright light blinds me, bringing forward visions that flit around in a deadly dance. “Danger…” I whisper, my voice taking on a spectral quality. Spirits seem to float inside me, each fighting for dominance to show me what I need to know.
It’s absolutely terrifying, watching as scene after scene ends the same way. A flash of dark robes, chanting, steel glinting in the candlelight, a dark and horrible foreboding feeling as fog and shadows ebb and flow at the corners of my mind.
Familiar hands grip the edges of the hood, pulling it back to reveal a man I’d know anywhere. My blood freezes at the sight of my husband, chanting in a feverish pitch, his voice apart from the rest. My heart pounds erratically in my chest, the breath stolen from me as I watch him drive the athame in a beautiful woman’s chest.
Her shrill cry will haunt me for the rest of my life.
And then…it starts over again. The scene may change and vary location to location, but it always ends the same way. A woman crying and begging for her life on a cold stone slab, and Luke at the pivotal moment of her demise.
After what feels like a lifetime, the spirits release me, going where? I don’t know, but I can’t say I care as sweet air fills my lungs.
I let loose a sob, the oppressive energy of the entire ordeal lingering and reminding me of the evil that stalks this home. Minutes seem to tick by at warp speed, and my chest is so tight I’m convinced for a moment that I might be having an actual heart attack. I’ve never experienced anything of this magnitude, especially not so vividly.
My mind races to Luke, wondering just who exactly he is. I’d always assumed that he wasn’t one for the occult. He never seemed to take an interest in any of it. He’s never said, but I always felt he didn’t like my witchy ways, so I slowly stopped practicing my craft.
An intense flash of anger burrows itself into my heart. It sinks its teeth into me, festering until I’m vibrating with anxiety and anger.
I shake it off, trembling as I reach out and push the sliding bookcase back into place. With Luke’s anger, the last thing I want is for him to realize I’ve been snooping around. Even if it is his, hell, even if it’snot…he’ll still find a way to blame me for this whole disaster.
No, I’d better keep this to myself.
With that thought, I turn on my heel and race back down the stairs, leaving everything I’d discovered behind and buried in the shadows where it belongs.
Today is the day that Jettson will begin working on the new dining room table and the bench I requested. I’ve been a bundle of nerves all morning waiting for his arrival. I want to ask his opinion about what I found behind the bookshelf, though I’m terrified of what he might think. I still haven’t been able to return up the stairs, fear a repeating torment on my body, and I’m worried Luke will figure out I’ve been snooping around.
I’d just poured cream into my coffee when my phone’s ringer loudly interrupted my peaceful silence. I jerk, spilling creamer on the counter, cursing under my breath as I rush for a paper towel. The cursing intensifies when I realize it’s my mother on the phone. I throw the paper towel away, snatching my phone off the counter.
“Hi, Mom,” I answer. Truth be told, I’d contemplated ignoring the call entirely. Busy body that she is, I’m not in the mood for it right now. I’m already too distracted.
“Darling, how are you?” She chirps, sounding suspiciously too cheery for my liking. “I haven’t heard from you in over a week! You know my poor nerves just can’t take it.”
I laugh, taking the bait. “You know damn good and well that you talked to me last weekend. What do you need, Mom?” I grab my coffeeand walk down the hall to my office, nestling into the chair at my desk while I wait for her to answer. She takes her time, her hesitation unnerving me more than her damn questions ever would.
After a breath, she sighs, “Can’t a mother expect more than just the committal once-a-week check-in call? Averie, you act like I’m intruding by wanting to follow your accomplishments and life.”
I groan, “Mom, it’s not that, it’s just…I have a lot to do today, if I’m being honest. My editor is breathing down my neck, and there’s so much I need to get done before we launch this book.”
She doesn’t say anything for a while, and I can tell I’m going to regret my next few words, “Why don’t I see about getting a weekend soon for you to visit? You won’t recognize the place after all the work Luke has agreed to have done.”
When Luke’s name is mentioned, I can feel the energy shift. “And just how is that son-in-law of mine?” There’s a bite to her words, and my hackles instantly rise. I’m not sure why I’m so damn defensive of him, I shouldn’t be. Not when he treats me like the fucking dirt beneath his shoe most of the time. I sigh, formulating an answer that I know will appease her.
“He’s fine, Mom. Busy working to get this plant underway. You know how he is with a new contract, it’s like he’s got tunnel vision.” I chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Besides, I’m so busy with the novel that it’s good I’m getting so much time to myself. He’d only get in the way.”
“Well, dear, you’re not wrong. Most men are completelyuseless, though, I have to admit. Luke Blackthorne sure does take the cake on that one,” she laughs harshly.
