Page 2 of When Bones Whisper
Help me!
Her voice echoed in Charlotte’s mind, a sound she never thought she would hear again.
“Alice,” Charlotte whispered in a strangled breath, taking a hurried step forward, almost tripping on the dull, black fabric of her dress. Tears streamed down her face, her breath catching in her throat as she ran as Alice faded and she tripped over a wayward rock. Her uncle’s hand tightened around her wrist, halting her fall to the damp earth. The pain radiating in her ankle didn’t stop her steadying herself and trying to run forward again, but Alice was already gone.
“Are you mad?” her uncle Theodore asked.
She turned to face him, his pale blue eyes mirroring her father’s, the anger in them almost as potent. “I saw Alice,” Charlotte stammered, pointing at the graves. “She was right there.”
He glanced at the space between the weathered headstones and turned his glare back to her, adjusting his wide-rimmed, black hat. “They already believe your mother was a witch. Do you intend to confirm their suspicions and have everyone think you inherited herhabits?” he hissed, his voice a low, dangerous whisper, only forcing a smile when people turned to see what the ruckus was about.
With a sharp tug on her arm, Theodore pulled her back to face him when she didn’t immediately answer. “Are you not listening girl? Do you not understand the precarious situation we are in?”
She did. It was all she had heard from him since he had arrived shortly after the massacre. The last thing she wanted wasto evoke his anger further or give his revolting son a reason to tease her more.
“Yes, Uncle. I apologize. It must be the grief.”
He nodded. “You have been tired.”
“I have,” she parroted, telling him what he wanted to hear. That was always the best way.
“They are gone,” he told her, as if she needed a reminder. “You must accept that and move on. No more talk of seeing the dead,” he whispered, looking around briefly as people paid their respects. “Hysteria can make you see things. That is all it is. Put it from your mind.”
It wasn’t hysteria, but he was right. She stared at the graves, her stomach dipping. Nothing but a layer of undisturbed fog coated the area. Thoughts of Alice had plagued her since that fateful night. Perhaps her nightmares were bleeding into reality.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
“I will,” she promised, letting out a tense sigh. Once satisfied, he smiled and greeted a wealthy merchant friend of her late father’s, leaving her standing alone, wiping her tears with her veil. She had to remain composed.
Her family had a long history of accusations of witchcraft, but the massacre breathed new life into them. If she wasn’t careful, she would be ostracized for a craft she didn’t even practice. It was forbidden by her family, but that did not stop her from reading her great-grandmother’s grimoires that were filled with sacrificial magic, every night since she was six. Neither her sister nor mother ever used dark magic, nor researched it. Theysaid it was evil, but she had wondered ever since they died if the magic they feared above all could have saved them in the end?
She thanked those who attended the burial alongside her uncle and cousin, William, not even looking the guests in the face as she took their hands. One by one, they grasped her fingers, offering words of condolence. When a woman squeezed her fingers between her ringed, wrinkly palms, a powerful scent of rosewater brushed the air between them, before she left.
Finally, they were alone.
Her eyes glided over several tombs belonging to her ancestors, the Lysanmore Witches, as she followed her uncle from the graveyard. Upon reaching the gates, she turned back, swearing she could feel the eyes of the dead upon her, boring into her soul like daggers of ice.
Chapter One
One Month Later
Charlotte had barely fallen asleep when she was awakened by three loud bangs echoing through the quiet of her bedroom.
Loud, ragged breaths sounded from the corridor outside her bedroom door. She glanced around the shadowy corners of her room, trying to lift a finger or toe, but she was frozen under the heavy weight anchoring her to the bed. A deep, throbbing pain pulsed through her hip from where she’d discovered a bite mark after her sister’s burial. She breathed through the acute pain, catching a whiff of rose mixed with sulfur, and wondered why the bite was suddenly acting up, or maybe she was more aware of her body now she couldn’t move.
Another pounding hammered against her door, this time more frantic. The edges of her vision blurred when she looked atthe door. Her lips remained closed despite the impulse to call out for reassurance. Surely, the staff would have announced themselves by now, and neither her uncle nor cousin would have bothered to knock at all.
Tears trickled down her freckled cheeks and into her long, dark curls.
Help me. Please.
The prayer was nothing but a comfort blanket, something done out of habit, for she was certain God could not reach her in the depths of Lovett Manor where death clung to the corridors like cobwebs.
She held her breath when the banging stopped, followed by a long creak of a floorboard. After several long seconds of silence, she wondered if whoever was out there had gone. With something akin to a gurgle, she tried to open her mouth, but her scream was stifled by an invisible grip over her mouth. The seconds stretched for an eternity as she remained trapped beneath the blanket, desperately trying to will feeling back into her body.
A slow, deliberate rattle of her doorknob shook the wooden frame, and her eyes clamped shut. The sound grew louder, and she tried to recall whether she had locked the door before going to bed. Normally, she would have checked, but she had been so exhausted earlier that night.
With a final abrupt clatter, the rattling stopped, replaced by an unnerving silence.
