Page 58 of Blindsided
Kori walks beside me, her eyes wide as she takes in our surroundings. “It’s beautiful, in a haunted sort of way,” she murmurs.
“The MacGallans have always had a flair for the dramatic,” I reply, trying to sound casual despite the tension coiling in my gut.
We reach the main entrance—a massive arched doorway that stands open, its wooden doors long since rotted away. Inside, what must have once been the great hall stretches before us, illuminated by the flashlights Rory and Declan have produced. Broken furniture lies scattered about, and patches of sky are visible through holes in the ceiling.
“We should split up,” Declan decides. “Cover more ground.”
“Horror movie rule number one, never split up,” Kat quips, but there’s an edge to her voice.
“Wren and I will check the ground floor,” Declan continues, ignoring her. “Kat and Rory, you take the tower stairs going up. Kane—”
“We’ll check the lower levels,” I finished for him, nodding toward a stone staircase descending into darkness at the far end of the hall.
Declan hesitates, then nods. “Take this,” he says, handing me a flashlight. “And be careful.”
“Always am,” I lie smoothly.
As the others move off toward their assigned areas, I turn to Kori. “You don’t have to come down with me. You could stay with Wren and Declan.”
She shakes her head. “And miss this part of the treasure hunt? Not a chance.”
I smile despite myself. “Your funeral, Airplane Girl.”
“You keep saying that,” she says as we approach the staircase. “Yet here I still am, very much alive.”
“Night’s still young,” I warn, but I’m grateful for her company as we begin our descent.
The stairs are worn in the middle from centuries of use, and I keep my flashlight trained on our feet to avoid a nasty fall. The air grows colder and damper with each step, carrying the musty scent of age and neglect.
“How far down does this go?” Kori asks, her voice echoing slightly in the narrow stairwell.
“No idea. These old places often had extensive cellars. Storage, wine, sometimes dungeons.”
“Dungeons? Seriously?”
“The family wasn’t known for their hospitality to enemies,” I explain, remembering stories my mother told me—stories I now realize were about my actual ancestors, not distant relations.
The staircase finally ends in a low-ceilinged corridor with several arched doorways leading offit. Water drips somewhere in the darkness, a steady plink-plink that marks time like a morbid metronome.
“Which way?” Kori asks, staying close beside me.
I shine my light down the corridor, trying to get my bearings. “Let’s try this one,” I decide, pointing to the nearest doorway.
We step into what appears to be a wine cellar. Empty racks line the walls, and broken glass crunches beneath our feet.
“Someone had a party,” I observe, kicking at a shattered bottle.
“Or looted the place during the abandonment,” Kori suggests, more practically.
We scour the room but find nothing of interest. The next chamber yields similar results—empty storage space with nothing but dust and cobwebs.
“Third time’s the charm?” Kori suggests as we approach another doorway.
This room is different. It’s smaller, with a low stone ceiling and walls lined with shelves. But it’s what’s on the floor that stops us cold—a human skeleton, clothed in the tattered remains of what might have been a uniform, sprawled as if it fell there.
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, instinctively stepping in front of Kori.
But she’s already seen it. I hear her sharp intake of breath, followed by another, and another—too fast, too shallow. I turn to find her pressed against the wall, eyes wide and fixed on the skeleton, her chest heaving with rapid, panicked breaths.
