Haunted

chapter 30


I’D HOPED TRSIEL’S ARRIVAL MEANT HE HAD A NEW LEAD for us to follow, but he was only checking up on me. After escorting me back to the Borden residence, he returned to Amanda Sullivan’s cell. I spent the next ten hours at the Bordens’, rehashing what I knew and trying to find a fresh direction. I kept hoping Kristof would pop by, but he didn’t.

In the eleventh hour, an angel appeared.

It was just Trsiel, but by that point, it seemed like divine intervention nonetheless. A sparkling conversationalist Lizzie Borden was not.

“Got a lead,” he said.

“Oh, thank God,” I said, leaping to my feet. “When can we go? Now? Please?”

He laughed, took hold of my hand, and teleported me away.

Seems Sullivan finally had a vision of the Nix. She was still in spirit form, but on the move. Through Sullivan’s dreams, Trsiel had pinpointed her last stopover: here. Wherever “here” was.

We were tramping across a dark meadow. A wispy fog had settled, a wet lace that smelled of heather and something not nearly so pleasant.

I wrinkled my nose. “Wet dog?”

As I said the words, a hairy red-brown lump appeared in my path. I stumbled back with an oath. The lump turned and fixed me with big bovine eyes. Then it shook its head, long curved horns flashing.

“What the hell is that?” I said. “A yak?”

“Highland cattle, I believe.”

“Highland…We’re in Scotland?”

“Near Dundee.”

“And the Nix was here? Doing what? Cattle-herding?”

“No, visiting that.”

He pointed to a forest. Seemed a strange place to visit, but before I made a fool of myself by asking, I narrowed my eyes and concentrated on sharpening my night vision. After a moment, I could see a building soaring above the treetops. Spires ringed the huge, flat roof.

“Looks like a castle,” I said.

“Glamis Castle.”

“Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promised. Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness.”

One of the cows mooed appreciatively. Trsiel arched his brows.

“What?” I said. “You recognize Bogart and Bacall but not the Immortal Bard?”

A shrug and a half-smile. “I’ve always been more of a cinematic angel. Shakespeare told some great stories, but I could never get past the boys in drag playing Juliet. As for the quote, judging by the locale, I’m guessing Macbeth.”

“Bingo. My one and only high school drama starring role: Lady Macbeth. I was a natural.”

Trsiel started to laugh.

I turned on him, finger raised. “Don’t say it.”

Trsiel grinned. “I don’t need to.”

I started forward again, still staring at those majestic spires, black against the blue-gray night. “So this is that Glamis?”

“This is the Glamis Castle that Shakespeare wrote about, though it had nothing to do with the historical Macbeth.”

We walked through a barbed-wire fence and onto a path.

“What’s the Nix doing here?”

“I’m not sure,” Trsiel said. “I saw the images through Amanda Sullivan, and I recognized the castle, but the only connection I can make is that it’s reputed to be the most haunted in Scotland.”

“Oooh, a haunted castle. I’ve always wanted to visit one of those. What’s the story?”

He smiled. “Which one?”

“The best one. The bone-chillingest one.”

“Well, the best one, I’m afraid, doesn’t involve a ghost at all, but a living, breathing monster. As for ghosts—”

“No, tell me the monster one.”

He glanced over his shoulder at me.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Unless you can teleport us over to the castle, we have another mile to walk. I’ve spent ten hours sitting with Lizzie Borden. Entertain me. Please.”

He smiled. “All right, then. But I warn you, storytelling is definitely not an area of angel expertise. So, how to start…hmmm.”

“Once upon a time?”

He shot me a look. “Even I can do better than that. Let’s see…” He cleared his throat. “No castle would be a proper castle without a secret room or two. Glamis being a castle among castles, has three. There’s the one where Earl Beardie spends eternity playing cards with the Devil. And there’s the one where a Lord Glamis walled up a band of Ogilvies. But the best, and most…bone-chilling-est, is the one that contains the cursed Glamis monster.”

“Oooh, I love a good curse.”

“You want to tell the story?”

I grinned. “Sorry. Please continue.”

“Well, legend has it that the Glamis family is cursed, as all the best families are. That curse was born, quite literally, in the form of a child. The first son born to the eleventh earl, a child so deformed, so hideous that every wet nurse brought to his crib took one look and the milk dried up in her breast.”

“Really?”

“No, but the story’s a bit short, and we still have a half-mile to go. I’m livening it up. Now shush.”

“Sorry.”

“The worst of it, though, was that the family was doomed to care for this child, not only through his lifetime, but for eternity because he was immortal. So they locked him up in a secret room, and it became the duty of each succeeding generation to care for him, and to keep him a secret from all, even those they loved. However, the bonds of matrimony permit no room for secrets, and one enterprising young Lady Glamis grew weary of hearing these rumors and not knowing the truth behind them. One night, while her husband was away, she held a dinner party, and conveyed an ingenious plan to her guests. They would take towels and hang them from each window of the castle. They did. Then they went outside and circled the castle, looking for the window with no towel, for this would be the secret room. And there it was, high up on the third floor. A tiny window…with no towel. So Lady Glamis rushed into the castle, up the stairs, down the hall, and threw open the door of the room nearest the secret one. Then she knocked along the wall, listening for the hollow spot where a hidden door might be. She knocked once, took a step, knocked again, took a step, knocked a third time…and something within knocked back.”

Trsiel stepped onto the winding drive, and kept walking.

“Then what?” I said finally.

“Well, that’s it. According to legend, before she could investigate further, her husband came home, found out what she’d done, and gave her hell. Soon after that, she left him.”

“I don’t blame her. But it’s still a lousy ending.”

“You want me to do better?”

“Please.”

He gave a deep sigh. “The things I’m asked to do on this mission. Okay, better ending coming up. So…something within knocked back. Then, at a noise behind her, Lady Glamis turned to see her husband there. In his hand was a rusted metal key. He grabbed her, but before she could cry out for help, the secret door sprang open. A horrible moan came from within. Lady Glamis screamed then, screamed as loud as she could, but Lord Glamis shoved her through the door, slammed it shut, and locked her inside—locked forever with the monster, there to serve him for all eternity.”

I lifted a brow. “Serve him how?”

He looked at me, then sputtered a laugh. “Not like that! This is a G-rated ghost story, woman. Don’t be messing with it.”

“A G-rated story? About taking some deformed baby and locking him up? And if it was true, and this poor guy had been locked up in there for decades, and someone threw in a perfectly good woman, what the hell do you think he’d do with her? Play Parcheesi?”

“You’ve corrupted my story.”

“Believe me, it was corrupted long before I got hold of it.”

As we rounded the corner, I looked up and stopped. Looming above us, embraced by threads of fog, was Glamis Castle.

“Holy shit,” I whispered. “You know, when I hear stories like that, about hidden rooms, I always think they’re obviously bullshit. How can you have a room and not know about it? But with a place like this…? I bet you could have a dozen of them.” I looked the castle over again. “It’s supposed to be haunted? Doesn’t surprise me. Hell, I wouldn’t mind hanging out here for a while. Is there a dungeon?”

“No, just a crypt.”

“That’ll do. But I don’t see the Nix as the sightseeing type. She’s after something here, but there’s a hell of a lot of here to search. Did Sullivan’s vision give you any clues?”

“Just random snippets of various castle rooms.”

“Like she was looking for something.”

He nodded. “And I suspect she’s come and gone.”

“Meaning we’re probably looking, not for the Nix, but for what drew her here. Could be a wild-goose chase. But if the castle’s haunted, then it’s likely related to—”

“Well, that’s the thing. It isn’t haunted.”

“Huh?”

“One hundred percent spook-free.”

I frowned. “Places this old are always haunted. Maybe not ‘moaning specters and clanging chains’ haunted, but with real ghosts. The ones caught between dimensions and the ones who just like to soak up a little spooky atmosphere.”

“Normally that’s true. But not here.”

“Why not?”

Trsiel shook his head. “I have no idea. One of the ascendeds was assigned to investigate it last century, but then something more important came up, and he was never sent back. Nothing bad ever happens here. No unexplained murders. No demonic activity. No real reason to investigate further. If haunters don’t want to set up shop here, well, that’s not a bad thing. We have enough trouble with them as it is.”

“But something must make this place unpopular with ghosts. And maybe that something has to do with the Nix’s visit.”

We slid into the castle through a side wall, emerging in a huge dining room with a table set for twelve and portraits lining the paneled walls.

The moment I stepped inside, a tingle raced down my spine—an indefinable prickling, like something in me perking up.

“You feel that?” Trsiel whispered. He had his back to me, scanning the room, body held tight. As I stepped up beside him, he continued, “I told Katsuo—the angel who investigated—that I’ve felt something here, but he swore he didn’t.”

I stared at Trsiel, not so much because of what he said as how he said it. His lips never moved, yet I heard him clearly. He caught me staring.

“Sorry,” he said, still speaking telepathically. “Should have warned you. Is this okay?”

I nodded.

“Keeps things quiet. If you need to talk, just think the words.”

“Like this?”

He nodded. “And don’t worry, I can’t read your mind. It has to be a distinct thought aimed at me.”

“Like a communication spell.”

“That’s right.” He looked around, tensing again. “I don’t know how Katsuo couldn’t feel this.”

“You’ve been here before?” I asked.

A shrug. “Once or twice. Sightseeing.”

I doubted that.

“Split up?” I said.

He gave me a look that needed no telepathic explanation. I sighed. It was going to be a slow search.

As we headed deeper into the castle, my sense of disquiet grew, wavering between unease and something almost like anticipation. It wasn’t what I’d call a negative vibe…certainly not negative enough to scare away any ghost with an ounce of backbone. Still, it was unsettling. As we searched for what drew the Nix to the castle, Trsiel did his best to keep us both calm with a running telepathic commentary, part castle tour, part historical ghost-walk.

From the dining room, we went into the Great Hall, a long tunnel-shaped room with an ornate plaster ceiling and more paintings of family members, including some guy wearing a really strange-looking flesh-colored suit of armor.

Adjacent to the Great Hall was the chapel…and still more paintings of dead guys. These, I think, were the disciples, though my knowledge of Christianity is a bit sketchy. In the center of the wall, over a candle-covered table, was a painting of Jesus on the cross. That one I knew. What really caught my eye, though, were the paintings on the ceiling. Fifteen of them, showing various religious scenes and at least one winged cherub.

“Doesn’t look a thing like you.”

Trsiel smiled. “Ah, but you haven’t seen my baby pictures.” He looked around. “Now, this, in case you didn’t guess, is the chapel. Listen closely, and you might hear the scratching of a vampire, trapped forever within these walls.”

“There’s a lot trapped in these walls, isn’t there?”

“It’s a popular place. Do you want to hear about the vampire?”

“Let me guess, he infiltrated the castle as a servant or something, then they found him sucking the blood of some poor schmuck, and walled him up in here.”

“No, they walled her up in here.” He glanced over at me. “But, otherwise, you’re right. Standard vampire lore. On to the billiard room.”

We walked through a doorway into yet another oversize room, with yet more paintings. Glass-cased bookshelves lined one wall.

“Looks more like a library,” I said.

Trsiel pointed at a table in the middle.

“Billiards, and a decent segue into my next story. The second earl of Glamis, known as Earl Beardie, was an inveterate card player. One Saturday night, he and his friend, the Earl of Crawford, played for so long that a servant came in to tell him it was nearly midnight, and to beg him to stop playing, for it was sacrilege to play cards on the Sabbath. Beardie sent him out, saying, ‘I’ll play with the Devil himself if I like.’ A few minutes later, there came a knock at the door. There stood a man, dressed all in black, asking to join the game. The earls agreed and, that night, wagered and lost their souls. When Beardie died five years later, his family began hearing the sound of curses and rattling dice coming from that same room where Beardie had played. They walled it up, but the noises continued.”

“More walling up? Geez, they must have employed full-time bricklayers in this place.”

We continued on our walk. A few minutes later, he led me into a sitting room.

“And here is a bit of history closer to your time. The Queen Mother’s sitting room. This was her ancestral home. She grew up here, and Princess Margaret was born here—well, not in this room, but in the castle.”

“So the Queen Mother grew up and had a child in a castle known for ghosts, vampires, visits from the Devil, murderous revolts, executions, and torture? You know, this may explain a few things about the British royal family.”

As we continued up a wide set of winding stone stairs to the clock tower, I saw a young woman in a long white dress standing at the landing window. My first thought was not “Ack, a ghost!” but “Hmmm, these Scots wear some pretty strange jammies.” As Trsiel had said, the castle was still the private residence of the latest Lord Glamis, with the family and their staff living in a wing off-limits to the daily tours. But then the woman turned, and it was obviously not a nightgown, but a formal white dress.

She turned from the window, her eyes wide with horror. “They come!”

She snatched up her skirt and raced toward the stairs, passing right through an urn.

I glanced over at Trsiel. “I thought you said there were no ghosts here.”

“That’s a residual.”

“A residual what?”

“A residual image of a past event. Some traumatic events burn images of themselves into a place. Like a holographic sequence. When triggered, the sequence replays. Any ghost or necromancer, and some sensitive humans, can trigger them.” He paused. “You have seen these before, haven’t you?”

I thought of the crying woman in Paige and Lucas’s home.

“Er, right. I just…didn’t know they were called that.”

Trisel grinned. “You thought they were ghosts?”

“Of course not. I—”

He threw back his head and laughed. “What did you do? Try to talk to them? Entreat them to go into the light?”

I glared and stalked past him up the stairs.

After two rooms of being ignored, Trsiel offered an olive branch by way of a story, one about the woman I’d just seen. The White Lady. Ghost hunters can be the most ingenious breed when it comes to inventing ghastly tales, but ask them to think up a name for the ghost of a woman dressed in white, and they give you “the White Lady.”

She was Janet Douglas, widow of the sixth Lord Glamis. She’d been burned at the stake for witchcraft, accused of conspiring to poison King James V. Her true “crime” was being the sister of Archibald Douglas, who’d expelled the young king’s mother from Scotland years before. Political revenge—with a pretty, popular young widow for a pawn.

Last stop: the crypt.

I expected to descend into some dark, dank basement. Instead, Trsiel led me back to the main entrance at the foot of the clock tower, through a door to a set of narrow stairs that led up. We climbed the stairs into a long narrow room with a rounded ceiling.

“What’s at the other end?” I asked.

“The dining room.”

“Oooh, a dining room just off the crypt. Now, that’s a feature you don’t see very often these days.” I looked around. “Okay, where are the stiffs? I really hope they didn’t stick them in those suits of armor.”

“This is actually the servants’ hall. Where they originally ate and slept.”

“And they called it the crypt? That can’t be good.”

Trsiel shook his head and prodded me forward.

“What? I’m not moving fast enough?”

I stopped. If I were a cat, my fur would have stood on end. I looked around, but all I saw was a mishmash of antiques, and two small windows at the end of the half-tunnel room.

“It’s strong here, isn’t it?” Trsiel said. “The strongest point, though, is in there.” He pointed to the wall. “There’s a room on the other side. Legend has it that Lord Glamis walled up a group of Scottish clansmen inside, sealed it, and left them to starve to death.”

“Is it true?”

He nodded. “That one, I’m afraid, is more than a tall tale.”

“So what we’re feeling is another kind of residual. A negative energy instead of a physical form.”

Trsiel went silent, cocking his head to look at the wall, eyes narrowing as if he could invoke an Aspicio power of his own and look within.

“That can happen,” he said slowly. “And it would make sense in a place with such a violent history. Only one problem with the theory. Residual emotion only affects the living. The infamous ‘cold spot.’ Ghosts don’t feel it. Neither do angels.”

“If the Nix was here, I bet her visit had something to do with whatever is making us jumpy—whatever is on the other side of that wall.”

“There’s nothing there. I’ve been—”

“Doesn’t hurt to check again, does it?”

“It isn’t—it’s not pleasant in there, Eve. There are—”

“Skeletons, right? People die, they leave bones. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

He opened his mouth to argue. I stepped through the wall.