I’m surrounded by it here.
The floor is stone, but since it is deprived of light, soft green moss grows in places, and is soft under my feet. The walls are thick blocks of stone, and have various alcoves, filled with the remains of Savage family members. They go back for generations, and it makes me wonder how long the Savages have lived at Whitley.
Nearest me, are Richard Savage I, my grandfather, and Richard Savage II, my uncle. And next to him is Olivia.
Olivia.
The name from my memory.
Dare’s mother.
I run my fingers along her name, tracing the letters cut in the stone, absorbing the coolness, the hardness.
What do I know about her?
Why is she significant in my memory?
Did Dare have her eyes, or her hair? Was she the only spot of brightness in his world? Does he miss her more than life itself?
I don’t know.
All I know is her name was in my head yesterday…before I found this place.
It’s my first hard clue.
Trailing my fingers along the wall, I circle the room, eyeing my ancestors, marveling at the silence here.
It’s so loud that my ears ring with it.
The open door creates a sliver of light on the dark floor, and it’s while I’m focusing on the brightness that I first hear the whisper.
Calla.
I whip my head around, only to find nothing behind me.
Chills run down my spine, and goose-bumps form on my arms as I eye the empty room. The only people here are dead.
But… the whisper was crystal clear in the silence.
I’m hearing voices.
That fact terrifies me, but not as much as the familiarity in that whisper.
It can’t be my brother.
It can’t. He’s dead and I know it. I might’ve imagined him the other night, but even I know he wasn’t real.
“Hello?” I call out, desperate for someone to be here, for someone real to have spoken. But no one answers.
Of course not.
I’m alone.
I lay my hand on the wall and try to draw in a deep breath. I can’t be crazy. It’s one of my worst fears, second only to losing my brother.
A movement catches my eye and I focus on it.
Carnation petals and stargazers, white and red, blow across the floor. Funeral flowers.
Startled, I turn toward them, bending to touch them. I run one between my fingers, its texture velvety smooth. It hadn’t been here a moment ago. None of them had, but yet here they are, strewn across the floor.
They lead to a crypt in the wall.
Adair Phillip DuBray.
My heart pounds and pounds as I race to the plaque, as I trace the fresh letters with my fingertips.
This hadn’t been here either.
What the hell?
I gulp, drawing in air, observing the fresh flowers in the vase beside his name.
There is no moss here, because this had been freshly carved, recently opened, and very recently sealed. But there’s no way Dare can be here, because I just saw him last night. He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine.
As my hands palm his name, as I reassure myself, pictures fill my head, images and smells.
The sea, a cliff, a car.
Blood, shrieking metal, the water.
Dare.
He’s bloody,
He’s bloody,
He’s bloody.
Everything is on fire,
The flames lick at the stone walls,
Trying to find any possible way out.
The smoke chokes me and I cough,
gasping for air.
I blink and everything is gone.
My hands are on a blank wall, and Dare’s name is gone.
The flowers are gone.
I’m alone.
The floor is bare.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I’m crazy.
It’s the only explanation.
I scramble for the door and burst out into the sunlight, away from the mausoleum, away from the death. I fly toward the house, tripping on the stones.
“Calla?”