Page 95 of If I Stopped Haunting You

“Georgina,” he said softly. He crossed to it and knelt, running his fingers over the letters. Her father. It had to be. If Archibald Skinner had been buried as the fourth duke, then that was the only way.

“Penelope?” He stood and brushed his hands against his pants. While it was warmer inside the church, it was still freezing. Clenching his teeth to keep from chattering, he walked down thecenter of the aisle, his boots making a softclackagainst the floor as he searched for any sign of Penelope.

The pews were empty, and the wood was broken through and splintered on most of them. The candles hadn’t been lit in some time, the wax spilling over the candelabras. Cobwebs covered much of the furniture and corners of the room, and the stillness was deafening.

“Somehow, this is creepier than the west wing.” He stopped at the front of the room. A tattered old chair was discarded to the left, a dust-covered rug across the floor under his feet. If Penelope wasn’t here, where on earth could she have gone?

As he made to leave, the floor squeaked beneath him. Chewing on his lip, he stepped off the rug. There was a set of fingerprints along the edge, as if someone had been there not too long ago. He ran a finger over them before carefully peeling the rug back.

Neil wasn’t certain what he’d expected to lie hidden underneath, but a trapdoor was not one of them. It wasn’t large, but it was big enough to fit a person. A terrifying thought.

“Don’t do this,” he said, hands on his hips. It was aterribleidea.Who climbs down into random trapdoors? Who does that?

“Apparently, I do,” he said before flinging back the lid.

It was dark, pitch-black with no end in sight. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he turned on the flashlight and shone the light down. Ignoring the urge to run back to the safety of the castle, he sat on the edge of the hole, then dropped in.

He swayed, catching himself on the walls.

“The walls.” He shone the light around him. Stone walls built of the same materials as the castle and the church surrounded him. He had to bend down slightly; the tunnel was built for someone shorter.

A quaint Penelope size. The thought made Neil smile.

Phone raised up to light his way and a hand pressed to the wall to keep his balance, Neil strode on, head ducked.

“A goddamn hero,” he muttered, eyes flicking around the darkness.

Why did people feel the need to run off and be heroes? It never did anyone any good.

He heard nothing but his own breath, thebrush-brushof his jacket as he leaned against the wall for support. His head pounded, still, and his eyes struggled to focus on the dim light ahead.

And then he heard it: the softswish-swishof someone walking near him, almost close enough to touch. Neil’s imagination went wild. What was it? A cloak brushing the walls, or long skirts trailing in the dirt? Whatever it was, there wassomeonenot far behind him.

Neil froze, phone gripped tight in his hand. He could turn around and shine the light on the thing following him in the darkness. Or he could pretend. He could hurry on as fast as his weary limbs and pounding head would let him and simply ignore the sound. It was a test of his patience, his will.

But Neil was stubborn, and though the curiosity wanted to win, he clamped it down and started humming, the wavering tone enough to cover the sound of the thing following him. Because Penelope was somewhere down here, and he’d be damned if he abandoned her.

The stone walls were slick with grime under his fingers, and he tried not to think about what he was touching, about what crawled beneath his fingernails. He attempted desperately to focus on how, somewhere beyond the excruciatingly narrow tunnel, Penelope was being a goddamn hero.

Neil’s voice grew hoarse, the hummed tunes repeating until it was too much. He rocked back and forth on his legs, shuffling through the dirt until his feet were aching and the heat of the confined tunnel trailed sweaty fingers down his back. He unbuttoned his coat and wiped at his forehead, his mop of curls absorbing the sweat.

His arm ached from holding his phone up to illuminate, and his hand shook from the effort. Neil didn’t know how long he had been down there—fifteen minutes, an hour, perhaps. It was warm and dark and creepy, and in the end, all that mattered was finding Penelope.

He clicked on his phone screen warily, the red battery blinking back at him. Fifteen percent, his phone was down to 15 percent battery.

Neil tilted his head back, thatswish-swishof the thing in the dark still close. When he stopped, it stopped. When he moved, it moved. Shivering, he picked up the pace, biting the inside of his cheek to suppress the ache traveling down his body.

“Penelope?” he called out.

He’d hoped to avoid drawing the attention of anything creepy, but with it trailing him, well, there was no point in staying quiet.

“Penelope!”

His voice rang off the stone, disappearing in the distance, dampened by the dirt. Neil’s heart was hammering, the worry sinking further. Where the hell had she gone? Out of the castle, down into the tunnel, andnothing. No sign of her to be found.

Neil wanted to turn back, but there was asomethingfollowing him, and he didn’t want to know what it was. If he’d learned anything on the retreat, it was better to leave some things a mystery.

He swiped up on his phone. Eight percent.