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“Hey, do you have any idea what’s going on with Crystal?”
Lila’s words are clipped and cool when she answers. “Nope, haven’t got a clue. Sorry, Ever.” The line goes dead quicker than I expected.
“What?” I stare at the phone in disbelief. What is this?
Sending a text back to Crystal, the letters blurring into a plea for some clarity, my hands are shaking. Crystal has always played it cool, but she was my friend. Wearefriends. None of this makes any sense.
The house is silent as a grave, shadows draped over every corner like funeral shrouds. I’m alone,except for the echo of my footsteps as I wander downstairs. Wondering where all the guys disappeared, I amble blindly towards the kitchen, hoping for something stronger than water to dull this ache of anxiety in my chest that Crystal hates me, and Lila is acting weird. A sliver of light beckons me, sneaking out from under a door tucked under the grand staircase—a door I’d always dismissed as a cupboard for mops and forgotten dustpans.
Squinting at it, I wonder why the light was left on. Reaching for the brass handle, the metal cold against my palm, it turns easily in the stillness of the night. The door swings open, revealing not brooms or buckets but a space bigger than expected, cluttered with boxes and old furniture that line the walls. Seeing an old portrait of a man who looks just like Alistair, I chew my lip and look over my shoulder as I step inside.
His dad.
The late Duke of KnightsGate
Peering at him with a scowl as he was clearly not a nice man, my curiosity gets the better of me despite feeling so awful about the situation with my friends. Checking my phone again, there are no messages, and it hits me again, making me choke back the sob.
Turning my head as I wipe the tears from my eyes, I draw a deep breath and then frown. The area is clear, save for a few chairs stacked up a few feet away from each other. It seems odd why there is a gap, so I cross over to it and notice another door with surprise. It has no handle, but I can see the outline of it.Curiosity claws at me, stronger than the unease that’s taken root in my chest. This is an old house built on the even older university grounds. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if it has a crypt or something equally as eerie down there. But do I really want to go looking?
The history buff in me screams that I do want to open the door and see where it leads. I mean, it’s just there, daring me. My gut twists, the rational part of my brain screaming that some doors are meant to stay shut, but the other part, the part that’s hurt and curious, needs something—anything—to drag me away from the mess of my thoughts.
Reaching out to where the handle should be, I push down and hear a click. Pressing my lips together, I feel a spike in my blood and ease the door open. A dark tunnel stretches out before me, lit by sporadic glimmers that dance just at the edge of my vision.
I should turn back, but here I am, stepping into the unknown because the known is too much to bear right now.
The air shifts as I move forward, thick with a musty scent that clings to the back of my throat. Dust motes float lazily in the shafts of light, revealing little about what lies ahead. It’s like the tunnel wants to keep its secrets, and honestly, I can respect that.
With each step, a low hum that vibrates through the walls. Voices? My heart stutters, but I creep closer, drawn by the same force that pushes people to pokeat bruises to see if they still hurt. Yeah, they usually do.
The darkness isn’t pure; there’s enough light to make out the rough-hewn stone and the moisture seeping through cracks, giving the whole place an eerie sort of beauty—if you’re into the whole ‘abandoned crypt’ aesthetic, which, for the record, I’m not. It’s creeping me out on a scale that hasn’t been reached before.
But I keep going, sloping down further into the bowels of the earth.
The voices grow clearer, a reminder that I’m not alone down here. That thought should comfort me, but it doesn’t. Not one bit.
The tunnel ends, or at least feels like it should. I edge closer to the source of the murmuring voices, my slippers silent on the cold stone floor. The air is much cooler, sending a shiver not entirely from the temperature.
My fingers trail along the damp wall, guiding me as the light dims further until it’s just the ghostly glow from an unseen source. Maybe it’s my overactive imagination, but it feels like every shadow holds a whisper of the past, each one urging me forward.
I reach the end, my heart thrumming in my chest like it’s trying to break free. There’s a corner, sharp and beckoning. I press my back against the cool stone, take a slow breath that does fuck all to calm me down, then I peek around it.
Holy shit.
The sight slams into me, knocking any semblanceof sense right out. Four men stripped to the waist and on their knees—Alistair, Damien, Charlie, and Ben—in a circle around a golden compass, large and ominous.
My hand flies to my mouth, pressing tight against my lips to stifle the gasp clawing its way up my throat. They’re moving in a rhythm, a synchronised dance of pain, arms drawing back and then lashing with a violence that echoes against the stone.
It’s twisted, fucked up on a level I can’t even begin to fathom. They whip themselves, each strike making me jump, a thud that feels like it lands on my own skin. These guys, with their polished looks and smooth talk, are here beating themselves like they’re penitents in some medieval cult.
I can’t tear my eyes away, even as my brain screams at me to run, to unsee what’s unfolding before me. There’s something dark and serious going down, and I’ve unwittingly stumbled right into it.
Or have I?
The light was left on. They know I live here. Did they want me to see this?
No, Ever. Slow your brain down. No one in their right mind would want you to see this.
Every thwack sends a jolt through me like I’m the one feeling the bite of the leather. Shit, I can’t even blink. The air in this hidden chamber is thick with something darker than dust, and it’s choking me, but my feet are rooted to the grimy floor like I’ve grown there.
