They might never know the answer for that, but they’d keep looking.
Away from the corridor.
It was creepy in there, and the hanging spiderwebs didn’t make it more inviting. On top of that, the ceiling collapsing, or more adders was a legitimate fear.
No one wanted to be buried alive or bitten.
NO.
ONE.
Together, they each grabbed whatever they could carry, and brought it out of the tunnel. When they were back inside the crypt, the air was really cold.
REALLY.
COLD.
As in they knew they weren’t alone.
Clearly, moving the items had stirred up the dead to the point they wanted their attention.
They could see their breaths as they breathed out, and the people who’d investigated here knew what that meant.
It was about to be spooky.
All around them, they heard voices, like someone was murmuring to someone else. It was static-y and they couldn’t make out the words.
Michael braced for it.
“Incoming,” he muttered, scanning the crypt for anything out of place.
Oh, and he felt it.
“Holy shit,” Michael said, looking around. He felt like someone was right behind him.
When he turned, they saw something in the corner just barely there.
As it stepped forward, everyone stepped back.
It was Duncan.
Alone.
He was pointing at the pile of paintings and nothing else. It was clear he wanted their attention on them.
But for what reason?
That was the question.
When Ian moved forward toward the ghost and paintings, his man, once again, grabbed him by the back of the pants.
Yeah, hell, no.
His mate was trying to play apparition whisperer, and Gryphen really preferred that he didn’t.
Yeah, this place was amped up now that they’d moved the painting and journals out of the corridor.
The mood had switched, and they needed to figure this out, fast.
