While I had a knack for stomaching gruesome sites, Mark had a proclivity for homemade explosives that had come in handy on more than one occasion.
"Of course, doll," he said, swinging his crowbar up so it landed on his shoulder. "As you wish."
My eyes trailed him as he marched up the stairs to the mausoleum door and inspected it for a brief moment, running his fingers along the seam where metal met stone. If he decided he couldn't break in with the crowbar, we'd resort to the homemade explosives at the bottom of my bag, though that was always our last resort due to the noise. Besides, Mark wouldn't miss a chance to look manly wielding a solid rod of steel.
I pulled on a respirator mask, along with long rubber gloves–you could never be too careful when dealing with dead bodies–and joined Mark at the mausoleum entrance.
He prodded the seam with his crowbar once before jamming the steel into the tiny crevice. To my surprise, it didn't move.
"It's sealed pretty well for being so old," he muttered, swinging again.
This time, the crowbar wedged, and he threw his body into it, trying to pry the door open. It didn't budge much.
"Impressive." I whistled, glancing over my shoulder at the backpack on the ground. "You want me to get the dynamite?"
"Not yet," he grunted, throwing his weight into the crowbar once more. "I’m just getting warmed up."
It was slow going, but with deep, vibrating groans and squeaks, the door finally opened a few inches. A gust of stale air hit me like the building suddenly exhaled after centuries of holding its breath, and Mark handed me the crowbar. He grabbed the edge of the door, wrenching and prying until it stood open enough for us to slip inside.
He was panting, sweat dripping down from his hairline, but his mouth ticked up in a smirk when he stepped aside and gestured to the entrance with a sweep of his hand.
"Told you," he breathed, taking back his crowbar. "After you."
"You're too kind." I rolled my eyes with a half-smile and stepped toward the doorway, slipping in sideways to avoid the rusty metal snagging my clothes.
It was pitch black, the sliver of light from the entrance not permeating past an inch or two inside, and ice cold. Considering the crisp fall air outside the building, I wasn’t expecting it to be so frigid, but goosebumps raced up my arms and I instinctively looked for my breath to escape in white puffs. It didn’t, but I attributed that to the mask I wore.
My teeth began to chatter.
“Shit,” Mark hissed as he slipped inside behind me. “Why the hell is it so cold?”
“It’s a crypt, babe,” I said with a laugh, though there was no humor in my voice.
He was right. The blast of air that blew through the door was abnormally chilly.
It probably should have been an indicator that something was different about this grave, but I didn’t pay it much mind. Swinging my head left and right, I let the light from my headlamp dance through the darkness, illuminating the mausoleum’s interior.
Small alcoves were carved into the walls to make floor to ceiling shelves, and they were all laden with things. Boxes, vases, trinkets. Things that shimmered and shone when the light hit them. My stomach did a sickening backflip.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, voice barely audible to my own ears.
I loved crypts. I mean, so did every goth girl in theory. But my appreciation aired on the side of obsession. Something about the silence. The dust in the air. Undisturbed spiderwebs. I even liked bones. Hell, I especially liked bones. I liked to stare at them and imagine the person they’d once belonged to.
The crypts I broke into usually belonged to people who hadn’t been so great when they’d been alive. So I liked to imagine the sunny part of their lives. Like beams of light that broke through the tiny windows of a crypt, disturbing the murk. In my experience, even the darkest crypts had small traces of light. The same usually went for the people they belonged to.
It was hard to imagine the family who laid within the walls of this place. It was the most opulent mausoleum I’d ever been in. It was lined in white marble, with pretty coffins perched on individual ledges, all with their own plaque framed in gold.
I took a few steps deeper into the building, farther into the impossible blackness, and my gaze landed on three concrete burial vaults laid evenly along the middle of the space. They were identical and unadorned aside from name plaques at the foot of each one, and my curiosity piqued. I’d searched so much to figure out who was laid to rest in the Petherick tomb, and this was my chance to find out.
Tempted as I was to run for the shelves and start grabbing everything I could get my hands on, I slowly approached the first vault and paused beside it to read the name plaque:Elias 1713-1745.
Next in line was Nathaniel, and Mark stepped up to the third and final vault, bending to peer over the name placard.
“Catherine.”
At the sound of the name, a hollow knock sounded, reverberating through the mausoleum, making my blood run as cold as the air around us. Mark and I met each other’s gaze across the dark space, and I swallowed hard, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling.
I hadn’t felt so uncomfortable at a grave site in over five years, but a tickle of dread laced its way up my spine and made me eager to get the hell out of there.
