Why did previous generations toil so hard in pitch dark and dripping ice?
To build a crypt.
Weavers were buried on the chase, exposed to whipping winds and snow; my ancestors were entombed below the feet of the living, howling their laments and haunting the hallways of their old home.
It was morbid. Depressing. And Idespisedit down here. The stench of rotting corpses and tentacles of ghosts lurked around shadowy corners.
“Where are we—”
“Silence,” Cut hissed. His voice echoed around the cylindrical chambers.
My sluggish beat turned frantic as Cut continued onward, leaving the crypt behind and stepping foot into the one place I’d avoided all my life.
The memory came thick and fast.
“Wait up!”
Kes charged ahead, hurtling down the cellar steps and disappearing into the dark underground pathways beneath the house. These tunnels went to all areas of the estate—to the stables, Black Diamond garage, even the old silos where grain was stored back in the day.
It was also dark, damp, and rat infested.
We had no torches, no jumpers. Being a hot summer’s day, we’d been searching for spots of shades, only to end up getting bored and playing tag.
“Come on, scaredy cat,” Kes taunted.
I couldn’t see him in the inky blackness, but I kept running with my hands outstretched just in case I ran into something.
I came to an intersection and narrowly missed ploughing headfirst into dirt. Fumbling along the wall, my heart flew into my mouth. The wall surrounded me...three sides, soaring higher and tighter as claustrophobia kicked in.
The clank of heavy metal suddenly rang deep and piercing behind me.
“Kes?”
“We’ll play dungeons and guards. You’re the prisoner.” Kes laughed as he rattled the bars he’d just slammed over the entranceway I’d stupidly entered.
It was so black.
I couldn’t see a thing. But I could hear everything. My breathing. My heartbeat. My terror. So, so loud.
“What do you have to say for yourself, prisoner? Do you plead guilty?” Kes asked, his eight-year-old voice deepening with fake authority.
I moved toward his location, arms outstretched until I found the cold iron bars. “Let me out, Angus.”
“Don’t use that name.”
“I’ll use whatever name I want unless you get me out of here.” My body itched for fresh air, light, freedom. It felt as if the walls were crumbling, folding in, and burying me alive. “Not funny. Let me out.”
“Okay, okay. Jeez.” He yanked on the bars. The awful clanging noise jangled around us.
I pressed from my side of the cell.
Nothing happened.
“Err, it’s locked.”
“What do you mean it’s locked?” My soul scratched at my bones needing freedom. “Find a key—get me out!”
“Stay here. I’ll go get help.”
