Chapter 26

PEN

Pen and Neil stopped on the landing, and Pen pointed shakily down the hall to the door.

The door.

Her hand trembled as she dropped it to her side. She curled her fingers into a fist, trying to slow her pulse as Neil sidled up beside her, waiting.

"I have been drawn to this hall, to Georgina's room in particular, and unless we go in there, we're not going to know the truth. Every time you stopped me, every time you pulled me out of that trancelike state, I was about to open the door."

"Even on the first night?"

"Even on the first night," she agreed. "I could have sworn I'd seen a hand there."

"And you wanted to open the door?"

"I wish I could explain it, but there's this pull, like a string is attached to the middle of my chest and is propelling me toward it, toward her. This sounds ridiculous, but it feels like the solution to all my problems is in that room."

He reached out and squeezed her hand. "It's not ridiculous."

Pen leaned back on her heels. "I didn't really think the rest of this through. Are we just going to barge in there and demand answers?"

"What do you propose we do?"

She chewed on her lip as she glanced around at the darkened hall. Taking a deep breath, she tightened her hold on him as she stepped forward, dragging Neil with her.

"Before you came here," she started slowly, "did you believe in ghosts?"

"No, I never had reason to."

"That's the problem with us writers. We're artists. We craft these wild stories and characters and worlds, but when it comes to things like ghosts, we think of them in terms of logic. Does it make sense that ghosts exist? How would it even be possible? How can you believe in ghosts if you don't believe in God?"

"You're trying to distract me."

"Maybe." Pen shivered, squeezing his hand to ground her.

"So, I took a philosophy class back in college and the professor had us discuss the differences between being spiritual and being religious. I've grown up surrounded by sage and ceremonies and prayers to the Great Spirit."

"Unetlanvhi," Pen said.

"What does that mean?"

"It's one of the few Cherokee words I know. It means ‘God' or ‘Great Spirit.' My dad used it a lot when I was growing up."

"U," he tried.

"Oo. Oo-net-lah-nuh-hee."

Neil repeated it and she smiled, nodding. He continued, "Though I don't believe in any entity myself, I asked one of the other students if they would consider that spiritual or religious."

"And what did they say?" Pen asked as they passed the first door.

"Neither. When I told them that a lot of tribes believe in a Great Spirit, a creator, they said it's not the same. And I wondered if they believed that simply because people outside of the community know so little about the actual practices of specific tribes. When people talk about religion, they don't consider Indigenous practices. Natives and Indigenous people across the globe are left out of this conversation because we don't have something… tangible, if that makes sense?"

"It does," she said softly. If Pen closed her eyes, she could smell her father's workshop, smell the old "death box" he'd had her paint as a kid, filled with feathers and skulls and deer hide. She could smell the sage-dense smoke and hear the soft language she didn't fully understand.

"But what's strange is, I never believed in those things, in the ceremonies of the spirits my father prayed to, but in this castle with these people, I've seen the unbelievable." Neil smiled down at her as they passed the second door.

Pen's stomach did little flips, but she tried to focus on his words, on him and only him, blocking everything else out.

"Does seeing the ghosts change your view of religion?"

"No, no, I don't think it does. Ghosts are weird. They're memories of people caught in this place in the center of everything, so close to death and yet, so close to life." Neil cleared his throat, a laugh caught in his chest. "I met this woman once."

"Wait, oh my god, please tell me you spoke to a clairvoyant."

"Oh, I did. I was new!" he exclaimed as Pen bent at the waist to laugh, tugging them both to a stop a few feet from the door. "I'd never spoken to one, you know? And I decided, well, I know nothing about ghosts, so maybe if I speak to a clairvoyant, she can help me better understand them for my book."

"And?" Pen asked, turning to him and taking his other hand in hers.

"And she was a total phony. To be fair, I found her on Craigslist, so I'm not sure what I expected. There were probably better clairvoyants out there. But I did learn quite a bit about the lore around ghosts. She said that ghosts are tied to the place where they die. And that if we see a ghost floating or levitating, they're not levitating, they're haunting the original spaces. Supposedly."

"Ghosts don't seem to live… or rather, haunt by the rules." Pen sighed. "So, I wish I could pretend we haven't reached the door, but…" She motioned behind him. "We're here."

"Huzzah," he said, deadpanning.

"You know, at the very least, I know what book I'm writing next. Something about her, about how this castle has healed the thing that's been broken in me these last five years, filled the well that's been empty for so long. I wish I could explain it, but…"

Neil smiled. "Penelope, that's amazing, seriously. Congratulations."

She tried to smile back, but her nerves were a mess. Pen stared at the door, imagining the woman in white floating through it, the way she'd flickered in and out, whole and decaying, back and forth and back and forth. She struggled to see the girl the letters and journal entries had captured, to bridge the connection between a horrifying ghost and a scared mother-to-be. Pen's stomach roiled at the memory of the last time they'd seen Georgina in this hall as she reached out, her hand clutching the cool metal as she paused and closed her eyes.

"We could make a run for it," Neil said. "Tear off one of the van doors as a makeshift sled and slide our way to town for help."

"You'll do anything if it means not going in there again, huh?"

He squeezed her fingers. "Wouldn't you?"

She inhaled deeply, smelling that sickeningly sweet scent of decay heavy on the air. It was nearly suffocating. But the hall and the room beyond were completely silent. Sucking in a sharp breath and forging on before she could change her mind, Pen twisted and pushed, letting the door scream open.

She and Neil blinked against the image before them of a young woman seated at a desk by the window.

Georgina.

Pen took a hesitant step into the room. It was as if they'd leaped back in time, all traces of decay and abandonment gone not only on her but in the room. The wallpaper was a vibrant canary yellow with branches streaming up vertically, a forest gathering on her walls. The bed was large, draped in a similarly soft yellow, the edges of the canopy dripping with cream-colored lace.

Georgina sat at a table against the farthest window, a small, narrow desk that reminded Pen of her own. It looked out over the castle grounds, the view disappearing into the tree line, the wilderness far greater than it was in the present day. Her long, lace-trimmed sleeves had been pushed up, and she had a quill in one hand, her other holding open a familiar red journal.

Neil took a hesitant step toward the young woman, and Pen followed, her footfall light and silent. He leaned over Georgina's shoulder, glancing down at the journal entry as Pen looked out the window, spotting a small, square building in the snow beyond the graves.

Neil, Pen mouthed, waving her hand and pointing toward the window. Mausoleum .

Georgina glanced up at Neil, silver eyes narrowing.

"Impostor," she gasped, standing. "Get out of my room . "

She pounded against his chest, and Neil pitched backward, searching for the door. Pen stood frozen as the two stumbled toward the entry. Georgina's image flashed, soft, full colors turning to monochrome and decay. Plump, pink skin turned ashen and gray with death, drooping and collapsed to her bones.

As Georgina's hands found purchase on Neil's shirt, her skin oozed, decay sinking into the flesh and rotting it from the outside in, showing the bones where muscle and skin should have been. Pen pressed her hands to her mouth at the sight and dry-heaved as Neil tried to fight the ghost off. His hands tugged at her, his nails and fingers plunging into rot.

Pen gagged, the smell hitting her anew, and she fell against the small desk as Neil slipped backward. He crashed to the hall floor, knocking his head.

"Neil!" Pen screamed, stepping forward.

But Georgina turned on her, Neil forgotten as he held his head in his hands and struggled to sit up. The door slammed shut, locking Pen in and Neil out as the ghost surged forward, toward her.

Pen closed her eyes, trying desperately not to look. Something oozed over her hand on the desk, and though she shivered, though she could taste bile in her throat, she stood as still as possible.

Something brushed her foot, and Pen knew instantly that it was Georgina's dress. She could feel the sway of the torn, ragged fabric, smell her stench, but still, Pen refused to look.

Cool breath kissed her cheek, and Pen whimpered, eyes still clamped shut.

"You saw it, yes?" Georgina asked, leaning close, her voice a rasp. "You saw the mausoleum. Go to the church, Penelope. Go to the church and follow it to the mausoleum. You'll find what you seek."

Pen wanted to ask her what she meant. She wanted to ask the woman how she knew her name, but when Pen opened her eyes, she was alone. She stood frozen for a long moment, taking in the room. It was decrepit, gray, empty. There was no recollection of the beautiful space it had once been.

Neil.

Crying out, Pen ran across the room and threw open the door.

"Neil?!"

Hissing, he sat up fully, prodding along his skull. Pen knelt at his side, and he groaned as she reached out to help him.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

Neil shook his head, wincing at the movement. "No, no, I'm really not." He squinted up at her. "I'm sorry, there was nothing I could do." Neil ran a hand along her cheek, leaving behind a smear of grime. "How about you? Are you okay? The door…"

"I'm okay," she lied. She could think of nothing but Georgina's words, of the mausoleum hidden in the snow beyond the window. But he was hurt, and the mausoleum could wait for a minute longer. "I need you to walk." Grunting from the effort, she helped haul him to his feet before wrapping an arm around his waist.

He looked dizzy, his eyes not quite focusing on anything as he stood and meandered toward the landing. He leaned against the banister, lips parted as he glanced at the darkness they left behind. In this spot, in the light, it felt safer. They could take a moment to breathe before he attempted the stairs.

Pen reached up on her tiptoes and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. His skin was ashen and clammy. How badly had he hit his head?

"Neil, I need you to look at me."

He did, spinning away from the shadowy hallway. Pen could feel her pulse pounding, feel her hands go numb as he stared at her. She tried to swallow down the panic, but the way he was looking at her…

Something was wrong.

"I need…" he said, trailing off and leaning forward.

"Neil?"

"I just…"

And then he fell.