Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

WINIFRED CHAPEL

" H ail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…"

Fingers steepled, an ivory rosary draped over my knuckles, I bow my head in prayer; the words I've had memorized since I was a child spilling quietly from my lips as effortlessly as the beads rolling between my fingers.

"…Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…"

My knees throb, despite the soft cushioning of the kneeler, my back aching from holding such rigid posture for so long. My devotion is my salvation, I remind myself. Mortal comforts are but one small sacrifice for His eternal blessings.

Prayer to prayer, mystery to mystery, decade to decade…

The beads slither through my fingers, their gentle rattle combined with my hushed recitations creating a heady, hypnotic lull I reckon would comfort even Satan himself.

"It's like a spell, Winnie! Like magic!" a childlike voice echoes in the back of my mind.

I squeeze my eyes together, willing the memory away.

"O My Jesus, forgive us our sins," I utter shakily, fingers trembling, "save us from the fires of Hell."

Behind my tightly pressed lids, images of flames eating at black hair and freckled rosy cheeks scatter, disintegrating into clouds of smoke. "Lead all souls to Heaven, especially those in most need of Thy mercy."

When I finish however many minutes later, a brief, heavy beat of silence follows where all is still. Silent. And I hold my breath.

The statue of the Blessed Virgin Mother looms over me, the first thing I see when I peel my eyes open on a gasp, the steam coating my thin, wire-framed glasses dissipating quickly now that I've no longer got my face buried in my hands.

With her stone-gray head angled toward me ever so slightly, unseeing gaze lowered in perpetual submission, and arms laid out open and accepting, I can almost imagine she was listening to my prayers. Pretend she's offering comfort…reassurance. Yes, yes, dear, I'll be sure to let Him know.

With a hard swallow, I climb to a stiff stand, teeth clenching on a wince, and I make the sign of the cross over my chest, bringing the rosary to my lips. "Amen," I murmur into the warm metal of the Crucifix.

The blood is slow to return to my aching joints, and when I no longer feel like I might collapse, I twist around and gather my bag, tuck my rosary away, and begin making my way out of the pew and into the aisle.

St. Therèse's Cathedral is mostly deserted, as it usually is at this early hour. Soft morning light streams in through the arched, stained glass windows, casting the sprawling, ornate, centuries-old church in glimmering shades of ruby-red and gold. With my back to the sanctuary, I spare a glance at my wristwatch, biting back frustration when I see the time.

Quarter to eight.

That's what you get for being distracted…

Muggy air greets me when I shove past the heavy front doors of the church. Gone now are the sweeping arches, frescoed ceilings, and cloying scents of frankincense and myrrh, and in their place, a world dripped in gray skies and dew-dappled greenery and sweltering petrichor that brings a comforting burn to my nose.

The sun has only just risen over the mountains, but I can already tell today is going to be unbearably hot. Maybe even hotter than yesterday, which broke ninety. Summer might be drawing to a close, but it's not surrendering its reign without a fight.

Jogging down the concrete steps, my skirt swishes around my thighs, stirring up the faintest of breezes. Making me ache for home—for my bed—and a locked door and a ceiling fan I can sprawl out naked under.

But instead I'm left to suffer in my school-issued uniform. I'll be lucky if I make it to noon without sweat stains and blisters.

When I hit the sidewalk, I consider my options for all of two seconds before cutting a sharp right toward the woods. A shortcut I haven't taken in years, and never alone, but know will get me to St. Agatha's across town in half the time it would take to go around. And I need that half, if I have any hope of getting there before they lock the doors.

Carefully climbing through a broken section of stone wall, I push away branches and sidestep trees, taking care to avoid roots and fallen logs and other various debris, until I find the footpath that will lead me directly to the grounds of Hollow Hill's resident all-girls school.

With each step that takes me deeper into the woods, there's a creeping sense of unease building within me. It's…

Quiet.

Too quiet.

Where are the birds?

As the trees thicken in density, their flourishing leaves form a canopy overhead, stealing all but jagged slivers of hazy gray light. Combined with the fog—slipping between the trees like a whisper—I can't help but feel like… Well, like something's closing in on me.

This was a mistake.

A long lock of hair spills over my shoulder, falling down my chest. Reaching behind me, I scoop up the feathery, unruly mass, and gather it over my shoulder, finger-combing it into three thick sections.

Humming quietly under my breath to an old Cheap Trick song, I distract myself with braiding my hair, and just focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

You've walked these woods before, Winifred.

There's nothing out here. You know this. You're just being paranoid.

The school is right up ahead. Only a few more minutes, tops. You're almost ther ? —

I've just finished tying the braid off when I hear it.

"Oh, Winnie…"

Soft. Melodic. Faint. Like an echo weaving through the woods, gunning right for me.

And my thoughts, along with my steps—my humming—come to a grinding halt.

Eyes widening, breath hitching, I whip around. With one hand tethering my bag to my shoulder in a white-knuckled grip, I thrust the other out, fingers spread as if to ward off an unseen enemy.

A tinkling laugh carries on a sudden gust of wind and fog blowing through, somehow coming from everywhere all at once. It shakes the trees, kicking up waves of leaves. Loose tendrils of brown hair pulled from my braid whipping across my face.

Squinting through the sudden maelstrom, I dart my gaze around, my heart thrashing in my chest.

It's not real. It's not real. Just a trick of my imagination.

Lungs heaving, blood roaring in my ears, I murmur, "I will fear no evil, for You are with me."

Lowering my hand to my side, I stand a little taller, steeling myself, even as my teeth chatter, and the fingers gripping the strap of my bag grow numb.

Then, in the span it takes for me to blink, it all just stops. The air stilling once more. Leaves fluttering to the ground.

And the voice… that voice… her voice…that childlike laugh…

Gone without a trace.

Because it wasn't real.

Forcing a hard swallow, I turn on my heel, and go to take a step when?—

Hisssssssss.

The sound whistles through the air, and I throw myself back, stumbling to a fall that lands me on my butt, just as my wide eyes lock on the oil-black snake slithering toward me.

My pulse skyrockets. "N-n-no. N-n-no!" I chatter into a gasp, scrambling back on my palms, heels kicking up dirt. I whip my head from side to side. "Not real. It's n-not real."

My glasses slip down my nose as perspiration builds. So cold…Why am I so cold?… I shove them up, my hand shaking so hard, I knock my lenses with the heel of a dirt-caked palm. Smudging them.

Another hisssss, and I swear, just for a moment, I catch a faint echo of that tinkling laugh.

I grit my teeth against a cry. Please, God. Please. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please.

The snake winds closer, flicking a pink forked tongue at me. Frozen with terror, all I can do is shake my head, and choke back whimpers.

I screw my eyes shut. Hold my breath.

Please God, have mercy on me.

There's another low, whistling hisssss , followed by a stirring in the air, and the faintest brush of something scalding hot and scaly against the side of my hand. My body locks on a flinch, and I bite back a yelp, holding as still as humanly possible.

What could be seconds or an eternity passes.

And then I hear a rustle of leaves, followed by the tittering of birds.

My eyes fly open, and I whip my head around, brows knitted in confusion. The fog is gone. The darkness has lifted some. That terrible hissing, nothing but a haunting echo in my mind.

My gaze drops to where the tail end of a black snake slinks into the bushes .

Blinking rapidly, I push up my glasses and climb to a shaky stand.

No longer obscured by fog and shadows, I can make out the break in the trees up ahead, and just beyond, the dark gray spires of St. Agatha's poking out into the overcast sky.

I slump in relief.

Brushing the dirt from my palms and back of my skirt, smoothing it out, I hike up my bag and all but run toward freedom. Not once taking my eyes off the white limestone castle with its slate roof gradually coming into view, blotting out the pale sky like a beacon calling me home. Back into the Lord's light.

I emerge from the woods not unlike how I entered—only this time I'm a fumbling, sweaty mess as I scramble over the crumbling stone wall that cages in this corner of woods. Save for where it ascends to the highest point of Hollow Hill—the peak from which this town got its namesake, and where the founding family resided like gods overlooking the valley.

Turning, I traipse backward through the small field separating the school from the woods, trailing my gaze past the trees, and up the jagged steps of a cliff, to where a pitch-black Victorian gothic cathedral sits like a stain against the sky on the very top. Twice as large as St. Therésa's, and much older.

In fact, it's the only surviving structure from when the first settlers laid claim to this land, after a mysterious fire swept through at the turn of the nineteenth century, destroying over a dozen buildings, and killing nearly all the descendants of the town's founders.

Save for one man—Astaroth Hollow—who mysteriously disappeared not too long after the fire.

Ever since, it's been property of the church. First turned into a sanitarium for those infected with the white death—tuberculosis—and then later, and as it stands today, a facility for diseases not of the body, but of the mind.

Of the spirit.

The Tormented…

"Oh, Winnie…" a voice echoes, one that's all in my head this time—I know it is—and I slam my eyes shut, my steps halting to a stop.

Go away.

"Winifred?"

With a vicious snap from my thoughts, I whirl around, stumbling back when I see that I've reached the school. A sweeping look around has a frown furrowing my brow, as I take in the groups of girls of all varying ages, scattered around the grounds of St. Agatha's. Laughing and talking amongst themselves as they wait for the doors to open

And Trinity, my… friend, for lack of a better word… She stands not even a foot away from me, head cocked inquisitively. Her smile is tremulous at best, her cornflower blue eyes wary with a mix of judgment and concern. "What are you doing?" she asks with forced lightness.

"I—" With a shake of my head, I press my lips together.

"You were just…standing there," she tells me, "staring off at that freaky castle." She shudders, wrinkling her nose like she smelled something bad.

It's not a castle…

I force a hard swallow, and shove my glasses back into place. "Thought I saw something," I whisper.

"Did you cut through the woods?"

"I-I got tied up. Was running late. I didn't think I'd make it in time for first bell."

Her brow knits, eyes narrowing with some unreadable emotion, and I try not to squirm.

"Oh," is all she eventually says.

A long awkward moment passes.

"You really—" Her words cut out when something past my shoulder grabs her attention, widening her eyes, and parting her mouth in shock.

And everything in me goes utterly still.

I don't have to look to see what she's looking at. Or, rather… who.

Even Trinity's hardening expression and narrowed eyes are nothing but an unnecessary confirmation of what I already know I'll find if I look back.

Don't do it.

Don't give her the satisfaction.

"So, not alone,." Trinity mutters, turning an accusing look on me.

Frowning, I shake my head rapidly. What is she…

And before I can help it, I find myself twisting to look over my shoulder, my pulse quickening into a hammer against my neck.

Because there, crossing the field of tallgrass and wild white baby's breath—the very same field I'd just crossed—backdropped by a dark, dense tree line, and a sharp, jagged incline, and a gothic cathedral stained against a sunless sky is Ophelia St. Maud.

Posh. Aristocratic. Snobbish.

All words that come to mind in the presence of that upturned nose, that harsh, perpetually disdainful expression, and purposeful, almost angry walk.

With her inky black hair braided loosely into a crown atop her head, loose tendrils curling around her face and neck—intentionally done, I imagine, unlike mine—and the rebellious, yet pristine way she wears her uniform, it's impossible not to stop and gawk at her.

Why was she in the woods?

Turning back to face Trinity's scathing expression, I infuse as much sincerity as I can when I tell her, "I did not walk with her. I had no idea she was behind me."

"You'd swear before God?"

"Yes," I reply instantly, not taking my eyes off her cerulean blues.

Why was she even in there? It's not even on her way anymore…

In the corner of my eye, Ophelia strides past us, not so much as sparing a glance this way.

But I know she's aware of me, just as she always is. Just as I'm always aware of her, try as I might not to be, and despite all my efforts to cast her out of my head.

Trinity gives me one last considering once-over, before finally nodding. "Okay, I believe you. I just…I worry."

Throat clenching, I nod. Me too.

"They should've taken her," she goes on, and I feel my heart skip a beat as realization has a gnawing pit forming in my stomach.

They.

The church.

Trinity's gaze drifts past me once more, up toward the sanitarium. "She doesn't belong down here after what she did."

"Yeah," I hear myself whisper, as memories surge forth. Images of untamed flames and clawed fingers sinking into dirt and silent, open-mouthed screams flashing behind my eyes.

"Let me go! Let me GO!"

I give a quick shake of my head, drop my gaze, and will the images away. The cries…

My fear…

Something wet glances off my finger, effectively yanking me back to the present. And it's then and only then, blinking down at my clasped hands, that I realize I've been scratching—a nervous tic of mine that I'd thought I'd grown out of.

I frown. Did I break skin?

But when I lift my hand to inspect, my stomach drops like a boulder, blood icing over as chills break out across my skin.

The bell rings suddenly, and I throw my hands behind me, eyes rounding as they spring up to where Trinity was just facing me. But she's no longer there, having already turned away to join Fran and Harper—friends of hers, and I guess by association, me.

I blow out a breath, though my relief is short lived.

"Come, Winifred," Trinity calls out over her shoulder as they reach the steps. Summoning me like I'm their ever faithful pathetic dog.

They're good for you, a voice reminds me as bitterness digs out a hole in my stomach.

Right…

Even in my head, I don't sound convinced. I just sound exhausted.

I watch as they get swallowed up by the throng of bodies now funneling toward the doors.

My hand tingles—or maybe it's just in my head.

When I feel confident no one's paying me any attention, I bring my hand back around, hoping I didn't see what I thought I did.

No such luck.

Bile surges up my throat, panic stinging my eyes and seizing my lungs.

I can't decide which is more unsettling. The fact that it's not blood I felt, but an oily black substance smeared right where that snake brushed against my hand…

Or the fact that my watch…

It's dead.

The hands frozen at 7:48.

Two minutes after I checked it in the church.

Right about the time I entered the woods.