HAUNT OF MURDER, A Read Online Free PDF Page B

moved towards the steps of the keep then paused. A young man was walking towards her. Despite the night she could make out his features: round-faced, smooth-shaven, merry mouth and laughing eyes. He was dressed in an old-fashioned cote-hardie which fell to his knees, a war belt strapped round his waist. His hair was oily and combed back. He walked with a swagger, and as he passed he smiled and winked.
    ‘Be careful!’ he whispered then strode on.
    Beatrice whirled round. The figure disappeared in the gathering darkness. So, she thought, some people can see me. She stared up at the parapet.
    ‘I didn’t fall,’ she murmured. She touched the side of her head. ‘I was struck.’
    She jumped as a great mastiff, with fiery eyes and slavering jaws, came bounding up to her. She stood transfixed in terror as the beast leapt, only to pass through her, racing into the
night. She hurried up towards the door of the keep, moving so fast she didn’t realise until it had happened that she had gone through the door without opening it. She was standing at the foot of the spiral staircase leading up to the chapel.
    Beatrice closed her eyes. ‘I really am dead,’ she murmured.
    She opened her mouth and gave the most hideous, heart-rending scream. She waited. Those in the chapel above must have heard her. Someone would come running down the steps. But they didn’t. Again she screamed like a soul in mortal agony.
    ‘Who are you?’
    Beatrice whirled round. She gazed in dread at the gargoyle figure before her. He was tall, well over two yards high, with a bulbous, grotesque face, cheeks pitted and scarred, eyes thin and glittering under a mop of dirty red hair. A broad, leather belt circled his swollen stomach, and from it hung keys and a dagger. The high-heeled boots he wore were spurred.
    ‘I’m dreaming,’ she murmured, stepping back.
    ‘Ye not be dreaming!’ The man stood, head slightly cocked. ‘If ye can see Black Malkyn, then ye not be dreaming! Ye be dead!’ His hideous smile disappeared as a dreadful scream pierced the night.
    ‘What was that?’ Beatrice demanded.
    ‘That be Lady Johanna.’ His face became sad. ‘Like you, like me, one of the Incorporeals.’
    And he was gone, walking through the wall, spurs clinking, heading towards Midnight Tower. Beatrice climbed the stairs. She could do this effortlessly; there was no need to stop to catch her breath. As she turned a corner, following the spiral staircase up, what looked like a monk in a dirty grey robe passed her. She glimpsed white, pinched features though he seemed unaware of her.
    Beatrice entered the chapel. Her corpse now lay in a casket just within the door of the rood screen. Father Aylred was
kneeling in prayers. There was no sign of the others. Beatrice approached her corpse. In the light of the flickering candles, the face looked pallid, the horrid gash vivid in the side of her head. Beatrice glanced up at the pyx which held the Blessed Sacrament. Surely, if she was dead, the good Lord Jesus would help.
    She went towards the sanctuary steps, intending to grasp the pyx, but the spheres of light, those circles of fiery light which she’d glimpsed in the courtyard below, sprang up all around her. They came together, forming an impenetrable wall between her and the altar. She pressed against them. She felt warm and happy. She caught a beautiful fragrance like the most costly pefume. A sound of singing, children laughing. She wanted to go through this wall of light but she couldn’t. She stared at it and became aware of faces within the spheres of light. Children’s faces, small, beautifully formed, hair framing silver cheeks, eyes like sapphires. Again she pressed but the heat became so intense she had to stand back.
    ‘Go no further!’ A voice spoke from this wall of gold. ‘Go no further till your appointed time!’
    Beatrice paused.
    ‘Or, if you wish,’ the voice came as a whisper, ‘if you really want to, come towards the light.’
    Beatrice