Castle of Sighs Read online

  With haste, I grab bunches of fresh Angelica clippings and bundle them tightly with twine. “I bind these herbs to protect us and keep us safe.” Over and over I repeat the phrase, allowing the tight ball of fear in my heart to channel into a spell of protection. I wrap the stems until the twine runs out.

  Despite the hour, my feet are swift, carrying me through the dark and up to the nursery where I lay the herbs by the children’s beds. I safeguard the windows and then mutter prayers of protection as I walk in a tight circle around their sleeping forms, envisioning a white, pure light. “Sacred Mother, may your protective embrace guard them.” Then I rest my head against the side of Margret’s crib, thankful that her coughs have subsided, and the three of us sleep until the sun chases away the darkness and a new day begins.

  A soft finger strokes my cheek and I open my eyes. Niclaus sits across from me with an odd, amused light in his eyes. When I sit up he giggles, and I touch my hair, feeling the chaos that is there.

  “I’m hungry.” His tiny stomach rumbles.

  “Well then, we should fix that.” I am relieved he does not appear to remember the events of last night, at least not yet, and I take him by the hand to fetch Margret. He does not ask about the Angelica bundle, but simply takes it in stride that I have a fondness for pretty flowers and have decorated the nursery with them.

  The day proves to be bright, and with the wind now settled to a tolerable breeze, I open the small window and let it cleanse the room. Margret appears stronger and she and Niclaus have begun a game of stacking cards into flimsy houses on the floor.

  “Like this, Margret.” He places the edges of two cards between the floorboards then leans them toward one another to make miniature tents.

  “I think her hands are too small for such a task.”

  “She’ll get it,” he replies and I smile at his patience with her. “Are we exploring again today?”

  “Perhaps.” The idea of another excursion sends cold down my back. Even though the birds sing and the sun shines, we could still stumble upon something just as macabre as a few finger bones the second time out. My imagination warns that other things may lie beneath the blanket of white on the lawn, and I dread the day the snow melts away, exposing other horrors for us to find.

  The children bring their game down to the kitchen, and I build up the fire that has shrunk to only a few red coals. I then sweep the floor, brushing the Angelica leaves that have broken from the bundle through the door and into the open, where they take flight in a sudden burst of air.

  “She’s watching,” Niclaus whispers, but he does not look up from the cards he continues to stack with Margret.

  My eyes scan the woods that, as far as I can see, appear quiet. Not a single thing looks out of place. There is no movement among the trees. The bellermines have not been replaced. Nothing at all lends inclination that someone watches from afar—except Niclaus’s peculiar words.

  “There’s no one.” I shut the door, encasing the room in dim shadow. I rest the broom against the door and turn to tell Niclaus he has no reason to be scared. The three of us fall silent. The broom wobbles and shakes as if it is bewitched and then falls to the floor with a clatter. I reach for the latch.

  “No!” Niclaus jumps to his feet and rushes to my side, but his legs are not quick enough to stop me.

  Only crisp winter air fills the doorframe, and I close the door.

  “She wants to know if you’ve found it yet.”

  My brows knit together, pinching the skin of my forehead. “Found what?”

  He says nothing more but slips his small hand into mine, then, bending to my knees, I look into his sweet face. “Niclaus, do you see someone out there?”

  After a glance at the door and then back at me, he gives an apprehensive nod. I’ve witnessed my fair share of mischief, of village boys who’d taunted me with hurtling pebbles and cruel words that to this day still sting. But Niclaus is so terribly young I doubt very much he’d have the mind to play such games with me. My pulse beats like tiny bird wings. Despite my attempts at protecting Pyrmont, and us, I fear there is a force that conspires to drive fear into our hearts. One that has not only made itself known to me, but now to him as well.

  I need a few breaths to summon courage to open the door. Niclaus’s eyes widen. Without another word I step outside. The bitter morning bites into my skin with knife-like teeth. I search the white landscape, noting how my footsteps from last night are nothing more than long streaks across the ground, filled in with blowing drifts. White is all around me, and my eyes sting and water from the harshness of it.

  I slip on my boots, gather my skirt, and nearly skate across the wintered lawn. Niclaus watches through the window as I continue my search, and then he taps on the glass. I follow the direction he points, my arms prickling as I make long strides toward it, my mobility bogged down by the weight of my skirts. Yards ahead, the ground lies disturbed. Fresh brown earth speckles a newly-made mound of snow. It is the very spot I had uncovered last night, but while I had left the bone in place, today it is nothing but a patch of empty dirt. I step back, my heart hammering away.

  The bone is gone.

  A snap of twigs from the dense wall of green interrupts my thoughts and I pick my way toward the thorny brambles. My skirt catches on a burr bush. Niclaus still watches me from the window. Do I dare leave him all alone? My heart tears in half at what I must do, but I must put a stop to our fears.

  I feel him watching as my arms and legs wiggle their way into the nightmare forest, certain he must picture the story Laurentz told him of the hedge and then…I am stuck. The roots have entangled themselves about my ankles so fiercely that I have no choice but to wriggle myself back out. For extra measure I listen longer than necessary at the edge of the woods. When there is only silence, I return to the children and lock the door behind me.

  “It was nothing but a wild goose chase.” The lilt in my voice does not match the cold knot that fills me. Niclaus peers through the shutters at the window as if certain someone is still there.

  “What is it? Tell me.”

  Moment after moment passes until I am certain he will not say a single word, and then, the little boy breaks his silence. “You can never go back, Rune.”

  A part of me that knows what he’s about to tell me, but I hold still and wait for his words.

  “She says the forest is no longer safe, that the tales are true.”

  I close the shutter so that he looks at me and not the lawn outside.

  “The old woman says that something waits for you in the forest. Something evil.”

  Lächerlich. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “No, Rune.” He tightens his hand around mine. “I saw it. Last night.” He leans forward and dips his hand into the depths of my apron pocket, handing the skeleton key to me. “She says this will help.”

  I roll the key over in my hand, its thin metal cool against my skin. “If only I knew what this is meant to unlock.”

  “But you do, Rune. She said you’ve been avoiding it. She said she hung the bottles at the forest’s edge to make sure you stay here long enough to find it.”

  I’ve only known bellermines to ward off evil—to keep all that lurks within the Black Forest at bay, to protect Pyrmont. How can it be that Niclaus knows hanging the bottles would not only keep evil out, but it would keep the witch in?

  Niclaus leans closer and whispers. “She told me what you are.”

  I stare at him, my mouth agape. “What—what did she tell you?”

  “It’s all right, Rune. The old woman told me I have nothing to fear of you. She told me you will keep me safe—she told me you’re a witch.”

  Chapter 12

  I’ve settled the children in the nursery with toys and a warm, bright fire in the hearth to keep Pyrmont’s shadows at bay. The doors and windows are marked with my sigils and runes to keep them safe, and there is a sprig of lavender bound in a snip of blue thread tucked safely beneath each child’s pillow—an encha
ntment to help them sleep. I close the door behind me, stuffing Basil and Angelica leaves beneath the seam for extra protection. Downstairs echoes with deafening quiet and my blood knows where I must begin. The old door in the wall calls me, yearning for my fingers to slide back the metal latch and pull. It snags against the warped wooden frame at first before allowing the door to creak open with a musty gust that fills the kitchen with its stench. Before my nerves press me to reconsider, I step onto the dank little staircase and close the door behind me.

  Darkness threatens to swallow the glow of the lantern I’ve brought with me. The stairs drop me down to a narrow corridor lined with rough stone. There are no braziers here to lead my way, yet my feet follow the corridor to the end, an ever-building determination driving me onward. I feel the passage’s bends and curves before I even reach them. The way calls to me as if the path I walk has been mine all along. Familiar. Waiting.

  On and on I walk deeper into the dark. My mind begs to make sense of these events—the strange key, the bones, Matilde—and the ever-present feeling that something foreboding lies in wait.

  To my knowledge, Matilde was not a witch—not like my mother, not like me. She was a simple peasant woman, a fortune-reader who had raised me in promise to my mother to keep me safe, as I will do for Niclaus and Margret. Then why does my skin chill when I try to mentally sew the pieces of this puzzle together? Perhaps it is because the day has dissolved and the castle speaks to me. I’ve come to learn that Pyrmont is more than old stones and memories having once belonged to my parents and my ancestors. It has seen dark days. It has seen magick. And as I follow this passageway, I believe I know where its secrets lie.

  The air grows thin, as if I am high above the castle rather than below it. I pause and reconsider my trek, trying to gauge how long it’s taken me to reach where I am. Surely I would have arrived at the end by now. Any secrets and hauntings that exist here are more welcome than I am. I am the intruder. I have not passed a single door since leaving the kitchen, just endless, damp stones the further my feet take me. And just as I am about to give up on my adventure and return to the comforting rooms above, an ominous chill washes over my skin. It strikes so quickly that my breath hitches in my throat. A draft comes from my left, and I turn into it. It flows toward me like a wave, a massive, soulful sigh erupting within the darkness to envelop all of me and the little space I stand in.

  The draft morphs into a sinister breath.

  I try to back away from it, but like the whispers of my past, it is all too familiar as it creeps across my skin, caressing my arms, my hair. My lantern sputters. Then, as if blowing a brief second-sight to my fear, shadows and edges become clearer. I can see the definition of the stones in the wall before me, the crude mortar holding this tunnel together. A splintering noise comes from the floor, sending me against the wall. With a rush of old air and gloom, the ground splits and what greets me is a tight, circular staircase that waits like a gaping mouth.

  Everything falls silent. My lantern’s flame stops cowering near the wick and then stands up. With caution I push my senses out behind me, following the passage back the way I came…feeling, to my relief, that the children remain safe and quiet. I creep toward the hole and feel with the tip of my shoe where the first step forms. My fingers grasp for purchase at the rim of the opening and my hands discover grooves hidden within the wall around me, large enough for my fingers to slip into for support. And then, I begin to follow the circling stone steps into a pool of darkness.

  It is a sensation of being swallowed whole as I disappear into the ground. The air is musty and heady, rushing up toward me as if the entire underworld expels a grateful sigh, feeding at long last a dormant, hungry beast. My lantern casts only a tiny island of light. The bottoms of my slippers tap each step as I count my way down in soft, mindful whispers—thirteen steps in all. My hands reach out for anything that might tell me where I am. I stumble forward, feeling the gritty, dirt floor beneath my feet. Something small scurries past my shoes and I halt, my heart in my throat as the realization that I am, for the most part, buried deep beneath the castle, alone.

  So great is the darkness, I feel my plight is nothing more than a hopeless venture. Just as I turn to climb back to reality my shoulder brushes against something solid. I bring the lantern close and rejoice at the small squares of metal attached along a seam. At long last, I have found a door. I work at the latch but the years of damp must have rusted it shut, and my heart plummets that after all this I’ve met nothing more than a dead end. Then, I remember the key and reach into the folds of my dress for it. I insert it into the old iron lock, fumbling a bit to keep the lantern steady. With a rough twist, I ease the key past the years of rust and grime.

  I am rewarded with a hefty click as the iron mechanism gives way. The latch slides and, after years of abandoned desolation, the door swings open. The air, although musty and old, stirs and pulses as I step through the door frame and into the chamber.

  It is a world isolated from above, submerged in absolute silence. The strangest feeling washes over me as I take in all that has been left here. It is so much more than a hidden room filled with bottles and long-discarded herbs bundled in baskets. Iron cauldrons line rickety wooden shelves. Tomes and vials lie about, as if someone had absentmindedly set them aside to attend something else.

  Slowly, I enter the room, my eyes feasting upon its contents, and just then, it is as if a bolt of lightning surges within my blood, awakening something I have no name for. Spell scrolls unfurl before me in offering. Spider’s webs cling to the rafters, dancing in spirited welcome. A deep sigh comes from every direction, as if set free after all these years. My feet take a cautious step back. Matilde’s cottage was never as obvious as what this room represents. This magical lair, this witch room… it unnerves me. For so long my life has been about secrets, about hiding who I am, who I come from. Yet this space shouts the truth.

  My fingers trace along coatings of dust and gloom. They tingle as if touching something I should know. Across a large high table in the very center of the room are signs of a witch’s last work, tucked away all these years. This is where the secrets are buried. Locked away, forgotten over time—like me. For this is where I belong, is it not? Am I not Pyrmont’s greatest secret—the one hidden away so carefully in plain sight? I am the one the haunted forest concealed for sixteen years, hidden beneath the cloak of fear only dark tales could bring. An unexplainable understanding slowly seeps into my bones as my fingers slide over the past and a musty breeze escapes through the door I’d left open.

  This place once belonged to my mother, but it is mine now.

  Chapter 13

  Let the path carved by your mother lead you. She embraced the darkness once, and now it is your turn to open yourself to the gift she meant to bestow to you. You are the darkness’s legacy. You will guide the way. Let not the fear of others slow your steps, for you must find me to complete the task. By the light of the next full moon all that I am shall be yours, and you and I shall inherit the earth.

  Chapter 14

  This room has bewitched me. I lift my head from the dusty book beneath my cheek and am filled with the sense that time has escaped me somehow. I do not remember falling asleep here, and I rise to my feet, my thoughts steering to the children, who are alone many floors above me. Waking here has spirited away the luster the room possessed last night; now, it is nothing but an old, decayed dungeon. Layers of dust and filth blanket the room and with fresh eyes I see the magnitude of neglect. Books are strewn upon the floor, their leather bindings cracked over the precious pages. Mice scurry in the corners. Decayed herbs have withered and crumbled on the floor.

  It is rather dismal, yet the room’s contents continue to intrigue me, flooding me with memories of all I’d wanted to learn from Matilde. I’d begged her to teach me how to read fortunes, how to heal and learn simple magick, and while she did allow me to train, some lessons were kept secret. Now I know why. I had no idea true magick existed, nor did
I realize how much evil surrounded us. Life was simpler then.

  I examine the room again. Had the large table in the center of the room been used as an altar? What did my mother conjure here? I’d like to think she practiced a simple Craft, as Matilde once did, but I know better than that. My mother’s blood coursed with a special sort of magick, one I don’t imagine was always in favor with the Sacred Mother.

  Around me are items I’ve never before laid my eyes upon—chalices and charts that may have belonged to my father’s brother, the bishop. A great brass scale balances two plates. A human skull marked with symbols, like my rune stones, rests upon a pile of crumpled scrolls. I leaf through parchments left scattered. They contain endless notes and sketches—circles and lines—of references to the universe and metals I’ve never heard of. My fingers glide over volumes that tell of strange abilities and beliefs, of transforming simple substances into wealth.

  It appears this room was as much the bishop’s as it was my mother’s. At a glance I cannot discern the difference between what I know to be magick and what he called alchemy, and yet he condemned women for ungodly reasons. Stones and crystals hang from braided chains and twine above my head. They remind me of the witch bottles outside in the trees and my thoughts turn to Matilde—of her lock of hair in the bellermine. Why would she have given Niclaus the key? I spin on my heel and look around. Is there something here she wishes me to find?

  A warped wooden cabinet catches my attention. I open it, revealing jars that contain the most horrifying ingredients. A top row holds a selection of grisly vermin within jars of thick, yellow liquid. One holds small black beads but upon further examination I discover they are small eyes and nearly drop the jar to the floor. An entire section is devoted to the storage of poisonous herbs. I read the faded labels to myself, most of which seem to be alphabetically arranged in Schriftdeutsch, but my eye catches a curious slanted printing in Latin on several bottles I do not dare inspect closer. “Black Hellebore—for summoning demons. Belladonna, Brimstone, Black Henbane.” I hold a jar near the lantern. The yellow and purple flowers within are pretty but a small scroll affixed to the jar reads, “To divine the future and raise the dead. Beware of skin blistering and demons.”