“What’s the matter?” Dougal asks when she stops in front of the door.
She studies the thin wooden partition from top to bottom.
“Rach?”
The weirdly shaped object sticking out of the lock seems to call out to her. Not like the forest. Simply because it’s so out of place. The hair at the back of her neck stands at attention as she reaches out to touch it. She recoils, shudders for reasons she can’t explain, and looks to Dougal.
“Are you sure you want us to do this now?” she asks. “Because I have a really bad feeling about what’s waiting behind this door.”
Four
The Skeleton Key
Dougal pulls the strange object—long, pale, and gnarled, like a twisted twig—from the keyhole. Rachel is reminded of the ghost boy who’s said to walk these halls, leaving destruction in his wake, playing tricks on anyone who dares to enter the old school building. After all, if Fae are real, why can’t ghosts be?
“It’s a key,” Dougal says, frowning. “A key made from bone by the look of it.”
Her nose pulls up in disgust. “This is a bad idea.”
Dougal reaches to the doorknob, twists it and pushes the door open. The hinges don’t squeak or creak or whine, as if they’ve recently been oiled. It’s almost creepier this way. Almost. A gush of warm air hits them head-on, along with a cloying smell that churns her stomach.
He pulls his shirt over his mouth and nose. “It smells pure rancid down there.”
Rachel uses her sweater’s collar to clamp over her own mouth and nose, unable to respond lest she vomits up the nothingness in her stomach.
Dougal reaches inside the dark interior and pulls down on a rope. A lightbulb flickers on, swinging to and fro from the ceiling. Shadows elongate in the yellow light, dance in staccato against the boxy walls. A small landing with a staircase, leading down into the depths of the school, appears ominous in the half-light.
Rachel wants to beg Dougal not to let her go into the bowels of the school, but her pride keeps her silent.
“I bet ye there’s nothin’ to be scared of at the bottom of this staircase.” His words are muffled behind his shirt, but the unconvinced tone is clear.
Ignoring his fake bravado, afraid she’ll sound snide if she addresses it, she simply says, “Let’s just get this over with.”
Dougal carefully descends, the darkness swallowing him whole. She follows, although her footing is uncertain on the narrow concrete steps while her eyes adjust to the lighting. With her free hand, she searches for a bannister to keep herself steady. She finds the cool, thick metal railing, which feels awkward beneath her hand. It’s like no care was taken when the bannister was painted. Her breathing sounds loud in her own ears, panicked, but it’s the best she can do considering the smell.
This is the epitome of stupidity.
Dougal stops at the bottom of the stairs, his hand moving across the wall, as if he’s blindly searching for a light switch.
“I doubt there are any other—” Before Rachel can say more, phosphorus lights flicker on, a mechanical buzz resonating from the long, white bulbs lining the ceiling. She groans from the sudden brightness and blinks to clear her sight. “I stand corrected.”
She dares to take the sweater away from her mouth and nose, only to be assaulted by the smell of rot. Rachel gags. The disgusting odor coats her tongue, esophagus, and stomach lining. She rushes to the corner of the basement area and heaves, spilling mostly digestive juices onto the concrete floor. The undeniable stench of decay is everywhere, clinging to every part of the basement, to her clothes and hair. She retches again.
“All right?” Dougal asks, rubbing one palm across her back while he tries to keep her hair out of her face.
“No. This is the second time I’m throwing up in as many days.”
“Are ye up th’ duff?”
“Huh?”
“Are ye pregnant then?” he says without humor.
“No. For heaven’s sake, Dougal, what do you take me for?”
He shrugs. “Jist wonderin’.”
“Well, stop wondering about stupid things and start thinking about why it smells like something’s died down here,” Rachel says.
“Aye.”
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and slowly straightens to look around the basement area. Colorful pipes run the length of the space, ending now and then in large metallic containers. Dust and grit layers the floor, seemingly undisturbed for months—maybe years—until now. When her gaze falls on Dougal, he no longer wears the mask of annoyance. There’s concern in his expression, and an obvious hint of fear glimmering in his eyes.
“Are ye ready tae continue?” he asks.
Something crunches nearby, like a foot accidentally sliding across the filthy floor. They both look in the direction of the sound, searching for a nonexistent lurker. Ice runs through Rachel’s veins. She grabs Dougal’s arm and stares at the unidentifiable heap lying near the bottom of a metallic container.
“What?” he hisses.
Rachel points to the crumpled heap—Please let it be fabric.
Dougal’s gaze drifts over to the area. His frown becomes more pronounced as he places a hand on her shoulder. She can’t figure out if the gesture is to hold her back or if he wants to use her as a shield. At this point, anything’s possible. She drops her hand to her side and they slowly move together toward the metallic container, hesitant to find out what exactly they’re dealing with.
The closer they dare to move, the more intense the repugnant smell grows. A persistent buzzing becomes louder. Rachel swats a fat fly away from her face. The heap stirs slightly, making a sickly, squelching sound, disturbing the swarm of insects ever so slightly.
She and Dougal halt and wait for any other sudden movements. When nothing
