I leave the door open behind me, just in case, and start my descent.
The wooden steps creak and groan as they release years of dormancy. Dust scatters into the air, fluttering about in the low rays of sunlight coming in through the small beveled-glass window. It cascades in sideways before the autumn night snuffs it out entirely.
With every creaking step, my heart slams against my chest, but I push myself forward anyway, forcing myself through the fear so I can come out on the other side. There are answers in here. There has to be.
Reaching the bottom of the rickety stairs, my feet hit the combination of stone and sand in what appears to be a small sub-basement room. I raise my phone, shining as much light around the space as the LED will allow, which isn’t much.
I curse myself for not bringing a proper flashlight.
The only sound in this tomb-like environment is my own shallow breathing, and I stop—deliberately taking a full inhalation to calm my nerves.
Following the space to the right, the sub-basement is fairly small—no larger than a twenty-by-twenty-square-foot room built out of stones and clay mortar. The air is musty, with a hint of something herbal lingering behind. There are no windows in the tiny room, but dim light still permeates the space from the stairwell, as well as from the two large pillar candles resting in the middle of a tiny table that looks like it’s meant for a little girl’s tea party.
The flames flicker ominously, making me both curious and apprehensive.
Narrowing my eyes, I don’t dare take another step closer.
Casting my gaze around the dimly lit space, I’m acutely aware candles don’t burn forever. So, somehow, someone was able to get down here before I got the door handle in place. I shine the light into all four corners of the room, under the stairs, and even under the table, but there is literally nothing else in here. No doors, no passageways, nothing except the one way in and out.
Was the shadow beneath the door real?
Shuddering away the trepidation rising up my spine, I take a step closer to the little table. It’s about the size of a small coffee table, and the large white candles reside on either end. In the center is a bundle of sage, lavender, and rosemary, a large pentacle, and a framed photograph…
Of me.
Snatching the frame from the table, I shine the light from my phone onto the photo and gawk at it.
The photo is weathered, like it’s been exposed to the air and elements for years, and based on the age I am in the photo, it very well could have been. I can’t be more than seven or eight years old. Basically, the same age I was the last time I was here in Windhaven.
Sitting on a small bench with an enormous willow tree behind me, my smile is broad and authentic, albeit slightly off.
There’s just one problem. I don’t recognize any of it. When was this photo even taken?
Rubbing my thumb across the dusty bottom of the frame, I kneel down next to the candles to get a better look.
Something isn't right. I’m wearing clothes I've never worn before and something about my smile doesn’t feel right. Like I was sleepy that day, or maybe had a cold.
Shuddering away the completely new level of the creeps, I swallow hard.
I really shouldn't be down here alone…
“Yes, you should…” a voice echoes off the stone walls, answering the thought in my head.
Stumbling backward, I toss the photo onto the table. It clatters loudly as the corner catches the tabletop, cracking the glass upon impact.
I spin around, searching for the source of the voice, but the goose bumps flashing across my skin already tell me I'm not dealing with someone corporeal. Standing beside the base of the stairs, Abigail takes form as if manifesting herself from the dusty floor. Her green eyes are piercing, as they stare right through me.
“The truth shall set you free,” Abigail’s voice beckons.
Filling my lungs with as much air as possible, I watch her as she moves to the center of the room. Suddenly, the flames from the candles on the small table expand outward, and the entire lower level is filled with the warm glow of flames flickering.
The table in the center of the room disappears and in its place is a large pentacle drawn on the dirt floor with…white sand? Salt? From here, I’m not sure which. Along the outer edge of the circle are large platforms, perhaps repurposed tree trunks, each with a mixture of candles in varying sizes and shapes.
Outside the circle, Abigail is dressed slightly differently, her gown is no longer white, but instead covered in a dark royal-blue floral pattern. She hovers over a lump of fabric, bound in the shape of a small human body, in the corner of the room, just beneath the stairs. Standing beside it is a young girl no more than thirteen or fourteen.
“I could only muster but a bit of salt, darling,” Warren’s words ring out across time and space as he enters the space from the stairwell.
He passes her a large bowl, and she nods at him.
“This will do,” she announces. “Thank you, my love.”
Taking the salt to the pentacle, she begins to walk around the circumference in a counterclockwise motion. She pinches the salt between her fingers, muttering something under her breath as she adds it to the outer circle. Warren stands to the side, watching her intensely. His eyes take in all that she does, as if calculating all of her movements.
When Abigail has walked the circle three times, she kneels down at her starting point and sets the bowl aside. Next, she removes a small vial from her waist and pops open the small cork. Her words continue in fervent fashion, but from here I still
