Secrets & Souls - prequel to The Soul Guide
Chapter 9

Bertram sat in the library by the fire. It was well past sundown, the only light the flickering flames before him. Mellissa had been gone just a few hours, but he felt her absence as keenly as he did his heartache. He had been a fool to lie to her, but despite his confession, the damage was done and there was nothing he could do now to change that. He only had himself to blame for her leaving and even though she said that she’d be back, he hadn’t really believed it. He still didn’t.

If the truth be known Mellissa’s sense of adventure frightened him and it was almost a relief when she walked through the door. She had been refreshing at first. After a life lived in the company of just his grandfather who never went further than the local village, he had been in awe of Mellissa’s zest for life. She was a free spirit and so very different from who he was. She had barrelled into his life, full of fire and spunk and he had basked in the warmth of it. But he was who he was. He was like one of the old evergreen trees in the forest; she was the bird that flittered between them. They were poles apart. Why he ever thought that someone as special as her could love someone like him was beyond him. He was a fool.

Bertram poured himself another brandy and swallowed the shot in one mouthful. It had been a new bottle, but more than half was already gone, the alcohol only just beginning to soften the edges of his fraught emotions. He wanted oblivion, and he was determined to find it at the bottom of the bottle. Funny thing was, he hadn’t even bought the bottle of brandy. It had appeared in the larder one day, just like everything else had. He’d asked Mellissa whether she’d bought it, but she had laughed telling him she hadn’t left the manor since she’d arrived. It was another gift from Clayhill. Though he hadn’t understood why Clayhill saw fit to leave a bottle of brandy amongst the weekly shop.

He laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of it all. Before Mellissa appeared, he had to buy food and supplies just like anyone else. Since her arrival, the fridge and larder were always full. His wardrobe and chest of drawers had brand new clothes within them. He hadn’t bought a thing for months. Whenever he questioned Mellissa about it, she maintained it had nothing to do with her. Like all things, he took her word for it. Deciding, instead, to just appreciate what he’d got, however it had come to be.

He closed his eyes, allowing the fuzzy feeling to engulf him when he heard the distinct sound of a book crashing to the floor. He sat up and peered into the room trying to see where it had landed. There was nothing obvious nearby. Then he heard another book fall, the sound coming from somewhere near the back of the library. Bertram stood, a little unsteady on his feet, the effect of the alcohol more obvious now.

As he approached there was a persistent thud, thud, thud, as more books fell to the floor. Certain that a rat or squirrel had found its way into the library, and was causing havoc as it searched for food, Bertram staggered towards the sound. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the Find_Nøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Bugger it,” he said, as he knocked his shoulder against a bookshelf that, in his drunken haze, seemed to loom out at him. Now he was up and moving he was beginning to regret his decision to drink so much. If Mellissa had seen him in such a state, she wouldn’t have been too pleased. But he was only drinking like he was because she’d upped and left him. This was all her fault anyway.

“What the hell has been happening here?” Bertram said, his words slurring. He saw a dozen or more books on the floor and an empty shelf above. “Must have scared the rodent off,” he said out loud, and then laughed. “Now I’m talking to myself. No wonder Mellissa left me.”

Bertram bent down and started collecting the books. He felt his head swim, and he had to grab hold of the bookcase. “Steady on,” he muttered.

Slowly, he began placing the books on the shelf. As he ran his hand along the surface, he felt a dip in the wood. He stood on his tiptoes and there, cut into the shelf, was a keyhole.

He was too drunk to think it odd. Instead, he felt for the bunch of keys at his waist and unclipped them from the loop on his jeans. He half expected one to be glowing. None were. He laughed a little at the absurdity of the situation, but started flicking through the bunch anyway. He reasoned that none of the yale keys would fit the lock as they were the wrong shape. That only left the mortice keys, of which there were five. He methodically worked his way through until he got to the last key, the first four having not fit.

This key was heavier than the rest with a large, ornate bow, and a long slim blade. It was rusty and worn with age. He placed it into the lock and twisted. To his great surprise a puff of air ruffled his hair as a section of the bookshelf moved inwards leaving a slim gap. Bertram’s eye trailed around the edge of the gap, which was looking more like a door and less like a bookshelf. With his heart thudding in his chest, he pushed against it. It didn’t budge. He shoved again, but it wasn’t moving. Confused, and wondering what to do next, he stood back and surveyed the shelves. Then something caught his eye. About halfway along the shelf just above his head was a red leather-bound book. On its spine, the gold lettering was glowing, like a firefly at night. Without thinking about it, Bertram pulled the book towards him. He heard a click, and the newly revealed door swung inwards.

Bertram wrinkled his nose, the smell of damp making his eyes water. Undeterred, he placed his hands on the bookshelf either side of the gap and peered into the darkness. “Hello,” he said, not sure why he bothered really. It wasn’t as if there was anyone else living at the manor with him. Without allowing himself to think too much about what he was about to do, he pulled the key from the lock and stepped into the void.

He took a couple of shuffling steps forward, his hands held out in front of him. There was very little light coming from the library and it was so dark he couldn’t even see his hands in front of his face, but he kept moving forward. It was cooler in this part of the building, and he felt himself shiver despite the heavy woollen jumper he wore. By now, he had well and truly sobered up, the adrenaline pumping through his veins working better than a strong cup of coffee and a good night’s sleep ever could.

After a couple more steps his hands hit something cold and hard. He felt the rough surface of Cornish stone. He backed up against the wall for a moment wondering whether he should return to the library and grab a torch, but just as the thought occurred the door shut. “Crap,” he said. Trust him to get locked in some secret room just at the point when Mellissa had buggered off. If she ever did decide to return, he would probably be half starved to death if he hadn’t already died from dehydration. “Good one Bertram, what a perfect way to die,” he said. OK, so perhaps he was being a little over dramatic, but he couldn’t help himself.

Then, remembering he had his lighter in his back pocket he pulled it out and flicked it on. If he could just see where he was, maybe he could figure a way out. Bertram found that he was standing in a small anteroom, to his right was a stone staircase that twisted up and away from him. Ignoring the warning voice inside his head he decided that it wouldn’t hurt to see where the staircase led, and so he began to climb.

Up and up he went, losing count of how many steps there were after he hit five hundred. Knowing the manor as he did, he couldn’t understand how it was possible. There were four turrets to Clayhill and, given the location, he would have assumed he was in the eastern turret. But that made no logical sense, he knew every inch of Clayhill now. He’d climbed the eastern turret several times, and this wasn’t the same place at all.

Like everything else Bertram tried not to think about it too much. He knew that if he allowed himself to really consider all the strange happenings he would surely go mad. That’s if he wasn’t already.

So, he tucked those worrisome thoughts away and carried on climbing the stairs. He felt the effort of his climb in his thighs. It was just as well he was as young and fit, any older and he probably would’ve had heart failure by now.

Just when he thought he couldn’t go any further he stepped onto a small landing. In front of him was a pointed wooden door, its surface so like the trunk of one of the trees in the forest surrounding the manor.

Bertram couldn’t see any locks, and on closer inspection there were no hinges either. It looked old, like it had been there for thousands of years rather than hundreds, which couldn’t be possible. Clayhill was, indeed, an old building. He had tried to find out the history of the place but as no-one seemed to know it existed, that had proved impossible. All he had to go on was the carved stone plaque above the front door. It was dated 1830.

He placed his hand on the wood, feeling the dips and swirls as he ran his fingers over its surface. Bertram moved closer and pressed his ear against the door. For a moment, all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing. Then, he was sure he could hear someone whistling. He jerked his head back, uncertain if the sound was coming from beyond the door or from below. “Hello, anyone there?” Bertram called out. There was no response.

Stepping back to the door he placed his ear against it once again. The whistling was louder this time, it was such a beautiful melody.

Before long Bertram felt his eyelids become heavy, the effect of too much alcohol, an emotional day, and heartache causing him such bone-weary exhaustion. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, so he allowed his eyes to close.

A moment later he felt as though he were drifting in a boat at sea until a sharp scratch against the palm of his hand had him reeling back to reality. When he opened his eyes, he found that he was no longer pressed against the door, but standing in a long, white corridor, his palm dripping with blood.

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