Curse of Tempest Gate Read online

  Hester sighed. “No one knows for sure what his purpose is. Some claim he comes alive and chases them and others claim he’s trying to save them from the evil lurking on the grounds. I tend to believe the latter.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s my theory that Michael was the better man, the man Mary truly loved. She stepped in front of him to save him.”

  Clarity pursed her lips together. “Then Mary should have said so. Maybe then Samael wouldn’t have called Michael out. He would have known he lost.”

  “Yes, it would seem it should be that simple. As we both know, life isn’t always so.”

  “Um, yes.” Clarity tapped the key card on the counter top and stood up straight. “Thank you for sharing the legend. It does put a different spin on what I’ve read about it.” She leaned down and picked up her suitcase and camera cases.

  Hester came around the counter to face her, worried lines creasing her brow. “If you plan on taking a stroll in the cemetery, remember to leave before the sun sets. Today’s Halloween.” As if that explained her warning.

  She wasn’t careless and hadn’t planned on roaming the cemetery in the dead of night. The place was nestled in a wooded area with no lights. She had no desire to be lost out there in the dark. She gave the receptionist a smile, grateful for her concern. “I’m not after ghosts, but if I was, I’d have no interest in them chasing me around the cemetery.”

  Satisfied with her answer, Hester gave her a nod and returned to her position behind the counter.

  Clarity headed for the stairs. It was carpeted with a paisley design of red and gold. Since there was no one to help her to her room, she made due, juggling her cameras and camcorder on one shoulder and gripped the suitcase with her free hand.

  Her room stood halfway down the corridor with only seven doors on each side. Her key card slid down easily. The little red light turned to green and she pushed the door open. The room was decorated in blue and brown. The wallpaper had thin stripes with the same colors to match. There was one queen size bed, centered on the far wall with a blue bedspread adorning it. On the opposite side of the room, there stood a nightstand and a dresser with a large mirror hanging on the wall behind it. The bathroom was to the right as she entered the room and a small closet was on the other side of the entryway.

  She threw her things down on the bed and glanced at her watch. “Two o’clock.” She had a couple of hours before the sun would set to take some daytime pictures of the graveyard. She opened her suitcase, pulled out her windbreaker, and slipped it on over her sweater. She already had her walking boots on and her well-worn jeans would be fine for her afternoon hike.

  With her digital camera in hand, she headed down the stairs again. As she neared the bottom she slowed her pace, noticing an old man standing there, staring up at her. His eyes were dark and his mouth sunk in as if he forgot to put in his dentures this morning.

  “Miss Shaw?” he asked, looking directly at her.

  Her right brow shot up and goose bumps rose on her forearm. She didn’t understand the reaction. The man seemed harmless enough. There wasn’t any reason for her to fear him and yet, a ping of caution erupted in her chest. “Yes?” She reached the bottom step, glancing toward the reception area. She noticed the sign stating the receptionist would be back in an hour. Great. They were alone in a virtually empty hotel.

  “I’m Mr. Donner,” he introduced himself. “We spoke on the phone a few months ago about the cemetery,” he added.

  Immediately relief flooded her senses. “Yes, of course. It’s nice to finally meet you.” Funny, she pictured a much younger man at the time. His voice had the same resonance to it, but there was a slight shake in the volume of his words. As if speech was difficult for any length of time.

  “I’m glad you were able to make the arrangements to visit.”

  She was too. This was her first assignment. She just started working at Unbelievable Finds. The home office was situated in Seattle. She knew the owners, Aubrey Jules and Loretta Sinclair, from college. Since the magazine was doing so well, they asked her to join the team.

  On one of Aubrey Jules’ assignments about a fairy magic box and soul mates, she ran into an old boyfriend. They rekindled their romance and now it looked like Aubrey was going to relocate to California to be with him. Aubrey would cover the west coast and she was hired to cover the east. The Internet made it easy to pass the information along to Loretta who was a genius when it came to editing. She also designed the cover art for the magazine, which turned out to be a selling point in their favor. She went with the eerie, which screamed: pick me up and find out what’s inside.

  “I was heading out to the cemetery right now,” she told Mr. Donner.

  His frown proved troublesome. “The sun will set in a few hours and tonight’s Halloween, the anniversary of the duel.”

  Yeah, she hadn’t forgotten what day it was, but for some reason she had a hunch she was missing something important. It was a good thing Mr. Donner decided to fill her in on the pagan beliefs of Samhain.

  “The veil between the otherworld is thin on Halloween and you don’t know what will cross over. The Tempest Gate Cemetery is no longer on consecrated ground. If you’re not prepared, it’s not safe to be on the grounds after dark.”

  She had to keep reminding herself there were people who truly believed in ghost stories and haunted places. They expected her to share their beliefs since she worked for a paranormal magazine. When she took this gig, she hadn’t thought acting was a requirement. She had to keep a straight face and not crack a smile while she pretended the boogieman was real and monsters lived in closets. “I’ll be fine, but I appreciate your concern.”

  He shook his head. “I thought I’d have more time,” he mumbled under his breath before his tired gaze met hers. “You look like the Peabodys.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Are you a witch, too?”

  She cleared her throat, thinking the conversation had taken a wrong turn somehow. “No. Remember, I told you that I worked for the paranormal magazine.”

  “I recall, but you’re a blood relative of the Peabodys’. You have the power to lift the curse.”

  She opened her mouth then shut it again and tried not to smile. “Listen, my interests here are purely curiosity about my family’s history and the chance to write an intriguing story for the magazine. I haven’t a clue how to break a curse.” She lifted her hands palms up in a shrug. “Really. I promise you I’m not a witch.”

  Mr. Donner seemed hard press to let this go. “You’re of her blood—the witch’s. The glamour is there. You must know how to break the curse.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly, trying to think of a nice way to end this conversation. Funny, over the phone, she hadn’t pictured Mr. Donner as a man who was a little touched in the head. Curses and witches—his serious expression proved he truly believed in them. She took a deep breath. “I’ll keep what you said in mind, but I should really head out now. You know, before the sun sets.”

  He moved aside and she walked past him. Even though she didn’t believe in ghosts, Mr. Donner’s parting words chilled her all the same.

  “You must leave before the fog rolls in. If you don’t, it will be too late.”

  Chapter Two

  The Tempest Gate Cemetery was set back from the highway within the forest. After Clarity let a stream of cars go by her, she crossed the two-lane highway at a jog. Her feet took the path that led to her destination. The cemetery dated back to the early eighteenth century. No one had been buried there since the fire of 1904. The authorities ruled the fire a freak of nature. Lightning had struck the caretaker’s home, setting it ablaze. Luckily, the heavens also saw fit to douse the fire out with a good soaking. It rained for three days straight.

  She came around the bend and there on higher ground the cemetery stood like a land forgotten by the human world. Trees surrounded it on all ends but didn’t intrude. In the wild, nature tended to take over, but not
here. It was if someone purposely cut back the forest, leaving the cemetery unmarred by time.

  A whisper of unease teased her senses and the wind blew her dark hair into her face. She swept her locks out of her eyes, tucking the wayward strands behind her ears. The silence was what spooked her the most. Once she stepped out of the forest and into the path of the cemetery, no sound of animals, birds or anything stirred as if they knew to stay clear of this place.

  The Tempest Gate Cemetery is no longer on consecrated ground. Mr. Donner’s words came back to taunt her.

  Really, it didn’t matter to her. “There’s nothing to fear. It’s just a cemetery. Dirt, grass, stones.” Bodies. “Turned to dust by now,” she quickly reminded herself, refusing to let her imagination rattle her. Scary movies didn’t even do that, but a few creepy words of advice from the Tempest Gate Hotel’s personnel and she was skittish. Go figure.

  The sun still shone bright enough. She would snap a few pictures and head back to the hotel. “No big deal.”

  Her feet stood rooted as she gazed at the cemetery entrance. A six-foot, spiked gate surrounded the cemetery and the entryway had a large sign over the arched entrance stating the name. The sign had faded, the lettering barely legible now.

  Large effigies of angels and crosses stood guard over the graves that were long forgotten. A few of the stone mausoleums and family tombs were in disrepair and some of the crosses were broken, but on the whole, it appeared in good condition considering the cemetery was no longer used. The caretaker’s house was to the right and inside the gates of the cemetery. Part of it was nothing but a burned out shell now, but she could tell it was once a decent home—two stories with a stone path leading to the front steps. The porch was still intact and so was the left side of the home. It surprised her that no one had torn the rest of it down.

  Her gaze took in the trees surrounding the cemetery. There was white pine mixed with hemlock and red oak. The leaves were gold, orange, and green in a colorful array against the blue sky peeking through. Pink lady’s slippers and starflowers covered the forest floor like a carpet, but in front of her the ground was barren.

  She couldn’t help but wonder how thick the forest had been in the early twentieth century and wondered how many trees were lost in the blaze that took out the caretaker’s home. Her gaze wavered over the cemetery grounds, which stretched as far as her eyes could see. It looked unscathed from the fire, the large gravestones unmarred as if an invisible barrier shielded it from destruction.

  She took out her camera and took a few pictures from where she stood. The sun filtered in, shining down on the cemetery like a beacon welcoming visitors. “Or as a warning to stay away,” she murmured under her breath.

  Her lips curved at her macabre sense of humor. “Yeah, right.” She trudged forward. The smell of damp earth and fall leaves hit her nostrils. The air felt cooler than it did near the hotel.

  She took the final steps that led to the gate and opened it. The hinges were rusted and it ground against the metal holding it in place. The sound didn’t echo, but it sounded thunderous in the quiet of the surrounding woods.

  As she strolled through the cemetery, she took in the different carvings on the sandstone markers, fascinated by the stories they told. Each etching conveyed a story of the person buried there and also about the love ones who had been left behind.

  Angels of grief depicted the sadness the family felt in losing them. The hourglass meant a swift life and a lamb represented an innocent, most likely a child, had died. A few of the headstones were etched with flowers, some in full bloom, meaning the person lived a full life, and the rosebud meant the person died young. The cross swords told her the person lost his life in battle.

  She snapped pictures, marveling how the headstones had fared over the centuries. A shadow crossed over her and she glanced up at the sky, noticing the dark clouds rolling in. She would have to head back soon. She didn’t want to be caught in the rain, but she couldn’t leave yet. She hadn’t located the devil’s chair or the archangel statue.

  She made a slow turn around, in hopes of spotting what she was looking for. She halted when her gaze landed on a large angel effigy. He stood maybe six and a half feet tall or more. She’d never seen something so magnificent, so life like. Drawn to it, her feet took the steps that separated her from the masterpiece.

  The sculptor depicted the angel with long hair, the ends almost reaching his shoulders. His attire looked similar to the leine the Irish wore in the sixteenth century, a thick sash going across his chest to the kilt-like garment he wore around his hips. His feet were covered by laced up shoes that reached mid-calf, but leaving plenty of his muscular legs exposed.

  Raising the camera, her finger pressed the silver button at the top and she snapped a succession of photos. She stepped forward and stood on the base of the statue. “So detailed.” Her hand slid down one side of his wing half expecting to feel the downy softness. In the angel’s hand, he gripped a magnificent sword. “You must be Michael. Like the archangel, you’re a warrior ready for battle.” Man, whoever carved this masterpiece knew his work. No wonder some of the eyewitnesses believed the statue came alive. It was like a man had truly been turned to stone. “Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil...” The prayer popped into her head. Her mother had taught it to her along with the many other prayers she recited as a child. She was also fond of the guardian angel prayer, but had favored the archangel prayer more. She felt safer having a warrior at her back.

  Stepping off the base, her gaze took in the intricate carvings that surrounded it. Ivy leaves were etched with perfection, only adding to the beauty of the piece. “Ivy, the symbol of immortality.” She bent down to have a closer look and noticed the writing peeking out just above the overgrown grass. She brushed it away and stared at the old script, her fingertips caressing the inlay. “Hmm, interesting.” She snapped a few pictures with plans to research what the words meant.

  Coming to her feet, she backed up to take a full-length picture of the angel, but she wasn’t looking where she was going and stumbled back, falling hard and banging her head on one of the stones. Her vision wavered and she blinked, which seemed to make it worse.

  “Great, Clarity, give yourself a concussion.” Opening her eyes wide, her vision blurred then focused. She turned and her gaze traveled over the stone structure she had the courtesy of banging her head on. “The devil’s chair,” she breathed.

  She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the pain to her right temple. “How in the world did I miss you?”

  She knew why and glanced over her shoulder at Michael. “Your legs are way too distracting,” she told the effigy before concentrating on her new find.

  The stone was etched with grooves to give the illusion that the chair was carved from pine. A fine chisel had chipped away at the stone, creating a cloth draped over the back of the chair and a seashell at the base. If she recalled correctly, the seashell represented rebirth or resurrection. The cloth perhaps was a curtain, the setting of a stage. The display could mean the main actor or the central object of the stone. “Or the person who sits upon the chair.” She raised her camera and snapped away.

  A low rumble had her glancing up at the sky where the cluster of menacing clouds hovered overhead. She had to head back for now. She could return tomorrow with her tripod and her camera suited for high quality photo shoots.

  Her gaze landed on the chair again, mesmerized by the detail. Like the angel statue, the sculptor had put a lot of thought into this piece.

  She chewed on her lower lip, debating if she should give the chair a try. “The stories surrounding the chair were meant to scare people,” she reminded herself, trying to forget Hester Higgins ominous warnings about the entity of Samael feeding off a person’s deeds. “Sordid deeds.” Her worse offense was taking extra cream home from the nearby coffee shop to use later at home. She couldn’t imagine Samael getting high off of that. Besid
es, the legend of the chair was probably invented to scare away vandals.

  With a shrug of her shoulders, she plopped down in the chair, facing the Archangel Michael, who appeared to be eyeing her with disdain. “Don’t look at me that way. I had to sit here. I work for a magazine—and I’m talking to a statue.” She shook her head. It must have been the knock to her head. It made her loopy. She lifted her camera, facing the lens toward her. At arm’s length, she snapped a self-portrait of herself sitting in the chair. She looked at the picture on her screen, thinking it looked okay, but something in the corner of the photo caught her attention.

  The clouds shifted overhead and the photo became shadowed. She had to magnify the picture, bringing the image closer to the screen. Her heart beat faster in her chest. A shadow in the shape of a man stood behind her off to the left of where she sat. She whipped around in her seat, half expecting to see the figure looming over her, but there was nothing there.

  Her body relaxed and she sat back in the seat, studying the image once again. She might have dismissed the figure as a trick of the light if there hadn’t been two glowering red eyes staring back at her. “Now that’s creepy.”

  The shadows deepened overhead. With a frown, she glanced up at the storm clouds moving in fast from the other direction to join the ones hovering overhead. She had to go now. Her windbreaker wouldn’t repel a downpour and she’d end up drenched. She flew to her feet, but something whipped around her waist like a vice and yanked her back into the chair. She let out a gasp of surprise as she glanced down at the ivy wrapping around her, binding her as securely as ropes would. She struggled against the plant determined to keep her prisoner, but her fingers were useless against the vine’s strength.

  You’re sitting in the devil’s chair. The annoying voice in her head reminded her in a tone of how-stupid-can-you-get.