Chapter VII: Curiosity Killed the Cat

NOTE!!!!! This is the SEVENTH part of a book I am Writing!!!

      The night was a stormy one; the wind howled and tore through the trees while lightning occasionally split the heavens.  No creature in its right mind should have been awake that night.

      In the suburban town of Bloodstön stands a mansion, Dravinov Manor to be specific; tall and intimidating; black against an even blacker sky.  It stands five stories high and sports only three windows, one on the first, third, and fifth floors.  Behind the third story window, a faint, flickering glow moves slowly upwards.  Someone, or something, was up and about.

      The glow belongs to a lantern carried by a young woman.  Christine Baskerville, Christie to her friends, creeps silently up the stairs to the attic, where her adoptive father, Dravinov himself, had forbidden her to go.  If she only realised what kind of horrors lay in that room, she would have still gone up there, curious as she is.

      I should probably describe Miss Baskerville for you now.  She is no looker, no standout beauty; but she was pretty.  A tiny girl who stands at a mere five-two in heels and weighs in at ninety-eight pounds soaking wet, she is of average build.  Although confident and smart, she, sadly, has little-to-no common sense.  Her black hair was cut at the shoulders and dark as a raven’s feather.

      Upon reaching the door at the top of the twisting staircase, she looks around, listening for any sign that her ‘father’ had heard her come up as she had inched her way past his bedroom on the fourth floor.  After about a minute, when she is positive that he had not been awakened, she opens the heavy, mahogany door and slips into the room.

      What she sees upon walking into the room leaves her in awe; twin, shining suits of armor stand behind a large, solid oak desk, facing a huge picture window that overlooks the town below.  Both of the futuristic bodyguards are standing at attention, as if saluting the royal family.  Each wields a large double-bladed battle-ax, firmly clamped in their left gauntlets.  They both appear to be authentic and shine as if they had been crafted just the day before.  Other medieval weaponry is displayed proudly upon each wall; swords, halberds, maces and flails, daggers, and some that she did not even recognize.

      Closing the door behind her, Christine places the oversized lantern on the desk and moves to stand between the two regal suits of armor.  From there she stares out at the rooftops of the town and sighs, watching as rain begins to pour down from the sky and soak the grounds below.  She feels chilled and reaches up to close the window, but draws it back in a mixture of surprise and fear when her hand meets rain instead of glass.  Her hand knocks against one of the robotic figures beside her, making it rattle.  Wincing, she brings her hand to her chest and freezes, thankful that karma had pointed in her favor, for at that very moment, thunder shook the house, masking the echo of the steel shell.  It is now that she notices warmth on the back of her rain-splattered hand; she had cut herself on the blade of the ax and did not even feel it.  Apparently, ‘daddy-dearest’ enjoys having sharp objects in his study.

      Thunder booms overhead again, closer this time, and shakes both the study and her teeth.  Christine decides to leave, but upon facing the lantern, she sees that the door she had shut only minutes before now stands wide open.  Scared that Dravinov would discover her in the only forbidden room in the house, she inches her way to the front of the suit of armor to her right, her back to the wind and rain and presses her cheek against the shining steel chest-plate.  Holding her breath, she closed her eyes.  The scene could be romantic if she was not standing a little more than a foot away from falling to her death.

      She cringes as she realises, too late, that she has left the lantern sitting on the desk.  Not daring to risk being caught, she stays still.  She only stands there gripping the knight for ten seconds when she realises that she may just be imagining things; that she is probably the only person up here.  Relieved, she lets her breath out and starts to edge out from behind her metal shield.

      She moves barely three inches when the door slams shut and she hears footsteps shuffling towards her hiding place.  Knowing that her guardian was asleep, she began to panic.  Was it possible that he had heard her come upstairs and just decided to follow her and scare her?  Was it not Dravinov?  Was someone else in the attic with her?

      Terrified and worried by her own thoughts, she backs up a step, having completely forgotten about the forty-foot drop only inches behind her.  The footsteps halted and she heard the light she had brought with her shatter on the floor.  Now immersed in almost total darkness, Christine shuffled backwards and prayed for the intruder to leave.  She prayed for forgiveness.  For the first time in her short life, she prayed to her Creator.

      Thunder boomed from directly above the mansion and poor Christine, scared and blinded by the lightning’s flash reflected off the soldier’s breastplate, lost her footing and slipped on the wet sill of the glass-less picture window.  Her arms flailed wildly, grabbing for anything, catching only air.  She plummeted, screaming like a banshee and tears flowing down her face.  She was going to die when she hit the ground below, and there was absolutely nothing she could do to postpone it.

      Not two seconds later, though it seemed like an eternity to the young woman falling towards her doom, Christine felt something round and hard slam into the small of her back, breaking her spine and cutting off all feeling from the waist down.  She screamed in pure agony for a split-second longer when something else crushed her neck, simultaneously and abruptly severing her screams and all feelings of pain.  Unable to do anything else but look up at her savior, our quadriplegic friend searched hard for the person’s face.  She tried to pull back in horror when she realised that the figure carrying her had neither a face, nor a head.  It was just a granite and marble statue in the form of an angel with its arms outspread.  What made it even worse is that there was a stump where its head should be.

      Even though she knew no one could hear her, Christine tried desperately to scream for help.  Unable to breathe, she could only watch as one of the suits of armor fell from the ‘picture’ window and accelerated towards her in slow motion.  When it landed on her legs, they were pulverized and she was glad she could not feel the pain, but she also realised she had been chosen to suffer a fate worse than death; to watch herself die.  She only cringed as she watched the axe the sentry still held with a death-grip bite into her frame just above the hips, nearly cleaving her in two.  She heard the sickly sounds of something wet slapping the ground below her.

      She watched as her life flashed before her eyes, and her vision began to fade around the edges.  Meanwhile, the second suit of armor had begun its descent from the window as well, picking up speed as it dropped down towards its dying victim.  Its blade flashed and Christine saw her face in the weapon’s business end just as its carrier landed on, and crushed, her torso.  Her heart burst, but she still had enough oxygen left in her brain to distinguish the razor-sharp edge of the ancient tool as it cut through her thin neck as if it were a stick of butter… then she saw nothing.  The headless angel was splattered with blood, gore and other bodily fluids, holding the broken, bloodless, headless mass of what had, only seconds before, been a curious girl who had no intention to die that night.

      Christine Baskerville’s death was labeled as “accidental.”  She was born on May 15, 1872; she died on May 14, 1890, just a few short minutes before her eighteenth birthday.  Her funeral was held the following night; there was no wake and, supposedly, the authorities never found all of her.  According to the coroner’s report, the corpse, (or what was left of it), was deemed completely unrecognizable except for a gold necklace which Dravinov positively identified as a trinket he had given her for her seventeenth birthday.

      Legend has it that young Christine Baskerville’s spirit has been haunting the grounds of the estate ever since, hopelessly lost as she searches for someone who might help her avenge her premature death.  No doubt, she does not realise that whoever viciously murdered her is probably long dead by now, and that it is time for her soul to move on and rest in peace, or pieces if you enjoy that sick form of humor.  There are also many rumors as to whom her killer could have been.  Many speculate that she had just slipped and that the rest is just a story meant to scare curious young women.  Others believe that she did not really die, while some think the whole ‘Dravinov Incident’ is some huge myth.  Yet, there are some who think Dravinov, himself, murdered her.

      However, my dear follower, I do know what actually happened that night and I know what happened the next morning, too.  For I was there; I have been at the scene of the crime in each of these stories, yet, at the same time, I’m everywhere at once.  So let me tell you what happened the next morning.  Dravinov walked out onto the grounds about seven or eight hours later to go into town.  When he reached the bloodied angel, he tripped over something large and heavy.  Well, two 'somethings' to be more precise; he picked himself off the ground and, (like anyone would do), turned to see exactly what had tripped him.  What he saw made him faint dead away; the angel’s head was facing straight up to the heavens, and laying beside it, eyes closed peacefully and bloody stump of neck facing the house, was the head of his beloved adopted daughter Christine.

      She and the angel were pleading to the skies for God’s mercy, and each one had a single drop of blood trickling out of the empty eye sockets like a tear.

      …

      Eh, what was that?  Was she murdered?  Well, if you personally count me as a murderer then yes, she was murdered.  Unfortunately for you, and for me, I never actually planned this death.  Yes, I’m saying her death was an unfortunate accident!  A little bit like yours, to be more precise.

      …

      How could it be an accident?  What the Heaven might you be implying?  What the f**k do I look like, a motherfucking liar?!  I’m Death for the Hate of Abaddon!  I know who the f**k I plan to kill and who I do not!

      …

      Okay, I shall let your insolence slide… for now.  Now, you say you are interested in how Dravinov died?  Well, he actually died thirty years later of old age, peacefully, surrounded by his servants and pet dogs.  He was buried under the same stone angel that had killed his beloved adopted daughter all those years ago.  Why?  Because he did absolutely nothing wrong!  He was just a loving father!

      Please, let us continue with the list of victims.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I like the history and the story of the girl. The chapter allow the reader to learn about a character. I like how you added the angels into the chapter. A excellent chapter.
Coyote