Spookytober Snippet: Rachel's Revenge (1)

Rachel's Revenge (1)

Rachel wakes up in a different time, a different place. What has happened and what will 

she do now? A snippet for Spooktober.

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Cold, darkness, heat

Where am I

Hard wood beneath my palms, barely enough room to stretch out my arms

Where am I

A sliver of light above her, just the barest crack. Panic gave her strength and she reached for 

it. A finger’s width and nothing more. She pushed and pushed against the ceiling and felt it 

give way.

Push, push, push, that’s it, you’re doing fine

Tearing, shredding, a burst of crimson spreading beneath her

Head swimming with pain and effort, a rag shoved deep into her mouth to cut off her cries
 

The ceiling broke under the weight of fear and splintered into many pieces. She sat up in 

darkness, unable to see, completely disoriented. Her throat felt as dry as desert sand. “Hello?”

she whispered. “Who’s there?” She only heard her voice in her head. Silence crushed her like

 a velvet cloak. How long had it been? She shifted in place, almost expecting the pain, yet she 

was surprised when there was none. Did they take it away while she was asleep?

It cannot have been that long.

Light shone from under the door. She shivered at the cold. Perhaps the maidservant had let 

the fire die out. Yes, that had to be it. She tried to climb out of her side of the bed—This was

no ordinary bed. A small pillow, no blankets. Where was her mother’s quilt? Where was her 

duvet? Her blood chilled as she realized how far off the stone floor she was.

Stone floor? Her bare feet scraped against bare concrete as she carefully climbed down. Then 

her hand touched the wood of her sleeping platform. A box. A wooden box.

 

Not an ordinary box. A coffin, a box for the dead.

 

I am dead, I am dead, no, no no I was merely asleep

 

“Deus!” She cried out. “Lux, lux!”

 

At her command, the candle roared to life. A bright spark arced from that one to another, and 

another, and another. Four candles, one at each corner of the platform. A raised dais, above 

the floor, the cold marble floor. She stared in dull fascination at the broken wood of the 

casket, and the network of barbed wire around the platform. The twisted wire rose up from 

all four corners to form a barbaric canopy over her head. The sharp strands cocooned the 

broken coffin like a mother’s embrace.

 

I am dead I was dead but why am I here now? It makes no sense.

 

There was a carved stone in front of the platform. Just the dates of her birth and death, and 

her positions in life. Daughter, Wife, Mother. That is all?  Her short life summed up in one 

impersonal line. No mention of her curious spirit, or of her kind heart? Just the dates of her 

birth and death, and her positions in life.

 

She raised her hands in front of her face. The smooth white skin bore the scratches of her 

escape, but where there should have been blood, there was none. As she watched, those 

wounds slowly closed up, until they never were.

 

What in all that is holy….? She stared at the unmarred, perfect skin. What had she become?

 

A cold draft stirred the candles and the light shifted to reveal a shallow channel in the floor. 

Water flowed around the platform, a little moat around a wire-barricaded castle. That water…

there was something odd about it. Curiosity took hold of her, and she placed her hands upon 

the wire cage. With a vicious twist, she wrenched it apart, and it squealed like an inhuman 

thing. The sharp talons sliced deeply into her hands, dug deeply into her wrists. She 

expected large gouts of red blood, gushing with every beat of her heart, and spilling onto the 

floor. The marble remained dry. 

 

She simply walked through the opening she had made. The water seemed to crackle with a 

life all its own. She knelt at the edge of the platform and dipped a cautious hand into it. She 

recoiled as the sting of a hundred hornets assaulted her skin. She almost welcomed the pain. 

Her hand jerked out of the water with a massive splash. As she watched, the wounds on her

right hand closed with unnatural swiftness. The ones in her left—the hand that had been in 

the water—oozed with a viscous clear fluid.

 

Salt water. Salt water. They had surrounded her resting place with a stream of salt water. 

She felt that this was no ordinary stream, for a normal one should have dried up long ago. 

This smelled of…magick? Of enchantment? Was that possible?

 

Self-righteous rage rose again in her mind. How dare they? How dare they? 

 

Dry, she commanded. The water shivered, as if feeling genuine fear of her. Then it shuddered 

and raced away through any cracks in the floor. The very element ran away from her. It knew 

its enemy and wanted nothing to do with her.

 

Two. Protections come in threes.

 

She explored the tiny crypt that housed her undead remains. The walls, a meter thick of stone, 

the floor, inlaid marble and stone. They should have made the coffin out of stone as well. Her 

mother, her father, her family should be here, but hers was the only grave in the family tomb.

 

She turned towards the door. To her shock, it was inscribed with holy symbols. A limp sprig 

of white flowers, and the pungent smell of herbs wafted from the door. Obviously, they had 

spared no expense in sealing her tomb. She had never harmed them in life; were they afraid 

that she would murder them in death?

 

She smiled. There was the third protection. They were right, then, to be very afraid of her.

 

She ripped the flowers from its bundle on the door. Then she pressed her fingers into the 

nearly invisible crack between the doors. The sharp scent of a clean wind swept away the 

stink of frankincense and myrrh, and then she found herself on the other side .

 

Time had passed, how much time she had no idea.  The night sky sparkled with stars, and

the bare branches of the trees pointed up like tridents. She walked along the stone path 

for a few paces, then turned around to see where she’d been.

 

The mausoleum’s door read Cortliroy. Her name. At least they’d kept her name and not 

carved her husband’s instead. Ironic that the only item she truly owned was her tomb. She 

doubted he wanted to share it with her, but she had been the only one within the tomb. 

Maman, Papi, Great-Grandpapa Pierre—they were gone. Even their plaques, their headstones

had disappeared.  There was only one coffin. The realization sent a horrible thrill of fear 

through her heart.

 

Why? She felt a stab of anguish. They had been moved, re-interred, elsewhere. But where? 

Had their bodies been violated, desecrated? Where are they? I must find them. She must 

locate them. She must find their resting place.

 

She made her way farther up the path. Her quest to find her kin faded from her mind as she 

looked up at the main house. Her house, the one of her childhood. Maison Incroyable. The 

House of of the Incredible, the Impossible, the place where dreams came true. Pierre 

Cortliroy had named it in a fit of inspiration. Rachel found the title quite ironic, especially 

when her own dreams had never come to fruition. 

 

The manor house still stood, tall and majestic in the bright moonlight. The three floors 

adorned with balconies, and the ivy crept up the walls. The house stood silent on the hill. 

The only sounds were of the leaves falling softly from the trees in the front yard, a carpet of 

scarlet and orange, drifting softly in the air. A warm wind rustled the branches and sent 

another shower over her head. A rocking chair creaked on the main porch, next to a 

whitewashed swing of sturdy wood. The wind stirred the wind chimes above the main door 

and sweet music floated in the air.

It looked the same, at least the stone and mortar foundation, the tall marble columns at the 

entrance, Two spires flanked the house on either side, their pointed roofs stretched onto the 

sky. Round bay windows, railed balconies, glass doors, the wraparound porch that extended 

behind the house, the smooth floor for the veranda.

She trailed her hand on the familiar porch railing, even if she couldn’t actually feel the 

smoothness of the planks under her fingertips. The chestnut door now sported an inlay of 

blue and green stained glass. It lent a calm seaside vibe to the entrance.

Then she wandered into the house, familiar and not familiar at the same time.