Chapter 3
Carlisle Castle
May landed flat on her back. For a frightening second she could neither breathe in, nor breathe out, but lay stunned, staring up at a sky which was unlike any she had ever seen. More of a ceiling than a sky; it was claustrophobically close and a murky grayish brown. A sudden spasmodic gasp brought her to sitting and set her to choking and coughing.
"Are you okay?" Sheila asked her.
"I'm fine," May said hoarsely, "just need a second." She coughed again, filled her lungs and exhaled. Her ears were humming as she got unsteadily to her feet and looked around.
Whatever ill wind that had brought them to this place was completely gone. Only an occasional screeching from the gate punctuated the extreme silence, though not even the lightest wind stirred it.
Down the gravel road, the gloomy stone face of Carlisle Castle watched them with black window eyes. At its back, was the sea, still and glassy. May shivered. Though the air wasn't really cold, it was unpleasantly clammy, and she zipped up her sweatshirt.
The lawn and gardens of the estate were overgrown and unkempt and were surrounded by sickly looking forest to both sides. A tall stone wall, which the gate was fixed to, encircled the property all the way to the ocean. Tumbled down and in disrepair, the wall was overcome in places by forest reclaiming land once cleared and left long untended.
She was surprised by a sudden, warm gust of air that knocked her back a pace and made the gate groan loudly.
Sheila pointed out over the bay to a bank of leaden clouds rolling in at an amazing speed. Directly below the clouds, whitecaps were forming instantly on the water.
"It looks like a storm's brewing," said Sheila.
Brewing? thought May, more like a storm was boiling itself into existence, and it was headed right for them! They were going to need shelter as soon as possible.
May was angry; she hadn't had any time to think. The improbability of the events they had just gone through, and now the need to keep moving, left her head muddled. She had no desire to go to the castle—and to whom or what they might find inside.
Sheila broke in on her thoughts. "Can we try to go back through the gate? We got here through it—maybe it's the way back home."
May was annoyed she hadn't thought of it herself. "Let's give it a shot but we had better do it fast. Come on."
Sheila got to her feet and grimaced.
"Oh, great! What did you hurt?" yelled May.
"My ankle. I think I just twisted it, that's all. And I didn't exactly plan it, May!"
She didn't need Sheila going all pouty on her right now. May attempted to sound more sympathetic. "That came out wrong, okay? Can you walk at all? We need to hurry."
Sheila made a few faltering steps.
"See? You just need to walk it off. You're doing great."
She went ahead of Sheila to the gate, which didn't even budge when she pushed it. Looking around, she saw that it was rusted ajar and the bottom corner was buried in years of sand, piled leaves and gravel. She backed up and gave the gate a violent kick with her foot; the rusted metal let out a nerve shattering squeal, but the gate only moved about an inch. She kicked the gate over and over again, swearing at it the whole time until she had made a large enough opening for them both to squeeze through. She waved Sheila forward, and they walked through the gate together.
Only nothing magical happened.
She looked down the gravel road which seemed to stretch on forever into the distance and bit her lip. "Okay, let's just stop and think. Our homes can't be more than five miles from here. Yours is probably closer—"
"Don't you remember, May? They boarded up the castle last summer because all the windows were smashed."
May turned around and saw the glittering black window eyes of Carlisle Castle staring back at her. Their homes weren't anywhere near where ever or whenever this was.
Sheila hobbled down the path. "Anyhow we can't make it far with my ankle like this. The storm is almost here. If we hurry, maybe we can make it before the downpour starts. Even if we can't get inside, it looks like there's a place by the front door where we can get out of the rain. Aren't you coming?"
May felt a few icy drops sting her face. She looked down at the gravel at her feet. Burnt out weeds and grass were sprung up amidst the stones as if the way was hardly ever traveled—maybe not ever—and that meant, hopefully, that there was no one inside the castle.
She caught up with Sheila on the path. "Cripe, is that as fast as you can walk?" she said then noticed that Sheila's face was white. May grabbed her friend's arm and put it over her own shoulder. "You should have said something."
"I thought I did."
By the time they reached the castle door, May's shoulder was on fire. The fact that Sheila was taller and about twenty-five pounds heavier wasn't helping matters, and May had to practically drag her friend up the last few steps of the stone stairway.
At the top, she leaned against the door with her chest heaving then backed up and banged loudly three times with her fist. Her hand flew to the old-fashioned handle mechanism, and she tried the lock.
Unexpectedly, May heard a loud click. She paused a moment, then pushed on the door. There was a brief flash of an inky black interior before the shifting wind caught the door and sent it creaking back on its hinges again, causing a cold burst of musty castle air to rush at her.
She stopped the door from shutting completely and gave it a shove just as she and Sheila entered. But May underestimated the height of the threshold. She caught her foot on the doorjamb; stumbled forward, pulling Sheila down with her; and they both ended up sprawled on the cold tiles of the entryway. Behind her, she heard the door slam shut in the wind.
May blew hair out of her eyes and saw that the foyer was no longer dark. From somewhere above her head, an oil lamp cast down its flickering rays. On the floor tiles directly in front of her face, she saw a large pair of black square-toed shoes.
They moved.
She sprang back instantly, scrambled to get her feet under her and felt Sheila at her back, attempting to do the same. Her eyes followed striped gray pant legs up to a white linen shirt and leather suspenders. The glare of the oil lamp in his hand prevented any view of the stranger's face, but she could see that the wrinkled white of the man's shirt was moving up and down rapidly. Whoever this was, he was breathing quickly and shallowly.
Well, at least he wasn't a ghost.
The light fluttered as the stranger pushed the lamp toward her, and she noticed that his hand was shaking.
No, he certainly wasn't a ghost—but he should have been—for she could now see clearly the distinctive face of Francis Everett Carlisle.
The painter was ghastly pale and looked as though he hadn't shaved in weeks. He had long, untrimmed sideburns and a mop of unruly dark hair. A heavy boned man with slouching broad shoulders, Carlisle was too thin for his already considerable height—a fact which made him appear that much taller than he already was.
But this optical illusion May would only discover later. Right then he looked unbelievably huge to her, and his shadow on the far wall, advancing and retreating in the inconsistent light, was more enormous still.
The lamplight flickered again as he brought the lamp down closer to her face.
"Why it's just a girl!" said Carlisle, smiling with surprise and relief.
May scowled.