The Haunting of Gillespie House by Darcy Coates Page B

the wooden plank on top of me. I couldn’t even guess at what sort of force was necessary to do that to solid granite doors. Much more than was human, I suspected.
    I realised I’d never put the plank back in place. Was there a reason it was locked on each side? I’d assumed the wooden barricade was there to protect the mausoleum from vandals, but what if it was meant to protect the house from whatever was inside the crypt? I shivered, feeling sick. What should I do? Should I call someone? Who would possibly believe me?
    I took the stairs down and checked the kitchen clock. It was nearly midday. I’d been up almost all of the night, except for when I’d nodded off in Hanna’s room, and felt ghastly for it.
    As I turned on the kettle and prepared a simple lazy sandwich made from frozen bread, pickles, and cheese, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking of Genevieve. I wasn’t sure how I felt about her anymore. She’d been planning to kill her father. That should have made me hate her, but… all of my hatred was already directed at Jonathan Gillespie. If anything, I admired Genevieve for what she’d done… whether she’d succeeded or not.
    I desperately wanted her to have won. As I ate my sandwich, I realised there was something I could do to find out the answer: sleep. The last three times I’d closed my eyes, I’d seen a slice of Genevieve’s story, and I had the feeling the same would happen next time I lay down for a nap, too.
    The couch looked very appealing at that moment; I felt wrung dry from tiredness, but at the same time, I wasn’t prepared to fall back into Jonathan Gillespie’s world. I was terrified of what I might see if Genevieve had failed.
    Instead of sleeping, I took my time washing the plate then climbed the stairs and took a shower.
    The bruises looked worse, if anything, but they felt a little less tender. I dressed then stood in the middle of the hallway, scanning the rooms, trying to think of a job that would keep me awake.
    Almost without deciding to, I found myself climbing the stairs to the third floor. It had been dim the last time I’d been up there, thanks to the lack of electric lighting, but now, with the storm blocking out almost all natural light, it was nearly impossible to see. I moved slowly and carefully as I walked through the rooms and reverently brushed my hands over the covered furniture.
    This furniture hadn’t existed during my dreams, I realised. The Gillespie house in Jonathan’s time had been furnished spartanly, with neat but uncomfortable wooden chairs and basic tables. The ornate furniture and crystal glassware must have come later.
    The paintings at the back of the room attracted my attention. I pulled off their cloth and began flipping through them again, admiring the scenery paintings, but paying especially careful attention to the portraits.
    If I wasn’t mistaken—and I was certain I wasn’t—the subjects were descendants of the Gillespie line. I saw a few heavy-lidded eyes, pale skin, and a lot of dark hair. They looked healthy, at least, and I felt relieved for it.
    I pushed the paintings back into place as my mind went to the little cemetery at the back of the property. Every gravestone had been placed there in the same year.
    What does that mean?
    I clambered down the two flights of stairs and out the front door. It was still drizzling. I took a deep breath, jumped down the porch’s steps, and jogged around the side of the house. I couldn’t stop myself from glancing up at the bay window as I passed. The curtains really looked grey from the outside, but that was probably thanks to the poor lighting. At least they were still.
    I kept up the pace as I ran past the dilapidated shed, the dead vegetable gardens where Hanna had probably nurtured the now-dead tomato plants , and towards the thicket of trees beyond.
    Mud had splashed up to my knees and my clothes were drenched by the time I pushed the high iron gate open and walked into the cemetery. The