The Wicked Day by Christopher Bunn Page A

standing on his toes, he was able to relieve the stress a bit. By doing that, he was able to slowly turn. And to his relief, Jute saw he was not alone in the cellar.
    Declan. The man hung motionless from a length of chain, his hands tied over a hook on the end of the chain. His head was slumped forward and his eyes were closed. Dried blood caked the side of his face. Beyond him, several other chains dangled from the ceiling. They all ended in rusty hooks.
    “Declan!” said Jute.
    The man did not move.
    “Declan, wake up! Please!”
    But it was no use. Jute groaned. This was the end. He was going to die in this dreadful place. He was going to die, far from his old life in Hearne, far from home. He had never had a home. It wasn’t fair. All he ever wanted out of life was a home. Tears trickled down Jute’s face.
    “I’m going to die,” he moaned.
    “Probably,” said a voice from close by. “Yes. It’s likely.”
    “Ghost!”
    The ghost wavered into view. It looked terrified.
    “Ghost! I'm so glad to see you!
    “Likewise, likewise,” said the ghost. “There’s nothing more I enjoy than a little chitchat with an old friend, but we don’t have the time for that. You have to get out of here, Jute. Now. Quickly. Hurry up!”
    “I’d like nothing more, but I can’t.”
    “Oh? Ah. I see what you mean. Er, well. . .”
    The ghost drifted up into the air to examine the chain.
    “Nonsense,” it said, popping back down. “Quite simple. Your hands are tied together and the rope’s looped on a hook. Nasty-looking hook, but no matter. All you have to do is inch your way up the chain a bit so you can get the rope over the hook. Easy as that. Grab the chain and start climbing.”
    “Easy enough for you to say,” said Jute furiously. “I can’t feel my hands, let alone get a grip on the chain!”
    “You don’t understand.” The ghost stuck its face near Jute’s and lowered its voice to a whisper. “This is a bad place. An evil place! Do you understand the meaning of the word evil? Spelled E-V-I-L. Evil! We’re all going to die if we stay here. Well, not me. I’m already dead, but you certainly will. Oh, my poor heart. I can’t stand the tension. My nerves! Why won’t you listen, you stupid boy? I should’ve never become a professor. I should’ve listened to my father and stayed at home. Raising chickens is an honorable occupation.”
    “What do you mean?” said Jute. “What do you mean, this is an evil place?”
    “This place,” said the ghost, gulping and turning paler than it already was. “This place is the—”
    But at that moment they heard the sound of a door opening and footsteps on the stairs. The ghost vanished. And down the stairs came a monstrosity. A bulk that moved from step to step with all the slow deliberation of living stone. The shadow slid off the flat planes of face and neck, off the massive hands hanging at the figure’s sides. It seemed the thing was made of stone. Gray stone pitted and cracked with age until the flesh looked more like the weathered crags of a mountainside, rather than a living creature. Stubble grew on its scalp like dead hay.
    A peculiar clicking and clacking sound jittered in the air. Stone creaked. And settled to stillness before Jute. Eyes like pebbles gazed down at Jute. The mouth yawned open and revealed a cavern lined with enormous teeth like gravestones. The face was so large that Jute could not look at it all at once. He could only take in a bit here and a bit there. It was a strange, disjointed landscape of rock and shadow, planes and hollows, crevices and standing stones.
    “Boy,” said the creature.
    The word slid slowly out of the mouth, deep and dusty and reluctant, as if the creature had been a stranger to speech for so long that it was unsure of words and unsure of its own voice. Somewhere, further back in the cellar, Jute thought he heard the ghost whimper. Or perhaps it was his own whimpering he heard. The dead eyes studied him and, for