Curse of Tempest Gate (3 page)

The Tempest Gate Cemetery was set back from
the highway within the forest. After Clarity let a stream of cars
go by her, she crossed the two-lane highway at a jog. Her feet took
the path that led to her destination. The cemetery dated back to
the early eighteenth century. No one had been buried there since
the fire of 1904. The authorities ruled the fire a freak of nature.
Lightning had struck the caretaker’s home, setting it ablaze.
Luckily, the heavens also saw fit to douse the fire out with a good
soaking. It rained for three days straight.

She came around the bend and there on higher
ground the cemetery stood like a land forgotten by the human world.
Trees surrounded it on all ends but didn’t intrude. In the wild,
nature tended to take over, but not here. It was if someone
purposely cut back the forest, leaving the cemetery unmarred by
time.

A whisper of unease teased her senses and
the wind blew her dark hair into her face. She swept her locks out
of her eyes, tucking the wayward strands behind her ears. The
silence was what spooked her the most. Once she stepped out of the
forest and into the path of the cemetery, no sound of animals,
birds or anything stirred as if they knew to stay clear of this
place.

The Tempest Gate Cemetery is no longer on
consecrated ground.
Mr. Donner’s words came back to taunt
her.

Really, it didn’t matter to her. “There’s
nothing to fear. It’s just a cemetery. Dirt, grass, stones.”
Bodies.
“Turned to dust by now,” she quickly reminded
herself, refusing to let her imagination rattle her. Scary movies
didn’t even do that, but a few creepy words of advice from the
Tempest Gate Hotel’s personnel and she was skittish. Go figure.

The sun still shone bright enough. She would
snap a few pictures and head back to the hotel. “No big deal.”

Her feet stood rooted as she gazed at the
cemetery entrance. A six-foot, spiked gate surrounded the cemetery
and the entryway had a large sign over the arched entrance stating
the name. The sign had faded, the lettering barely legible now.

Large effigies of angels and crosses stood
guard over the graves that were long forgotten. A few of the stone
mausoleums and family tombs were in disrepair and some of the
crosses were broken, but on the whole, it appeared in good
condition considering the cemetery was no longer used. The
caretaker’s house was to the right and inside the gates of the
cemetery. Part of it was nothing but a burned out shell now, but
she could tell it was once a decent home—two stories with a stone
path leading to the front steps. The porch was still intact and so
was the left side of the home. It surprised her that no one had
torn the rest of it down.

Her gaze took in the trees surrounding the
cemetery. There was white pine mixed with hemlock and red oak. The
leaves were gold, orange, and green in a colorful array against the
blue sky peeking through. Pink lady’s slippers and starflowers
covered the forest floor like a carpet, but in front of her the
ground was barren.

She couldn’t help but wonder how thick the
forest had been in the early twentieth century and wondered how
many trees were lost in the blaze that took out the caretaker’s
home. Her gaze wavered over the cemetery grounds, which stretched
as far as her eyes could see. It looked unscathed from the fire,
the large gravestones unmarred as if an invisible barrier shielded
it from destruction.

She took out her camera and took a few
pictures from where she stood. The sun filtered in, shining down on
the cemetery like a beacon welcoming visitors. “Or as a warning to
stay away,” she murmured under her breath.

Her lips curved at her macabre sense of
humor. “Yeah, right.” She trudged forward. The smell of damp earth
and fall leaves hit her nostrils. The air felt cooler than it did
near the hotel.

She took the final steps that led to the
gate and opened it. The hinges were rusted and it ground against
the metal holding it in place. The sound didn’t echo, but it
sounded thunderous in the quiet of the surrounding woods.

As she strolled through the cemetery, she
took in the different carvings on the sandstone markers, fascinated
by the stories they told. Each etching conveyed a story of the
person buried there and also about the love ones who had been left
behind.

Angels of grief depicted the sadness the
family felt in losing them. The hourglass meant a swift life and a
lamb represented an innocent, most likely a child, had died. A few
of the headstones were etched with flowers, some in full bloom,
meaning the person lived a full life, and the rosebud meant the
person died young. The cross swords told her the person lost his
life in battle.

She snapped pictures, marveling how the
headstones had fared over the centuries. A shadow crossed over her
and she glanced up at the sky, noticing the dark clouds rolling in.
She would have to head back soon. She didn’t want to be caught in
the rain, but she couldn’t leave yet. She hadn’t located the
devil’s chair or the archangel statue.

She made a slow turn around, in hopes of
spotting what she was looking for. She halted when her gaze landed
on a large angel effigy. He stood maybe six and a half feet tall or
more. She’d never seen something so magnificent, so life like.
Drawn to it, her feet took the steps that separated her from the
masterpiece.

The sculptor depicted the angel with long
hair, the ends almost reaching his shoulders. His attire looked
similar to the
leine
the Irish wore in the sixteenth
century, a thick sash going across his chest to the kilt-like
garment he wore around his hips. His feet were covered by laced up
shoes that reached mid-calf, but leaving plenty of his muscular
legs exposed.

Raising the camera, her finger pressed the
silver button at the top and she snapped a succession of photos.
She stepped forward and stood on the base of the statue. “So
detailed.” Her hand slid down one side of his wing half expecting
to feel the downy softness. In the angel’s hand, he gripped a
magnificent sword. “You must be Michael. Like the archangel, you’re
a warrior ready for battle.” Man, whoever carved this masterpiece
knew his work. No wonder some of the eyewitnesses believed the
statue came alive. It was like a man had truly been turned to
stone. “Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our
protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil...” The
prayer popped into her head. Her mother had taught it to her along
with the many other prayers she recited as a child. She was also
fond of the guardian angel prayer, but had favored the archangel
prayer more. She felt safer having a warrior at her back.

Stepping off the base, her gaze took in the
intricate carvings that surrounded it. Ivy leaves were etched with
perfection, only adding to the beauty of the piece. “Ivy, the
symbol of immortality.” She bent down to have a closer look and
noticed the writing peeking out just above the overgrown grass. She
brushed it away and stared at the old script, her fingertips
caressing the inlay. “Hmm, interesting.” She snapped a few pictures
with plans to research what the words meant.

Coming to her feet, she backed up to take a
full-length picture of the angel, but she wasn’t looking where she
was going and stumbled back, falling hard and banging her head on
one of the stones. Her vision wavered and she blinked, which seemed
to make it worse.

“Great, Clarity, give yourself a
concussion.” Opening her eyes wide, her vision blurred then
focused. She turned and her gaze traveled over the stone structure
she had the courtesy of banging her head on. “The devil’s chair,”
she breathed.

She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the pain
to her right temple. “How in the world did I miss you?”

She knew why and glanced over her shoulder
at Michael. “Your legs are way too distracting,” she told the
effigy before concentrating on her new find.

The stone was etched with grooves to give
the illusion that the chair was carved from pine. A fine chisel had
chipped away at the stone, creating a cloth draped over the back of
the chair and a seashell at the base. If she recalled correctly,
the seashell represented rebirth or resurrection. The cloth perhaps
was a curtain, the setting of a stage. The display could mean the
main actor or the central object of the stone. “Or the person who
sits upon the chair.” She raised her camera and snapped away.

A low rumble had her glancing up at the sky
where the cluster of menacing clouds hovered overhead. She had to
head back for now. She could return tomorrow with her tripod and
her camera suited for high quality photo shoots.

Her gaze landed on the chair again,
mesmerized by the detail. Like the angel statue, the sculptor had
put a lot of thought into this piece.

She chewed on her lower lip, debating if she
should give the chair a try. “The stories surrounding the chair
were meant to scare people,” she reminded herself, trying to forget
Hester Higgins ominous warnings about the entity of Samael feeding
off a person’s deeds. “Sordid deeds.” Her worse offense was taking
extra cream home from the nearby coffee shop to use later at home.
She couldn’t imagine Samael getting high off of that. Besides, the
legend of the chair was probably invented to scare away
vandals.

With a shrug of her shoulders, she plopped
down in the chair, facing the Archangel Michael, who appeared to be
eyeing her with disdain. “Don’t look at me that way. I had to sit
here. I work for a magazine—and I’m talking to a statue.” She shook
her head. It must have been the knock to her head. It made her
loopy. She lifted her camera, facing the lens toward her. At arm’s
length, she snapped a self-portrait of herself sitting in the
chair. She looked at the picture on her screen, thinking it looked
okay, but something in the corner of the photo caught her
attention.

The clouds shifted overhead and the photo
became shadowed. She had to magnify the picture, bringing the image
closer to the screen. Her heart beat faster in her chest. A shadow
in the shape of a man stood behind her off to the left of where she
sat. She whipped around in her seat, half expecting to see the
figure looming over her, but there was nothing there.

Her body relaxed and she sat back in the
seat, studying the image once again. She might have dismissed the
figure as a trick of the light if there hadn’t been two glowering
red eyes staring back at her. “Now that’s creepy.”

The shadows deepened overhead. With a frown,
she glanced up at the storm clouds moving in fast from the other
direction to join the ones hovering overhead. She had to go now.
Her windbreaker wouldn’t repel a downpour and she’d end up
drenched. She flew to her feet, but something whipped around her
waist like a vice and yanked her back into the chair. She let out a
gasp of surprise as she glanced down at the ivy wrapping around
her, binding her as securely as ropes would. She struggled against
the plant determined to keep her prisoner, but her fingers were
useless against the vine’s strength.

You’re sitting in the devil’s chair.
The annoying voice in her head reminded her in a tone of
how-stupid-can-you-get.

A scream crawled up her throat in a roar of
denial. “Demons are not real! They are not real,” she yelled
again.

“Oh, but they are,” a deep voice momentarily
broke through her tirade.

Her limbs froze and her heart threatened to
stop. The Archangel Michael stepped down from his base, his wings
spread wide in a ruffle of feathers that sliced through the air. He
no longer was a frozen stone effigy, but flesh and blood. His hair
was seven shades of gold and his eyes as blue as the sky. Her mouth
dropped open, but no words left her lips.

“I believe you asked for my service.” He
bowed before her with a generous display of courtesy.

She let the scream come loose, bellowing
like a banshee set free to find its prey.

Chapter Three

Michael’s eyes lowered in a deliberate
blink. “Must you do that?”

“I’ve passed out and this is all a dream.
That’s it. I’m dreaming.” She told herself.

Michael tilted his head to the side, his
thickly lashed eyes narrowing. “Do you always talk to yourself,
female?”

“I… I… Oh, my God.”

“Hmm… God? Not likely.” He strode toward her
with purpose. She tried to move, forgetting she was held fast by
the vines now wrapped around her legs and arms. When she looked up,
Michael had raised his sword. She squeezed her eyes shut as if she
could block a deathblow by hiding behind her eyelids, but it seemed
Michael only meant to cut the vines that bound her. His hand snaked
out and yanked her from the chair. She went flying, slamming into
his chest. He may no longer be stone, but the hard planes of his
body were just as unforgiving as slamming into a slab of granite.
Her breath left her in a whoosh. She gasped to draw in air again or
pass out.

“Are you all right?” His blue-eyed gaze
landed on her.

She couldn’t speak and nodded as her legs
went limp.

“There’s no time for swooning. He gripped
her upper arms tight, causing her to yelp. “We have to move. Now.”
He didn’t wait for her to answer, but dragged her behind him.

“Go? Go where?” she finally found her voice.
“I have to go back to the hotel.” It sounded lame, but to go with a
walking and breathing statue challenged her sanity. As if talking
to the statue didn’t already confirm her hold on reality had
slipped.

“You must follow me,” he demanded, leaving
no room for debate, but she didn’t let that put her back.

“I don’t think so.” She yanked her hand
free, the jolt making her camera swing back and hit her chest.
“Ouch.” She stared at the camera then lifted it and snapped a
picture of the statue that had come to life. Now she had proof.
Man, this would be great for the story—that is if she got out of
here to write it.