Page 81 of The Legend of Lovers Hollow
The lights flicker back on, and I have an intense feeling of being watched. “It feels exactly like it did the other night when we had the séance,” I gasp to Morgan.
“We need to get to the lobby. They’re coming!” Sam says, and we rush through the bar area.
“I can’t believe we are running towards three possibly homicidal, definitely pissed-off, and not necessarily friendly ghosts,” I pant as we burst into the lobby.
“Trust me, I’ve had weirder!” Sam shouts.
“What the hell is going on?” Roger squeaks. He runs towards us, brandishing a tennis racket like a club, and Stanley follows him, looking pale and shaking, still clutching his clipboard.
The front doors blast open, exploding inwards and showering us with shards of glass and wood. Morgan grabs me and shields me with his body, and all I hear is a vast roaring. We collapse to the floor as a cold icy wind rushes over us, crashing through the lobby and tearing everything to shreds. The coffee table explodes, vases fly across the room and smash into walls. Painting and portraits are ripped from the walls. It’s what I imagine it would be like to be caught in a tornado. All we can do is hang on for dear life while the lobby is devastated by three oily-looking black funnels of smoke.
Across the lobby, I see Sir Devron step off his plinth, stumbling in his heavy suit of armour against the wind. He raises his sword and cries out in a ringing tone, “For honour and glory, I shall defend our keep from thee foul creatures of fury!” But before he can take another step closer, he’s picked up and flung clear across the room, smashing into the heavy stone wall at such a velocity that his armour flies apart, sending pieces of it in all directions.
Sam is lying on the ground next to me and Morgan. I don’t know where the hell Bertie, Roger, and Stanley are. But I do see Sam pull out his phone and its screen light up. He hits a couple of buttons even as the wind tears at our hair and clothes and makes our eyes tear up.
“CHAN!” Sam yells into the phone, plugging his other ear with his finger and trying to keep his head down.
I don’t know who Chan is, but I really hope they can help.
“Chan!” Sam yells again. “We have a code pink! I repeat, we have a code pink! Need immediate assistance!... WHAT? No, that’s not what I meant… okay, a code purple?... No, it’s not that either!… I DON’T FUCKING KNOW… code fucking leopard print or something.” He pulls the phone away from his ear and yells loudly in frustration before putting it back. “You and Dusty need a better system. Just send fucking help now!”
I blink, and a man appears in the middle of the raging chaos. He’s beautiful and impeccably attired in an expensive suit, with black hair that’s almost blue and piercing blue eyes. He stands in the middle of the roiling funnels of smoke, calm and unruffled, not a single hair out of place.
“Stop,” he says simply.
He doesn’t even raise his voice, and immediately, the roar silences, the wind dies down. The wreckage of the room falls harmlessly to the ground, and the three vast funnels shrink down until they’re each maybe five foot in height.
“Right here, if you please,” he says courteously, indicating the space directly in front of him.
The three whirling funnels line up in front of him like surly teenagers, and we climb to our feet, dusting the splinters and glass from our clothes. I look around at the complete destruction of the lobby. It really does look like a natural disaster has torn through, leaving nothing but debris in its wake.
“We’ve only just cleaned this from last time,” I say miserably, and Morgan wraps his arm around me.
“Impeccable timing as always, D,” Sam greets the stranger.
“Good evening, Samuel,” he says, his face showing no emotion.
“I wonder who he is,” I mutter.
“Oh my god!” Stanley gasps, his eyes wide and his clipboard trembling. “That’s the Grim Reaper, that’s Death!”
I snort. “No.” I blink and see Roger and Bertie both standing open-mouthed. “What, really?”
Sam shrugs. “Morgan, Ellis, this is Death. Death, this is Morgan and Ellis.”
“Pleasure,” Death says politely, then turns back to the three churning funnels of smoke. “Explain,” he commands.
The wind suddenly picks up and a crackle of electricity snaps loudly in the air.
“Ah, one at a time, please.” He holds up his hand and then points to the first one. We watch in stunned silence as he nods slowly, humming or lifting a brow every now and then, until his eyes narrow. “They. Did. What?” he says coldly, then turns to Stanley. “I will be having very stern words with your Bureau. Nothing gives them the right to imprison souls. Do not think there won’t be repercussions.” His voice drops. “Veryseriousrepercussions.”
Stanley squeaks loudly and his eyes roll back in his head. He drops to the ground in a dead faint, and I can’t even judge him for it. If Death looked at me that way, I can’t say I wouldn’t do the exact same thing.
“Alright, that’s enough now,” Death says to the three whirling clouds. I watch in fascination as the smoke solidifies into three figures.
The first is a beautiful woman in a heavily jewelled gown, with long dark hair coiled into tight ringlets. Beside her is an average-looking middle-aged man with a rather beaky nose. He’s wearing a three-quarter-length coat with a matching waistcoat, a white shirt, and dark breeches. His legs are covered by hose and on his feet are heeled and buckled shoes. On his head is a long dark wig set in neat sausage-like rows of curls.
Finally, the third of their little ensemble is a hooded figure wearing a heavy cloak, dark breeches, and riding boots.