The Curse of Darkmoon Castle

Extract

Angela woke up from a restless sleep. The memory of her dream stuck to her like cobwebs. She turned around in bed and saw that sunlight filled her room; the pale vapour of the moon and the ghostly light’s glow were gone. It was a beautiful day in Cornwall with a light full of soft clarity, known to have attracted big city landscape painters to this region for centuries.
She noticed that she was still wrapped in the towel from the evening before. So, it was just a dream again. She thought about the painting in the corridor of the ancestors’ gallery. If she had, in fact, sleepwalked, it would still be there. She decided to return to the gallery and search the dark area of the passage, even if it was against Alistair’s will.
Angela rubbed the sleep and the last remnants of her dream from her eyes and got up. She went to the big door leading to the veranda. The landscape looked as if it was a soft-focus – not really misty, but not brilliantly clear either, as Cornwall was known to be on a fine day. The mildness of the flat landscape was not discernable. Only further out, at the bend of the coastline, did she see the rugged cliffs that had proved fatal to many flocks of sheep and farmers, especially on days like these, when it was easy to misjudge the distance to the precipice – and the consequences were fatal!
Or if you pushed someone off, Angela thought. She remembered the sound coming from the washbasin last night. It was a wailing sound which seemed to come from the castle’s depths. Now today, when a little bit of daylight proved to be enough to suppress anxious thoughts, Angela pushed this memory into the realms of her exaggerated imagination.
Nevertheless, she felt the urge to go to the washbasin in the bathroom. What would she find there? she thought, amused by her fear. She got up and went to the bathroom – not to listen to the sound, but to freshen up and get dressed.
Last night’s water was still in the tub. Of course, I did not drain it. She stopped thoughtfully for a moment. But that means I really left the bathroom in the dark because I saw a light.
She walked further into the bathroom and could smell the gentle scent of lavender in the water. With one hand she reached for the light switch and pressed it a few times. The ceiling light went on and off again. But I did not turn it off. It must be defective. But it was certainly not the light bulb that went last night.
A feeling of uneasiness overcame her and she walked up to the washbasin. Carefully, she bent over it and, with her head slightly askew, listened for noises. There was nothing to be heard. Relieved, she straightened up again.
Then she suddenly heard a crunching noise. Angela froze, her eyes dilated and she clenched her fists. Oh no, what now? What sort of nightmare is about to happen again? She pressed her nails into her palms to make sure that she was awake. She smelled the bath oil, felt the cool tiled floor beneath her bare feet and heard the blood pounding in her ears.
She leaned towards the drain and thought she heard a whisper, just very softly, like a breath of wind. Yet it was definitely there.
It is only the old pipes. These are sounds that an old castle makes, nothing special. No reason to believe in ghosts and spirits.
She turned on the tap to wash her face. Blood ran over her hands.

The young woman’s scream echoed throughout the castle.
Alistair was in the library and put an ancient tome back carefully into the heavy bookcase, from which he had just selected some data on his family for Angela. Then he walked casually to his desk and had a sip of the strong black coffee he had made for himself. He waited until Angela’s scream died away.
“There is no reason to get hysterical yet,” he said softly to himself, “You are still safe.”
He put the cup on the table and left the library to check on Angela. He wanted to make her stay at Darkmoon Castle as enjoyable as possible.
Smiling to himself, he went to the upper floor to explain to Angela what she had just seen. Angela retreated from the washbasin, screaming and staring at her bloodstained hands in horror. She could not believe what she was seeing. Calm down! she told herself. It is not blood. She put her hands closer to her face and sniffed at the red substance on her fingers. It gave off the heavy, intense smell of blood.
Almost paralysed with fear, she approached the washbasin again. A jet of blood still gushed out of the tap. She quickly closed it, grabbed a fresh towel, and cleaned herself as best as she could.
“My goodness,” she said aloud. “This isn’t possible, it is...”
“...copper,” Alistair finished her sentence. He came into the bathroom. “I should have warned you. The old copper pipes discolour the water to a blood-red colour, especially if they are not used for some time. There have not been any guests in this room for quite a while. The filter at Darkmoon Castle’s fountain may be contaminated. This sort of thing happened in the past.”
Alistair was casually leaning against the bathroom door to give Angela the impression that everything was in order. “Good morning by the way.”
The young reporter looked at him, stunned, “Copper? This is copper, but it smells like...”
“Blood, I know,” Alistair said and stepped toward her. He smiled, “Copper is like that, have you never noticed that? They smell alike.”
Angela blinked. “No,” she stammered, looking at her fingers. She smelled them again, “I have never noticed that before. However, I seldom smell blood in my job.”
Alistair went to the washbasin and turned on the tap. The water was still a reddish brown, but slowly took on the normal colour of water.
“The light here in the bathroom also does not assist matters. Did it go off briefly yesterday?”
“Yes,” Angela confirmed. “I was sitting in the bathtub and heard...” She stopped, choosing not to tell Alistair about the whining moans.
“A groan, yes, yes. That’s also from the old pipes. I really should have told you about them. Most ghost stories from ancient castles are based on such simple, easily explained phenomena. Did you also feel a breeze?”
“No,” Angela replied. Then she remembered the moment when she had entered the castle.
“Sometimes there is a draft here, because there are cracks and crevices everywhere in the old doors and walls. That is also often mistaken as the presence of ghosts.” The water was now colourless again as it should have been. “You see? It is only the copper content, and it no longer smells of blood.”
Angela went to the tap.
“I suggest that you wash your hands immediately. I will bring you new towels and a fresh robe right now.”
The lord of the castle disappeared before she could answer. She stood there, perplexed.
I acted like a little child. He must think that I am a total idiot. She washed her hands and dried them with the towel she still had wrapped around her body. There is always a logical explanation for everything, she thought and left the bathroom. She turned off the light and closed the door behind her.
She did not hear the wailing voice behind her, whispering her name distinctly, not to be confused with the groans of old copper pipes, “Angela...”