Read Online Darkness Watching (Darkworld #1) by Emma L. Adams - Free Book Online
Authors: Emma L. Adams
Ads: Link
couldn’t get over the fact that I could see sheep from my window, grazing in the field. At heart, I really wasn’t a city person at all.
Once out of the woods, we found ourselves on a dirt track that curved through the valley. Fields full of sheep and cows lay on either side. We passed the remains of a crumbling old manor house, surrounded by a swathe of ground completely bare of grass or life.
“That place was destroyed in a fire, about two centuries ago,” said David, casually.
The house resembled no more than a charred skeleton, most of the insides burned away so I couldn’t tell what had originally been there. Soot-blackened bricks roughly divided rooms of yawning emptiness like a giant rib cage. Something about it made me shudder; I saw a sudden, vivid mental image of flames ripping the house apart, scorching the area around it so no grass would ever grow there again.
“Who lived there?” I asked.
“The Blackstone family. The town’s named after them, as a monument to their memory.”
“Why? Were they important?”
“They were a really rich, influential family, and every one of them died in the fire.”
“That’s horrible.” I shuddered. “How did it start?”
“Who knows? It was a long time ago, and, back then, few people cared about investigating a freak accident in the middle of nowhere. I think one relative survived and inherited their millions and helped build the town as we know it.”
“Doesn’t really seem like good karma, naming a town after a family who all suffered horrific deaths.” My morbid thought came out before I could stop it.
David gave me a crooked smile. “Well, it hasn’t hurt it.”
Blackstone was a network of cobbled streets and old-fashioned houses, with the town square the main focal point. A pedestal sat in the centre of the square, on which there was a delicately carved statue of an angel. Though its stone face wore a benevolent smile, the raindrops gathering in the corner of its eyes made it look as though it were crying. The Art Gallery sat nestled in the shadow of an enormous Gothic cathedral.
The oak doors creaked as we entered, and our footsteps echoed loudly on the wooden floor.
Huge, framed paintings dominated the walls. We admired them in silence. I wasn’t much of an art enthusiast, but I found myself noticing that, the farther into the gallery we walked, the more bizarre and abstract the paintings became. The display ended with a wall devoted to depictions of Dante-esque visions of Hell. The signs told me they were imitations of Bosch paintings of the damned falling into the deep, of sinners on their deathbeds tempted by denizens of the underworld.
“Creepy,” I said, gesturing toward a painting of one unfortunate soul, surrounded by insect-like creatures which, for reasons unknown to me, wore human heads.
“Hmm.” David studied it, frowning. “Not entirely accurate, but Melivia did have quite an imagination, from what I heard.”
“Melivia?”
“Melivia Blackstone. She painted most of these.”
“Blackstone? Was she―?”
“Yeah. She was their eldest daughter. These paintings survived the fire, somehow. I think they must have been kept somewhere else.”
My eyes jumped to the one on the end: the only portrait. It showed a girl with delicate features, gazing into the distance. Her black hair curled to her shoulders, and she wore a long, black, Victorian-style dress. Around her neck hung a silver chain, on which gleamed a purple crystal, an amethyst.
For some reason, my hand jumped to my own neck, before I realised I’d left my own necklace in my room. An odd shiver went through me. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her pensive stare.
I jumped as the church bells rang out, echoing through the building.
“Want to go?” asked David.
I nodded, trying to push the mental image of roaring flames devouring the old house out of my head as we walked outside. The hellish paintings didn’t help.
“We can walk to the coast from here
Once out of the woods, we found ourselves on a dirt track that curved through the valley. Fields full of sheep and cows lay on either side. We passed the remains of a crumbling old manor house, surrounded by a swathe of ground completely bare of grass or life.
“That place was destroyed in a fire, about two centuries ago,” said David, casually.
The house resembled no more than a charred skeleton, most of the insides burned away so I couldn’t tell what had originally been there. Soot-blackened bricks roughly divided rooms of yawning emptiness like a giant rib cage. Something about it made me shudder; I saw a sudden, vivid mental image of flames ripping the house apart, scorching the area around it so no grass would ever grow there again.
“Who lived there?” I asked.
“The Blackstone family. The town’s named after them, as a monument to their memory.”
“Why? Were they important?”
“They were a really rich, influential family, and every one of them died in the fire.”
“That’s horrible.” I shuddered. “How did it start?”
“Who knows? It was a long time ago, and, back then, few people cared about investigating a freak accident in the middle of nowhere. I think one relative survived and inherited their millions and helped build the town as we know it.”
“Doesn’t really seem like good karma, naming a town after a family who all suffered horrific deaths.” My morbid thought came out before I could stop it.
David gave me a crooked smile. “Well, it hasn’t hurt it.”
Blackstone was a network of cobbled streets and old-fashioned houses, with the town square the main focal point. A pedestal sat in the centre of the square, on which there was a delicately carved statue of an angel. Though its stone face wore a benevolent smile, the raindrops gathering in the corner of its eyes made it look as though it were crying. The Art Gallery sat nestled in the shadow of an enormous Gothic cathedral.
The oak doors creaked as we entered, and our footsteps echoed loudly on the wooden floor.
Huge, framed paintings dominated the walls. We admired them in silence. I wasn’t much of an art enthusiast, but I found myself noticing that, the farther into the gallery we walked, the more bizarre and abstract the paintings became. The display ended with a wall devoted to depictions of Dante-esque visions of Hell. The signs told me they were imitations of Bosch paintings of the damned falling into the deep, of sinners on their deathbeds tempted by denizens of the underworld.
“Creepy,” I said, gesturing toward a painting of one unfortunate soul, surrounded by insect-like creatures which, for reasons unknown to me, wore human heads.
“Hmm.” David studied it, frowning. “Not entirely accurate, but Melivia did have quite an imagination, from what I heard.”
“Melivia?”
“Melivia Blackstone. She painted most of these.”
“Blackstone? Was she―?”
“Yeah. She was their eldest daughter. These paintings survived the fire, somehow. I think they must have been kept somewhere else.”
My eyes jumped to the one on the end: the only portrait. It showed a girl with delicate features, gazing into the distance. Her black hair curled to her shoulders, and she wore a long, black, Victorian-style dress. Around her neck hung a silver chain, on which gleamed a purple crystal, an amethyst.
For some reason, my hand jumped to my own neck, before I realised I’d left my own necklace in my room. An odd shiver went through me. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her pensive stare.
I jumped as the church bells rang out, echoing through the building.
“Want to go?” asked David.
I nodded, trying to push the mental image of roaring flames devouring the old house out of my head as we walked outside. The hellish paintings didn’t help.
“We can walk to the coast from here
Similar Books
