Read Online His Cemetery Doll by Brantwijn Serrah - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brantwijn Serrah
Tags: Haunting, Paranormal, Dark Romance, undead, Ghost, ghost romance, graveyard, sexy ghost story, historical haunting, erotic ghost story, cemetery
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walked to town unless errands needed to be done and shopping toted back to the house. This morning, he decided to drive the old green truck he normally reserved for business. Shyla slept curled in the front seat all the way into Whitetail Knoll, and Conall kept his hand on her small blonde head when not shifting gears.
Wouldn't she be safer at the convent? he couldn't help wondering.
Something is very wrong in the graveyard. Whatever it may be...you can't keep Shyla where she might be hurt.
It...may be out of your hands now, Con. It may be time to give her up.
At least, for as long as this danger remained.
The drive to the church took barely twenty minutes. The featureless dirt lot beside it, where parishioners would soon be parking their cars as they came to attend Sunday Mass, stood empty now. Conall rolled in, curious all of a sudden if this might be his first time back since accepting the position to manage the cemetery. He'd certainly never come to services.
Gathering Shyla in his arms again, he carried her up the steps to the main entrance. In the cold early morning and with the weight of his girl on his hip, his injured leg ached miserably. He couldn't bring himself to put her down, though. As he came to the church's entrance, he closed his eyes in hesitant preparation, and knocked.
Father Frederick had evidently been up early himself, because he answered the knock, carefully pushing open one of the tall wooden doors and peering out. When he saw Conall, he blinked with surprise.
"Con? Is everything all right?" His eyes shifted to the girl leaning asleep on Conall's shoulder. "Is Shyla well?"
"She's fine, Father," Conall replied. "Sleeping. May we come in?"
"Absolutely, of course. Here, into the sanctuary with you...let's find her a place to rest."
"Please," he agreed. "I...have questions for you, priest."
They lay Shyla down on one of the pews closest to the altar, and Conall scanned the room for a place to speak where he could both keep an eye on his daughter, and avoid her overhearing their conversation.
Frederick maybe sensed his concern. "Shall we speak in the confessional, my friend?"
"Yes, please."
Perhaps, in fact, he had some things to confess.
Making confession was another thing Conall hadn't done since returning from the war. When he'd been young, his mam shepherded him and his brother to church regularly, and back then he'd made confession as she bade him. Nothing to confess then, though, but the sins of a young child, things which now he laughed at. Silly pranks and unkind thoughts toward others. Today, he had so much more weighing on his soul. For the first time in years, he dearly wanted to confide them to Frederick, who, after all, proved to be his one friend.
The morning cold permeated the old confessional, bitterer here within the naked wooden closet. It smelled pleasant enough: comfortable oak, its surfaces worn over years and faintly perfumed with the sweet hint of smoke from the candles in the sanctuary. Con took a seat on the old bench, letting out a low exhalation as his head fell back against the wall.
"What would you like to tell me, Con?" came Frederick's voice in the dim space.
Conall gave silent thanks the father hadn't begun this conversation in the orthodox manner. It would have been too impersonal, and Con couldn't have spoken with a nameless, faceless priest in the darkness. He didn't want an anonymous confessor. He needed good counsel from someone who knew him.
The darkness of the confessional eased him. Close and quiet. With a sigh, he brought his fingers up to massage between his eyes, wondering where to begin.
"Fred," he said. "I've been seeing... strange things lately. Impossible things. Happening at the graveyard."
He didn't mention Shyla had seen them too. If the father branded these events as the imaginings of an injured mind, a soldier cracking under the stress, Conall didn't want his daughter branded with the same assumption.
On the other side of the
Wouldn't she be safer at the convent? he couldn't help wondering.
Something is very wrong in the graveyard. Whatever it may be...you can't keep Shyla where she might be hurt.
It...may be out of your hands now, Con. It may be time to give her up.
At least, for as long as this danger remained.
The drive to the church took barely twenty minutes. The featureless dirt lot beside it, where parishioners would soon be parking their cars as they came to attend Sunday Mass, stood empty now. Conall rolled in, curious all of a sudden if this might be his first time back since accepting the position to manage the cemetery. He'd certainly never come to services.
Gathering Shyla in his arms again, he carried her up the steps to the main entrance. In the cold early morning and with the weight of his girl on his hip, his injured leg ached miserably. He couldn't bring himself to put her down, though. As he came to the church's entrance, he closed his eyes in hesitant preparation, and knocked.
Father Frederick had evidently been up early himself, because he answered the knock, carefully pushing open one of the tall wooden doors and peering out. When he saw Conall, he blinked with surprise.
"Con? Is everything all right?" His eyes shifted to the girl leaning asleep on Conall's shoulder. "Is Shyla well?"
"She's fine, Father," Conall replied. "Sleeping. May we come in?"
"Absolutely, of course. Here, into the sanctuary with you...let's find her a place to rest."
"Please," he agreed. "I...have questions for you, priest."
They lay Shyla down on one of the pews closest to the altar, and Conall scanned the room for a place to speak where he could both keep an eye on his daughter, and avoid her overhearing their conversation.
Frederick maybe sensed his concern. "Shall we speak in the confessional, my friend?"
"Yes, please."
Perhaps, in fact, he had some things to confess.
Making confession was another thing Conall hadn't done since returning from the war. When he'd been young, his mam shepherded him and his brother to church regularly, and back then he'd made confession as she bade him. Nothing to confess then, though, but the sins of a young child, things which now he laughed at. Silly pranks and unkind thoughts toward others. Today, he had so much more weighing on his soul. For the first time in years, he dearly wanted to confide them to Frederick, who, after all, proved to be his one friend.
The morning cold permeated the old confessional, bitterer here within the naked wooden closet. It smelled pleasant enough: comfortable oak, its surfaces worn over years and faintly perfumed with the sweet hint of smoke from the candles in the sanctuary. Con took a seat on the old bench, letting out a low exhalation as his head fell back against the wall.
"What would you like to tell me, Con?" came Frederick's voice in the dim space.
Conall gave silent thanks the father hadn't begun this conversation in the orthodox manner. It would have been too impersonal, and Con couldn't have spoken with a nameless, faceless priest in the darkness. He didn't want an anonymous confessor. He needed good counsel from someone who knew him.
The darkness of the confessional eased him. Close and quiet. With a sigh, he brought his fingers up to massage between his eyes, wondering where to begin.
"Fred," he said. "I've been seeing... strange things lately. Impossible things. Happening at the graveyard."
He didn't mention Shyla had seen them too. If the father branded these events as the imaginings of an injured mind, a soldier cracking under the stress, Conall didn't want his daughter branded with the same assumption.
On the other side of the
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