Cliffhanger Castle

Your Hands Are Freezing: Chapter 2

This chapter written by Watty Award-winning author, Joanne Weaver.

"Who's out there?" Austen called through the locked door.

Anger outbid any fear he might have had about the culprit responsible. It was probably a bunch of kids messing with them. Doubt crept in. A bunch of kids with a key? Ear pressed to the panel, he listened, expecting to hear retreating footsteps and mischievous laughter. But the hallway remained deathly silent.

"It could've been the wind, right?" said Tiffany.

"Possible, I guess. Old buildings are full of draughts. The lock might be faulty."

"Here, let me try." She nudged him aside and rattled the handle, calmly at first then with more force, but it wouldn't budge.

Austen peered around the shadowy room, hoping to find something he could use to unjam the door. The Preservation Society had attempted a restoration on the park a few years ago, but it didn't look like they'd left any tools. Not in this part of the hotel, anyway. In fact, the room in which they were trapped hadn't been touched in at least a couple of decades. A broken chair, crispy leaves, and a few bundles of festering linen were all that occupied the space.

"Rhea was in here, I swear it." He rubbed his hand over his face and went to the boarded up window. "Why did she scream like that?"

"Maybe she saw a spider. Or a ghost."

"You're not helping."

"Do you think it's true what they say about this place?"

"Don't say it," he warned.

He didn't want to consider that right now - the history and the rumours. Given the chance, his mom would talk for hours about Cliff Castle Park's chequered past and the notorious bumps in the night. Paranormal enthusiasts and thrill seeking teens were regular after-dark visitors, but he never gave the rumours much credence. Right now, all he wanted to focus on was finding Rhea and Ciggaro so they could all go home. Fingers of light reached through the planks covering the window, picking out the disturbed dust that floated in the air, and a humid breeze tugged his hair. He tested a board, finding it rotten from years of exposure to the weather.

"Give me a hand with these boards," he said. "If the door won't open, we'll have to climb out."

"Are you serious? We'll break our necks climbing down there."

He jiggled a board loose, and the nails gave up their hold, sliding out like the roots of a decayed tooth. "Do you have a better idea?" He broke off another plank and tossed it to the floor.

"Sure. You can smash a hole in the door."

"Hey, I'm not smashing anything. It's risky enough just being here. Trespassing is a crime. You should know that, seeing as your dad's a cop. And now you want to add vandalism to the list?"