The Stray Souls ["The Diary Keeper" Sequel; "The Dark Legacies" Series]

Chapter 9: Lost in the maze

In this very moment, an ominous wind stirred, weaving through the gnarled branches of ancient trees like the barely audible whispers of unseen spirits. The air, thick with an eerie stillness, suddenly came alive with a chilling breath.

Leaves rustled in protest, their dry whispers echoing the secrets of the resting souls beneath. The wind seemed to carry with it a sense of ancient mourning, as if the graveyard itself lamented the passage of time.

The atmosphere grew tense, and the once serene night became a stage for the ominous wind to play its haunting symphony. Tombstone silhouettes leaned against the gusts, casting elongated shadows that seemed to reach out like spectral fingers.

I stood amidst the spectral orchestra, feeling the cool touch of the wind on my skin. It carried with it a spectral melody, a lament for the forgotten and a warning for the living.

I was thinking about Emberlynn. She just must be summoned. I must talk to her, ask her questions. She has an important role in the whole story, I believe.

Suddenly...

A notification on my smartphone. Another text message from an undisclosed number. Gathering my courage, I open the message:

Liandra, it's Jane. I'll delete this message in a few minutes before Harper or Grace notice it. I have new details. You have to find the underground maze of Ravenwood-later, you'll learn why.

Find a secret door in the abandoned wine cellar, blending seamlessly with the racks of aged bottles. The door is behind the bottles. The wine cellar is near the graveyard, so begin as soon as possible.

Take care,
Jane

***
I grew weary of all these incomprehensible quests. Everything was too vague and too elusive. The constant puzzles and challenges blurred the lines between clarity and obscurity, leaving me feeling lost in a labyrinth of uncertainty.

Each task seemed like a cryptic riddle, shrouded in a mist of ambiguity. The weariness settled not just in my limbs but in the very core of my being, as if I were navigating through a world cloaked in perpetual fog, where every step carried the weight of deciphering the enigmatic.

Abandoned wine cellar... I would have never thought that the old, weather-beaten structure near the cemetery could serve as a storage for bottles of wine. I've lived in Ravenwood for almost sixteen years, yet it seemed as if I didn't know it at all. It was as if I had been merely a guest here all this time.

I slowly approached the forgotten wine cellar. The door, weathered and worn, yielded with a haunting creak as I pushed it open. Surprisingly, no key was needed to unlock.

Stepping into the cool darkness, I found myself in a realm frozen in time. Dust danced in the air, disturbed by my intrusion, as the dim light filtering through the cracks painted a spectral picture of neglect.

The shelves, once meticulously organized, now sagged under the weight of cobwebs and neglect. Empty bottles lay scattered on the cold stone floor, bearing witness to the passage of time and the abandonment of this hidden sanctuary. The air inside was thick with the musty aroma of aged wood and the faint remnants of spilled wine, creating a pungent yet oddly nostalgic perfume.

I squinted my eyes at rows of dusty bottles. Jane's cryptic message played in my mind - the hidden door behind the racks. I spent a good half-hour feeling like a detective in some forgotten noir tale, running my fingers along the shelves, hoping for a secret passage to magically reveal itself.

Bottles clinked softly as I nudged them, like they were mocking my attempts to unveil the concealed entrance. Just when I was about to give up, my fingers brushed against a slightly uneven panel, and there it was - an old, weathered wooden door, almost camouflaged among the racks.

With a creak that echoed through the silent cellar, the door yielded to my curiosity. As it swung open, I was greeted not by darkness, but by a staircase leading upward. The mystery deepened. I ascended cautiously.

A chilling atmosphere wraps around me like a ghostly shroud. The narrow passageways, dimly illuminated by flickering torches, create an ominous dance of shades that seems to have a life of its own. Every step reverberates through the cold, stone walls, sending a haunting echo into the unknown.

Cryptic symbols etched into the stone seem to writhe and pulse with an unsettling energy. What is their purpose here? What do they mean?

Strange sounds echo through the passages - distant whispers and unidentifiable creaks. I can't shake the feeling of being watched, as if unseen eyes follow my every move.

Dear Mom and Dad! If I ever get lost here and the police find me, please don't ask me what I was doing at midnight in the wine cellar. It's definitely not what you might think.

As I navigate the labyrinth's depths, the symbols on the walls take on a more sinister meaning. They seem to guide, or perhaps warn, leading me deeper into the unknown. The air becomes thicker, the silence more oppressive, and a foreboding presence hangs in the stale atmosphere.

I can't take it anymore. I can't bear it. Jane, you're driving me crazy. I'll lose my mind. It's time to go away from here.

I just wonder who owned the wine cellar before?..

***

A typical evening in the school dormitory. You quickly get used to the incredible and paranormal, and the impressions quickly fade away, so boredom accompanied me every time I returned to the familiar walls.

I needed to spice up this dull reality. So, I decided to continue the so-called "tradition" - I will keep a diary myself. Usually, such things don't lead to anything good in my case, but I guess I love problems as much as they love me.

As my "victim," I chose an old math notebook where I barely copied one and a half pages, and a few more pages were spent on drawings during classes. I quickly tore out all the copied and drawn pages and started decorating the first page:

Liandra Amelia di Flores

I'll think about the nice formatting later - the title page should be somewhat brighter than all the rest.

For a moment, I diverted my attention from my diary to once again glance at the screen of my smartphone-a bad habit. Sometime soon, I must set aside some money and commit to seeking therapy to break free from this dreadful addiction. However, this time, a notification popped up from... Michael Everglenn. Without a second thought, I immediately tapped on the unread message:

Hello, dear Liandra di Flores. Your surname sounds quite familiar to me. I believe there's something we need to discuss.