Slices of Midnight Chapter 8
Marissa Bonifay slips behind a statue into the dark belly of the priory—into a forgotten sanctum where blood once painted the walls and souls were swallowed by stone.
"Good evening, friends!" I called out, still basking in the warmth of my time with Sir Isaac in the Gardens.
Now, my attention rested on the priory’s statue of Dal Vanbrooke, one of Laeron Madrin’s legendary companions and a hero of Malakanth’s first war against Hell.
The granite figure stood resolute, a stone falcon perched on his gloved hand, his simple sling at the ready.
Unmoved by my approach, Dal and his bird kept their silent vigil from a quiet alcove, watching over the corridor with grim-faced dignity.
"Mind if I slip behind you again?" I asked, then glanced up at the statue and winked.
"If you do, just say the word, and I’ll leave you be."
I gave the stone watchman a moment to answer—playfully, of course—before stepping to the side of the statue.
Placing a hand on the granite base, I squeezed into the narrow space between it and the alcove’s back wall.
Years ago, I had uncovered the priory’s hidden chambers and passageways by trailing Miss Nyomi late one night.
After leaving her office for a midnight stroll, she had rotated an ensconced torch near the Chapel of the Fawn, revealing a hidden door before slipping inside.
That discovery had sent me on a search through the entire priory for more secrets.
Eventually, my hunt led me to Dal Vanbrooke’s alcove, where I found a loose floorboard concealing a metal lever.
The hallway was rarely used, but I never lingered when slipping inside—secrecy was everything.
With practiced precision, I lifted the panel, gave the concealed lever a firm tug, and swiftly replaced the board.
A section of the wall behind the statue clicked open.
Rising to my feet, I pushed the secret door inward, cast a quick glance to make sure no one was watching, and stepped through.
The wall sealed behind me.
Darkness swallowed me.
A familiar dank mustiness filled my nose as I reached out, pressing my hands against the cold stone wall.
Feeling blindly for a moment, I found what I was looking for—a second metal lever.
I turned it to the right, and light flooded the passageway.
Warm illumination spilled over a stairwell descending from the hidden entry.
A series of glass orbs lined the steps, casting their steady glow.
Gripping a rickety handrail, I descended into the chamber.
By my reasoning, this lair had once belonged to an ancient witch.
I had visited it hundreds of times, and much of it remained as I’d first found it—though I had made a few crucial alterations.
On my initial visit, the walls had greeted me with silhouetted outlines of human bodies.
Much to my horror, the figures were twisted into grotesque poses—limbs jutting at unnatural angles, heads turned in profile, mouths agape in silent agony.
The sight had sent me fleeing.
But over time, fear gave way to something far more useful—morbid curiosity.
That curiosity allowed me to study them not with dread, but with a detached, academic eye.
In the end, I realized the silhouettes weren’t just some twisted form of art—
They had once been people.
Closer examination revealed dried blood splattered around each figure, as if some immense force had slammed them against the stone.
But the blood wasn’t the only proof.
Whenever I neared one of the shapes, I felt something—
A presence lingering within the rock.
The witch who had once lived here had plastered these poor wretches against the walls of her sanctum.
And some part of them—perhaps their very souls—had fused with the stone.
Trapped.
Even now.
I suspected the witch had used her victims’ souls to fuel the orbs—
Especially since each one had a silhouette nearby.
For all I knew, their power would never fade.
None had dimmed in the years since I first discovered the lair.
Still, whatever sustained them, I wanted no part of it.
Long ago, I had covered the wretched figures with scraps of old blankets, wooden planks—anything I could find.
I refused to look upon their tortured profiles every time I entered this chamber.
"Maggie Shay, good evening, my dear."
Upon reaching the bottom of the stairwell, I stepped into an old dungeon crypt—once the heart of the ancient witch’s underground sanctum.
"And good evening to you, too, Mr. Beans. How was your day?"
I had a habit of speaking to the two dolls propped against the far wall as if they were alive.
Both had been gifts from Aunt Muriel when I was much younger.
"Guys, I'm so excited! I hope you're ready to meet a new member of the family."
Brimming with anticipation, I nearly skipped across the room, passing a cold metal cauldron that had once bubbled at its former owner's command.
I set my alchemy bag on a cluttered desk, pausing to straighten the stacks of books, star charts, and tattered yellow parchments.
Once the mess was somewhat tamed, I pulled up a stool, opened the brown leather bag, and plunged inside.
I pulled out glass flasks, vials, and beakers filled with liquids of every hue.
To make sense of the wondrous reagents, I began sorting them by size and color.
As I worked, the number of containers multiplied, and it struck me—
Few people could ever own such a splendid alchemist’s kit.
These potions must have cost a fortune.
That thought led me, at last, to Muriel and Morgan.
I had avoided dwelling on it, but now, faced with the sheer wealth of what they had given me, I could no longer ignore the truth.
They were wise.
They were rich.
They were witches.
But why would a pair of witches take an interest in me—some nobody from Dowling?
Muriel had always been there, drifting in and out of my life for as long as I could remember.
She always appeared when times were hardest, bringing money, wisdom, and gifts.
But why?
Then it hit me.
This was how witches recruited their own.
Perhaps they scoured the realm for girls with the potential to learn their craft.
And what better cover than a wandering vagabond?
For the first time, I saw it—a path that might finally lead me to the wealth of magical knowledge I craved.
And as fate would have it, the next container I pulled from the bag held my new pet spider.
"So, how are you?" I asked, lifting the jar to get a better look.
The spider lunged, slamming against the glass with a resounding thud.
I didn’t flinch.
"You need a name. But I don’t know if you’re a boy or a girl."
I set the jar back on the table.
A sudden jingle from the brass bell on the vault’s back wall made me look up.
Someone was moving through the priory’s hidden passages.
The bell was part of a cunning system, once used by the sanctum’s former tenant to track the comings and goings of the manor’s other inhabitants.
"Damn it. Of all nights, why did Nyomi and Prior Shambling have to pick this one?"
Hands on my hips, I surveyed the rows of flasks and vials.
"Oh well. I guess all this can wait."
I stood, grabbing the jar with my new spider.
"Care to join me?" I asked.
"I’ve been watching our resident hypocrites indulge their holier-than-thou lust for over a year.
I know—it’s a disgusting habit, my worst, for sure.
But I have to go.
When those two start drinking, there’s no better source of gossip on the Isle.”
