Pure Folly

Excerpt From: Pure Folly

“Whose damn fool idea was this?”

Hand artfully raised and cradling a sherry glass, Alastair Romilly de Vere viewed the towering gothic structure with a mixture of reverence and distaste. There were few other buildings that inspired such a strong reaction of dislike in his being. Bricks and mortar were rarely the enemy of man, rather it was the folk who inhabited them who were the problem, the temple being the absolute exception to that rule.

Why had he allowed himself to become embroiled in this pointless dare? He didn’t give a jot if his family or society as a whole thought he lacked bottom.

Could he do this? Could he go back in there? Sixteen long years had passed since he’d last ventured across the folly’s threshold. He’d been a mere boy the last time, seven years old and not a care in the world. Yet the horror he’d known still visited him.

Alexander would laugh to know it—Alexander, his elder brother, who had locked Alastair and their sister Viola inside the tower, then sat back and laughed at their panicked shrieks.

So long ago, and yet the events seeped seamlessly into the present. Despite the external heat from a blazing summer sun, the inside of the temple had been cool that day—its sublime arched interior filled with shadows. He hadn’t felt fear at first, just awe at the sweeping majesty of the place. Only when the heat crawled through the building, causing the hairs upon the back of his neck to rise, had he cried out in fear.

Ghosts! The temple had a full roster of ghosts, and at seven he believed in every one of them. As an adult, he could rationalise the sudden temperature increase as the effect of sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows as the sun reached its zenith. At least he told himself that’s what had happened. Convinced himself that the sunlight and not possession by an otherworldly presence had triggered his sister’s convulsions.

Viola—beautiful and fragile. Out of his depth, he’d watched her flop about on the stone floor like dying fish. He’d screamed so hard that he hadn’t spoken for a week after their release.

Viola… Curiously, his presence here tonight was partially her doing. She, along with his cousin Charlotte, had issued the dare to spend the night in the temple.

He couldn’t fathom her motive any more than he could fathom his own reservations.

Eyes shielded from the low sun, Alastair leered up at the grotesque stone demons perched above. It was said that you could see across three counties from the top of each of the temple’s three spiked towers. A magnificent view he was sure, save he could barely look at the stout entryway without gagging.

Damn it! He swallowed another gulp of sack. If it weren’t for his companion, he’d tolerate the loss of face and call the whole thing off.

Alastair’s gaze swept towards the gathering shadows before the temple door where his friend stood. Jude Leveson, the perfect cipher for all that was missing in his soul.

Jude the jubilant. Jude the fair. Jude the man he couldn’t bear to be around and couldn’t stand to be apart from.

Alastair’s lip curled—there was no easy escape from this nightmare. He’d simply have to stand tall and face both demons fully armed. He glanced around for the decanter he’d left behind in the parlour, seeking a refill, for tonight, alcohol would have to serve in place of a pistol. He didn’t trust himself with the latter, having nearly shot himself in the foot the previous week.

“Whatever’s the hold up, Alastair?” Jude leaned casually against the stout, iron-pinned door, a picnic hamper held within his hands. He raised one knee and balanced the hamper upon it while he searched in his waistcoat pocket for the key. “It’s all codswallop, you realise, this nonsense about ghosts. There are no real ghosts. It’s just a bunch of tales told to you as children in order to keep you out of this derelict mausoleum. So a little less gloom please, and maybe we’ll make merry hell of this wager.”

“Perhaps.”

With a sharp click that resembled a rifle shot, the lock released. Jude gave the ring handle a good twist and the door swung inwards on wailing hinges, dislodging a grey mantel of cobwebs. “Creepy,” he chuckled, dusting away the silky strands. “I say, Alastair, this place does have beds, doesn’t it? Two blankets won’t provide much comfort, and the only scrambling about on the floor I favour is Greek wrestling.”

Beds. There were, unfortunately, beds. There wouldn’t be any wrestling. Alastair clapped his companion across the back and ushered him into the stone folly.

“That’s what the six bottles of elderberry wine are for. Any beds in here are probably riddled with damp and fleas.”

“If that’s what the wine’s for, what’s the brandy for?”

Alastair kicked the door closed. “Desperate times.” This moment being one of them.

They were in. Unease snaked through his innards as he locked the door and placed the key in his pocket.. Bending, he slipped the hip flask from the top of his Hessian boot and attempted to soothe his nerves with a long swig, before stowing it back betwixt stocking and leather. The alcohol merely excited the snake in his guts. “Shall we survey our domain?” He gestured towards the central chamber. He’d maintain a façade of calm if it killed him.