The Bride Sealed Inside the Keepsake

The documents slipped from my hands and scattered across the carpet.

A cold certainty settled over me. The muttering locket, Barnaby’s warnings, that graveyard with its wrongness—I had tried to convince myself I was trapped inside a supernatural nightmare.

But the truth was uglier and more ordinary in its purpose. This was a killing ground.

Julian was a rich, methodical predator. He had Chloe seek out women with no one close enough to notice if they vanished, then made himself their answer to loneliness.

He wooed them, eased their debts, and secured enormous policies on their lives. The wedding day was when he meant to kill them.

Clara had been the bride before me. That matching dress wasn’t cursed; Julian had kept it, whether through stinginess or some private cruelty.

I was no blushing bride. I was a ten-million-dollar payout waiting to happen.

Unless I signed the marriage papers today, the insurance would bring him nothing.

The proof lay around my feet. I snatched up the policy and tucked it into my dress’s deep pocket beside the silver locket.

I had to reach a phone. Then I could call the police and put the forged signatures and Chloe’s messages in their hands.

I opened the bridal suite door only a crack and checked the hall.

No one was there. From outside came the soft sweep of a string quartet; the guests were settling in for the ceremony.

I eased into the corridor and left my heels behind. Barefoot, I crossed the carpet without a sound, making for the main stairs.

Voices rose from the grand foyer. I halted at the landing, pressed to the wall, and looked down over the railing.

Marcus and Dave stood before the broad glass entrance. Dave had a walkie-talkie; Marcus watched the staircase with folded arms and a blank expression.

They weren’t there to celebrate. They were guarding Julian’s venue.

The front way was blocked. Behind the club, the ceremony waited in the open.

I shut my eyes and made myself think through the panic.

St. Jude’s. Julian had told me about the historic church restoration he was overseeing as its lead architect.

He’d said an old stone tunnel ran between the country club and the church. If I reached the church basement, I might find a phone in the architectural office where he worked.

I spun around and hurried along the service passage. The catering kitchen’s swinging doors gave beneath my hands.

Inside, cooks shouted over one another and waiters hurried past with champagne trays. I darted by the pantry in my white dress, unnoticed in the commotion.

At the kitchen’s far end, I found a weighty metal door. I shoved it open and crossed into the tunnel.

The temperature plunged. Rough stone enclosed me, slick with damp, while caged work lights cast a weak glow overhead.

I ran, flinching as the stone scraped my bare soles. I kept going until the passage ended, then climbed a short set of concrete steps.

A heavy oak door resisted, then swung inward. I stepped into St. Jude’s basement.

Silence closed around me. The air carried the scents of aged paper, beeswax, and wet earth.

Pillars and old storage chambers broke the basement into a maze. I dragged the ruined skirt behind me, searching until plastic sheeting appeared ahead.

A strip of bright construction light shone through it.

I found an opening in the plastic and slipped through. Julian’s temporary architectural office waited on the other side.

The room held an uneasy blend of eras. Blueprints covered a large, modern drafting table at its center; an old mahogany desk stood against the far wall.

A black rotary telephone rested on that desk.

Relief came out of me in a broken breath. I crossed the room and snatched up the receiver, my hands trembling as I pressed it to my ear.

I listened for a dial tone.

There was only silence, empty and dead.

I tapped the cradle, then leaned across the desktop to follow the phone’s thick cord toward the wall jack.

It ended before it got there. Someone had cut it cleanly in two.

Julian had taken away more than my cell service. Even the landline in his own office had been rendered useless. He had left me nowhere to call for help.