It was also no surprise to us when a man in a silver cloak arrived from a secret panel in the wall. “Follow,” he said in a low, ominous voice.
Even though we all knew the man was Walker’s father, for this evening, he was only an Elder—nameless, faceless, but all powerful. He held one of the highest positions in The Order of the Silver Ghost, and we were expected to treat him with the utmost respect, admiration, and even fear.
In total and complete silence, we obediently followed in single file down a narrow hallway leading us to the white room.
The White Ballroom. The epicenter of it all.
With Corinthian columns, hand-cast archways and an L-shaped extension into a curved bay, the original owner and founder of the order had it painted completely white, including the flooring. It was rumored that the reason was to show off the natural beauty of women who danced within, but also to expose the dark souls and black secrets of all the guests. The founder held nothing back to contrast the good and evil in such magnificent opulence.
Featuring two massive fireplaces with hand-carved rococo white marble mantles, there was also an original mirror imported from France placed so that the women could see if their ankles or hoops were showing beneath their skirts.
Such scandal would never be tolerated.
Oh, how times had changed…
Over one of the fireplaces, there was another painting of the founder, whose eyes most definitely followed you around the room. I hated how the bastard always watched my every move. When I was a child, the portrait would give me nightmares, and to be quite honest, the ghostly picture still did.
Hand-painted German Dresden porcelain doorknobs and matching keyhole covers were the only way to find the exit out since the door seemed to effortlessly blend in with the white expanse. The haunting purity of the room engulfed any who stood within it.
Deep male voices chanted in Latin. What exactly was spoken in hushed murmurs was top secret and only the Elders were privy to that information. Their voices resonated off the walls as we entered the room and stood in line as army recruits would before their General.
Arms behind our backs, legs shoulder-width apart, we stood at attention.
The ten Elders stood before us, their silver cloaks shadowing the features of their faces. Flanked on both sides of them stood the rest of the members, also wearing the silver cloaks belonging to the Order. Each man held an intricately carved cane with a polished onyx ball on top. With practiced perfection, they all began to pound the cane at their feet. The rhythmic beat of the canes rapping the floor reverberated through my bones.
“Montgomery Kingston,” one of the Elders boomed. The canes continued to beat. “Are you prepared to begin The Trials of Initiation?”
I nodded, already knowing that recruits were not allowed to speak during any ceremony unless given direct permission.
I stared ahead with emotionless features. I could see in the corner of my eyes that the other five men were taking this as seriously as I was, regardless of how they might have shit-talked about it. It was impossible not to.
If it weren’t for the fact that the ceremonies were so rooted inside of us that compliance was just as necessary as breathing, the overpowering dominance in the room would take over any ability to resist.
“You have two days to do the spadework before the Ghost Ball shall commence,” the Elder continued as the canes thumped in cadence to the haunting orchestra.
I nodded again.
“You will acquire a belle without equal that night. Then once you do, and we deem her as worthy, The Order of the Silver Ghost will break her.”
The canes increased in tempo.
Louder.
Louder.
Wind blew in from the open windows, swirling around us as if the Order had summoned Satan himself.
The Latin chanting began again as the gas lighting of the room flickered.
“Montgomery Kingston. Your Trials of Initiation shall now begin.”
2
Grace
I looked up when the bell rang above the diner door, signaling a customer. Damn it, I was almost done with my chapter. I scribbled down a couple more notes about Managerial Accounting before pasting on my biggest smile.
Only to look up and see my coworker, Delilah, hurrying toward the counter while juggling her overstuffed purse and tucking her thin white T-shirt into her short shorts—the standard uniform for all the female waitresses at Bill’s Diner.
“Sorry! Sorry, I know I swore I wouldn’t be late anymore.”
She was a skinny girl who liked dying her hair black. She’d been a few years behind me in school, but we’d become fast friends since working here.
I glanced above her head at the clock over the front door. She was over twenty minutes late.
Dark sunglasses covered what I had no doubt were bloodshot eyes. Nobody liked to party harder than Delilah. She was only nineteen, but she looked about ten years older. I glanced behind me toward the kitchen.