Chapter 53 - The Iron Chute
The primary stairway back to the chapel was already an impassable chimney of roaring flame. Orange tongues licked hungrily through the archway, licking the very soot off the stones and turning the iron banister cherry-red. We were cut off from the main house.
"The coal chute," I rasped, pointing an unsteady, trembling finger toward the eastern recess where Tyler had fallen. "In 1923, my grandfather converted the old boiler system. That chute feeds directly into the root cellar beneath the carriage house, not the main manor!"
"Is it bolted?" Julian asked, his eyes watering from the noxious smoke as he dragged me toward the corner.
"Bolted from the outside during the winter of forty-four," I answered, my memory serving as our only lifeline. "But the latch was brass. Salt corrosion from the river air weakened the hinges decades ago."
Tyler heard this and shoved past Julian with savage, panicked desperation. "Get out of my way!" he shrieked, kicking wildly at the rusted iron door set into the foundation wall. He slammed his shoulder against it once, twice, but the rusted metal held firm, vibrating with a dull, hollow thud. "It won't budge! We're going to burn! We're going to burn because of you, you old witch!"
I did not flinch. Even with the heat blistering my cheeks, I stared at my flesh and blood with cold, unyielding pity. "Step aside, Tyler. You never had the sense to look for the lever, only the lock."
May you like
Brushing past him, I reached into the narrow gap between the chute frame and the rough-hewn stone. My fingers found the counterweight chain—greasy, rusted, but intact. I wrapped my skirt hem around my hand to protect my skin and threw my entire body weight downward onto the link.
With a grinding screech that set my teeth on edge, the counterweight gave way. The latch popped with the sound of a pistol shot, and the heavy iron door fell inward, letting in a sudden, freezing draft of damp river air.
