I had worked at the Bittaker Manor for about five years. A lot of people in town circulated rumors about the Manor, about the massacre that happened there and, of course, the hauntings. A couple of local historians from my town asked me to write down my experiences and talk about what it’s like to work at the Manor. As a full-time butler and cook, I certainly got to know the corridors and rooms well, though even I never discovered all the secret passageways in that old building.
From the front, the Manor looked imposing. Thin Victorian turrets with windows spiraling up towered over the ancient evergreen forest surrounding the walls. The front of the Manor had the cast of a skeletal face, with two large, circular windows that looked like staring eyes and many massive round, white pillars on the front porch that looked like teeth. It had a disconcerting effect on many visitors who saw it for the first time, and yet the inside of the Manor held far more surprises in store.
The Bittaker family had passed it down from generation to generation for over two hundred years, and they had grown increasingly bizarre and reclusive over time. I worked directly for the patriarch of the family, Alexander Bittaker, who often had delusions about microphones being planted in the trees and bushes and who constantly talked about secret tunnels running under the house.
“You know, I think the government has people in the tunnels who come up here when I’m sleeping at night,” Alexander told me, his blue eyes wide. He gave off an anxious energy, like a child speaking of monsters under the bed. Locks of dirty blonde hair fell over his forehead. His face looked similar to statues of Julius Caesar I had seen, with a straight, aristocratic nose, a small mouth and naturally wavy hair.
“It is as you say, sir,” I said, bowing respectfully. I knew not to get into it with Alexander. We stood in the courtyard, next to the marble fountain. Up in a window on the third floor, I saw a pale, skeletal face looking out. I only glimpsed it for a moment. But there was no one else in the house besides Alexander and me. This had become a regular occurrence that I learned to ignore over time.
“They move everything around,” Alexander continued, his small mouth forming into a scowl. His eyes narrowed. “They keep switching all the spoons and knives in the drawers and mixing up all my boxers with my socks. I don’t get why they’re targeting me.” He swore, shaking his fist. “I think it’s the goddamn Freemasons.”
“Perhaps you should consider getting some cameras, sir,” I said, thinking to myself what a lunatic this man was. He often locked himself in the mansion for months, drinking himself into a stupor in the library every night and fighting with imaginary demons. But the pay was good, over $70,000 a year before taxes, and the work was easy, so I didn’t complain too much.
And, in a very real sense, I liked Alexander. He was a nut, but he was a harmless, rich nut, and there were, I knew, far worse things in life than that- such as homelessness, unemployment and constant, gnawing hunger. I had experienced them enough times before growing up to know.
But there was something about the house, Alexander was absolutely right about that. I don’t know if “they” rearranged the silverware or not, but I would catch glimpses of pale, white faces out of the corner of my eye on a regular basis. Sometimes they would be peeking around the corner of a hallway, or peering out of a dark room.
They always seemed to be grinning, showing off their black eyes and bone-white skin. And whenever I turned to look, they had always vanished. At times, I wondered whether I was also losing my mind, just like poor Alexander. Maybe the house had some black mold that slowly drove everyone living and working there insane. Maybe it had lead and mercury in the water, and we were just becoming mad as hatters from an easily explainable, scientific cause. Perhaps there was nothing supernatural about the Bittaker Manor at all.
I did suffer many other things than the hallucinations, if that’s what they were. I would have trouble sleeping, sometimes staying awake for three or four days at a stretch. A kind of manic energy would possess me, and I would pace and listen for noises in the ancient, sprawling mansion. I would pace and listen- and they would come.
I would hear whispering, and sometimes the creaking of floorboards as small feet passed down the hallway, but I could never catch the intruders in the act. Alexander became increasingly mentally unbalanced as well, and every time he passed me in the halls, he would be clutching a bottle of cognac or gin to his chest, praying to himself and refusing to meet my eyes. We talked less and less, except over meals.
The final straw came when the smells started to pass through the place. Odors like rotting meat and blood would fill up certain rooms or hallways, passing through the entire mansion from one side to the other. Sometimes I would hear something in the vents, and they would rattle and shake, the metal quivering with quick, uneasy vibrations.
I stayed up all night, watching the vents. I shone a flashlight into one, and I caught a glimpse of stringy black hairs with something fetid and dark dripping off the ends, a thick mask of hairs that hung over a grinning, decomposing face. Then, in a blur, it vanished. The vents shook in their casings as the cracking of bones and the quick, rhythmic clicking of skeletal hands on metal faded off into the distance.
I couldn’t sleep after that. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that barely glimpsed face. Something about it seemed familiar. It was in the cold, dead eyes and the high cheekbones. As I thought about it, it came to me.
It reminded me of my own face. The straight black hair that hung down to the ears, the dark brown eyes, the light skin, and especially the facial structure all reminded me of myself. That is, it looked like myself if I were a walking corpse, set out to dessicate and decompose for a few days.
The vents kept shaking until dawn.
***
Alexander and I sat down to breakfast together that morning. Both of us had dark bags under our eyes, and I knew Alexander slept less and less lately. I could hear his manic pacing in the halls at night, and I would catch glimpses of what he whispered to himself. The night before, he had recited a poem as he slowly staggered past my bedroom door. I wrote it down for posterity’s sake, at least as much as I heard.
“We dance and fold in the freezing cold,
Naked and alive for the first time.
Under a black god’s eye, we’re told
To live within this world of grime.
The command comes from him, going deep,
To cut their throats while they’re asleep.
“The dust gathers, black clouds high above,
It’s the one we’re under the thumb of.
The tall, skeletal face, regal and great,
The god of the meadows who decides our fate.
The dust blows like ashes from a crematorium,
The servants gather in the ancient praetorium.
“The meadow’s silver streams are filled with mercury,
They dance and cut their throats
Under a black god’s thumb.
That great one, the ancient torturer,
The boneman and king,
Its power now in full swing.”
Over breakfast, we talked about the news and the stock market for a few minutes, a bit of normalcy in a reality that felt more and more like a madhouse. The smell of Boston blew in through the open windows, carried on the wind for miles. I could smell car exhaust, pollution and smoke, the typical hallmarks of a modern city.
The dining hall where we sat had bay windows looking out onto the hedge-row maze and outdoor swimming pool. Ancient purple curtains the color of old bruises gave the massive room a dull pallor. Cabinets filled with antiques and silver cookware lined the back wall.
“I’m thinking it’s time we looked for an extra hand around here,” I said. Alexander looked at me blankly.
“Why?” he asked simply. I shifted nervously.
“It’s a big place, and it’s hard to maintain the interior by myself in addition to all my other duties. I know we have landscapers for the outside maintenance now, but…”
“So what’s the person going to do?” he asked.
“Well, on my days off or when I take vacation, they’ll make sure your meals are prepared and you are properly cared for, of course. They can do any cleaning, maintenance, cooking or driving you need. They could also run errands for us. I have a candidate in mind, if you are agreeable,” I responded. He swallowed his entire burning cup of coffee in one long swallow, then turned and regarded me with his icy blue eyes.
“What’s wrong with temps?” he asked. “That’s what we have always done before when you had vacations or anything. Whenever we need help, we just hire a temp, and then when we don’t need them, we get rid of them.”
“I think training a rotating line of new people is somewhat unnecessary and time-consuming,” I said. “It probably costs us more money in the long-term. Plus my sister is looking for a job, and…”
“Your sister?!” he asked, sitting straight up in his chair. “Oh, you should’ve just led with that! Of course she can work here, as long as she doesn’t have any violent felonies or anything. I don’t want anyone dangerous in this house.” I almost laughed at that. The house itself contained more danger than any one person could ever bring in.
“Obviously she’s not a felon or a serial killer or anything. At least that I know of.” I paused for a long moment after this, and he laughed, a small, chortling sound that reminded me of Santa. “But yeah, she’s had a real rough patch. Her baby, a little boy, died from SIDS a few months ago. They found him in the crib, and then her husband left her…” I said. Alexander rose from his chair.
“OK, bring her down. I’ll meet her, and we’ll go from there.” He turned to leave, but he gave me a quick backwards glance. “She’s not a… Freemason or anything, right? A member of the Illuminati?” he whispered in a voice choked with terror.
“Absolutely not,” I assured him, pulling out my phone and dialing her number.
***
“Jesse,” my sister said, answering the phone. Her voice sounded slow and tired, likely much like my own. “Long time, no see, huh?”
“Katherine,” I said, “hi. Are you busy right now?”
“Well, I’m unemployed, single and childless, so, technically, no,” she said sardonically, a self-deprecating tone underlying her words.
“And you still live in Quincy?” I asked. Quincy was not too far from the Bittaker Manor, about fifteen minutes from Boston.
“Yeah, until I get evicted,” she said sulkily. “Unless I can find a job immediately.”
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling,” I said. “I have a place for you to stay and a job. Alexander Bittaker said he will hire you full-time, if you want.” The line went silent for a long moment.
“I’ll start packing right now,” she said.
***
Katherine and I got to the town sometime around dark. My little sedan was filled to the brim with her belongings. Everything seemed slow and the lights seemed too bright. I think the sleep deprivation had begun to affect me more than I knew.
I felt like I was passing through water as I got out of the car. Bone-tired, I could only think of my soft bed. But Katherine wanted to talk, and she had many questions. She especially wanted to know about the murders. I sighed, knowing this would turn into a long conversation.
“Has Alexander ever told you what happened to his grandparents and parents?” she asked. “I heard a bunch of people died in this house. And not a natural death, either.”
“No, I think it was likely the most unnatural death imaginable,” I said. “They suffered the torments of Hell before they died, and Alexander saw it as a child. That’s why he’s a little… off, I think. I mean, for what he went through, he is actually fairly sane.”
“So what really happened to the family?” she asked. “Do you even know?” I nodded grimly.
“I’ve heard the story,” I said. “I wish I hadn’t, but I did…”
***
It had started, Alexander said, with a popping noise, like a bottle of champagne flung open during a raucous celebration.
He had been no more than a small child at the time, five or six. He had heard the popping, and then the screaming. He came out of his room and walked the great halls of the Manor, going down the massive front staircase, all polished oak and mahogany, and out the front door. He said the world outside was gone. Nothing but blackness stood there, as if the house had teleported into outer space. Stretching out in front of him, he saw an empty eternity that seemed to surround and eat reality itself, a void that seemed to have an insane, reptilian presence all of its own. He felt as if millions of invisible eyes swarmed around him, looking out from the blackness.
He ran back to the house in terror, and that was when the nightmare truly began.
His grandmother ran out of the dining room, covered in blood and gasping. Deep slices ran down her back and neck, and she tried to keep the spurting wound on her neck from bleeding her dry with sustained pressure. She kept her small, aristocratic hand pressed hard against it, but the blood ran through her fingers like water through a sieve, soaking her and the floor in a waterfall of crimson.
His grandfather ran out with a dripping butcher’s knife in one hand, his eyes wide and gleaming with a fanatical lust. His old body sprinted forwards, now as fast and sleek as the hounds of Hell. He laughed as he went, and the boy could tell his grandfather was not himself, that the man he knew was gone, replaced by something incomprehensible. Only a core of bloodlust and lunacy remained, working through the body like a ventriloquist controlling a puppet.
“You bitch!” he screamed in a trembling voice. “I know what you did! You’ll pay for this…”
“Please, Jack, stop!” his grandmother cried as the knife came down one last time, piercing through her right eye and into her brain. She went still, then her body crumpled to the floor, her legs and arms shaking as if she were seizing. The vitreous fluid from her eyeball mixed with the rivulets of blood that ran down her pale, bloody cheek, and then she stopped moving, her death gasps coming out harsh and discordant as the muscles on her face relaxed.
Alexander stood there, still as a statue. He had wet his pants, he didn’t know when, and now he looked down at the puddle of urine that pooled on the floor below him. He wondered where his mother was, his mother, who had always loved and protected him. He wondered if the blackness outside would ever recede, would ever let them go and return the house back to the world he had come from.
In a blind panic, he ran from that room, his pants soaking wet and tears streaming from his eyes. With blurry vision, he went into the kitchen, and found his father there laid on the table, moaning and whimpering.
Around his father’s figure, he saw black creatures, humanoid figures with thin shadow appendages. Long and black like the legs of a spider, their joints twisted in unnatural ways, they hovered over his father’s body, With their spiked, vampiric fingers, they removed his father’s skin, piece by piece.
He saw they had already finished the face, which was now just a mask of gore, the lidless eyes bulging over bloody contracting muscles, the teeth chattering in agony. They started slicing into the neck, pulling with care, as if removing a priceless painting from a canvas. His father groaned and tried to rise, but spidery black hands pushed him back down, carressing his skin as a lover would.
Alexander felt a slight tickling on his neck, as if some spider had crawled down his shirt. He spun around, seeing more of those black, hovering figures looming over him. They looked down with featureless faces, masks that seemed to be the essence of the void itself.
They each hissed, speaking to each other in some snake-like language. The cumulative effect was like a den of vipers, and the hissing became all he could hear.
His grandfather ran into the room. Black shadow creatures flitted around him, nearly matching his every movement but always lagging or jumping forwards slightly. With frantic, lunatic eyes, his grandfather screamed. It sounded inhuman, like the death cry of some exotic predator.
As he screamed, the black shadow creatures writhed and slithered out of his body. After a few seconds, he slumped, looking fully his own again. He raised his head, staring at Alexander with bloodshot, horror-stricken eyes.
“Was it a dream, do you think?” he asked in a quavering old man’s voice. “Do you think it was all just a dream, Alexander, my good boy, my sweet boy?” His grandfather turned his head, looking back towards the dining room hallway. He saw his wife’s mutilated body sprawled on the ground, a pool of blood spreading out with grasping, liquid fingers all around her.
“Oh, God,” his grandfather said, turning his eyes upwards to the ceiling. “Oh, God, forgive me.” He raised the knife to his throat. Alexander said time seemed to stop for a moment as his father looked heavenwards, praying.
“No, grandpa, don’t do it!” he cried, yet too late. With a quick, jerking stab, Alexander watched his grandfather stab the sharp, gleaming knife through one side of his neck and out the other. He collapsed to the floor, like a puppet who just had its strings cut. As he died, he looked at Alexander, his eyes still filled with incomprehensible horror and remorse.
Alexander ran in a blind panic, heading instinctually back towards the front door. In the massive entrance chamber, with its polished oak stairs and looming mahogany balconies, he saw the final- and worst- of the terrors.
His mother lay crucified against the far wall, her writhing, moaning figure twenty feet above the ground. Thick, rusted nails pierced her wrists and ankles, biting through the bone and digging deep into the wall behind her. All across the wall, the black shadow creatures danced and shimmered, slithering up and down it like salamanders.
Her stomach had been cut wide open, and her intestines hung down, uncoiling from her body. They shone pink and red, streaming down below her like ivy or the leaves of a weeping willow, blowing gently with the breeze.
“Run, baby,” she gurgled through a mouthful of blood that overflowed from her mouth and dripped onto the floor far below her. Her head drooped. Yet her eyes continued to stare intently at Alexander. “Run.”
The shadow creatures stopped all at once, and though they had no eyes, he felt their gazes turning to look at him. Dozens of them glistened like an obsidian void, and the claws on their fingers looked as sharp as broken glass.
So he ran out the door as if demons from Hell were chasing him- which, perhaps, they were. He felt cold, spongy hands grabbing at him, and claws raked his back, slicing deep into his clothes and skin.
The black abyss still stood there, like a sheet of infinite space spliced around the perimeter of the mansion. Yet when he ran, his feet hit something. It wasn’t concrete or grass or anything that he knew. It was strange, and had a lot of give, like walking on a trampoline. But he didn’t stop, instead sprinting out as far into that void as he could go.
At a certain point, after what felt like an eternity of crossing this endless void, he heard a popping noise, and then a whooshing sound started all around him. The streets and lights and houses fazed back into view, at first staticky and translucent, but then solidifying rapidly. He turned around and saw he had left the border of the Bittaker property and now stood on the street. It was the moment he had crossed over when the world had started to return.
And as a little boy, crying and traumatized and covered in urine, he went to the neighbor’s house and shrieked until the police arrived and discovered the gruesome truth of Bittaker Manor firsthand.
Part 2
https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/185ykt2/i_encountered_an_ancient_evil_at_bittaker_manor/