Mainlander
Fear found me for the first time in a while as I clung to the steel railing of the ferry, so aptly named the Calm Waters. The spray from the choppy ocean covered my face as I tried to hold in the last remnants of my lunch inside my ever-expanding stomach. The skipper, or ferryman, had assured me that the ride from the mainland would be short and easy-going, but that was before the wind picked up and hammered the side of the small, barely seaworthy vessel, knocking it to and fro with God’s tempestuous will. The rocky outline of the shore, only a hundred paces away, gave me a sick reminder of the danger I faced and my inability to control the elements.
The unyielding rocks of the shoreline formed what, at first sight, appeared to be an island with an empty and bleak coastline, a barren landscape with an equally empty disposition to the world, as if calling to no one and expecting no one to arrive. If you stayed around long enough, into the month when the waters around the island receded, you would see an impassable bridge of stone connecting Dent Island to the mainland. The only way to Dent was via ship and only during certain times of the year when the water was high enough to cross over the bridge and into a secluded bay, hidden from the terrors of society. Protected by the elements, it was a perfect place to waste away and never return.
“Mr. Lewis,” the skipper of the ferry called down to me over the spray and concussion of the ocean as we fought our way through tight channels of pointed and toothy rocks hiding just below the rolling waves like enemies waiting for the opportune moment to strike.
“I expect us to land within a few minutes or so. Get away from the railing before you end up overboard,” the grizzled and dirty skipper of the Calm Waters called out to my back as I lay over the rusted steel railing of the ferry, praying for relief as I stared deeply into the deep blue and green of the waters parting for the hull of our ship, almost as if they were guiding us towards safety with their tumultuous movement.
As I didn’t answer, the captain left me to my own devices. Boats, even at the calmest of times, made me seasick, reminding me of the war and the sickness reminding me of my father and his drinking. My father used to have a glass of brandy after a long day, not a large one, but also not a small one. It was his ritual, and to him, it was the small moments that made him feel alive. For me, it was the results, the feeling of completion. My time in the army had taught me everything my father had forgotten.
Things such as drinking, gambling, and even the odd cigar disagreed with me. When I was a young man, I discovered that these things did very little for me, while others around me flocked to them with the passion of those who are demented. An empty existence is found in such vices. A pure life is the only way to happiness.
The ferry fell off a large swell of water, and I felt my stomach convulse and surrender the last of my lunch to the churning swell of the ocean below. I wiped my mouth, straightened my jacket and tie, then turned back towards the skipper and the seat I had purchased to cross to Dent Island only a short time ago. I gripped the small metal bench with both hands and stared out over the horizon.
The town of Dent came into steady, if unreliable, view. From my research, this island was as treacherous as they come. Its coastline was dotted with ship sinkers that hid below the writhing water, and only the most experienced or most foolhardy captains dared to traverse its waters.
I wondered which type I was as I watched the captain hoot and holler as he spun the wheel of his barge in time with the waves. Truly an individual, I thought, as I closed my eyes and thought of the Valkyries of the ancients, unafraid and stalwart as they forged onward for Odin, earning their place among his trusted in Valhalla.
The town of Dent sat squat on the landscape, but at least it had some structure. Solid ground would be agreeable to me, no matter the desolation of its contents or its inhabitants.
The ferry came in to dock just as the rain hit. It came in a curtain of fury that shocked me as it pierced through my clothes, soaking me through.
No one greeted us in the rain at the dock, and when we bumped into shore, I jumped to the dock and secured our mooring line with a simple knot. The skipper joined me and pointed with his gnarled, brown finger to a large building at the far end of town.
“I will be back in two weeks, Mr. Lewis. I won’t be able to return until then, when the water is high enough for me to cross,” the skipper said as he took the wad of bills I handed him.
“I shall await your return with the vigor of a younger man,” I said through the rain.
I grabbed my duffel and headed inland, already feeling better on the solid ground of Dent. The village of Dent was held together by a small goat fence and only contained two or so dozen shacks with fishing supplies covering their yards. The rain vanished as quickly as it came, leaving me with a wet disposition and a sour feeling in my stomach.
Now that the rain had come to ruin my already depraved mood, I noticed the town of Dent had a strange odor about it: fish, dung, and what I could only hope was cows and not the people of Dent.
I examined this tiny, insignificant village as if it were a particularly disgusting thing I found on the bottom of my boot, and had the displeasure of scraping off with a rock or stick, all the while cursing my bad luck for stepping into it without looking.
Looking at Dent, I surmised their main dish would be fish, which was my least favorite food. The smell, the taste—I would have to find a decent place with supplies, as I brought some supplies but not enough for two weeks. I needed to find the Manor and get to work. The sooner I accomplish what I was paid for, the sooner I can return to civilization and enjoy a nice steak at the Humidor’s Club. A hotel with a pool would make my night right about now, but I resolved to head to the building on the hill the skipper had pointed to. It was the only building in the village that looked as though it held more than one room, shaped in an interesting way, almost like a barn. It held an ember light that shone through the cracks of the closed windows and door. As I approached the building, I heard the dull din of many conversations overlapping each other. I shouldered my duffel and went in.
The doors opened into a loud room full of shoddy wooden tables and chairs that looked on the verge of collapse, and from what I could see, so did the residents of the chairs. I felt like a ghastly figure standing in the doorway, dressed all in black.
“Mainlander,” a few of the people muttered as I held my kerchief up to my nose in a polite way of avoiding the initial wave of the room’s smell. Everyone in the room was filthy, and they smelled of fish. I was not particularly fond of dirt and grime, so I carefully picked my way through the room, avoiding people’s stares. I’m sure I was quite the oddity, as I wore only the newest styles from the mainland, and my current outfit, even if wet, was finely cut and dyed a deep black. My shirt was formal white, and my tie was the pièce de résistance, a slightly darker black than ever seen before. This piece was dyed for days, allowing it to almost shine with black.
I approached the bar and used my kerchief to dust off one of the grimy stools, but then decided against sitting and used my boot to push the dingy item to the left while I filled in on the right.
An ancient-looking man, who reeked of beer and fish, actually slept face down on the bar in a puddle of what I could only assume was spilled ale.
“What’s your drink, governor?” the barkeep said as he cleaned a filthy glass with an even filthier rag. The man seemed to be examining me and my slicked-back hair and proper manners as if I were a disgusting parasite who had hopped onto his bar, but he would still probably serve.
“Nothing for me tonight; I simply ask for directions,” I stated over the chatter in the room, having to strain my voice to be heard.
“Directions to where? You’re in the only place ‘round here that matters, at least,” the barkeep said as he set the glass down on the bar.
“I’m looking for Mistwood Manor; I hear it’s somewhere near here,” I said, raising my voice again.
The room fell silent behind me, and even the man who was sleeping on the bar sat up and looked around wildly before toppling backward off his stool, where he promptly slipped back into unconsciousness. His limp hand landed on my boot, and I moved slightly out of the way, thinking about how I had to get new boots now that these were soiled.
The room was deathly silent, and I wondered what had happened. Everyone was staring at me in a shocked manner, as if I had just told them all I was the king of the new world.
“I have a writ here from the mainland, from my benefactor. My name is Mr. Jack Lewis; I’ve come to deal with the property for the recent purchaser, to document the need for repairs and refurbishment. I expect to be in town for a few weeks; I humbly ask for your cooperation,” I said, knowing my role and the way to sway a room quite expertly.
To my surprise, the room stayed quiet. No one said a word, and many people started returning to conversation, which I considered for a moment to be quite odd and untoward of them.
I turned back to the bar and the barkeep and said to him, “Maybe I will have to order something. I’d take milk if you have it.”
The barkeep grunted slightly at me and pulled a pitcher from under the bar. My eyes bulged as I noticed the milk hadn’t been kept cool, more than likely spoiled. I reached my hand out to block the barkeep from filling the glass, but he snatched it up and poured a fair measure of it into the dirty glass he had been cleaning.
“Ah, cheers then,” I said dumbly as I grabbed the glass but didn’t drink out of it. Why had I ordered this? It’s disgustingly unhygienic, and I won’t abide by it. It may touch my hand, but not my lips. My stomach and body would be tainted by the foul liquid. I had some clean water and rations in my bag; now I just needed to leave.
“I can give you directions there, Mr. Fancy,” a voice said behind me, giving me an excuse to put a dollar down beside the milk and turn to the person speaking.
It was a man with a large, red bushy beard. Foam from his beer still stained his beard, but he looked hardened. He looked like a man who wasn’t afraid of business or throwing a punch.
“I’ll give you directions, directions off this island, and trust me, it would be doing you a favor. None of us go near the manor; word is it’s unnatural. They say that the dead are seen within its walls, and you best not tread there, or the gates of hell will open up to swallow you down,” the ginger-bearded man said with a straight face.
“Is this some kind of joke? A ghost story? If you would please just tell me how to get to Mistwood Manor, I would be much obliged,” I said, trying to steer the conversation towards something more civil, grounded in reality, and not in small-town superstition.
“Mainlander,” some of the people muttered as I spoke. None met my eye but the ginger-bearded man.
“You know not what you seek, but I won’t stop you, mainlander. There is a trail behind here. Follow it, and it will take you to the Manor. You’ll know by the large wrought iron gate. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I left the bar without another word or thought to anyone, leaving the milk glass full in my haste, but I paid no heed. These people were satanic bigots. The further away from these superstitious fisherfolk, the better.
I found the trail the man had spoken of and hefted my duffel bag onto my back. To my luck, the trail sloped downwards, and my feet flew down the trail without much effort. As I walked, the trees gave way to empty fields of grass, almost as if the world had ended its painting at the tree line and instead gave birth to a more empty and dinghy kind of life. After a slight turn around a hillock, a large manor came into view, bars of iron enclosing the property, some bent or missing completely. A small stone fence lay before it but had fallen to disarray, pieces strewn to and fro in my path.
A large iron gate, bent inward slightly by something, lay connecting the road to Mistwood Manor. A small mailbox made of painted redwood lay just outside the gate. The true prize was what lay beyond. Mistwood Manor was spectacular, a large modern mansion with beautiful stonework, a beautiful cobblestone road leading up to the front door of the house. On the main floor, the manor had large arching windows covered with wooden shutters, locked tight as if keeping the beauty of the world inside where none could reach it. The house was dark brown with black accents, the stonework and pillars all made of the same black stone. Truly masterful work, as the entrance to the building portrayed what looked like a demon’s mouth, sharp stone spikes encircling it in a majestic way.
Although the place had been abandoned for years, it was still in good repair, almost shockingly so considering the area was known for storms and such. As I examined the windows, I dug in my pocket for the key to the building. My employer had made sure that I had the key before leaving; it was the only way into the house.
I approached the door to Mistwood Manor and stuck the key in the hole. It seemed to stick ever so slightly as I went to turn it, and I removed the key before trying again.
No luck. I bent down to examine the keyhole and could see the light shining through into a dark room with a white tiled floor.
I stood and jingled the key around the lock while pushing on the door. With a sudden pop, the door opened, and I went spilling into the manor.
I stumbled into the foyer of Mistwood Manor, catching myself before falling completely to the ground. The air inside was stale, carrying a musty odor that hinted at years of neglect. Dust particles danced in the dim light that filtered through the boarded-up windows. Despite the dilapidated state of the entrance, the grandeur of the mansion’s interior was evident.
The foyer stretched out before me, adorned with intricately carved wooden furniture covered in dust sheets. A grand staircase curved gracefully to the upper floors, its banister polished to a dull sheen by the passage of time. Paintings adorned the walls, their once vibrant colors now faded and peeling.
I took a moment to collect myself, my eyes scanning the room for any signs of life or movement. Satisfied that I was alone, I retrieved a flashlight from my duffel bag and switched it on, casting a beam of light into the darkness.
With cautious steps, I began to explore the manor, each creak of the floorboards echoing through the empty halls. Rooms lay dormant, their furnishings covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. It was clear that no one had set foot in Mistwood Manor for quite some time.
As I ventured deeper into the mansion, the atmosphere grew increasingly oppressive. Shadows danced on the walls, playing tricks on my mind and causing my heart to race. Despite my rational nature, I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that permeated the air.
Eventually, I reached what appeared to be the main living quarters of the manor. The rooms here were more lavish than those below, with ornate furnishings and elaborate decorations. Yet, even amidst the opulence, there was an undeniable sense of decay.
I made my way to the master bedroom, the door groaning in protest as I pushed it open. Inside, the room was shrouded in darkness, the only illumination coming from the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains.
I felt as though this room exuded the darkest of energies. It was well past dark, and I needed to find a suitable room for the night. I closed the door to the master bedroom with a click, allowing the room to sink back into the isolation it craved.
I retreated through the house to the bottom floor. As I made my way down the main staircase, the boards creaked in protest and seemed to flex under my feet. I made a mental note for replacement and inspection.
Towards the back of the house, around the staircase, I found what looked like a servant’s kitchen. The furniture and supplies, covered in layers of dust, still looked well-maintained, albeit simple in design. A large ornate door led out the back, but I opted for a smaller wooden door that led into a modest sleeping quarters with two small beds and a solid-looking fireplace. I placed my duffel on the bed farthest from the door and began vigorously removing all dirt and dust from the room. In one corner, I found a broom and duster, which I put to good use. I had to exit through the back door to unlock the wooden shutters of the kitchen and my new sleeping quarters. The old wood reacted stiffly, as if disturbed from its long hibernation, but submitted as I secured them against the hooks set in the stonework of the house.
I managed to open both windows easily and began dusting and sweeping all the dirt and grime out of the two rooms. After a few hours of sweaty work, I was satisfied with the portion of the house I had claimed and the cleanliness of that area.
I tried to turn the tap to use some water to wash off some plates and cups for myself to use while here, but the pipes only groaned and banged like a ghost locked in chains below. Not a drop fell from the tap, and I sighed in frustration. The stove was a simple wood-burning one, but I decided to leave such attempts for the morning. I left the kitchen window open but retreated to my new room and closed the door with a click; the latch fell into place, and I made myself busy removing the items from my duffel. I had enough clean drinking water and food for about three days, maybe four if I stretched it. I also had some fresh batteries for my flashlight, a pack of matches, a few fresh articles of clothing, and my notebook in which I would record my findings of the house. Mistwood Manor had electricity, and I could see the switches on the walls, but none of them actually worked. I wondered if the old building ran on a generator.
As I lay down in the bed closest to the open window and turned my flashlight off, a clock somewhere in the house chimed ten times. I checked my own watch and found the clock off by almost one minute. Odd, but I pushed it from my mind and settled down to sleep after a long day.
I fell asleep rather quickly, which was odd for me. I always had trouble sleeping in strange or unfamiliar places. Tonight, however, as if the manor sang me the quietest of melodies, I fell into a deep, deep sleep.
I woke quite suddenly, thinking someone was beside me. My eyes opened, and I forgot where I was for a moment. No light shone through the window now, and my room had been plunged into semi-darkness. In the corner by the door and fireplace, my heart dropped as I saw someone standing, enveloped in shadows. My hands trembled as I reached for my forgotten flashlight on the bedside table. I fumbled with the light, and it dropped to the floor before I grabbed it and shone the beam into the offending corner. I jumped as the beam lit up the room, revealing that I was quite alone. Nothing was in the corner; it was bare and empty, just stone and mortar.
As I swept the beam around the room, a sound made me jump in panic. Footsteps echoed above me, seeming to move across the squealing wooden floorboards. I kept the beam trained upwards, my hands shaking, making the light jump around the room as another of the boards creaked in protest. A small hole in the floor caught my eye, and I shone the beam into it while standing on the spare bed in the room. The ceiling was low, and I was able to stick my eye right up to the hole. The room above was filled with empty shadows that flickered as my flashlight shone through the gaps in the wood.
I removed my eye from the hole, chalking it up to an old house that was just settling. I’m not sure if I believed it or not, but I went and sat on my bed, wrapping myself in the thin blanket. I kept an eye on the hole in the floor, with my back leaning against the stone.
A small creak sounded directly above me, and I flicked the light to the spot. Something was directly above me; I could see the shadow it cast through the cracks. There was no way that this was the house; there must be some squatter living in the top part of the house.
My eyes jumped back to the hole, and my heart stopped for a few beats as a single red-rimmed eye glanced back at me for a moment before disappearing.
“Aha,” I yelled to the floor as the creaking above resumed, as if they were running.
The sounds moved from the room into the kitchen, and I tore the door open, following the footsteps into the main hall. I ran as fast as I could to the bottom of the stairs, but the creaking wood changed direction before I got there. I shone the beam from my flashlight up the stairs and dashed up the regal wooden staircase. The weak boards groaned and flexed as I made my way, but held firm as I dashed up the stairs, preparing to evict whoever had moved into this property. My army training took over, and my initial fear disappeared; this was nothing supernatural, but something much more mundane: a tramp or thief who had taken refuge in my boss’s newest purchase, a target to be removed.
As I made my way into the lavish living quarters at the back of the house, a door slammed forcefully, making the house echo and shudder. I now had the intruder cornered; the only way he could escape now was if he jumped from the upper-story windows.
As I made my way down the hallways, decorated with thick carpets and antique side tables, I saw the door. It was like a warm invitation, golden and regal, looking like the bedroom of someone quite fond of themselves. As I approached the door, in the shadows of an alcove, a loud grandfather clock donged in my ear twelve times. I almost dropped my flashlight but kept steady.
“Burst my bloody eardrums,” I thought as I tried the handle to the door.
Locked, of course. No force or luck would get me through this door. I had left the house key in my room; it was worth a try to open this door. I made my way back to my room through a series of hallways that confused me; they seemed to keep moving around. I swore that the stairs were through a certain direction, but maybe I had been panicked. As I descended the stairs, they groaned in protest. The seventh stair down cracked slightly as my foot touched it, and I made a mental note to skip that one from now on.
I made it to my room to retrieve the house key and searched in my duffel for the last item I had packed and didn’t think I would need.
My M1911 pistol from my days in the army felt good in my shaking hands. Never before had I used this outside of active duty, but tonight it seemed like a sound idea. I made my way through the kitchen when I heard it again, the floor above me creaking loudly. I took off through the kitchen, crashing through the door to the stairs. In moments, I was at the bottom of the stairs; in a rush, I made my way up the stairs, making sure to skip the seventh. As my boot landed on the eighth stair, it cracked loudly. I stumbled, and my 1911 and the key fell from my hands. They both tumbled down the stairs, and my legs were trapped. I could feel empty space below as I kicked and tried my best to pull myself up and out of danger.
My chest kept slipping through the hole I had made in my haste, and I clung desperately to the ninth stair. In my horror, I heard the floorboards once again, this time moving towards me, coming down the hall slowly, emerging from the deadly darkness that now plagued me. My flashlight had fallen down the hole when I first fell, and my eyes slowly adjusted to the suffocating darkness.
“Hello?” I called out into the air, but the footsteps never paused, never faltered; it sounded like the hooves of Satan as he marched down the hall. Boom! They crashed louder and louder. I could hear glass breaking and wood splintering; something came flying from the dark and went crashing over the bannister to the floor below. Just as the noise peaked, and I watched in panic as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the sounds stopped just as they reached the junction between myself and the hallway.
All I could hear was my own breathing, my heartbeat thudding away as I tried to understand what was going on. I was surely losing my mind.
“Relax, Jack, this is all in your head,” I thought to myself as I began slowly pulling myself free from the stairs. I managed to wiggle free a small amount thanks to the sturdiness of the ninth stair. A loud creak sounded on the stairs above me; with a shocked look, I glanced upwards, but nothing was there. Then the next stair creaked, and I could see dimly through the darkness that it bent as if a great weight was upon it.
Creak went the next stair, and the next, as I struggled to pull myself free. In a surge of adrenaline, I managed to pull myself to my feet, but now I stood in front of whatever invisible entity stood in front of me.
The creaking stopped, and I felt out with my hand as if trying to feel something that wasn’t there.
“GET OUT!” A demonic voice screamed in my ear, and for a moment, I saw a ghastly visage of a woman covered in blood and wearing a large white dress with dead, decaying flowers in one hand. Her face was pressed so close to mine I stepped backward in habit when my foot found nothing but air. I fell backward, and my back met the rest of the wooden stairs; the sudden impact broke them all, and I fell through into the darkness. My back slammed again into a wooden platform, and I crashed hard against the final stone flooring of a cellar. My vision went dark as my head thumped callously against the stone, and I slipped into nothingness.
Chapter 2
Darkness enveloped me, a void unlike any other I’d known. It lacked reason and feeling, an abyss that consumed all. To exist here, in this darkness, felt like fear itself had manifested to block my very being, completing the world in its own twisted emptiness, filled with despair and destruction. It was as if my soul had abandoned my body, leaving behind a trembling shell, defiant yet futile.
I awoke in a haze, my eyes functioning but my body refusing to respond. Pain pulsed through my left leg as I was dragged down a dim, filthy hallway. Each jerk sent my head crashing unceremoniously against the ground.
I lay helpless as something dragged me, its form elusive. A hefty man, clad in a stained white shirt, flickered in and out of existence before me. His head bore a festering wound, grotesque yet somehow mortal. Half of his skull caved in, yet he moved and muttered, lost in his own world.
Step, step, shuffle. His feet echoed as I screamed inwardly. My mind screamed commands, but my body remained inert, arms flailing dead above me as I was dragged deeper into the earth. Roots and rocks littered the soil around me, a testament to our descent far below the surface.
“No, Mother, I found this one. He lay dead in the cellar, among the fancy wine barrels and rats,” the man muttered to himself, oblivious to my presence.
“Yes, Mother, quickly. Then back to work,” he responded to an unseen inquiry, his voice ragged and distant.
Step, step, shuffle. The rhythm of his movements echoed in my mind, a relentless march towards an unknown fate. Firelight danced ahead, casting eerie shadows in the chamber where we arrived. A precipice awaited me, a pile of bones and decayed corpses greeted my gaze below.
As I fell, darkness reclaimed me. Loose dirt cascaded down, suffocating me, covering me completly in fractions of a minute it ignited a panic unlike any other. I fought against the encroaching darkness, but it was futile. My lungs burned, craving air, while the edges of my vision dimmed, tempting me with warmth and oblivion.
“Don’t give up,” a child’s voice whispered behind me, a fleeting reminder of hope.
With a surge of strength, I clawed through the earth, gasping for air as I broke the surface. Horror seized me as my fingers brushed against decaying dead bodies i was surrounded by death in a burial pit.
In an instant, the firelight vanished, leaving me in total darkness. Fear gripped me anew, my every move haunted by the touch of cold bones and the stench of decay on me.
With trembling limbs, I pulled myself from the pit, the stench of death clinging to me like a shroud. I knew I had to cleanse myself of this filth, to rid my body of the grime and decay that threatened to consume me.
The chamber had descended into an impenetrable darkness, devoid of even the faintest glimmer of light. I reached out, feeling for any sign of escape, my fingers finding purchase on rough stone as dirt rained down upon me.
A lump formed on the back of my skull, a painful reminder of the journey I’d endured. Ignoring the pain, I pressed onward, driven by a primal instinct to survive.
My mind raced with thoughts of escape, of fleeing this house of horrors and finding sanctuary in the world above. I traced the walls of the tunnel, searching for a passage, any passage, that would lead me back to the surface.
Step by agonizing step, I moved forward, my injured leg protesting with every movement. The tunnel seemed endless, its walls closing in around me, threatening to crush me beneath their oppressive force.
Memories of my time in the army flooded my mind, reminding me of us moving through the trenches at night, hand on shoulder to the man before us so we could find our way through.
Now, I did very much the same; in my mind, I could feel the men in front of me in the darkness. It gave me a renewed will, and I descended further into the maddening dark.
A cellar greeted me with a small amount of light from the hole above where I had fallen. My weary body examined the gash in the wood of the manor that I had made, and my foot clinked against something metallic and solid.
With joy, I grabbed my flashlight and flicked the switch, illuminating the evil of this manor and providing much-needed solace. I aimed my dented savior around the room and marveled at how something as simple as a light could drive away all my impure thoughts. All the things that I feared mere moments ago were gone.
My beam swept over the exit up a pair of rickety-looking stairs. To my hesitation, I didn’t want to trust another set of stairs, but I needed to be free of this place. The tunnel I had come from looked like the gates of hell, like a demon had torn its way free from the earth. Large unnecessary gouges torn at the stone of the cellar like a great hand had reached through to grab an empty vessel such as myself.
In a dusty, cobweb-filled corner, my light shined off something metal. The flickering metal caught my eye, and I dug into the boxes, removing an old silver box with ornamental legs and intricate designs on the lid and side. It was a beautiful piece, and the lid opened easily on unseen hinges.
Inside, resting upon a velvet bed of purple fabric, was a small black book with the letter A embossed on the cover. I slipped it into my pocket and closed the lid. With little ceremony, I dropped the beautiful silver antique into the junk-filled boxes.
When I turned back to the stairs, something in the room was wrong. I couldn’t place my finger on it, but something was wrong. My chest felt tight, my mind fuzzy and full of doubt.
Torchlight came from the tunnel, the demon mouth now looked as though it would spew flames into the very room I now stood.
The light was bright now, and I knew the grave digger had returned seeking me. I fled up the wooden stairs two at a time, caution thrown to the wind as I slammed my shoulder into the wooden door. The knob was old and stuck tight.
It wouldn’t turn; over my shoulder, the light grew brighter and brighter until it seemed as though the demon itself had come. I heard the step-step shuffle of his gait as he came closer and closer to the end of the tunnel.
Until the light disappeared altogether, it vanished as if nothing was there to begin with. The cellar fell into sad darkness, heavy with woe and emptiness as if devoid of reason.
The door still wouldn’t budge, and my flashlight kept a solemn vigil to my back as I worked at loosening the ancient doorway.
That’s when I heard it behind me. Step step shuffle, step step shuffle. Moving closer and closer through the room. My flashlight showed me nothing as I glanced around behind me. I almost dropped it in fear as I banged against the cellar door as hard as I could. Throwing my weight into it.
Step step shuffle, then the step of a foot on the wood. A large boot mark burned into the wood leaving it black and smelling of cinder. As the ghostly figure approached closer, I threw myself against the door, praying with all my might for salvation. Step step up the stairs, the invisible grave digger came stalking up behind me.
With one final crash, I slammed through the cellar door. The door frame breaking as I burst from the door into the main floor of Mistwood Manor. I turned and felt something breathing heavily behind me.
A ghostly figure stood a few steps into the cellar, a deep head wound caved in the left half of his face. A grimy blood-stained shovel rested on his shoulder. His other hand reaching out to grab my leg.
I slammed the door in his face unceremoniously and began pushing a large armoire in front of the section of the wall that held the cellar door.
The wooden frame banged and surged with the grave digger’s attempts to break through. With luck, the hallway was just small enough for me to place my feet across to the other wall and brace the armoire with all of my strength.
Somewhere in the manor, the grandfather clock chimed six times, very sadly almost as if remiss. Like it was calling to a lost lover that promised it would return.
“6 a.m.,” I thought to myself, as the final chime rung.
As if on cue, the rattling behind the door stopped dead. Sunlight began to shine through the shutters on the windows, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the night had officially ended and Mistwood Manor fell silent for the first time in hours.
Stay tuned for part 2.