On the near wall was my own shadow, bulging with unseen tentacles, swaying briefly as if shifting about from a restless slumber.
Unwelcome
A trailing, pulsing mist, clenched at the feet of Craig Andrews as he ran further into the black maw of the ancient corridor. Billowing orange plumes of smoke lined the damp walls, which throbbed with unholy life - a concrete heart, closing in, suffocating, and threatening to ensnare him before he reached the end of the tunnel.
Somewhere in the distance echoed a blood-curdling wail, and he faltered, instinctively knowing the source.
Robin.
Time was swiftly churning to the end game. Craig was being played the victim by a diabolical cat’s-paw, and within that deadly grasp hung Robin’s fate. Running like a crazed fiend he continued, his chest aching from exertion.
Opening up before him was a large chamber, the dank ceiling dripping with globs of moss, like the melting wax of a candle formed from the rock bowels of mother earth.
A scream pierced Craig’s ears and his eyes focused on the ghastly image of Robin, hovering in mid-air over wicked spikes protruding from an unseen floor, pinpricks of yellow glaring at the tormented man from a dozen pairs of bodiless orbs.
“Wake up! Craig, are you all right?”
He flailed away with his arms, feeling someone grabbing his shoulders and shaking him, mercifully banishing the nightmare that plagued him.
“Craig?”
A pale light illuminated the smooth skin of his face, and his wife Kathy’s concerned sea-blue eyes stared into his own gray ones,.
“Another dream?”
The thirty-year old artist covered his head with clammy hands, his robe damp with sweat. He tried to calm his pounding heart. “He’s still alive, Kathy. Robin’s trying to reach me. It has to be true. The nightmares are getting worse. They’re unbearable.”
Kathy cradled her husband in gentle arms, kissing him lightly on the head. “You really feel that way, even after the police couldn’t find a trace of him?”
“Yes, I do. Maybe Robin can’t be found by just anyone. The mansion is huge - and I believe they failed. The investigation considered only what their eyes told them. I can sense what they can’t. These dreams, they’re terrible. I don’t know what happened to him, but he’s still in that house. I’m sure of it.”
Kathy nodded her, understanding her husband’s grief, and his resolve. “So you’re going then?” “I must. I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t at least try.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll talk to the owner, he was open to Robin’s research to some degree, or he wouldn’t have let him probe at the estate’s mysteries.”
“But it took a lot of convincing, I thought. And what if he doesn’t permit you to enter?”
Craig answered without hesitation, the husky voice low and firm. “Then I’ll break into that damn place and turn over every stone with my bare hands.”
The seven-hour drive to Rachfort crawled by, and Craig watched the highway flow by with disinterest, focusing on what awaited him at the end of his journey. As he approached the small town, the countryside transformed into vibrant hillsides dotted with forests of oak and maple trees, embracing the orange and yellow vibrancy of the encroaching autumn.
Few cars passed his blue sedan, as he mulled over his conversation with Jonathan Stickman, the owner of Grabold Manor. Mr. Stickman was still greatly upset about Robin’s disappearance three weeks earlier from the deserted estate. The investigation remained open, but the premises had been thoroughly searched, without a shred of evidence to show that Robin was there, or for that matter, that he had ever visited.
Craig opened up to the man, pleading for entry. In the end, Stickman agreed, but only after hearing the determination from Robin’s friend. Craig reached a fork, taking the left turn, recognizing a huge dairy farm from his directions. After another mile, he approached a line of dark chestnut trees leaning over a rusted metal gate, and a long, burgundy, limousine sitting in front.
He parked and watched a gaunt skeleton of a man remove himself from the car, scarcely animated enough to complete the act. “You must be the caretaker Mr. Scirolin. Craig Andrews.”
The spidery man ignored the outstretched hand, and pursed his chapped lips into a grim line. When he opened his mouth again, a low, gritty voice chided Craig with sarcastic rebuke.
“You’re a fool, just like your friend.”
Craig felt an immediate surge of anger, but held his tongue. Mr. Stickman had informed him of the questionable temperament possessed by his long-time caretaker. “I’m sorry you feel that way, sir,” he replied.
“I warned Jonathan before, and your friend, now I’m warning you.”
His rheumy gaze was strong despite the years behind them, and circles ringed his eyes. He lifted a bony finger, pointing it squarely at Craig’s chest.
“There are things better left alone in this world. Old things, here before you or me, and they’ll remain long after we are gone. The manor is one of them.”
“Do you know what happened to Robin?” Craig tried to stay calm, knowing that if any could help him, Scirolin was the one.
“Yes, I do. Grabold took him.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Exactly what I said.”
“Grabold? You mean the manor? That makes no sense.”
The caretaker narrowed his glance, measuring Craig. “You understand, all right. You have some of the gift as well.”
Craig hesitated for an uncomfortable moment before answering. “I have psychic ability, yes. You must too, or you wouldn’t ask.”
“Obviously, but soon you’ll wish you didn’t, if you continue. Master Crowel possessed a great measure of talent. He awakened the powers that slumber in Grabold with his research. To his unfortunate end.”
The man’s words were chilling. “That’s not what Mr. Stickman believes to be true.”
To Craig’s surprise, the old man laughed, cackling like bark scraping off a hoary tree. “Jonathan is a fool, too. He chooses to ignore what lurks in the darkness behind his modern comforts, refuses to hear the truth in his own heritage. But at the same time, he’ll never live under the roof of Grabold again. The only reason the two of you were allowed to enter is in the hope of finding a rational explanation to the nature of the manor. Mr. Crowel discovered the truth - don’t make the same mistake.”
He paused, fumbling in his coat jacket and bringing out a metal key. “Let’s go,” he ordered, “I don’t want to be on the grounds after sunset.”
Craig stared at the vast building as the caretaker drove away, holding a small suitcase in his grasp.
Crawling along the discolored walls were sinuous vines of ivy, curling against the structure in a stranglehold for support. Shuttered windows returned his stare in stony silence, as if daring him to enter its vacant premises. Although the great portion of the estate was shrouded in dark forest, the trees immediately near the mansion were of ailing health, the trunks parched, and few leaves hung on the drooping branches, fewer yet on the barren earth below.
The entire scene was one of gloom and decay, curls of mist descending upward from the damp ground, seeking to quench any glimmer of light from above. Several blackbirds circled the aged pinnacles of the estate, gliding lazily in the premature twilight.
Dismal were the visible attributes, but more striking to Craig were the invisible sensations. He was stunned by the undercurrent of vibrations leaking outward from Grabold. Unseen waves of energy pulsed against his finely tuned abilities, warning of latent power and dormant evil. His jaw dropped at the strength he felt, and he nearly turned around to follow the caretaker.
No, he thought. I know the signs, hear the warnings. I must be sure of myself, for Robin’s sake. Yet, how insignificant he felt, standing in front of the brooding mansion.
He opened the map of Grabold’s interior Scirolin had left him. Notes were scribbled at the bottom, describing concealed doors leading to hidde
n chambers. The locations were not shown, however, so Craig realized that he needed to rely on other resources; his own mental abilities.
Attempting to bolster his confidence, he walked toward the front entrance. Cracked concrete steps lay before him, and a rail of black metal, rusted and bent, sided the short flight offering access to the main doorway. He shuffled forward, stopping before the alcove-enclosed archway.
Two marble gargoyles made of polished obsidian guarded the access, , their large folded wings lay over tails spiked with tiny horns. The architecture was fantastic, unique to his trained eyes. Shiny orbs glittered menacingly at him as he passed, of the type that illusion-shifted, appearing to follow his every step. The faces were twisted and malevolent, but possessed a gothic beauty.
His back felt numb, partly from the cool air, and perhaps also from the watchful figures protecting Grabold. Old power lay deep within the stone hearts of the gargoyles. The crafter had been a master of arts, both sculpting and the occult. Lingering wisps of psychic energy emanated from their dreadful shapes.
The sculptor had also suffered terrible anguish in finishing the work, and the sensation was strong in Craig’s mind.
A large, oaken door stood before him. A brass clapper served as doorknocker, shaped in the guise of a lion with mouth stretched open, revealing rows of countless jagged teeth. Everything here was symbolic, carefully made, conveying awe to any who entered, demanding respect to those with understanding, and whispering of dark consequence to others choosing to ignore.
Craig turned the handle, opening the door. The mansion was never locked anymore, according to the caretaker. Scirolin said that all valuable items were taken away long ago, and only fools would seek to enter now. Craig reached into his pocket, bringing out a flashlight, feeling the bulge of a spare set he’d also brought along.
Matches and lighters, an oil lantern, small tool kit, and a few other items were inside the suitcase he carried, necessities if he were to properly search the mansion. He paced down a short walkway, stirring up clouds of dust devils, the sound of his footsteps echoing dully in the silent house.
Shining the light before him, his beam illuminated empty tables and scattered chairs, the building reeked of intense mustiness, a powerful assault on his nostrils. A large area opened up, and he found himself in the spacious social room. Craig paused, taking out the oil lantern from his case. The wick flickered instantly as he lighted it, the fumes covering up the background scents of the aged house. He pushed the wick to the fullest extent, the lamp forcing the shadows back.
The room had once served as a gathering spot for revelers, and could easily hold a great number of guests. An enormous fireplace dominated the chamber, piles of smooth stone climbing upwards into a miniature mountain of rock, scaling towards the vaulted ceilings overhead. He walked around the confines, holding his lamp up to several portraits depicting various lords of the manor from years long past.
Cobwebs crisscrossed the weathered frames, entangling the paintings in a latticework of spider weavings. Stern faces peered back at Craig - men of strong bearing and cold vision.
His inherent senses also picked up residual energy, originating from somewhere in the room. He could imagine the rise and fall of voices in conversation, dealings of commerce, and blacker business as well, although the details remained obscured. Friends, enemies, and lovers, both public and private, all had once paced through the room in prestigious banquets, decades ago.
Craig felt his chest heaving, perspiration soaking his brow, as the images increased in strength. Feeling a moment of panic, his hands trembled, the light dancing about from his lantern.
Something was happening.
His heart pounded as a wave of psychic energy crushed down on him, and he fell to one knee. The darkness disappeared, and the room flared with vibrancy.
He blinked his eyes, and when they opened again, the chamber swarmed with people, their chattering lips speaking incoherently, engaged in dialogue that once served as the social hub of the community. Impeccably dressed butlers, servers, and maids, shuffled about in a painstaking effort to accommodate the many important guests. The garments were vintage and garish, telling of status and fortune.
Craig was a spectator to the lavish scene, watching in amazement at the incredible display. His hair felt static, charged by fright, but he seemed ignored - a mortal trespasser to the supernatural event.
A bearded man stood several feet to his right, and Craig saw the walls through the transparent figure. He wore an overcoat of stark black, gold buttons richly bedecking a broad waistcoat, and Craig reeled backwards, staggered by the wash of power spilling out from the shade. The spirit turned toward him, the spectral eyes gleaming balefully at him. Craig’s blood ran cold, riveted by the frozen stare, and the whole room immediately went silent.
He shivered uncontrollably as the apparition moved its lips, speaking with an airy voice, at the same time close, but also muffled, as if from behind a closed door, or buried underground.
“You are unwelcome here.”
Craig shuddered in revulsion, feeling nauseous. The spirit vanished, and the room was empty once again. He wiped sweat from his face, dazed by the fantastic incident. It had lasted only moments, but the energy still resonated against him in harsh unseen currents. There was nothing in his experience to compare with the event. Craig had anticipated brushes with the unexplainable, but could not believe the magnitude of what had just occurred, and he’d only been in the house a few minutes. The caretaker was right. Grabold should be left alone. The dead ruled here, the living were infringing on their grounds.
Unwelcome.
Memories of Robin passed through his mind, pleading in Craig’s fantasies. He was somewhere inside the manor still, and needed Craig’s help. He couldn’t abandon him, not without at least making an attempt. Craig was wrenched by churning emotions, fear and pity warring for dominance. Holding the lamp up high, he decided to continue, knowing that a warning had been issued.
Grabold had given him an admonition - what would the next encounter bring?
Roaming the lower floor, Craig uncovered nothing. No other apparitions appeared, but he knew that the house patiently waited for him to delve into Grabold’s secrets. He believed the evil powers slept, and the earlier event was primarily a host of restless spirits, reenacting memories precious to their living experience in the manor. It may all have been staged for his benefit, he mused. What worried him, though, was the reason. Was it to scare him off? Or more frighteningly, tempt him onward?
He thrust aside such thoughts, deciding to try the spiraling staircase, that led to the second floor. The floorboards moaned at each step, creaking ponderously as if waking from warped repose. At times he picked up sensations of the spirits wandering the great house. More than once he walked into a cold area, an indication of a nearby shade. Craig considered them harmless, lost in their own trappings beyond the earthly plane, and felt only sorrow at their plight. He could help some move on, but dared not risk an attempt in Grabold. Such an act would assuredly send vibrations through the structure, and the last thing he wanted was to awaken all the slumbering entities, and there were many dwelling in the ancient manor.
He reached the end of the stairs, finding himself perched high above the lower floor. The ascent was longer than he had guessed. Looking down, he peered into the circular opening between the handrail, the light from his lantern unable to reveal the bottom. It was a good drop, and he stepped back, shaking at the thought, the lure of vertigo beckoning him.
He started down the hall, noticing a number of iron racks fixed in the walls, once serving as torch holders. The manor must have been a bright and grand place at one time, he thought. Something happened to change all that, and now Grabold was an open grave, filled with darkness and beings that relished in the darkness.
Studying his map, he decided to try the master bedroom, hoping to find a trace of Robin. So far, there was nothing familiar to him in the house - it was as if Robin had never
walked the aged grounds.
The hall was long, and several doors lined either side. He opened each and found the guest chambers, a small library, and the trophy room.
It took him a while to finally reach the great bedroom, carefully passing the closed doors, probing gently with his gifted consciousness. This level felt relaxed compared to the social room, although the trophy room emanated psychic vibration briefly, and then quickly vanished. Possibly a spirit was somewhere within.
The bedroom door was ponderous, and Craig set the lantern down to open the heavy panel. The creaking echoed mournfully down the empty hall, and spider-chills trickled down his spine at the disturbance he was causing. He shrugged away such thoughts, for that path led to fear and then panic. He couldn’t afford either for Robin’s sake, or his own. Wide strands of cobweb stretched across the room, bare except for a massive bed and a hulking dresser.
The headboard over the bed was shaped like a tree, the boughs split to either side and arching forward several inches. A face was carved into the trunk, leering and spiteful. The symbolic artwork clearly suggested that whoever slept there would be under the watchful eye of the graven image. Craig suspected it to be the face of the original lord of the manor, recognizing the features from a portrait in the social room.
He stared at the bed for several moments, feeling no threat from the structure. It may once have contained energy long ago, he decided, but was now only an empty reminder, a relic of a past age, although hideous to behold. Craig turned, reaching out for any remnants of other elements, focusing on the mirror. The object was large enough to accommodate more than one person at a time. The glass was surprisingly dust-free, but a thin crack ran the length, from top to bottom.
His light pierced the mirror, and he was struck by a strange sensation. Gazing into the depths, Craig’s mouth opened in shock.
He was not alone.
A horde of white faces gazed back at him. Men and women alike, pale, glazing eyes, staring hungrily at the mirror, standing alongside of himself. It took every shred of his courage not to bolt away - few people could have kept their senses. Looking out of the corner of one eye, he saw that he was alone in the room, but the reflection spoke otherwise.
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