The faces were ghastly.
Mouths hung open, spectral lips moved like the jaws on a cat, anticipating a meal. The heads continued to stare ahead, and he knew that his own face was drained of all color. He didn’t know how long the episode would last, and he stood, shoring up his confidence, knowing that to give into his fear would spell the end of him.
His chest ached, the pressure immense on his heart and will. To Craig’s horror, the faces slowly moved, turning inward, looking right at his reflection in the mirror. Bony hands reached out, pawing at his image, and his skin crawled in terror and revulsion. He was faltering. The hands caressed his body as he watched, unseen to the naked eye, petting him, longing for the warmth of his life. Craig shuddered, his body feeling weak, his head swimming on the verge of blacking out.
In front of his waking vision, his face now changed. The features misted and reformed into a short jutting beard, crafty eyes, rounded nose.
Robin. On top of his own features. Robin’s face drifted away from Craig’s reflection, and the figures in the mirror grabbed him, his friend’s mouth opening frantically, soundlessly screaming in agony. Craig watched as the host of ghouls clawed at his friend, dragging him off and disappearing into a swirling vapor.
He collapsed to his knees, gasping wildly for breath, devastated by the macabre scene. Craig was soaked to the skin, his sweat cold and clammy. His whole frame shivered in loathing at what he’d been witness to. Was his friend alive or dead? Held captive by some powerful entity of Grabold? The first lord? Craig failed to comprehend the meaning behind this new, but much more horrendous event. Was it to further discourage him, or ensnare him deeper, to share Robin’s fate?
He stood, feeling tired and empty. His resolve was breaking down, and he realized that he was nearing the point of no return. He went to the door, stepping back into the hall.
The corridor was ablaze with light.
Torches were lit, the shadows dancing wickedly on the stone walls. Craig was amazed, his own lantern drowned by the spectral illumination. The hallway was empty, but a single door stood open.
The trophy room.
Dread clutched his throat, and he cautiously walked toward the chamber, bracing himself for the unexpected, if such preparation was possible. He passed the sputtering torches, gauging the insubstantiality of the flickering brands. Although they cast off light, they were unreal. His experience with the supernatural lent a fragile balance to his unique logic, to what the eyes saw and the mind could interpret. Opposing senses conflicting against his inborn perception.
Craig reached the trophy room and the torches disappeared, casting the hall back into darkness. He had anticipated this, and walked inside, his pupils adjusting to the dimmer light.
The walls of the room were adorned with the heads of wild animals. A regal lion sat across from him, mounted in a square plaque. The enraged face of a wild boar was next to the lion, and other figures materialized as he proceeded.
A tiger’s head hung there, along with a heavily antlered elk, several stags, mountain goats, and a black bear, mouth gaping in fury. Centered against the far wall was another fireplace, much smaller than some of the others he came upon throughout the manor. Each room was furnished with one, a common feature in old estates.
The beasts stared at him with lifeless, gleaming orbs, their expressions hostile. He felt a subtle threat in the room, but not from the vanquished creatures. No, there was something else, and he located the disturbance as the fireplace. The structure was created from smooth stone, piled in even sections, all similar in shape. Craig moved the lantern closer, examining the depths of the hearth.
Closing his eyes briefly, he determined that part of the room remained unrevealed, and a hidden chamber existed behind the fireplace. Although Craig was comfortable with his psychic powers, he never claimed to be clairvoyant.
Yet he felt sure there was a room concealed here.
Strong waves of energy circulated throughout Grabold, and he surmised that his own abilities were being greatly magnified. He wondered whether this was part of the manor’s secret, that a reservoir of power was trapped in the aged walls, causing all the supernatural activity, enabling gifted visitors to tap into the vortex. That would explain a lot, he thought.
Craig stuck his head into the fireplace, knocking at the rear wall.
It seemed to be solid, but as he continued the noise changed, a hollow tone answering back. On hands and knees, he pushed forward and a panel slid open, uncovering a black tunnel. He peered inside, and heard something overhead. Craning his neck upward, his eyes registered shock as a face leered down at him.
Luminous yellow eyes bored into his own, and he was unable to draw breath. The face hovered there, unmoving. It was the visage of the specter from the social room, the one that had given the dreadful warning.
Craig gasped aloud, paralyzed with fear, and the image disintegrated. Another warning? Am I close to finding Robin, he thought? He crouched for several moments, waiting for the racing in his chest to subside. The inky blackness ahead of him was like the maw of a predatory beast.
Going into the tunnel was one of the bravest things he ever did. Craig possessed tremendous courage, but he was becoming numb, physically and mentally, from his harrowing encounters at Grabold. He moved mechanically, whether drawn on by his own resolution or another’s will, he didn’t know.
The tunnel sloped downwards and grew larger, enabling him to walk upright. Rocks crumbled beneath his weary feet, and he was a mortal will-o-the-wisp, carrying the forlorn lantern in front, the lost searching out the lost. Time ceased to move as Craig stumbled along, wondering where the passage would lead him. Voices whispered in his ear, but he was unable to catch legible words. He feared his mind was succumbing to the intense strain of Grabold, wearing away at his strength and resolve.
Shortly he noticed a change in the corridor. The angle leveled off, and a faint orange glow emanated from the walls. A sluggish mist issued from an unseen source, and the sides of the tunnel rippled like breathing lungs, pumping for sustenance. Everything was closing in on him and he started running, tripping over loose rock, falling several times, his shins scratched and bruised. Craig stumbled forward, his mind swimming at the unreality of his quest. It was like a dream, he thought, and then he remembered.
The nightmares, the horrific nights, harboring the fantasies of Robin’s fate. He was living the dream now.
Onward he staggered, feeling the trap grow tighter, panic welling in his breast like a forsaken child. Without warning the tunnel opened before his quaking limbs, the lantern cracked and was in danger of being extinguished, which would finally leave him in the dark without escape.
A great chamber lay around him, and he felt something moist brush his face. The area was glowing, a dim luminescence, and Craig saw strands of moss oozing from a limestone ceiling high above, stalactites aiming downwards like spears of retribution pointing at his heart. He moved further inside and stopped.
A dozen yards in front of him hung Robin.
Hovering in mid-air, wicked spikes of stone fixed beneath his helpless form. A blood-curdling wail of sheer anguish poured forth from his tormented lips, and Craig knew that his dream was now coming to full circle. He watched in shock, frozen at the impossible sight of his friend. What was happening to him? Could he yet save him?
“Go back, leave me.”
The words came out, strangled and hoarse, as Craig set the lantern down, edging forward.
“No, no.” Robin squeezed the syllables out, warning his friend.
“Robin? What’s happened to you?” Craig drew closer, and then staggered as if from a physical blow. Tiny spots of yellow filled the air around Robin’s form, pairs of diabolical eyes lacking bodies, staring down at Craig. This time, he knew that it was the adamant walls of Grabold that cushioned him, not the warm blankets of his bed. This nightmare would not end in a fortuitous awakening.
A new sound descended on Craig’s immobile figure, shredding his sa
nity, molesting his mind. It was laughter - low, evil, full of contempt.
He threw his hands over his ears, but the noise defied Craig’s hastily imposed barriers, both of physical and psychic defense. He was crushed by the power behind the sound, the deep resentment, and the overwhelming confidence. The laughter had a name, and it was Grabold.
First lord of the manor, his spirit holding rein upon the ancient house, was strong enough to cross the worldly plane and hold Robin captive, and now Craig was coming under that same deadly grip. He was in danger of becoming enslaved, a pawn to be dominated by the unrelenting specter. He was to become a sacrifice, his essence being sucked away into the ethereal grasp of the evil master, and there was nothing he could do to fight and win.
The truth sank in deep, screaming at Craig’s mind. He had been chosen, through his friendship with Robin. The hands stretched forth from the manor into Craig’s dreams, a supernatural summons, bringing him at last to the chamber, where Grabold’s power was focused, a spiritual trap in the black heart of the structure. It was a funnel of energy, tended by the first lord, during and after his life.
Craig knew it all to be true, the invisible arms of Grabold enveloping him in its dreadful fold at last, bestowing the bitter knowledge, and turning him into one of the manor’s unwilling entities. Craig forced his eyes to open , hoping to discover a means to break the spell being weaved for him. To his horror, he also now hovered in the air, his body limp as he was moved to join Robin and share his friend’s fate. The end was at hand.
He resisted, willing his mind to banish the phantoms. He told himself it wasn’t real, but he was swiftly losing control over his own thoughts. The internal protests voiced determination and outrage, but the foul touch of Grabold drowned out his attempts, claiming domination. Craig surrendered, knowing the battle was lost. He did not possess the power of heart or mind to win such a war.
The eyes followed his progress, only inches from his face. He blocked the image away, pleading a silent prayer to find himself awake once more.
“Stop.”
A new voice reached Craig’s hearing, and he felt the hold of Grabold hesitate. “I have come to fulfill the bargain. Let them both leave, they are of no use to you now.”
Craig flew forward and was dropped mercilessly to the floor. He clawed up from the ground, pushing his battered body to his knees, and looked to find the source of the intrusion. A staircase had opened up on the far side of the chamber, and two men stood at the top.
Through watery eyes, Craig recognized the caretaker, but the other man was a stranger. He was tall, with gray hair and a dark face, and he knew instantly that it was Jonathan Stickman. Scirolin bounded down the stairs towards Craig and Robin, who lay unmoving on the cold ground.
“Hurry, we must leave! Help your friend up. Now!”
Craig was bewildered, but shook Robin, rousing his friend. Glazed eyes met his own, and Craig saw the old spark come alive in the man’s pupils. He pulled him to his feet, and they followed the skittish figure of Scirolin up the steps.
“What about him?” Craig’s chest heaved from the sprint, but he turned to see Jonathan standing before the spikes, his shoulders sagging in a gesture of finality.
“You mean Jonathan Grabold, for that is his real name. He’s come to pay his dues, and is beyond our help.” They entered a stone door, and Scirolin closed it behind them with a surprisingly strong shove of one shoulder. Craig’s eyes scanned the murky air, and he realized that they were in the wine cellar.
“We won’t be truly safe until we’re outside the walls of Grabold. Follow me.”
The unlikely trio climbed solid steps of carved stone, bursting out of a massive wooden door, which opened like a tomb. Through several pantries, and then the kitchen itself, the men continued without pausing. Scirolin lit the way with a lantern of his own - Craig’s was still lying on the floor of the chamber hidden below.
Vibrations of agitated energy assaulted Craig at every turn, and from the look on Robin’s face, his friend felt the same currents of psychic distress. Grabold was greatly disturbed. They reached the social room and the air struck them like a winter gale.
Icicles hung from the chandelier above, and a frosty breeze drifted across Craig’s ashen face. Cries of lost spirits drifted through the chamber, confused and hopeless. It was unbearable.
Scirolin hurried toward the entrance, and a horrible thought blackened Craig’s mind that they would be forever trapped inside the manor despite their efforts. He covered his ears against the wailing, but the voices remained. The idea was thrust away as the door opened, and the men found themselves outside the house, passing the marble watchers.
Craig felt an aura seeping from the gargoyles, and he grabbed Robin’s arm. Before their eyes the statues shimmered in green mist, and the sleeping orbs opened wide, radiating pure evil.
Muscular limbs of stone thrashed out, grabbing Scirolin in an unbreakable grip. Robin shoved Craig forward, pushing him beneath the monstrous spectacle, sending him down the steps, and he tumbled to the bottom. The moon illuminated the estate in milky radiance, and Craig stared back at the ghastly scene. Scirolin screamed, and deadly laughter rang out.
“Why such haste, old windbag? You’ve had a long life, how soon we forget. Your ancestors served Grabold - and we are reluctant to forget such loyalty.”
Robin stood transfixed, trapped between the house and the stone guardians. The caretaker went limp, and the gargoyles released him. Robin jumped over the lifeless body, bounding down the steps and joining his friend.
“I don’t understand.” Craig stared at Robin, then at the unmoving form of the caretaker.
Robin bowed his neck, breathing in ragged gasps. “Grabold is under a curse. The first lord of the manor called his kinsman to him, when the debt needed to be paid.”
“What debt?”
“A charmed life, free of pain, worry, earthly tragedies. They can refuse, early on in life. They are all psychic, so they must know in their youth.”
“Jonathan?”
Robin shook his head wearily. “He accepted, but tried to renege on the deal. He let me enter the manor, hoping to throw off the bargain somehow, offer me in his wake. I was held, and you were manipulated as well. Jonathan must have realized that he could never escape his fate.”
“But why not? He seemed to be free, for all these years.”
“No, I think he was aware only recently of the summons. My powers were used to reach Jonathan’s mind, show him the consequences of trying to cheat his legacy.” Robin shuddered. “I caught fragments, faint images. It was hideous.”
“What do you mean?”
“To break the deal would mean enslavement to Grabold, in death. He would pay for it in torment, spiritual torture. I was witness to the mental pictures sent to Jonathan’s dreams. It was abominable.” Robin closed his eyes, looking older than his forty years.
“And Scirolin benefited too, how ironic. He thought Grabold’s offer was only to family members. Another pawn, to feed Jonathan with threats, and in the end, claimed by the manor.”
Robin shivered.
“Please don’t ask me anymore, for your own sake, unless you want to share my nightmares as well as your own. You’ve been through enough already, my friend. I owe you everything.”
He turned his back on Grabold, walking towards the parked car, tears of anguish spilling from his reddened eyes. Craig looked at the house one last time. The manor was subdued, the tension drained from its walls. It also felt different - satiated. The hunger was diminished, and Grabold’s spirits could rest once more.
The words of Scirolin again whispered in Craig’s mind.
“Some things are better left deeply buried.”
Stick Men
Bobby looked at the stone fireplace in wonder. His dreamy-blue eyes reflected the glare from the blaze, and he rubbed his little hands together, feeling the warmth, the scent of charred logs strong but pleasing.
“Hey, sport, ready for the marshmall
ows?”
The eight-year old nodded, his mouth watering in anticipation of the delicious treat.
“You know, your uncle Fred makes the best ones in the whole world.”
Fred walked over to his young nephew, holding two forks loaded up with puffy white marshmallows. The grizzled farmer smiled broadly, his tan face creased with wrinkles.
“Everything all right in there?” The kind voice drifted in from the kitchen, where Bobby’s aunt Nancy was baking apple pies.
“You bet. Me and Bobby are having a fine toast in here.” Fred turned the long forks, working them like a master.
“Wow, uncle Fred. They look good.” Bobby licked his lips, eyes fixed on the crackling fire.
“I think they’re done. Here you go, don’t burn yourself.”
The two sat down on a throw rug embroidered with autumn leaves, a comfortable distance from the fireplace. “These are great!” Bobby looked up at his uncle .
“I told you. Too bad your parents don’t get up this way more often, I have a lot of tricks I could show you.”
“This farm is all yours?” Bobby felt a piece of marshmallow sticking on his cheek, and was trying to lick it with his tongue.
“You bet, sport. Me and your wonderful aunt out there.” He said it loud enough to carry into the kitchen, and Nancy peered around the corner for a brief second.
“How can you do it yourself? It would take me a million years.”
Fred laughed. “When you grow up on a farm, you learn, Bobby. You could learn to be a farmer just like me someday.”
“Really? Wow. But no one helps you.”
The farmer bent close to the boy. “Want to know a secret?” There was a mischievous gleam in his eye, and Bobby nodded eagerly. “You promise never to tell anyone? Not even your mom and dad, Bobby?”
Restless Shades Page 9