The First Night
An
estranged grandfather with a vast fortune. An estate in France that
was supposedly haunted. An unsuspecting grandson getting a call that
both the fortune and estate had been left to him and him alone.
It
was the kind of story you heard about on a tv drama, but as of a week
ago; this was Timothy's life. He could have sold the old manor and
kept the money, but quitting his day job, a scary bad breakup with
his boyfriend, and a love of Gothic novels compelled him to move to
his late grandfather's estate and hide from the world like a
Victorian widow. He was certainly dramatic enough to play the part.
Almost no thought went into jumping on a plane to France with nothing
but his clothes and the manuscript he swore he would finish one day.
It only occurred to him on the flight that he now had the money and
time to actually do it. The rest of the flight was spent trying to
recall the conversational French he learned in high school, and
trying to make it look like he hadn't been crying and losing sleep
for days. Both were more difficult than he wanted them to be. How did
you say "Fuck" in French again?
He
was fairly certain he remembered how to ask for a taxi, and by some
miracle he remembered to write down the address. This turned out to
be unnecessary. His grandfather's lawyer had sent a driver to pick
him up in an expensive looking car and the man spoke just enough
English to fill the gaps in his French. The drive was scenic, the
city turning into fields, the fields into hills, and the hills into a
lush forest. He was actually enjoying himself and let the peaceful
scenery lull him into a temporary peace.
The
Estate was farther away from civilization then he imagined, but
seemed fitting for its cryptic reputation. He saw the roof of the
manor over the tree tops and he was already amazed at the size of the
place. Dirt road became paved driveway and he could only stare in
open mouthed awe at the grand building. The wood and brick had
darkened with age, vines climbed the walls and pointed roofs. The
windows were all shut tight, obscured by thick drapes. Gargoyles
lined the rooftop, most cracked and crumbling like fallen soldiers;
all except one perched high above the main doors. It was beautiful
and grotesque all at once.
He
thought the whole thing was magnificent. A dark fairy tale come to
life.
A
thin man in a blue suit greeted him as he stepped from the car and
Timothy recognized his voice from the phone. The man was named Mr.
Garnier, and had been his grandfather's lawyer for many years. He was
in charge of settling all his late client’s affairs. He was jittery
and there were dark circles carved underneath his twitching eyes,
like he hadn't slept in days either. He rushed Timothy through the
paperwork and kept glancing back towards the manor with a nervous
jolt.
"There
is one stipulation." The lawyer said, voice quaking. "Before
ownership can be transferred over, you will need to stay in the manor
for seven nights. Lord Laurent was very insistent on this."
"Good,
I plan to stay longer," he replied, but it was an odd request.
Once again, he should have put more thought into it, but in moments
the keys were in his hands, and both the lawyer and driver sped off
like they were fleeing. Tim stood there, alone in the driveway, only
just then feeling the weight of his actions. He wasn't even sure any
of that encounter had been legal, but he was already there, and his
curiosity outweighed his doubts. He glanced back up at the
beautifully vile creature above the door, before going inside.
The
first night was spent exploring the manor. The inside was almost dark
as night and everything was covered in white sheets and a thin layer
of dust. Of course, the lawyer failed to mention that there was no
power. He tried flicking the light switches on and off with no
results. He could have used his phone as a flashlight, but that would
have been a waste of the elegant candelabras just waiting to be used.
With candles lit, he wandered aimlessly through the old building. The
inside was better maintained then the outside. He was surrounded by
dark blues and only slightly tarnished golds. There were grand
portraits whose eyes seemed to linger on him, expensive looking
statues that had him glancing back over his shoulder, and odd
trinkets from across the globe. The floors creaked with every step
and there was a draft, but he liked to think it was all part of the
charm.
He
didn't go into every room, but he peeked inside open doors and
identified 'landmarks' to find his way through the halls. He tried to
open one of the window drapes, only to find that they were nailed to
the wall. Foreboding?
The
ceaseless darkness was throwing off his sense of time
and he wasn't sure how long he'd been wandering for. By the time he
found the master bedroom his legs were lead and it was impossible to
keep his eyes open. He dropped his bag to the floor and flopped onto
the bed gracelessly. Not even the morbid thought that this had been
the bed his dead grandfather slept in, was enough to deter him from
rest.
He
faded in and out of consciousness, never quite able to fall into a
deep sleep. The dark was filled with strange noise. Creaking boards,
and groaning walls. Whispered voices and heavy footsteps. Growls and
scratches? He blamed at least half of it on bad dreams. Dreams of
following eyes, endless corridors, and oppressive silence. Silence so
palpably thick that he couldn't hear his own begging voice.
When
he was awake and alert again, he checked the time on his phone. It
was 10:00 am and with a begrudging moan, he pulled himself out of the
bed, rustling up more dust. He still felt heavy and his eyes were
crusted over, but he had things he needed to figure out.
He
had completely abandoned his life in the spur of the moment, and was
stuck in the middle of a country where he barely spoke the language.
Worse, he was completely alone…
The Second Night
He
sped through the halls, trying to remember his path from the day
before. The insanely loud door bell was ringing over and over,
echoing through the corridors of the manor. By the time he reached
the front door the ringing had stopped. He still heard a car engine
outside and threw the door open just in time to see the car from
before, racing away.
"Ah
shit." He mumbled to himself, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Some
boxes of food had been left on the steps and he sighed in relief,
knowing that he wasn't going to go hungry. He gathered up the boxes
and carried them in the general direction he remembered seeing the
kitchen.
There
was still no power, but the sinks were running, there was a gas
stove, and with cookware left behind, he'd be able to cook. The boxes
were mostly canned foods and dry goods, with some fresh apples and
potatoes thrown in. It was more than enough to get him through the
week, and included with the food were some emergency candles and a
new looking copy of 'Learning French for Dummies'. He couldn't tell
if the driver was being nice or mocking him. Either way he
appreciated it.
He
didn't spend too long in the kitchen, just enough time to figure out
the stove-top coffee pot. He had a lot of work to do and wanted to
get started. With coffee successfully made, he got started cleaning
up the kitchen with supplies he found in an old butler's closet.
First yanking down the drapes, letting light flood into the room,
blinding him for a moment, but immediately warming up the room. He
dusted and wiped down everything and gave all the cookware and dished
a quick wash to ensure he wouldn't be getting any taste of dust. He
wanted to clean up some of the other rooms, at least the ones he
planned on using, but his main concern was getting all the drapes in
the house open.
The
ambiance that had been charming the first day, had quickly become a
nuisance. He needed to be able to see if he was going to stay there.
He moved through the dining room, tearing down drapes with all his
might, occasionally flinging nails around, and worked his way through
the main lounge room and halls. Little by little, the place lightened
up, revealing more treasures. The place would be truly breathtaking
when it was all cleaned up.
He
paused in his work at the thought. He didn't have much of a plan for
how long he wanted to stay. When he first jumped on the plane he had
"summer in France" on the brain, but what would he do then?
he folded up all the heavy drapes he'd collected and shoved them in a
linen closet he'd found, while contemplating. He couldn't focus on
the thought of what comes later, and he told himself it was because
he hadn't eaten all day or the night before.
He
walked back downstairs, watching the light capture particles of dust
in the air. Everything was already warming up, the chill nearly gone.
However, no
amount of light
could stop the creaking and groaning of the wood, or the whispering
that he continued to blame on the wind.
'It
better be the wind' he thought.
It
didn't take him long to cook up a meal and as he sat down in the
large dining room, the empty chairs stared back at him.
No amount of light could fill the silence, and his mind
wandered to the thoughts he tried to push away. He didn't really have
anywhere or anyone to return to. He hadn't spoken to his family since
he left home. His boyfriend had pushed all his friends away. After
the break up, he'd been crashing on the couch of a coworker he'd
earned enough goodwill with, and then quit his job after he decided
to go to France.
The
sun was lowering on the horizon, casting orange across the table
cloth and he cleared his plate, feeling heavier than he had when the
day began. He went back to the main bedroom to do what he always did
when he felt this way: write. He could take all these feelings, sort
them, quantify them, put them on paper and make the world make sense.
He wrote until the sun went down and he couldn't see anymore; only
lay there in the dark with his own imaginings.
They
sounds of the night were becoming soothing white noise, and he was
dozing off-
TAP-tap
TAP-tap TAP-tap
"What
the fuck was that?" He said to himself, shooting up in bed.
TAP-tap
TAP-tap TAP-tap
It
sounded like footsteps, just out in the hall. His blood froze in his
veins, and his limbs went painfully numb. He couldn't seem to take in
breath.
TAP-tap
TAP-tap TAP-tap
The
footsteps were accompanied by hushed voices. He couldn't make out the
words but someone was definitely in the house, and he was alone. He
forced his body to move, turning on his phone's flashlight and
grabbing a particularly thick candlestick from the bedside table.
Tiptoeing towards the door, so as to not alert the intruders, he held
the candle stick with white knuckles and shaky limbs.
He
pushed the door open slowly, peaking out only as much as he had to.
The hall was empty. When he stepped out, somehow the voices had grown
louder, but still unintelligible. Goosebumps shivered across every
inch of his skin, but he pressed forward, candlestick raised in
defense.
TAP-tap
TAP-tap TAP-tap TAP-tap TAP-tap TAP-tap
He
nearly shrieked at the sound footsteps running right past him, and
something he couldn't see brushed against his arm.
"Who
the hell is here?!" He shouted, waving the candle stick around
him wildly. He hit nothing, but the voices sounded like they were
laughing now. He felt like he was being watched and the air grew
heavy in his lungs when he aimed his phone light at the windows.
There was a pitch black figure, standing in the window. No, not just
one, several. They had no faces, no color or depth. Just human shaped
black holes, laughing.
"Who
are you?! What do you want!?" He demanded, but they only
laughed, and his legs were too weak to move. The temperature in the
hall was dropping and he could see his breath in the air. Their
voices were only growing louder, then cut short by a hideous growl.
The shadows evaporated, their voices died out, and the growling grew
closer.
THUD-thud
THUD-thud THUD-thud THUD-thud
Timothy
scrambled back towards the bedroom, shaking uncontrollably. The
fingers could hardly turn the lock on the door, and he burned marks
he barely felt into his fingers trying to light as many candles as
possible. The thudding footsteps came right up to the door and all he
could hear was the heavy breathing of something. Something not human.
He sat in the middle of the bed, unable to console his mind, and
eventually, the thing beyond the door wandered away.
He
couldn't explain any of what had happened, but he knew he needed to
get out of this house…
The Third Night
When
morning came, he was exhausted. Where the night’s happenings a
dream? Or was he just going crazy? Either way he was pissed. He
stomped all over the second floor of the manor, waving his phone over
his head like an idiot, trying to get a signal. The lawyer absolutely
knew something about this and Timothy was going to give him a piece
of his mind.
No
matter how hard he tried a signal wouldn't go through, and he
resigned himself to another day in the spooky manor. At least he
could make himself some breakfast but he was pissy the entire time,
slamming cabinets and yelling at nothing; hopefully nothing.
He
ate moodily on the kitchen floor, swearing at his phone. Leaving his
dishes in the sink and wandering outside when he was done, he walked
around the perimeter of the building, looking up towards the second
floor. He examined to see if there were any ledges to stand on
outside the windows. He was a romantic, and maybe even a bit of a
wimp who got freaked out easily, but he wasn't an idiot. This whole
thing had "sick prank" written all over it. His grandfather
was supposed to be some rich asshole and Tim wouldn't have been
shocked if his former employees wanted to cut the inheritance. He
didn't blame them and would gladly hand over everything if they'd
actually come talk to him, instead of trying to scare him off with a
Scooby-Doo routine.
He
didn't find any evidence of home invaders, so he went back inside and
decided to check and lock every unused room. There wasn't much else
he could do until nightfall, so he ate more out of habit than hunger,
and lounged in the main living room, reading the French book he was
given. The silence was slowly creeping into his head again.
He
wished he wasn't alone. He wanted someone there to hold him and tell
him everything was going to be alright. If his boyfriend was there-
He slammed his book shut to cut off that train of thought.
'You
don't want James here' he
lectured himself, 'He's
your ex now, and for a good reason. If he were here, everything would
be so much worse.'
"Fucking
stupid idiot," he said aloud, rubbing his eyes. He tried not to
look down at his left leg, ignoring the itch of a healing wound.
Yeah, okay,
the break was more then “bad”.
It
hadn't quite started to get dark yet, so he did a few more
preparations. He'd been trying to save the battery on his phone but
he needed answers so he set it up to record at the end of the hall
facing the master bedroom door. Last, he searched his grandfather's
closet, and acquired a solid cane. Just in case.
Candles
lit and doors locked, he sat up in bed to do some more writing. He
was too frazzled to get any sleep anyway. He stayed up for a long
while, the words in his brain flowing onto the pages. For a moment,
he even started to feel relaxed.
BANG!
Bang! Bang!
BANG!
Bang! Bang!
He
froze in place staring at the bedroom doors shaking on their hinges.
The candles all blew out at once, and he was plunged into darkness.
He was breathing heavily, fumbling for the thick cane, falling out of
bed. As he tiptoed towards the door, his eyes adjusted to the dark.
He counted to three, and threw the door open.
The
hall was empty.
There
were no voices, no shadows. He stepped into the hall, and slowly made
his way forward. He walked as far as the staircase, and heard music
from down below. Every logical part of him was screaming to turn
back, that this is where he would kill off the idiot character. He
continued down the stairs anyways, pulled by the soft melody. It grew
louder and louder, leading him towards the ballroom. The door was
cracked, a blue light shining through. He peeked into the room and
his breath stopped.
There
were people inside dancing. No, not people. These were something
else. Transparent wisps of light and white smoke in the figures of
men and women, twirled and laughed. He pushed the door open and none
of them seemed to respond so he stepped inside to just watch them.
They were graceful and haunting.
Creeeaaaaakkk
When
he heard the sound behind him, it was already too late. Something
grabbed his leg and dug its fingers into the already existing wound.
Timothy screamed in pain and fear as his leg was ripped out from
under him and he slammed against the floor hard enough to cut off his
scream. He gasped pathetically, desperate to pull air back into
lungs. He saw the ballroom spirits through blurry eyes. They looked
as frightened as he felt, rushing away from him and whatever had
grabbed him; Dispersing and disappearing into the walls. He kicked
out his legs trying to get loose but the grip tightened, and when he
looked over his shoulder he saw the laughing shadows. With long
branches of arms, they tried to drag him back into the darkness of
the halls. He screamed, thrashed and clawed at the wood floors. The
shadows laughed, louder and louder, filling the night.
THUD-thud
THUD-thud THUD-thud THUD-thud
The
laughs went silent. His heart was beating so fast it was like being
punched in the chest.
THUD-thud
THUD-thud THUD-thud THUD-thud
For
a moment nothing was moving and a tall, bulky figure emerged from the
dark. He couldn't believe his eyes. With legs and arms thick like
trees, corded with muscle, skin the color of stone, with protruding
horns from its head, and draping wings. He saw what he recognized to
be the gargoyle from the roof of the manor. Up close it was larger
than he realized and its horrible, beautiful face was twisted in
rage. It roared and the shadows shrieked and scattered. The hand with
its fingers dug into his leg did not release him and tried to take
him away with them. The gargoyle lunged for the shadow, slashing with
clawed hands, and the shadow finally let go.
Timothy
scrambled across the floor, pushing himself up on his aching leg and
limping back towards the staircase. He could hear the shrieks, roars,
and crashing behind him, and he fought through the pain with each
step up. He fell at the top of the stairs, catching himself on his
elbows and crawling back to the bedroom. He slammed the door behind
him, panting so hard he wretched on the carpet…
The Fourth Night
He
woke up the next morning still on the floor; the sour scent of his
own vomit soaked into the carpet next to him. Sharp spikes of pain
ran up and down his leg, but he fought through it and forced himself
onto his hands and knees and crawled to the bed. He used the bed to
brace himself, and was relieved he could stand without too much
trouble. It hurt, but he could do it. He flopped onto the bed, and
laid face down for a while. Confused, aching, miserable, alone.
He
needed to get out of here. He should have trusted his gut before and
just left. There was no explanation for what he saw, and nothing he
could do. He got back up and slowly started gathering his things into
his backpack. His body was heavy like lead, and his heart heavier. He
downed a bottle of water he'd left in the room, washing away the dry
stickiness in his mouth. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until
the empty bottle crinkled in his hand.
Taking
the cane with him when he left, both for safety and for its intended
purpose, he made his way through the cursed house. It almost didn't
cross his mind to pick up his phone at the end of the hall, but he
caught it out of the corner of his eye, and remembered it had been
recording. He snatched it up and quickly played back the video.
It
was blank.
The
video was completely black, no video, no audio. Nothing. He sighed
and put the phone in his pocket. He wasn't sure what he'd been
expecting. Maybe just something to let him know he wasn't going mad.
He continued his slow walk down stairs and out of the house, stopping
just for a moment to look up at the gargoyle overhead. It stood
unmovable.
"Good
luck with whatever the hell this place is." He said, feeling a
bit silly talking to a rock. He finally walked away from the manor
and followed the side of the road in the direction he had first come.
The
sun warmed his skin and a soft breeze through his hair started to
perk him up a bit. His leg still hurt like hell, but he was out, and
on his way. He repeated the French phrases in his head to ask for a
ride, and after twenty minutes of walking, he saw his first car.
"Hey!"
He screamed at the little green vehicle as it passed, waving his free
hand. "I need help!"
The
car pulled to a stop not far ahead of him, and he could have cried
from the relief he felt. He speed walked to the driver side window,
ready to try and explain himself, but he cut himself short.
The
car was empty.
There
was no driver, no passengers. Just an empty green car sitting on the
side of the road. He stared at it for a long while, too frightened to
move.
"What
the hell?" He said softly to himself.
There
was a click and the door of the car flung open, and he jumped back,
stumbling away. He kept moving forward along the road, and checking
back over his shoulder to see if he was being followed but the little
green car was gone. Another car was coming from in front of him, this
one red, and he raised his arm only to realize, it had no driver
either. He panicked and ran into the trees, away from the road. He
looked up at the sun and tried to follow in the same direction as the
road, just far enough away from it that he hoped he couldn't be seen.
The
air seemed to be getting heavier and a horrible thought occurred to
him. Maybe it wasn't the house. Maybe it was this place. Originally
the shadows had been outside the manor, and come in the night after.
The coverings on the windows were making more sense, and he wondered
how long his grandfather had been living in that manor, hiding from
what was outside. Had Timothy in fact, been the one to let them in?
He
told himself to keep moving, that he just had to keep going. The
rocks and roots and rolling of the land slowed him down, but his fear
wouldn't allow him to stop. Just when he started to feel a glimpse of
hope in his chest, he burst from out of the trees and the brush, and
found himself at the driveway of the manor.
"What?"
He said, staring dumbfounded at the front steps. "WHAT!?"
He
had been walking in the opposite direction. It was impossible for him
to be there.
"FUCK."
He screamed, slamming his fist into the closest tree. The bite of the
bark in his knuckles, and the ache in his leg clouded his head and he
just kept punching. He stood under the tree, drenched in sweat and
gasping for breath when the exhaustion finally set in. Utterly
defeated, he went back into the manor. The trudge up the stairs
seemed much more tedious than before and once again he found himself
collapsing on his grandfather's bed.
He
just laid there, body shaking but silent until the sun started to go
down. He tried to clear his head, to focus on what needed to be done.
He moved the box of food from downstairs up to the master bedroom,
drapes were pulled back out from the linen closet and nailed over all
the bedroom windows, and the doors and windows were locked tight. In
an act of what was perhaps stupid desperation, he pushed the large
wardrobe in front of the door. He wasn't sure it would help but it
made him feel more secure.
He
didn't leave the room all night, or the next day.
The Sixth
Night
He
sat on the bedroom floor, eating green beans from a can. He hadn't
slept and he only knew it was day, because of the slivers of light
slipping through the sloppily hung drapes. His mind could only offer
maddening thoughts.
He
was all alone in this place.
What
if none of it was real?
What
if he was losing it?
The
walls closed in, the air almost too heavy to breathe, his lungs
straining. He had no plan to get out, pain still shooting up his leg,
and was too tired to think.
It
occurred to him, just for a moment, that he might die there.
A
sound filled the room, that he didn't quite register at first. He
thought it was a ringing in his ears, but that kind of ringing didn't
have a beat. He shot up straight and scrambled across the floor to
his phone, clutching it tightly and answering without even looking at
who it was.
"Hello?!"
He said desperately, hands shaking.
"Tim?"
A soft and familiar voice said. "It's me, Bre."
"Bre?"
He said confused. He hadn't heard from his old friend in years.
"I
just heard about your break up," she said. "I was so
worried and no one can seem to find you. Are you hiding out
somewhere?"
"I-I'm
in France." He stuttered out. He was really starting to question
his sanity. Was he really on the phone with Bre? The last time he had
spoken to her it had been a huge fight. She had wanted him to dump
his boyfriend; she said James was a red flag and couldn't be trusted.
Tim hadn't listened to her then.
"France!?"
She exclaimed. "What are you doing there?"
"Long
story." He said. "I’m at my grandpa's old place… I’m
so sorry. I'm so so sorry. You were right about everything from the
start and I-"
"Hey,
hey! It's okay."
She reassured him. "All that matters now is that you're okay."
"I
want to see you." He said, hands shaking. "I want to come
home."
"I
don't think that's a good idea." She said, "Listen. James
is looking for you everywhere. He even went to your parents' place.
It wasn't pretty. It's safer for you there right now."
He
sat in silence staring at the wardrobe in front of the bedroom door.
"Hey,
I'll come to you." She said, "I'll get some tickets, and
come to you as soon as I can, I promi-"
The
call cut out as the battery on his phone finally died. Once again he
was alone.
Or
was he?
He
had replayed the previous night in his head over and over, it seemed
like the Gargoyle had been trying to help him. There were old myths
about Gargoyles warding off evil, and if ghosts and spirits were
real, then maybe. Just maybe.
When
night had fallen again he reluctantly walked out into the halls once
more. He wandered, listening closely for the heavy footsteps. He
gripped the cane in his hands tighter as the whispers began, but he
kept moving. His leg throbbed as the voices drew louder and then-
THUD-thud
THUD-thud THUD-thud THUD-thud
The
voices quieted. The shadows scattered. He watched with bated breath
and shaking hands, as the stone beast showed itself. It walked slow,
hunched over, out of the darkness of the corridors ahead. This close,
he could hear its heavy breathing and see the animalistic sheen of
its red eyes. Their gazes were locked, but for some reason —maybe
because of the other night— Tim wasn't afraid.
“Hello?,”
he said cautiously.
It
stared at him, unresponsive, almost seeming like stone once again. He
took a step closer to it, then another.
“You
shouldn't be here.” A voice like gravel rolled out of its maw, and
Tim jumped out of his skin.
He
hadn't actually been expecting it to talk.
“I-I'm
sorry?” Tim said, unsure how else to respond.
“Humans
are not safe in this place,” it- no he
replied.
“Not now that they
are
let in.”
“I
noticed,” Tim said awkwardly. “But I can't leave.”
“As
you wish.” The Gargoyle started to turn away from him, and he
jumped forward in a panic.
“Wait!,”
he exclaimed, hand outstretched.
The
Gargoyle actually stopped, and looked back to Tim with his red gaze.
“Please,
I don't want to be alone.” It was a desperate plea from deep in his
bones.
He
was so tired, and it wasn't just the house. He was so tired of
feeling alone. His loneliness was consuming him just as much as the
fear. He couldn't bear it a second longer. He needed someone. Anyone.
Yes, even the spooky fucking Gargoyle.
The
silence stretched across the hall between them before the Gargoyle
finally said, “As you wish.”
The
large creature walked towards him with his heavy steps and Tim found
himself being picked up and carried, one strong arm behind his back
and the other beneath his legs. He wanted to protest but only
stutters left his mouth, unable to speak out of pure embarrassment.
The last time he had been carried like this was… he didn't think
he'd ever been carried like this before.
Despite
his reservation, the deceptively stone colored skin pressed against
him was soft, and warmth leached into his body for the first time
since coming to the cursed place. There was such strength in the
limbs that held him, an assurance that he wouldn't be dropped. It was
impossible not to relax into them. He was carried all the way back to
the master bedroom, the Gargoyle having to hunch through the door,
and was placed on the bed. There was a moment, a single moment where
the strange being leaned over him, that his mouth went dry and his
mind went places far away from reality. Then he moved away and it was
gone as quickly as it had come.
“Sleep.”
The Gargoyle said as he sat in front of the door.
Tim
just stared at him; it was completely surreal.
“Sleep.”
He said again more firmly.
“Will
you come closer?” Tim asked.
Silence,
another awkward pause, and then he moved to the floor by the side of
the bed. Maybe it was childish. Maybe it was desperation. Tim reached
his hand out and touched the Gargoyle’s arm. Feeling the warmth in
his hand, and finally being able to rest.
The Seventh
Night
Tim
woke up groggy. The room around him blurred and his head ached with a
dull pounding behind his eyes. His twice injured leg throbbed, and he
just laid back staring at the ceiling for what could have been
dragging minutes or flashing hours.
His
vision eventually cleared and he found he was alone, the gargoyle
absent from his side. How could he not question his grip on reality?
Hunger
was the only thing that drove him to get up. His rations were running
low, but he only had to make it one more night. Right? Surely after
the seven nights were up someone would come check on him. The asshole
of a lawyer had to make sure he was still alive to officially hand
over his inheritance. He'd come wouldn't he?
One
more night, just one more. He had to keep repeating it to himself to
believe it.
The
pain in his leg stung fiercely and he convinced himself he just
needed to walk it off. The sun was up and he was still pretty sure he
was safe in the daylight. He didn't bother to put shoes on, just a
hoodie. For some reason he was even colder than before, shivering
from his head to his toes.
“Just
walk it off,” He said aloud to himself, “walk it off.”
Despite
the cold, the sun was shining brightly through the hall windows.
Outside was green and beautiful as ever. It was honestly a shame how
the place had been left to fall apart. He thought briefly of going to
see if the Gargoyle had returned to its place above the door. He
didn't know what he expected. Some kind of validation? Proof of the
things he had been experiencing? You'd think an injury would be
enough, but part of his brain kept trying to justify it, maybe he had
just reopened the wound that had already been there? As his mind
leaped through these hurdles he came to the grand staircase and
stopped at the top, blinking at the strange sight below.
The
Gargoyle was there. Solid stone in the center of the entry hall, arm
stretched out towards the partially open main doors. Tim hobbled down
the stairs as fast as he could be expected to. He just stood in front
of it, staring into its gruesome, well carved face. Cautiously he
reached out, placing a hand on its chest. It was just stone, cold to
the touch, and unassuming.
This
was real. All of it.
There
had to be something he could do other than wait it out. What was he
going to do when this was all over, just leave? He thought of all the
shattered statues outside and knew that this gargoyle, this living
being, had been here all alone. Could he really abandon someone who
had saved his life?
His
grandfather had lived in this place for years right? If he had let
the shadows in, could he get them back out? There had to be a way.
He
shuffled around the manor, carefully searching the rooms again,
looking for… well something. Anything that looked important. It was
a slow and painful trudge through the house, room by room. He was
shaking and cold sweats rolled over his body. His vision was going in
and out, black spots dotting his sight. He leaned against the walls
for support, bracing himself with his arm. His arm thunked against a
door, and he couldn't remember what was behind it. He opened it with
a wobble and found a closet filled with boxes upon boxes. He had seen
this closet before but hadn't bothered looking through it. He used
the excuse to sit and started rifling through the dusty old
cardboard.
The
contents of the boxes grew increasingly more odd the longer he
looked. At first they would just be little trinkets and old clothes.
A box of old photos here, a box of old curtains there. Then it was
stones and animal bones. Candles and books covered in strange
symbols. Pages and pages of writing; desperate hasty writings. The
sitting had eased some of his pain and he forced himself to read. His
life could depend on it after all. It was slow and tedious but he
gleaned some information from the words. They were certainly his
grandfather’s writings and in them he spoke of the shadows in the
woods and how they had crept
into the house long ago before even his time. He spoke of how his
ancestors crafted spells to cast them out and carved the gargoyles to
keep them out. However, that wasn’t enough. The shadows grew
stronger, and the spells grew weaker. One by one his staff abandoned
the house until he was left alone to recon with the shadows himself.
He’d spent so long trying to figure out how the original banishment
spell was cast, and he succeeded. In the end, the combination of his
age and the torments of the shadows, who smashed the gargoyles one by
one over the course of many nights, he was unable to cast the spell
before he felt his own death approaching. His rantings and ravings
showed that he had gone completely mad by the end.
A
rush of adrenaline went through him, determination. He stood back up,
ignorant to the pain and heat of his body, and gathered the things he
needed from boxes. It was a hell of a long shot but he had to perform
the spell himself. He had no idea what he was doing but luckily his
grandfather seemed to be a methodical man and all his notes were
accompanied by sketches and diagrams, so he could identify what he
needed by sight. He gathered everything in one box and dragged it
down the hall. It looked like he needed a decent sized space, and the
set up needed to be towards the middle of the manor, so he had
decided on the ball room. His cold sweat was soaking through his
cloths, but he just kept his breathing even as he worked.
Once
he reached the massive room he began the painstaking process of
drawing circles and lines and symbols across the marble floor. He
used chalk and salt, imitating the diagrams carefully. His steps
echoed through the hollow room, paired with the sound of his haggard
breath. Every few minutes he'd slump on the floor and his vision
would go dark. He couldn't tell if he was blacking out or not, time
wasn't real anymore. He placed the objects within the circle, a mix
of candles, dry plants, and strange trinkets. None of it really made
sense to him. He put the final touch, blood from his open wound
smeared inside the center circle to complete it.
He
laid on the ground and let the dark take him.
He
didn't know what time of day it was, or how long he laid there. The
marble floor felt so cool against his face, he just wanted to stay
there. The empty room was so, so cold. So quiet, and he was alone.
When
he opened his eyes, the ghosts had returned. They danced and danced
in circles around the spell he had drawn. Not touching it or him,
however, kept glancing at him with expressions of concern. Pity.
His
leg burned like fire, he was drenched in sweat, and his mouth was dry
and sticky. He tried pushing himself up on his arms, wobbled, then
dropped onto his back. He stared at the ceiling watching the shifting
of ghost light and desperately wanting to just get up. He wondered,
for a brief moment, if he was dying.
He
heard the sound, THUD-thud THUD-thud THUD-thud THUD-thud.
The
ghosts parted and scattered at the sound, making a path for the
gargoyle. The being lumbered over him, looking down at him. What was
that expression? Was the creature sad? Afraid? Was it guilty?
Tim
couldn't decipher him, but he was here.
He
needed someone to be here. Reaching up to the creature with weak
arms, he felt the burning of tears behind his eyes. He caressed the
gargoyles face, and that alone got a reaction. The creatures red eyes
widened and it leaned down lower, curiously.
It
was loneliness. It was madness. He kissed the gargoyle, wrapping his
arms around him, holding on with all the strength he had left. He
didn't know what he expected to come from this, but when the gargoyle
held him close he almost started bawling. He clung to the creature,
deepening the kissing, pressing their bodies together, seeking any
form of touch. The kiss was feverish and wet and when he parted to
look up at the Gargoyles face, it's wide eyes were bright with
wonder.
“I
still need to finish the spell,” he said coming back to reality,
“Pick me up.”
He
had no doubts the Gargoyle would do as he asked, something in bones
told him so. The being pulled him to his feet, so gently for someone
so large. His hands settled on Tim's sides, keeping him standing as
he opened the book to the incantation.
He
stared daggers at the complex circle as he read the incantation
aloud. The words tumbled from his mouth, wrong and misshapen. His
already fragile confidence waned when nothing happened. The walls
whispered and the shadows crept into his vision.
“Again.”
The gargoyle commanded, letting him go.
His
legs were just barely keeping him standing, wobbling as he read the
words again, louder, clearer. It was for just a moment, but he saw
the spell circle glow. His eyes were blurring again and he could only
hear the battle raging around him. Slamming, tearing, shrieking. He
shouted the words again. Screaming them over, and over, the urgency
in his voice drawing more and more light from the circle until it
blinded him, washing everything away.
What Comes After
He
wasn’t sure if he was dead or alive. He wasn’t sure if it
mattered until he heard a soft voice over him. The familiar voice
sounded so far away, but they were definitely upset. Were they crying
over him?
This
place, wherever he was. It was so dark. So silent. He was alone.
He
didn't want to die like that. He tried to reach out with hands he
couldn't see. Seeking the owner of the voice. Wanting to let them
know he was still there. He started to here more voices. Loud and
urgent followed by high pitch beeps that kept speeding up and slowing
down. It was only when the voices calmed and beeping steadied the he
could finally open his eyes.
The
white walls were almost worse then the dark void. Everything was
blinding and smelled sterile. There was one splash of color in the
empty space. Bre. She was the same as he remembered, colorful hair
and baggy cloths, hunched over her phone. She wasn't smiling though,
he missed that smile so much. Worse she looked like she'd been crying
a lot.
He
wanted to speak but his head was pounding and his mouth was sticky.
He laid there until she noticed him staring at her and she started
screaming for a doctor. Once the nurses were scrambling into the room
she started yelling at him. All the activity sent his eyes spinning
but he gathered some of what she said.
“What
were you doing?!”
“What
were you thinking?!”
“Why
didn’t you call?!”
“What
happened?!”
She
had to be removed from the room, and by ‘remove’ he meant dragged
out. He dozed in and out while doctors checked him out and
administered meds. When he was fully conscious again she was let back
in the room. Tears streaked her face but she as much calmer. She sat
by his side and took his hand. He almost started crying himself,
wondering if anything he was seeing was real. Even squeezing her
hand, he wasn’t sure. Fear crept in through the groggy haze of his
mind. What if this was just him dreaming? What if he was still laying
on the floor of the ballroom?
“Is
it really you?” His voice croaked as he spoke for the first time,
“Are you really here?”
“I’m
here,” She reassured.
“How?”
He asked.
“Got
your grandpa’s lawyer’s number from your parents.” She said,
wiping snot of her face with her shirt, “Gave him a call and came
out here to get you. W-we found you unconscious and you had a
horrible fever, you were babbling crazy shit in your sleep. Doc said
it was an infection on your leg.”
“Fuck,”
He sighed, laying his head back and closing his eyes against the
blinding hospital lights, “I’m so sorry Bre.”
“Did
James do that to you?” She asked, “Your leg.”
“...The
first time.” He admitted, “I reopened the cut at the Manor.”
“I’m
so sorry,” She was crying again, “You’ve been all alone.”
“It’s
my fault,” He said, “I should have listened to you, but I let him
push you away. I was dumb.”
“Your
not dumb.” She said, squeezing his hand tighter, “Everything’s
gonna be alright now. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”
He
didn’t intend to fall asleep again but a feeling of security washed
over and consumed him.
****
The
next days went by quickly. He met Bre’s new girlfriend Sadie who
was sweet and helped out with whatever she could. The hospital kept
him for a couple days to make sure he was alright and sent him off
anti-antibiotics and a stern lecture. They met up with Mr. Garnier
and Tim got give him a piece of his mind, and the lawyer profusely
apologized making sure everything was legally squared away. He was
shocked to say the least when Tim said he wanted to keep the house
and stay in France, but promised to assist with that too.
The
return to the manor was tense, but he had to go back. He had to know
what happened to the Gargoyle. Bre and Sadie’s were not as in awe
of the place as he had been. In fact the looked at him like he might
still be losing it as her walked up the stairs. The gargoyle was not
perched above the door in vigilance and he wasn’t standing in the
entry way either. Tim went straight to the ballroom and his heart
fell. From the door the spell circle, jagged broken stone scattered
across the floor. One large stone looked up at him in a frozen
gruesome face. His protector had been shattered. When he started
sobbing Bre really must have thought he had lost it, but she just
hugged him and took him out of the room.
He
laid in his grandpa’s room again that night. There were no
whispers, no laughter, no footsteps, and no thuds. There was just
silence in the dark.
Until
he heard a scream. He jumped out of bed and ran down the stairs,
following the sound equal parts fearful and hopeful. There were no
shadow figures, or giant gargoyles. Bre and Sadie were standing
outside the ballroom, staring in horror as the ghosts danced their
ethereal waltz.
“They’re
fine don’t worry about it.” Tim sighed rubbing his head, “please
lets go back to sleep.”
Of
course they did not go back to sleep. He made everyone coffee and
explained the entire story from start to finish. They didn’t quiet
believe him at first but it was hard to argue with what was right in
front of your eyes.
Despite
everything, they agreed to stay in the house with him for a while.
Days
turned into weeks. They got help cleaning the place up, he had the
money for that kind of thing now after all. People who once worked
for his grandfather came by to meet him and see if the spirits were
truly gone. Some of them wanted to come back, they had felt pity for
his grandfather in his growing madness, but had been helpless to stop
it. Many simple thanked him for what e had done and left, wanting to
move one. Who could blame them. He spent many nights pouring over his
grandfathers notes, learning ways to strengthen the protections on
the house and prevent anything that wasn’t supposed to be there
from getting back in.
Last
but not least he had been put in touch with a sculptor who could
repair broken statues.
With
Bre and Sadie, he didn’t spend a moment alone.
