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.
