The fascinating tale I shall disclose is fraught with a daunting nature, and the peculiar manner of its concealment I shall relate with the utmost discretion. By overtly acknowledging the admission of this account, the curse will be exposed in asseveration.
What you will read is considered unnatural, but it owes its origin to the distinguished lineage of my ancestry. It is intertwined within the parentage and patrilineality of a family noble in prominence and repute. I am Sebastian Belanger, a distant cousin of the last scion of the Ainsworths, Sir Thomas Ainsworth III.
The motorcar hummed along the desolate country road, its headlights cutting pale beams through the thickening dusk. I sat in the backseat, eyes fixed on the passing scenery—endless stretches of bleak moorland, shrouded in a creeping mist that seemed to close in with every mile. The driver, a stoic man of few words, kept his gaze locked on the winding road, his hands gripping the wheel with a quiet tension I couldn’t ignore.
As we approached the estate, the road narrowed and became increasingly uneven, jolting the car as we made the final ascent. Then, through the gauze of fog and encroaching night, the Ainsworth Manor appeared—a towering, gaunt structure perched upon its lonely hill, its jagged silhouette stark against the dim sky. The windows, lifeless and black, seemed to leer down at us like hollow eyes, and ivy clung to the stone like veins upon withered skin.
‘Nearly there, sir’, the driver muttered at last, his voice tinged with something between resignation and foreboding. ‘They say folk don’t stay long at Ainsworth Manor these days. There are guests of that manor that swear to have seen ghosts'.
I offered no reply, only tightened my grip on my satchel as a peculiar sense of dread unfurled within me—a heaviness that seemed to seep from the very ground we crossed. The iron gates loomed into view, opening with a reluctant creak as the car pulled through and rolled to a halt before the grand entrance.
I stepped out into the crisp night air, the smell of damp earth and old stone filling my senses. The manor rose before me, dark and imposing, its presence almost sentient. Somewhere deep within its walls, I felt the first stirrings of a history that was waiting—watching—for my arrival.
It was midday at the eldritch Ainsworth Estate in Leicestershire, beyond the dale of the anfractuous road. The year was 1908, and the Victorian epoch had by then been replaced by the innovative Edwardian. It had recently rained, and droplets trickled down the bedraggled rooftop, also covering the verdure of the gardens and the foliage of the sylvan woodlands by the sinuous rill. The manor had a broad demesne extending several acres in width and length.
What arrested my attention was the impressive Gothic architecture of its original design. The manor was balanced in proportion on each side symmetrically. The east and west wings were distinctive and picturesque in appearance. The stunning parapets and gables were as steady as the cloisters of antiquated abbeys.
The ornately carved bay windows were overshadowed by the turrets of such stately height, and old moss covered the outer edges of the manor on one side. The bustling winds of the hurst stirred, and the sky was swathed in a Cimmerian tincture of dreariness I had seldom seen in the colourful countryside of England before. Its Gothic portico had a dim and drab façade that revealed the entrance to the isolated Ainsworth Manor.
From the correspondence I had received, Sir Ainsworth had an urgency to see me and speak of a matter of great importance. The letter was incoherent in its contents. Had I not known he was a distant relative, I might have concluded it was written by a madman or a desperate individual eloigned; yet this did not preclude my visit to Leicestershire, nor quell my curiosity to meet him.
When I finally did, it was inside the cold, long, narrow, opaque corridor by the great hall, where he descended from a mechanical contraption operated by the currents of electricity. It was a most fascinating device—at once eerie and unforeseen.
When the gate opened wide, I saw the inimitable guise of a macilent, middle-aged man, whose eyes were covered by large dark spectacles. His appearance reflected the disconcerting ordeal that troubled his poor soul with indisposition.
He was accoutred in the eccentric attire of a Gothic nobleman. His vintage cisvestism did not accord with his aristocratic name and patronage. The black, long-sleeved shirt with ruffled cuffs and the straightened collar, accompanied by tight-fitting trousers and luculent shoes, baffled me conspicuously. His particular clothing was the complete opposite of my fashionable suit, white shirt, and waistcoat over my necktie.
My plain trousers and shoes seemed far more suitable for the occasion. Indeed, my presumption regarding my distant kinsman was drastically altered—and, as it turned out, quite erroneous. What compounded the peculiarity of the encounter was the fact that he was not demure in his erratic idiosyncrasy. I sensed immediately that my visit was not to be one of mere conviviality.
As he descended from the electric mechanical contrivance known as a lift, I considered, in the back of my perceptive mind, the true nature of my visit and the contradictory composition of the house. The once aesthetic beauty of the manor was now sadly replaced by a lustreless shade interspersed through the atrabilious apartments adjacent to the main hall, beyond the alcoves.
The sombre velvet curtains of the lounge were closed, and only a token gleam of light could be seen from inside the swart manor. I felt the cold draught, and I had never witnessed such a demonstrative remnant of gradation before, within the decadence of any manor I had visited. I stood face to face then with Sir Ainsworth as he stood firmly. He introduced himself with such a prosaic and stolid expression at first that I construed it as perfunctory.
‘Welcome to the Ainsworth Manor, Mr Belanger. It is a great pleasure to meet you’, he said, in a salutation that was indifferent, as he shook my hand.
‘I am Sebastian Belanger from London, and the pleasure is mine. Am I to assume you are Thomas Ainsworth the Third?’ I enquired.
‘Yes, Mr Belanger—and do forgive my impudent oversight, for impropriety is not a common consuetude of mine. Ever since I began to suffer degrees of hysteria, I have not been the same of late’.
‘Degrees of hysteria, you say, Sir Ainsworth? What exactly do you mean by that unusual declaration?’ I asked deliberately.
‘Forgive me—you do not know, Mr Belanger. I was referring to my...how shall I put it...my profound episodes of delirium, which Dr Remington has diagnosed’, he replied.
‘You look terribly gaunt and frail in your all-overish features, Sir Ainsworth. Good God, you must be suffering from some physical illness as well’.
‘I suffer from an acute form of an unknown disease that has begun to disable my functions. You see, bright light triggers my hypersensitivity; warmth exacerbates my body temperature; and even the slightest sounds disturb my sentience. It is the ingravescent atrophy of my affliction—and my foreseeable fate. I can even perceive the faintest dews of rain. Do I seem pale and feeble to you?’ He explained, then asked with sudden sullenness.
‘If I must be truthful, then yes, Sir Ainsworth’.
‘It is not often that I have visitors anymore, Mr Belanger, and I dread to gaze into a mirror. After all, mirrors are nothing more than the representation of self-conceit. Now, you are probably wondering why I summoned you to the estate in the first place’.
‘Yes, Sir Ainsworth’.
‘Let us enter the main hall, where we may discuss this matter in privacy. I shudder at the thought of us being overheard by them’, he told me, before we sat down in a pair of chairs around an ebony oak table.
‘What do you mean, Sir Ainsworth?’
‘Soon you shall know, Mr Belanger, but I am afraid there is an exigency pending’, he remarked in a low whisper.
‘Why are you whispering, Sir Ainsworth?’ I asked, dumbfounded.
He looked around cautiously before answering in a plain, measured tone, ‘Because they are everywhere—for there is no sanctuary’.
‘Who?’
‘The watchful boggards of the manor’.
‘Ghosts?’
He began to explain the unwonted story of the curse and the reason I had been asked to come. ‘It all began one day in the year 1768, with my ancestor Sir Geoffrey Ainsworth. He was the first to succumb to the horrible effects of the curse of the manor and died at the age of forty', he paused then continued.
‘Ever since then, every male descendant of the Ainsworth line has died at that age. It was said that he was visited by the dreadful spectres of the deceased and buried Ainsworths whilst residing in the manor’.
‘Surely there is a logical explanation for that. Perhaps it is mere coincidence, Sir Ainsworth. You cannot expect me to believe that a foolish superstition about a curse dictates fate’, I exclaimed.
‘It is no mere superstition. The apparitions exist. Soon, I too shall be possessed by them and die, as the curse dictates. There is little time to dawdle in details, and I lack the patience. I am slowly dying, Mr Belanger, and time is of vital importance. I have included you in my will. The manor shall be yours to claim, if you agree to the required terms. I have instructed my sister Esther to ensure your stay in the manor is to your satisfaction, and the servants have been informed'. He took a deep breath.
‘Now, I grow weary and must return to the comfort of my chamber. I yearn for necessary repose, but I shall need your decision by tomorrow’.
‘I was not prepared for this surprise, but I shall definitely have an answer’.
He handed me a copy of the will and excused himself. His hands were cold and bony, his frailness plain to see, with evident blains infecting his skin. His teeth were yellow and crooked, and his hair was thinning at the top. Yet, I could not forget the unique nature of his story, nor his desire to bestow me the manor, though we were practically strangers. The stipulation imposed was that I take care of the affairs of the estate.
Oddly enough, there was little mention of his sister, who did not reside at the estate, except that she was to receive a great portion of the inheritance. I had not expected these revelations, but my fascination with the supposed Ainsworth curse compelled me to seek more information about my kin.
Afterwards, whilst in the corridor, I noticed the ample gallery ahead: the hanging chandeliers, the paintings above the overmantels, and the etchings beside the ceiling spandrels were all tainted by decline, as was the rickety stairway. It was obvious that something terrible had befallen the house—something more tangible than a foolish curse.
Despite the gloom, the furnishings had been refurbished. I surmised they needed only dusting and polishing. I was escorted to the guest room, where I was to sojourn during my stay at the manor, by one of Sir Ainsworth’s diligent servitors. As I passed the stairway, I perceived a mystic intangibility surrounding the house that I could not decipher.
The chamber was commodious and well prepared for my stay, but it stood in stark contrast to the dishevelled appearance of other parts of the home. That striking impression was difficult to overcome, and my thoughts became consumed by profound circumspection.
Sir Ainsworth was a very selcouth fellow, but he was determined to award me the manor and its estate by dint of our esteemed consanguinity. This act of loyalty demonstrated that his intentions were not parsimonious regarding the distribution of his wealth. I had heard many unusual stories in my life, but none filled with such suspense and superstition as this.
Later, I sat at the dinner table in the dining hall downstairs with Sir Ainsworth’s sister, Lady Ainsworth, who had visited. We discussed the will and her brother’s peculiar illness. She was winsome and gracious, wearing an elegant lace dress that matched her pale complexion and accessories—though the pattern was garish, and her periapt was telling. I was not inclined to meddle in their affairs, but my inquisitive mind yearned for answers.
After all, my encounter with Sir Ainsworth had been equivocal, clouded in immense dubiety. Being his sibling, she would surely know more of the grievous nature of his vulnerable predicament. When I made my enquiry, she was not timorous in disclosing what she knew.
'Sir Ainsworth, my brother, is going totally mad, Mr. Belanger. The illness he claims has stricken him with a haunting malediction is a fanciful exaggeration—or a fabricated conjecture. The supernatural beings are but myths, invented by his rapid hysteria', she told me.
'I am no doctor, my lady, but judging from his dissipating physicality, he does seem to suffer from some aggressive malady', I replied.
'I can understand that interpretation. His careworn and fragile guise, although disturbing, is nothing more than unsettling paranoia. He has been obsessed ever since he learnt of that absurd family curse', she exclaimed.
'Why create an incredible tale of unnatural beings? What can you tell me of Sir Geoffrey Ainsworth’s encounter with the ghosts in 1768, my lady?'
'The circumstances of his death are, in truth, mysterious. But the doctor who attended him diagnosed insanity as the cause. Sadly, madness has claimed the lives of many of our male relatives'.
'It does seem logical—but the fact they all died at forty is peculiar, my lady'.
'Because you are a stranger, Mr. Belanger, and here in these parts of the country, superstition is common and spreads rampantly—especially amongst peevish, blithering curmudgeons', she explained.
We ended the conversation, and she headed upstairs to her room. Meanwhile, I remained downstairs in one of the private apartments near my chamber. Whilst standing in front of a portrait of Sir Geoffrey Ainsworth, I sensed that a stranger was observing me from behind.
At first, the presence was barely noticeable, but as I stared at the portrait, I saw a pallid guise resembling Sir Ainsworth’s in its severity. Was this mere coincidence, or was his affliction contributing to that ghostly pallor? I then heard the eerie sound of heavy breathing and the grating of nails coming from the corridor. I glimpsed only an indistinct image of a hand with elongated fingernails vanishing into the umbriferous shadows.
When I investigated, the breathing ceased abruptly. Did I imagine it? Was it a servant—or merely the irregular noise of the wind at that hour? Because the manor was largely unlit, I struggled to discern anything clearly. I dismissed the occurrence and returned to my chamber in the private apartments on the first storey. That night, I pondered the strange events beginning to unfold.
The next morning, after breakfast, I found Lady Ainsworth in the main hall conversing with one of the servants. I could not discern the nature of their exchange, except that she seemed to be giving orders. The darkness of the corridor at night and its flickering candles were replaced by the sun’s incandescent light when Sir Ainsworth was not present.
It seemed odd, but using candles at night was common amongst Edwardians who did not want to waste electricity prodigally. Not wanting to appear prying, I waited at the edge of the stairway, feigning as though I had just exited my chamber.
When she saw me, she kindly informed me that Sir Ainsworth would be coming to speak with me. He had breakfast in his room, as was his usual custom. She asked me to wait in the main hall. Sir Ainsworth, ever prompt and meticulous, soon appeared—descending once more from the mechanical device. Dressed in his familiar dark Gothic attire, he spoke.
His enfeeblement had worsened, and he staggered somewhat from the lift. It seemed as though he was in a half-swoon that required a restorative treatment. I attempted to assist him, but he insisted that, with the support of his walking stick, he would be all right.
'Good morning, Sir Ainsworth!' I said.
'Good morning, Mr Belanger. I am afeard that my valuable time is expiring. Have you made your decision regarding my generous offer?' He enquired.
'Yes, Sir Ainsworth. I have decided to accept your conditions', I replied.
'Good, then let us enter the main hall to finalise the will, Mr Belanger'.
I followed him into the main hall, and we sat down. The room was as dull as to be expected, considering Sir Ainsworth’s hypersensitivity. It was apparent that he had passed the initial stages of his physical ailment, and the psychalgia, which had been relentlessly afflicting him, would soon manifest beyond his frail body. I signed the will, but there was a sequence of events that bemused me.
First, I had to sign the will, with my blood staining the paper. Second, I noticed the long fingernails that were stretching out so unnaturally. The sight of those nails quickly reminded me of the strange incident the previous night, when I had heard the eerie grating of nails. I was astonished by their length, the blood, and the nails themselves—things I could not comprehend. I had realised that he was a man of eccentricities, but I had failed to see beyond this anomaly.
He was wearing his usual spectacles, and his voice had become more broken, the enunciation strained. I did not wish to press him with questions about his deteriorating health, so I listened attentively to every word he said. But it was uncomfortable to witness him languish, trapped in that form of decrepitude and mental fugue. Once more, he whispered, his inquietude evident.
'Now that the arrangements of the will are finished, I can die in peace and be rid of this damnable imprecation forever. I have never beguiled any man. My only regret is that I am the last of the Ainsworths. With me will perish the noble strain of the Ainsworth name. I was not blest with a child to comfort me—perhaps it was better this way. How could I condemn a son to this ancestral curse, one he could never escape? I cannot tell you anymore—for they are near, listening. Do you not hear them? They will come for me soon, Mr Belanger. Soon, you will understand', Sir Ainsworth said.
His fatidical admission of his imminent death, combined with the reiteration of the so-called ghosts, stirred a tempest of anxiety within him. He then rose to his feet with the aid of the walking stick, and was escorted back, slowly, by his servant to the lift and to his chamber upstairs. His hallucinatory tale of otherworldly beings had haunted his life, and the finality of his condition seemed now to be descending into an endless series of phantasmagorical episodes, marked by a state of extreme fear and athazagoraphobia that offered no reprieve.
This was his imprisonment—a mental detachment from reality that was as distressing as his physical decay. I found myself even more intrigued by the enigma of his condition. His atavistic obsession with the family curse had driven him to the edge of desperation.
In the days that followed, I noticed his fits of incoherent babbling and substantial lacerations on his arms. With each passing day, he worsened, becoming entirely incoherent, speaking only of the dreadful apparitions and the supposed curse. One Friday evening, a loud peal of thunder echoed through the manor, and I saw Sir Ainsworth in the corridor, trembling in fright.
I approached him and asked what had frightened him so, causing his body to shake uncontrollably. I could not see his eyes due to the spectacles he wore, and I suspected that he might be having a sudden bout of hysteria. He began to convulse briefly, and one of the servants rushed him to the lift to return him to his chamber.
I was deeply concerned about his well-being and suggested to Lady Ainsworth that he should be examined by a doctor. His condition, both mental and physical, was clearly worsening. I thought it inhumane to let him continue in such a state of sheer decline, but Lady Ainsworth rejected my suggestion. She insisted that it was not a curse or a physical illness that had brought him low, but rather insanity.
Her stance unsettled me. She maintained that no doctor could help him, and it was only madness, not a curse, that was the cause of his degradation. I felt helpless in the face of her dismissal—how could I convince her of his condition if she refused to acknowledge the obvious signs? Her refusal to accept the gravity of his plight left me unsettled, her negation more troubling than I could bear.
A storm was approaching from beyond the horizon. I had continued to feel the nocturnal presence and footfall of a being that I perceived was not an invisible wraith. I was in the lounge when, from the corner of my eye, I saw a glimpse of a shadowy figure pass. The coldness in the innermost recesses of the manor had reached me.
The shadow startled me, as I had heard the deep breathing that caused unease to settle in me. I paused for a moment before I asked who was there. There was no response, and the breathing continued as I followed the sound outside. I smelled an insufferable reek nearby. It was then, at the edge of the forest, by the sere leaves and thicket, that I saw a gangling figure eating the remains of a wild boar with a ravenous appetite that was sickening.'
It was a surreal sight, one so hideous in nature that I could scarcely comprehend it. My presence startled the figure, and it scurried away into the forest. I was unable to make out the features of the stranger, leaving me with a vague impression of a being unfamiliar to me.
I returned to the manor, where Lady Ainsworth saw me enter. She was carrying an umbrella, for rain was forecasted. The unexpected occurrence left me speechless at first. After a moment, I told her of the awful stranger I had seen in the woods. I explained that I had briefly witnessed a hirsute being devouring the flesh of a dead boar.
Because the individual was vaguely seen, I could not truly provide an accurate description—there was little visibility in the night. Lady Ainsworth questioned whether I had mistaken the revolting stranger for a wolf or a hybrid hound.
Truthfully, I was not certain of what I had seen, but it did not seem like any animal I had encountered in these parts. Lady Ainsworth advised that it would be best if I did not wander off the property at night, especially alone. I thought it best to adhere to her sound advice, especially as I was but a guest.
With each day I spent at the Ainsworth Manor, I felt the encroaching effects of madness that seemed to permeate the house. An intuitive sense of being watched prevailed over me slowly. There was a certain trepidation that began to preoccupy my thoughts as I pondered the strange occurrences within the manor. I returned to my room, but I could not sleep. I knew I had to speak with Sir Ainsworth in the morning, for it was imperative.
When I awoke, I dressed and headed upstairs to Sir Ainsworth’s chamber. Lady Ainsworth saw me walking up the stairway and notified me that Sir Ainsworth was not feeling well. Her distressing revelation sent a sudden chill through my body as I listened.
I expressed my desire to see him, but she refused my request, saying he was not vigorous enough for visitors. I concluded that her reaction might be an unnecessary overreaction or perhaps an overprotective solicitude of a sibling.
After a few hours had passed, Lady Ainsworth left the room, and I remained in the corridor. I was in the gallery when I heard a loud cry emanating from upstairs. It was coming from Sir Ainsworth's chamber.
There was nobody in the closest proximity, and the clamour was of alarming distress. I climbed the stairway forthwith and had reached his chamber. I had knocked on the door, but the door was not closed. Therefore, I had entered, bedazzled, and found him in the most atrocious manner of hypochondria and hypertensive behaviour. Hysteria had manifested and wielded dominion over his will and actions. It was dark and dismal when I went in, but I could see him lying in the bed through a glimmer. He was shackled to steel chains and was screaming. He had perceived my presence in the room. He said a despairing utterance of 'Beshrew me not!'
I had understood this, as a terrible plea for help. There was profuse perspiration coming from his swollen cheeks. The unsettling yells and twitching made me cringe nervously, until I could bear no more, and I took off the spectacles he was wearing and saw his horrendous eyes.
His eyes were possessed and were the dilated eyes of a madman in composition. They were large and fathomless, and his nose and jawbone had begun to deform, due to self-inflicted wounds. I was petrified by absolute fear, as he had screamed again. I fled the room and had alerted the servants, who refused to do anything.
Afterwards, Lady Ainsworth had arrived and had seen my consternation. She had enquired about my troubling comportment, and I responded by telling her that upstairs her beloved brother was agonising in death. Her reaction I did not anticipate, and she had proceeded to tell me to not get involved, with the authorised supervision of her brother.
She went upstairs to his room, whilst I stayed downstairs. Thence, I heard a stentorian scream. It was the shriek of Lady Ainsworth, who had shrieked so frantically. When I hastened to the stairway, I stopped and realised that the lift had been used, and someone was descending. The question was, who? It could only be either Lady Ainsworth or her brother, Sir Ainsworth.
I would have my answer, as the lift reached the first storey, and the door had opened. There inside the lift stood the ghastly image of a madman. I do not know how to describe with facile words the ineffable image of the malformed man that stood, except that he was wretched in nature, and unrestrained in his mobility.
He had a maniacal face, dripping saliva, and chattering teeth. There was blood covering his hands. It was an evident sign that the madman had recently murdered, and I was to be his next victim, I had feared. When the gate had opened, Sir Ainsworth lunged at me. As he did, a bullet in the arm from one of the servants had halted his advance.
He rose to his feet, and another bullet had stifled his attack. Sir Ainsworth had yelled the boggarts were coming for him, as he leapt through the window, shattering it into shards. The shot of the rifle was heard, and the bullet had proven to be fatal. Sir Ainsworth was dead, as he had laid within the welking shrubbery of the estate so listlessly. There was this eerie phosphorescence that had permeated inadvertently over the cadaver of Sir Ainsworth.
When we reached him, I had recognised the disfigured Sir Ainsworth in a certain transmogrification. A horrid infarction was found in the olid flesh, and putrefaction then slowly emerged from his emaciated body, as the shadow of darkness loomed over the sky. It was impossible to remove the indelible look of evil in his diaphanous eyes.
Sir Ainsworth's madness had manifested completely, into the primordial fright he had alluded to before. How ironic that his insanity was only a precursor to the horrible curse that had persecuted and tormented the Ainsworth surname. An enraptured vision of vitality and adventure had been altered dramatically by the grisly consequences of a terrible curse that abated his life. I had discovered that Sir Ainsworth had brutally murdered Lady Ainsworth.
Upon a dwindling dusk of the next day, the unrecognisable remains of the last scion of the Ainsworths, Sir Thomas Ainsworth the third, were buried and laid to rest within a solitary tomb in a secret vault underneath the estate, where all the male Ainsworths of prestige were interred.
I was the absolute proprietor of the Ainsworth Estate then, and it was my decision to stay and honour the wishes of Sir Ainsworth. I chose to remain in the manor, despite the shocking events that took place there. My deference to his prodigious surname and the cognate lineage we shared had intrinsically persuaded me to uphold that sworn commitment that transcended the simple stipulations of the will. It would be a misguided determination I would sorely regret in the end. Even the posthumous souls have their reckoning fitfully, amongst us the mortals.
After the burial of Sir Ainsworth, the estate began to return to its quiet routine, though an uneasy air clung to the walls. Despite my resolve to stay, the long, sleepless nights weighed heavily upon me. The first visitation came not with an overt announcement, but as a whisper, like a thin thread curling around my consciousness.
It began one evening as the thick mists of autumn crept over the grounds. I sat in the drawing room, by the fireplace, lost in thought. The crackle of the fire did little to warm my mind, which was trapped in the gnawing guilt of my promise to Sir Ainsworth. My thoughts were still consumed by the horror I had witnessed, and I found it impossible to shake the feeling that the house itself harboured a malevolent force.
As the clock struck midnight, a sharp, shrill sound broke through the stillness—the unmistakable sound of chains rattling. I had heard that sound before, back in Sir Ainsworth's final moments. The same clattering chains, binding him in a nightmare of his own making. My heart raced as I stood up and moved cautiously towards the source of the noise. It came from the hallway, just beyond the drawing room.
With a trembling hand, I opened the door. The hallway was bathed in shadow, save for the faintest glimmer of moonlight streaming through the tall windows. As I moved forward, I caught sight of something strange at the end of the hall. There, at the threshold of Sir Ainsworth's former chamber, stood a figure. A shadow, hunched and distorted, casting no reflection in the mirror that hung nearby.
My breath caught in my throat. The figure appeared to be struggling, as though trying to break free from an unseen restraint. The rattling chains grew louder, more desperate, and with it, a low, guttural moan escaped the figure’s lips. It was unmistakably Sir Ainsworth, though a twisted, unearthly version of him. His features were gaunt and horrific, as if death had only partially claimed him. His eyes, those eyes—hollow and black—met mine in a gaze that chilled me to the bone.
Suddenly, the figure turned sharply, as if realising my presence for the first time. It let out a strangled scream, one that echoed through the hallways, vibrating against the very foundations of the estate. In a panic, I stumbled backwards, slamming the door shut and locking it with trembling hands.
The rattling ceased, but I could still hear his voice, faint and distant, calling out to me, pleading for release. I knew then that the curse had not yet ended. It had merely shifted its form, manifesting in the very walls of the estate, and I was now trapped in its unyielding grasp.
Lady Ainsworth was buried in the local graveyard of the Anglican Church her family appertained. I had entrusted the righteous vicar to safeguard the tomb of Lady Ainsworth. The years had passed, and the memory of the horrific deaths of Sir Ainsworth and Lady Ainsworth was effaced and had been forgotten with time, but the roaming spectres of the dead were not. I began to see and hear them therewith. They began to vex me and had attempted to drive me mad.
The unyielding clamour that Sir Ainsworth had once claimed he heard I listened to also, as the comparative calm was interrupted amain. The constant ringing in my head and the wicked spirits that had bedeviled Sir Ainsworth started to haunt me quotidianly in aberrant delusions. I had understood then the madness of Sir Ainsworth, and the terror of the Ainsworth Curse.
The days at the Ainsworth Manor became a torment of apprehension, but it was the nights that exacted the heaviest toll. Every creak of the old timbers, every groan of the wind through the rafters, seemed imbued with a consciousness, as though the interior walls were alive and watching.
It began subtly at first. I would turn corners and glimpse fleeting shadows that did not belong to any earthly thing—strange shapes that twisted and dissolved before my eyes could fix upon them. At times, whilst writing by candlelight, the flame would gutter violently though the air remained still, and I would sense an invisible presence settling close, like the weight of unseen eyes upon my neck.
One particular evening, as the sun descended behind a mass of iron-grey clouds, I sat in the library trying to distract myself with a book. The silence in the room was oppressive, thick like a fog, when suddenly a whispering sound rose from the far corner—an unmistakable, sibilant murmur that made my blood run cold. I froze, my eyes locked on the empty armchair across from me, where the whispering grew louder, though no figure appeared.
Then the chair moved. It rocked forward ever so slightly, as though some invisible entity had just stood up from it. The whispering turned into a chilling sigh that drifted through the room, and I saw, with mounting horror, the faint impression of footprints forming on the thick rug—wet, muddy footprints that crossed the room towards me.
I leapt from my seat, heart hammering in my chest, and backed away towards the door. But before I could reach it, a gust of icy wind swept through, extinguishing every candle at once and plunging the room into utter darkness. In the black silence, I could feel them—an oppressive closeness, an electric tension in the air that prickled my skin. The dead were here.
I scrambled out into the hallway, gasping, only to find that the corridor too had filled with unnatural cold. The portraits of long-dead Ainsworth ancestors seemed to leer at me from the walls, their painted eyes alive with malevolent intent. I staggered to the staircase, only to hear a soft sobbing sound rising from the floor above—a woman’s voice, heartbroken and full of despair.
“Leave me be!” I shouted into the shadows, my voice cracking under the weight of terror.
But the house did not obey. It thrummed with an energy beyond my comprehension. And as I turned to flee back to my quarters, I caught sight of Lady Ainsworth herself at the landing—a shimmering, translucent figure, her face pale and streaked with spectral tears. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. She raised one hand, as though pleading for release, before fading into the gloom like mist under the morning sun.
I fell to my knees, weakened by dread, and knew then that the manor was no mere house of stone and timber—it was a prison of lost souls, their anguish echoing through every beam and brick. The curse had not died with Sir Ainsworth; it lingered, festering, and now it had turned its full attention upon me.
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