The Burial Chamber Of The Lady Llwelyn

'Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil'.—Lord Byron

I shall now relate the relevance that you must know of this eldritch tale, through the significance of my affirmation expounded knowingly. Herein, what I shall acknowledge overtly with my avowal alone, you will be informed of its actual veracity and enterprise.

I ought to warn you at once of the sinister presence I encountered erstwhile—for woe betide the man who has crossed it and borne its vengeance. By virtue of this admission I shall affright you, with more than a preconceived notion of an accurst horror that I cannot relinquish the thought of.

Moreover, it is the most abhorrent form of turpitude ever manifested in the embodiment of terror, within that house of inscrutability. There is no emphatic description I can expound beyond the haunting images of that virtual ghastliness of dread that was found in the burial chamber of Lady Llywelyn.

My name is Barnabe Tumbleweed, a Yorkshireman by birth and faithful solicitor to the Cumnor lineage of London. I had recently received an important letter from Sir William Cumnor. The letter had informed me that I was to head immediately to Wales, to meet the steward of a certain couth aristocrat by the name of Lord Aldwyn Cadwallader.

Therefore, I made the necessary preparations for the arduous trip and engagement to Wales and departed from London the next morning. The inclement weather brought the usual rain, which was briefly intermittent and subsided for the nonce, allowing me the essential time to take the carriage to Wales betimes.

The year was 1690, and it was spring, when I left the bustling city on that memorable day, feeling yearnful and ready. After I had fared extensively along the country roads, lined with rank and rathe primroses of vastidity, I reached the causeway that led to the house of Lord Aldwyn Cadwallader.

His home was a country house outside the small village of Llanwddyn, in the northeast part of Wales. Cadwallader House was a two-storey brick edifice of a dull brown colour, with ornate windows and shutters displayed. The formal gardens by the adjoining cottage demonstrated a placidity seldom seen in London. From the information I had obtained from a few sundered documents discovered earlier, the house had been built in the year 1645 upon a lorn parrock. Thereat, considerable history of foretime was attached to this unique house.

Lord Cadwallader's wife, Lady Llywelyn, had recently passed away. She had been gravely unsound, suffering from an implacable hereditary disease. In the spacious gardens, the hospitable steward, Mr Jerigan, greeted me with a cordial salutation. I was dressed in my graith: I wore my ruffled, long-sleeved white shirt under my justacorps, which contained my breeches and an elongated waistcoat. My shoes were tied with decorated ribbons, and my hair was long as usual, with curls well past the shoulders.

Once inside, I observed with fond consideration the interior composition of the house. The russet mahogany wood-panelled rooms of several apartments were well decorated and impressive, adorned with distinctive paintings of the aretaic Cadwallader lineage of exemplary prestige.

I marvelled with insatiable curiosity to see the rest of the stately house, with its cloisons and staddle. It was indeed magnificently preserved, and I was envious of the brilliant colours reflected throughout. The flawless stairway was made of wooden balusters tinged with an auriferous lustre, and the pediments of the doors were properly aligned.

In spite of this luxuriantly refurbished home and its fine cornices, there was an aura of abject despair and murk. Even though I had not yet seen Lord Cadwallader, I knew he was seriously despondent owing to the fact that his beloved wife, Lady Llywelyn, had been gravely ill and had now died.

The disturbing truth was that she had lingered only a short while before her passing, and her death might have come at any hour thereafter. This was deeply uncomfortable and eerie. Nonetheless, I proceeded with my task and commitment to Sir Cumnor.

I was then led up the stairway, where, in one of the chambers nearby, Lord Cadwallader was comforting his deceased wife, who lay in a coffin with a senticous rose. When I entered the room with discretionary deference, I saw him at last in person. I had been told of her hideous affliction, but that paled in comparison to her immarcescible and emaciated body, which lay within the forblack coffin.

Her extreme pallidity was evident in her glassy eyes, the sober lineaments of her countenance, and the weftage of her dry crimson lips, glimpsed tentatively. She wore a necklace that was no idle gaud, but rather a splendid, gemmy emerald. She was arrayed in an elegant blue dress, upon which I noticed the exquisite purfle.

Verily, I was deeply and visibly shaken by her wan and dour appearance, and I knew not how to react before Lord Cadwallader. The drear veil that had been lifted covered her face, and partially her lovely blond hair, which Lord Cadwallader had adored.

Thenceforth, my behaviour was subdued and reverent in nature as I addressed him whilst we remained within the chamber. Lady Llywelyn had been too sick and feeble to be warished, and she had struggled with every deep breath, which had horrified him. His apparent enervation concerned me, and I was reluctant to exhaust Lord Cadwallader with my visit or my questions.

Thuswise, our conversation was limited to a brief exchange regarding my thoughts on Wales. I knew that my virtuous father, were he still alive, would have been absolutely appalled to witness the languid aspect of expiry in the gaunt woman I had seen that day.

I perceived a sudden desperation in the penetrating eyes of Lord Cadwallader, as he strove to ignore the impending chagrin too heavy to reconcile with the truth. At first, I construed that there was something of importance he wished to share, his urgent admission leaving me somewhat befuddled. I did not wish to distress him or add mental exertion to the grievous nature of his unsely regret, and I expressed my concern to Lord Cadwallader.

I was preparing to leave the room, but he requested that I stay and hear a sincere revelation. I neither anticipated nor imagined any fresh tidings. He instructed the steward to step outside to the adjoining hall, so that we might discuss the matter in privacy. Though the steward showed mild reluctance to leave, he complied. Lord Cadwallader, looking doleful, glanced furtively around, as though to see who might be espying or listening attentively.

This attitude I found queer, but he bore an exigency to inform me of something he felt compelled to disclose. When I drew closer to hear him, he whispered in a broken voice that he was not going to sell the house, because Lady Llywelyn was going to rise from the dead—and he could not forsake her.

This abnormality had startled me, yet I was uncertain what to make of it. I had no response for Lord Cadwallader, nor did I know what to believe of his disclosure. My reaction was one of flabbergast, and I had been more prepared to deal with his welsome status and the anticipated transactions.

I pondered the plausibility of hysteria overtaking his rationality and fettle. Why would Lord Cadwallader summon me to purchase his house, if he had no true intention of selling it? At that moment, I had no reason to doubt his established honour, nor to presume that he was an idle gabber or one who paltered with words. He asked me to forgive his unmeet imprudence, confessing that it had indeed been his original intention to sell the house. This blatant admission from a glum man seemed typical of a desperate lord, who had witnessed his wife’s final, uneath breath.

I accepted his apologetic words and left him to repose and calm his heightened disquietude. Outside in the corridor stood Mr Jerigan, who was clearly wistful to know the nature of our conversation. His interest was plain, as I stood before him.

I told him simply that Lord Cadwallader had informed me he was no longer selling the house, but that he had made an inusitate confession. That confession, I said, was that Lord Cadwallader claimed his wife, Lady Llywelyn, was to rise from the dead—like the biblical Lazarus.

Whenas Mr Jerigan heard what I had mentioned, his reaction was not one of disbelief. Instead, he sighed and remarked upon the waning condition and mental faculties of Lord Cadwallader. I made the logical assumption that Lord Cadwallader's words were more attributable to his deep, physical anguish and the binding strength of his memory of her.

Consequently, I disregarded Lord Cadwallader’s revelation, for there was nothing to which I could feasibly accede in support of such an averment.

Eftsoon, I was treated with kind hospitality by the steward and servants, who prepared for me a lautitious repast that I could not refuse.

Once I had eaten, the steward invited me to take some leisure and visit the village. He suggested the tweeny might escort me. I was most grateful for his gracious offer, but I explained to him—yawning—that I was wearied from the long journey and wished instead to rest beneath the chalon. I had not enjoyed much repose of late, though I was aware of the lake and the Anglican church, nestled near the heather moorland that encompassed the village.

The stone cottages of the villagers I had vaguely glimpsed from afar, stoundmeal. That night, I remained at the estate, gazing through the window of my chamber at the rain as it began to fall, heralding the storm that soon followed.

There was scarcely a day when I did not hanker for a fleeting moment amidst the spring’s natural beauty. The gentle warmth of the sun always seemed a beckoning call, like a stripling’s voice from the toft nearby. The moors, too, stood as a constant reminder of the countryside’s quiet wonder—especially during those times when I had fled the clamour of London for the peace of the hinterlands. Here, amidst the vast moorland, there were no brises to intrude. This was my first visit to Wales, and my initial impression had been wholly pleasant.

The next morning, I awoke to the bracing sounds of thunder and lightning. Rain fell steadily, as it often does in Great Britain. I had intended to speak again with Lord Cadwallader regarding my imminent departure from the estate. That morning remains vivid in my memory—not least because of the gruesome air of mystery that clung to the unfortunate death of Lady Llywelyn. I left my chamber and spoke with the steward, Mr. Jerigan, who informed me that Lord Cadwallader’s mood had worsened. He doubted whether his master would recover from his deep, sombre anguish, and this troubled me greatly.

Any trace of joy or satisfaction in him had been extinguished entirely by the loss of Lady Llywelyn. My chief purpose was to secure the house for Sir Cumnor; indeed, that was the task Sir Cumnor had sent me to fulfil. Yet I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge my growing concern for Lord Cadwallader’s well-being.

When I entered his room, the familiar gloom and tribulation of that chamber pressed upon me once more. I could sense the heavy presence of death lingering still, cloaking the mystery in a shadow that grew more oppressive with time. According to Mr. Jerigan, who waited outside as I attempted to engage Lord Cadwallader in reasoned conversation, the inevitability of her demise seemed now more certain than ever.

Mr Jerigan remained in the corridor, for there was little Lord Cadwallader could do for Lady Llywelyn at that final stage of her illness. He was weeping uncontrollably, embracing the body of his beloved Lady Llywelyn. It was painfully clear that he was in no apparent condition to discuss my intended departure from the house. Judging the circumstance wholly unsuitable, I refrained from discussing the subject. It seemed to me unethical to intrude upon his agonising thoughts with concerns unrelated to his immediate grief.

After some deliberation, I resolved that the proper course of action would be to consult with a family member or legal representative of the estate regarding the house’s purchase—someone who would inevitably assume responsibility for the estate’s affairs, should Lord Cadwallader himself succumb to illness or despair. As I observed him, I discerned the same unmistakable weight of sorrow and desperation that had gripped him the previous day. His voice, broken and fragile with grief, trembled as he moved once again towards the lifeless form of Lady Llywelyn.

He confided in me her final wish—a cryptic, almost Delphic entreaty—that she be buried within the estate grounds, and that she would not truly be at peace unless he honoured her dying request. The grave seriousness in his eyes left no doubt as to his sincerity. Lady Llywelyn had insisted, even begged, to be interred in a crypt on the property, where she would rest eternally, awaiting his eventual reunion with her. It was difficult not to be struck by the adamant nature of this unusual declaration. I was left uncertain how to interpret his bewildering words. At length, Lord Cadwallader informed me that he needed to rest.

He seized my right arm with all the remaining strength he could muster, reiterating her fervent claim. I gazed into his luminous eyes, burdened by a horrific sense of consequence and overwhelming loneliness, as I witnessed his desperation shift into unrestrained hysteria. I cannot fully comprehend, with mere thoughts and words, the unbearable contemplation of losing a beloved wife.

I could see the immense passion and devotion he had for Lady Llywelyn, a devotion that seemed beyond his control. What was this poor man to do without the lasting presence and energy of his wife? I could understand how any man might become a wretch, beset by ceaseless memories, overwhelmed by grief. Lady Llywelyn, his precious and priceless jewel, was now gone—never to return.

As I waited in the corridor, an unforeseen premonition settled upon me, a subtle yet intuitive sense that the spirit of Lady Llywelyn was near. Indeed, my ominous hunch proved correct. Within ten minutes, Mr Jerigan informed me that the Lady Llywelyn had ‘quickened.’

This tragic and incomprehensible occurrence forced me to reflect on the sombre nature of death and the mysterious detachment of the soul from the body upon death. When I enquired about what he meant, he explained that he had seen the ghost of Lady Llywelyn. I was left to ponder this strange possibility, and I immediately sent a private letter to Sir Cumnor in London, detailing the regrettable death of Lady Llywelyn. With my task in Llanwddyn now complete, I made arrangements to return to London, once I had spoken with Lord Cadwallader.

He was still lamenting the earthly body of Lady Llywelyn, which was to be properly buried. Although I was not eager to return to London, with the disappointing incompletion of my task, I realised that my profession demanded the most stringent adherence to protocol, as a quaestuary solicitor betaught.

I passed the time waiting, whilst the caterwauling of the black cats outside reached my ears. I had never deceived a man of his fortune and honour before.

Before long, I made preparations to return within the week, but oddly enough, Mr Jerigan, on behalf of Lord Cadwallader, asked me to stay a little longer.

He revealed a disturbing admission that I found most peculiar. Mr Jerigan confessed that no one was attending the funeral of Lady Llywelyn because she had no immediate family or friends nearby. It was highly unusual for someone as distinguished and wealthy as the Cadwalladers to have no family or close friends present for such an occasion.

I was not accustomed to hearing such a disconsolate confirmation. I wondered how dreadful it must be to have so little attachment, save for the regard the servants held for the Cadwalladers. What I found even more unnatural was the fact that Lady Llywelyn was to be buried in a mysterious location—inside a secretive vault whose whereabouts I was unaware of. This type of interment was entirely unfamiliar to me and piqued my curiosity.

This method of burial was of no particular concern to me—for it was a private matter that did not involve me in the decision or arrangements. I acquiesced in the end, as I had been invited. The funeral was to take place in three days, and I remained on the property until the interment was performed. My original plan had been to stay in Llanwddyn for only a day or two, under circumstances far more pleasant than these sombre ones.

That same afternoon marked the first of several encounters I was to have with the black ghost of Lady Llywelyn, appearing frequently thereafter. She had indeed risen again, just as Lord Cadwallader had previously said. I was utterly stunned by the sudden shock and the aftermath of what I experienced. I was alone in the main hall, steeped in a deep and placid silence, when I first glimpsed her spectral form of sheer dread, after sensing something lurking in the corridor.

Her ghastly pallor of death remained transparent; her eyes were weary and mournful. Her lips bore an amaranthine hue, and her long, straight yellow hair was turning ashen. She stood at the edge of the main hall, wearing the same necklace and exact raiment she had worn in her coffin.

At first, I was too shocked by the suddenness of it to move. Her horrific spectral image lasted only a minute or so before she disappeared into the sighing of the wuthering wind. Each time she appeared, she whispered my name and wailed.

For three days, she appeared before me inside the house, in every place imaginable. I could not escape her dreadful image and voice; her abominable apparition haunted me incessantly, to the point that I was becoming obsessively maddened with trepidation.

I heard the wailing of suffering souls within the house and the estate, cries that could not be dispelled. I was eager to escape that daunting house, and when I did, I drew a fresh breath of relief. It seemed that no one except Mr Jerigan and myself had seen the indisputable wraith of Lady Llywelyn or heard the mournful cries of the wandering dead. That day, I took the liberty of exploring the rest of the village when opportunity allowed.

First, I took in the wondrous view of the cerulean lake, the Anglican church, the colourful garths, and the stone cottages of Llanwddyn, all evidently bucolic in nature. I noticed that the villagers who walked or passed by in their carts were few, and none attempted to speak to me. They simply watched me with wary eyes and circumspect expressions. The shepherds tended their flocks in the nearby pasture.

I then decided to return to the house, where I spoke with Mr Jerigan, who saw me enter. He enquired whether I was leaving Llanwddyn straightaway. When I dared to ask his reason, he was uncommonly forthright: Lord Cadwallader, he said, was going mad, and the horrid sounds of the deceased souls that I had heard would soon drive me to madness as well.

If I stayed, I would never depart from Llanwddyn, and I too would die as others had before me. When I asked him to whom he was referring, he replied, "the hideous wraiths." I was uncertain whether he was serious in his assertion, or whether I had mistakenly misheard his words.

Apparently, he did indeed mean what he said, as he reiterated his warning. How was I to judge whether his words were credible? I knew nothing of the ambiguous history of Llanwddyn and its connection to the Cadwalladers. I thought it best to let Mr Jerigan prattle on at another time and to disregard, for now, his unnerving claims and apparent impertinence. Even though I had seen the ghost of Lady Llywelyn and heard the rueful echoes of the dead on previous occasions, I could not bring myself to believe that Lord Cadwallader’s house was evil or unsafe.

Later, I returned to my chamber, but I did not mention my private conversation with the steward to Lord Cadwallader or to any of the other servants. Once inside the house, I began to observe, as a passive witness, the splendid rows of paintings lining the corridors and halls, each rendered with fine precision. Yet I noticed something peculiar: the paintings almost exclusively depicted the comely and eyesome Lady Llywelyn, and few, if any, featured Lord Cadwallader himself.

This was a curious detail of ambiguity and shadowy omission that had previously escaped my notice. Ordinarily, the house of a boastful nobleman would be filled with portraits of his family, not least himself, as a testament to his pride and standing. This was not the case here, and only Lord Cadwallader could elucidate the reason for such an unfeeling omission.

For some reason, the ghost of Lady Llywelyn kept reappearing, and the voices of deceased souls were distinctly audible. But wherefore? I then wandered into the halls, and it was in the main hall of the house that I saw something particular which arrested my intrigue. It was an object conspicuously placed in a nook—set there, I suspected, so as not to be easily detected. The object was a lone diary, which struck me as exceedingly interesting and seemingly relevant.

Seeing that no one was nearby to observe my actions, and prompted by a curious instinct, I took the recondite diary and returned swiftly to my room. There, I sat contemplatively, pondering what I had discovered. It was immediately evident that this was no ordinary diary but a written testament to a mystery yet to be unveiled—penned, it seemed, by Lady Llywelyn herself. Within its innermost pages, she mentioned indeterminate apparitions and disembodied voices within the house, as well as the parlous nature of its unmatched and eerie composition.

There were numerous dated entries, each meticulously scribed. The entries chronicled unimaginable accounts of suspicious and insoluble incidents, with chilling references to insidious wights numbering in the tenscore. This mystery had evidently obsessed Lady Llywelyn, and buried within her writing was a concealed conundrum tied to Lord Cadwallader—a secret concerning the salient lineage of his family. The troubling images and voices of death, she noted, had begun to encircle the house uncontrollably, and she could neither comprehend nor reconcile the supernatural phenomena that were transpiring—phenomena for which no logical explanation seemed possible.

I discovered that the narrator was indeed Lady Llywelyn herself, and my urgency to unearth the full truth of the diary grew ever more acute. Parts of the diary were written in the local Welsh tongue, which Lady Llywelyn spoke with fluency. I had somewhat suspected from the outset that she had authored this clandestine journal. The chilling entries contained numerous words that were utterly foreign to me, whilst others I recognised only vaguely.

The immediate question that lingered in my mind was this: if she were indeed the genuine author of this diary of intrigue and horror, then what exactly had she been attempting to convey? Were her ghostly appearances a warning of some malignant force that had long existed within the house? The thought of Mr Jerigan’s words returned to me with striking vividness, despite his comportment, which at times had seemed undeniably odd.

Though I was well-versed in tales of superstition from across Europe, nothing I had encountered could compare to these indelible acts of flagrant profanation and deceit that had unfolded before me. Lacking the intellectual preparation to decipher much of the diary’s intricate content, I suddenly recalled Mr Jerigan’s ominous words—words I had previously dismissed as inconsequential—and I now imagined him to be the person capable of interpreting the significant revelations contained within this diary of direful consequence.

It was then that I felt I understood, at least in part, why the ghost of Lady Llywelyn had manifested. When I sought out Mr Jerigan for his assistance, he was, verily, not at all surprised to see me nor to hear of my encounters with the spectre of Lady Llywelyn. I had brought the diary along with me, and he appeared especially eager to examine its complete contents.

The inferences drawn from this ungodly narrative revealed an execrable connection to the netherworld—one that kinsfolk both dreaded and anathematised with fervent imprecation. Mr Jerigan proceeded to read aloud the portions of Lady Llywelyn’s manuscript that were written in Welsh. Being a native of the region and long in service to her within the house, he spoke the ancient tongue fluently and with great precision.

She had mentioned a heriot, and provided an evocative account of one of Lord Cadwallader’s former tenants, a man by the name of Gareth Blevins, who had resided in the house in the year 1688. Mr Jerigan at once recalled this particular tenant and affirmed his knowledge of the man’s identity. The account of this hapless villager described, in no uncertain terms, the froward nature of the Cadwalladers and recounted how Mr Blevins, having arrived from beyond the waters of the sea, was lodged upon their demesne.

According to Mr Blevins’s own declaration, the house and estate of the Cadwalladers were afflicted by an arcane ruse of black magic. He spoke chillingly of the tenants’ blood being spilled—of how they met with terrible ends, succumbing to the irrepressible volition of some fiendish maleficence that lurked within the Cadwallader Estate.

An unquestionable and hagridden terror had taken hold, hoodwinking the inhabitants and claiming both kith and kine of the condemned. Before long, the righteous men of God proclaimed that these unyielding episodes of wickedness were the result of a cruel malediction—one they were, alas, powerless to dreave from the village. The mystery endured, until at last the deaths appeared to cease—or so it was believed.

Manifold villagers still held fast in their conviction that the rackle curse had never been vanquished, and that it continued to dwell within the house and estate of Lord Cadwallader, spreading its terror unabated. The curse bore the Cadwallader name, an inseparable and untoward connotation that lingered ominously in the minds of the villagers.

The legend of the Cadwalladers had grown, with every new bantling adding to its dreadful lore. Thus, it seemed that all who were in any way associated with the Cadwalladers either mysteriously disappeared or met an untimely death. I explained to the steward that Lord Cadwallader could not simply be dismissed as a feigned madman, and that the Lady Llywelyn, as we both well knew, was no longer amongst the living. Despite my efforts to rationalise the events, I remained uncertain as to the true nature of the house and estate, though I sensed that Mr Jerigan was privy to the deeper, darker answers to this confounding enigma.

He told me solemnly that whilst the Lady Llywelyn might indeed be dead, the arreptitious evil of the house had the power to make her rise again from the grave. Mr Jerigan, his voice tinged with urgency, implored me once more to leave the village and not return—that if I remained within the house, I would surely succumb, becoming either mad or rankled by the parlous influence that seeped through the stones of the Cadwallader House.

In his eyes, I saw a conviction so earnest and grave that I could not easily dismiss it. Though torn with uncertainty, I listened as Mr Jerigan, his tone grave and determined, offered a startling proposition: if I truly wished to stay and attempt to banish the baleful presence haunting the Cadwallader House, he would assist me in that imperative endeavour.

It sounded like sheer madness—an idea born of delirium and fear—but what if Lord Cadwallader was not merely a rakehellish figure of vice and indulgence? What if, as the steward had claimed, he was indeed a madman possessed by the insidious evil dwelling within the house? This was a fathomless contemplation, difficult to deduce with any rational certainty. And yet, the question remained: how were we, two mere mortals, to exile an evil so mystic in nature, one that could not be grided nor confronted with facile means?

Mr Jerigan accompanied me back to my chamber, for by then eventide had well and truly fallen. I could clearly discern the apprehension etched into Mr Jerigan’s expression, yet, to his credit, he was resolute and prow to participate in our venture. Outside, a lively blore had risen, the wind howling ominously around the house, cloaking everything in a mantle of creeping unease that seemed unrelenting. I felt a mounting nervous foreboding, a pressure upon my chest, as we cautiously approached the window, peering into the dimming gloom beyond.

We knew we must comport ourselves with normalcy, resisting the instinctive urge to betray our mounting impatience or fear, as we left the chamber with quiet determination. Mr Jerigan was of the opinion that it would be prudent not to disturb the other servants, lest we rouse unnecessary suspicion. When I asked after Lord Cadwallader’s whereabouts, Mr Jerigan replied that he was presently away, tending to preparations for the impending funeral. Unbeknownst to the well-meaning steward, the bain Lord Cadwallader was in truth secreted within the vault behind the cellar, far closer than anyone might have presumed.

We maintained our composure, ensuring that our conduct did not arouse suspicion or invite prying eyes. With the pressing matter at hand, Mr Jerigan then asked me where precisely I had discovered the diary. I informed him that it had been in one of the apartments adjacent to the hall, on the first storey. Without hesitation, he instructed me to lead him there at once.

Upon reaching the apartment, we stepped cautiously inside, closing the door softly behind us. The hasp was secured, and no one had seen us enter, nor suspected the true nature of our intentions. There, amidst the quiet gloom, we made a startling discovery: hidden away behind a shrouded corner was an old, dust-laden painting. At first, I did not recognise the stern visage of the gentleman portrayed, but Mr Jerigan, with a tremulous hand, pointed out to me that this was none other than Lord Thomas Cadwallader whilom—a key figure whose shadow still lingered ominously over all we sought to uncover.

When he indicated that the gentleman in the painting was a relation of Lord Cadwallader, I stepped closer for a better view. I was incredulous that the man before me, painted as he was in 1590, should bear so uncanny a resemblance to Lord Aldwyn Cadwallader of our own day.

'Is there truly an unbreakable link between them?' I asked. Mr Jerigan confirmed that Lord Cadwallader was indeed descended from this Thomas Cadwallader—but what, I wondered, could this have to do with Lady Llywelyn’s inheritable affliction and untimely death?

Then Mr Jerigan revealed a horrendous secret long whispered among the villagers: Lord Thomas Cadwallader, it was said, had slain his mistresses—and even his wife—driven by ducenarious voices that compelled him to kill. It seemed impossible, by any measure of human reason, to credit such an accusation against a nobleman of yore.

If true, it could no longer be gainsaid. It implied that Lord Aldwyn Cadwallader might likewise be a remorseless madman, employing duplicitous subterfuge to persuade the world that Lady Llywelyn had succumbed to a natural illness, thereby concealing his own brutal deed. How many others, I asked myself, had fallen victim to the Cadwallader curse? And what malevolent presence had ever commanded their wills to such dreadful ends?

We knew then that time was our greatest enemy, and with Lord Cadwallader absent, we had a fleeting chance to uncover the truth of Lady Llywelyn’s fate. Locating her body would either disprove the whispered rumours of her miraculous resurrection or confirm a darker reality of murder and deceit.

Mr Jerigan seemed resolute, without a flicker of doubt, but I remained uneasy. Together, we descended towards the cellar, determined to breach the vault of the unscrupulous madman. Yet the door to the cellar was fastened by a heavy latch, an obstinate barrier that had barred any prying eyes.

Neither of us possessed the strength of seasoned labourers, but necessity pressed us on. Taking up an axe, we forced the latch with deliberate blows, the splintering wood yielding at last beneath our efforts. As the door swung open with a jarring clatter, an unsettling noise echoed from below, amplifying our apprehension.

Mr Jerigan recalled then an ominous detail: beyond the manor, in the hillside cavern, lay an entrance to a deep shaft mine, abandoned abruptly only a month before. The miners had spoken in hushed tones of unnatural apparitions—phantasms that flitted through the dim caverns, their forms catching the gleam of scattered embers. Many miners had vanished without trace, and though an official enquiry had been made, the villagers, ever superstitious and wary of the Cadwallader legacy, refused to return. The mine stood forsaken, a shadowed testament to the grim lore that continued to haunt the estate.

We entered thither and made our way through the sullied entrance. Once inside, we were able to proceed at our own discretion and judgement. As we moved forth with our torches alight, we walked along a dark, dank passage, thick with mildew, extending far beyond the unwist cellar.

We pressed on, tracing the damp crevices of the walls with our hands, until at last we glimpsed a faint, flickering light ahead. We had arrived at a shadowy crypt, where scores of skulls were neatly aligned in rows from top to bottom. All around were various ossuaries and burial niches, their stillness disturbed only by the creeping movements of spiders and snakes.

This burial chamber was a primeval catacomb, dating back to the days of the Roman occupation of Wales, constructed expressly for the interment of human remains. And there, to our utter horror, stood Lord Cadwallader himself, looming before a narrow, sinister-looking niche above an unholy grave.

The sight chilled me to the bone: lying stiff and rigid in her coffin was the lifeless body of Lady Llywelyn. Her eyes had been gouged out; the sockets, now hollow and gruesome, teemed with maggots, while screeching rats crawled across her decaying form.

I was utterly horrified by this grisly and unnatural scene. There was no longer any doubt in my mind—Lord Cadwallader had murdered Lady Llywelyn and had desecrated her body in the most macabre manner, removing her eyes and leaving her to rot in this wretched vault.

I was even more terrified by this ghastly scene of macabre death, far worse than I had feared. There was no longer a shred of doubt within me—Lord Cadwallader had murdered Lady Llywelyn and had gouged out her eyes, leaving her to decay in this curst place.

Sensing our presence, he swiftly turned to confront us. It seemed we were now caught in a dire predicament, as fate had brought us to this moment. He stood tall, a supercilious smirk twisting his face with a look of uncouth arrogance, daring us to try and stop him. With a shriek of pure madness, he let out a piercing cry, and from the depths of the crypt, a violent swarm of screeching bats suddenly erupted, surging towards us without warning.

Mr Jerigan snatched up a rusty shovel left behind by miners who had once worked these forsaken tunnels. There was an immediate sense of imminent danger, and we were forced to defend ourselves. I too seized a shovel and began striking at the bats as they assailed us from all sides. Though we swung our shovels desperately, we had no clear idea what further horrors might await us. Somehow, we managed to fend off the bats and pressed ahead with grim resolve.

Suddenly, as Lord Cadwallader stood before us in wroth defiance, the wraiths of two hundred souls from the manor rose from their graves, their hideous faces twisted in eternal horror. Mr Jerigan began to pray fervently, crying out in supplication to God. As this unfolded, the walls of the crypt became alive, crawling with a thousand ravenous scarabs that scuttled and swarmed at an alarming speed.

Then the walls began to shake violently as the ghosts swept above our heads. Soon, the catacomb walls started to crumble, the entire antre collapsing with ruinous force. We knew at once that the entrance would disintegrate into motes of dust, and the passage itself would soon follow. The livid, dreadful eyes of Lord Cadwallader blazed with an increasing intensity of malevolent wrath, as he seemed to convulse from the very core of his insanity.

He attempted to charge at us, but I hurled my torch directly at him, igniting a colossal flame that engulfed and consumed him entirely. He struggled in vain to resist the blaze, but it was futile—he perished in the inferno. There was nothing he could do to escape the inevitable fate of the fire.

Through the darkened haze, we beheld with awe a radiant trio of wraiths, who seized him with unwavering might and bore him away into the calamitous abyss of everlasting Hades.

We had succeeded in banishing the evil of the house back to the netherworld from which it had sprung. By sheer fortune, or perhaps by the grace of divine providence, we had been aided in our struggle. I still do not know whether what I witnessed were truly spectral beings, but I was alive—and, miraculously, we had escaped unharmed, dashing through the miners’ cavern at great speed. The cavern and the cellar of Lord Cadwallader were, after all, seamlessly connected underground.

I am not a man to claim certainty as to whether this phenomenon was a supernal amandation, but time, I knew, would reveal the ultimate truth. If there be a heaven and hell upon this earth of dust and sorrow, then I can attest—I have seen hell on earth, and the Devil in person, I say this now as a solemn confession.

There, before our astonished eyes, arose the ghost of Lady Llywelyn, no longer cloaked in the ghastly pallor of death. Her eyes were no longer hollow and lugubrious, and her lips, once amaranthine with death’s grip, now bore a beautiful, vivid redness. Her long, straight, hoary hair had transformed once more into a cascade of golden brilliance, glistening with an almost divine lustre.

The inconceivable madness of Lady Llywelyn’s resurrection had at last come to its conclusion. I prayed fervently that her soul had finally found rest, her penance absolved, and that the dreadful insanity of the wraiths of tenscore—those that had plagued the Cadwallader lineage—had been conquered forever.

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