The Château Of The Harlequins

"Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence."—Edgar Allan Poe

The 18th of November, 1948, will always remain etched in my memory as the day I met the psychopathic Baron Luther Von Henkel, when I was invited as a guest to his party. At the time we were introduced, I did not fully perceive his sinister countenance or the sheer wickedness of his unbridled madness and sordid past.

It had been three years since the end of the Second World War and my own days of soldiering in that dreadful conflict. I had served as a valiant French-Canadian soldier, deployed to fight on behalf of Britain. I’d heard rumours of Nazis fleeing Europe and seeking refuge in North and South America—particularly in Brazil and Argentina. No one ever suspected they might be hiding in Canada.

I cannot forget the horrendous murders that took place that night—the memory still haunts me with insidious force. I have witnessed many perish on the battlefield, but never to the vagaries of a man who delighted in the macabre.

It was a cold and dreary evening, with a certain achromatic gloom blanketing the passage that led to Baron Von Henkel’s château. The château was perched on a steep, elevated cape overlooking a river, just past the city of Quebec.

When I arrived by automobile, I was greeted at the front door by the butler, Mr. Willoughby. The mystic château had an imposing central tower and hardened stone-brick wings. The windows were ornately designed, and the coat of arms at the top of the front façade bore a conspicuous design that appeared to depict a German eagle. It reminded me of the ones I had seen in the churches of Berlin and Frankfurt during my time in Germany throughout the war.

The vivid architecture was magnificently Renaissant, yet I felt an unsettling eeriness as soon as I entered the 19th-century château. I saw clearly the stately exterior wall of the entranceway arch and the vaulted ceiling of the entrance hall as I stepped inside. Chandeliers abounded on the ceilings, with candles flickering in the rooms and corridors. The narrow stairway of the two-storey château spiralled upward, and colourful portraits of the baron adorned each hall.

My first impression of the baron, upon meeting him, was that of a highly intellectual man. He was indeed a soigné connoisseur of the arts and an epicurean in the fashion of the Greek god Bacchus; his circumspect mien reflected that apt comparison. The local aristocracy regarded him as a supreme paragon and a philargyrist.

As for his appearance, he was tall and thin, with a somewhat pale complexion. His oval-shaped eyes were turquoise blue, and his hair was short and fair, with a hint of light brown. We shook hands as he greeted me, offering hearty cordiality in his German accent: “Welcome to the Von Henkel Château. I am Baron Von Henkel of Brandenburg, Germany.”

I reciprocated his kind gesture with a firm handshake and expressed my gratitude. “It is an honour to meet you, Baron, and to be invited to tonight’s party,” I replied.

“The pleasure is all mine, Monsieur Benoit. And if you’ll excuse me, I must greet the other invitees,” he responded.

“Of course!”

The list of guests was as follows: Herr Brennwald, an Austrian and alleged former spy; Mr. Matheson, a Canadian and cold-blooded ex-convict; Monsieur Villeneuve, a French philandering charlatan; Mr. Bonham, an Englishman and a sleuth with Scotland Yard; Madam Leasure, a delightful American heiress of supposed repute from New York, rumoured to be a black widow. Finally, there was me, François Benoit—a local and ex-soldier—one of the first guests to arrive at the château.

The chilling effects of the weather were typical for this time of year and region. Despite the dreary isolation of the château, I felt there was sufficient warmth inside. I waited in the main hall for the other guests to gather, observing the spacious comfort of my surroundings.

I had seen architectural designs of châteaux before in France, but I had seldom seen one so impressively built. At that time, I dared not ask the baron how he had acquired the château, but I would soon discover that his father had purchased it a generation ago, at the start of the century.

It was unusual to encounter many Germans in Quebec after the recent war, and the looming shadow of the Nazi downfall had cast a definite stain on German pride. It felt extremely awkward to be in the presence of a German or an Austrian—more so given that we were in Quebec.

Though I had received the invitation from Baron Von Henkel, I did not fully understand the intention behind it, as our acquaintance had been brief, to say the least. I knew he was originally from the old part of Prussia, now known as Brandenburg in Germany. I had read that the château was once used by the English to house their soldiers. Another story circulating was that the château had been constructed over the burial ground of Cree Indians.

The most ensanguined tale, in essence, was the legendary story of the demented harlequins—merciless killers from the asylum that was eventually closed and demolished after their killing spree came to an end. According to legend, the harlequins were killed inside the asylum. The authorities of that period discovered twenty dead bodies, all victims of their murderous rampage. The victims were nurses, doctors, and workers.

None survived. The unique detail was that the murderers had been dressed as harlequins. This last tale seemed the most improbable, yet it was the most infamously elaborated. Horror stories and ghostlore were nothing unusual to me; they had always been present in the fears of my childhood.

Baron Von Henkel then addressed us in the main hall: “Now that we are gathered, I am certain you are wondering why I have specifically invited you tonight to the château. The reason you are my distinguished guests is that I have chosen you from among the most cunning individuals of our society. Each and every one of you was selected for your ingenious traits—not for your present status or mere nationality. That is relatively insignificant to me, for it is the thrill of adventure that I enjoy most. Thus, I have made meticulous preparations for tonight. If you are curious about what I mean by all of this, then I shall tell you with absolute candour. Tonight, we shall play a game that can be very profitable—or very deadly. Of course, that depends on how you play the game, and whether you survive. You see, the game is simple. It is a masterful game of life and death. Do not look so shocked, my friends, for I am offering you a million dollars and your life, if you survive this night. As you can see, there are candles, lanterns, and torches in the halls and corridors. They will be the only light to guide you. Therefore, you have no other viable option but to acquiesce.”

“You must be jesting, Baron Von Henkel. If not, what kind of perverse mind do you possess?” asked Mr. Bonham.

"Jesting? I assure you, I am not, my good detective,” said Baron Von Henkel.

“You do not expect us to believe what you are saying?” Monsieur Villeneuve inquired.

“You may believe whatever you wish to believe, monsieur,” the baron replied.

“How do you expect to prevent us from leaving?” Mr. Mathenson asked.

“You, who are an ex-convict, should be well accustomed to confinement. These walls of the château are your prison,” the baron retorted.

“Baron Von Henkel, do you expect me to participate in this mad game of yours?” Herr Brennwald queried.

“Herr Brennwald, you have no choice—for there is no way out. I have ordered all the doors of the château to be completely sealed,” the baron responded.

“Baron Von Henkel, you would send a woman to her death?” Madam Leasure asked passionately.

“Frankly, it matters not to me whether you are woman or man—I am indifferent to that reality,” the baron acknowledged.

“How are you going to force us to comply, Baron Von Henkel?” I questioned boldly.

“That is simple, Monsieur Benoit! In the end, you will have to make the decision yourself—whether you want to live or die,” the baron confessed deliberately.

He hesitated, then said, “I hope your stay in the château will be full of sheer excitement. You will each be given a weapon to defend yourselves—but you must first locate the weapons. Now, let us proceed with the game.”

The anticipation of what was to transpire was unsettling and unpredictable. None of us were truly prepared for this sudden turn of events. We had arrived at the placid château expecting an amiable and festive occasion—or so we had assumed. Who among us could have dared imagine such a theatrical, yet ghastly scenario unfolding? It was as real as the looming certainty of our own deaths.

The bright lights of the main hall were turned off, and the only visible light came from the abundant candles, lanterns, and flambeaux lining the corridor walls. It was dim and eerily silent as we stood frozen in the main hall. When the lights went out, no one saw where Baron Von Henkel had gone. He simply vanished—as did the butler. We later discovered that the electric wires had been deliberately cut and were too damaged to repair.

It became chillingly clear that his fiendish intentions were to be carried out with ruthless precision. One question lingered sharply in my mind: what bitter vendetta did the baron hold against any of us, since none of it seemed personal? The imminent danger that lurked beyond the main hall was palpable. I pondered what hidden conflicts—if any—might have existed within the slight acquaintance any of us shared that could provoke such violent and hostile resentment from the baron.

Quickly, the tension and heightened anxiety manifested in Madam Leasure, who could no longer suppress her fright and desperation. Our natural reaction was one of panic and consternation, but we each began urgently devising plans that might offer us a way out of this madhouse.

Once again, the candles, lanterns, torches, and the full moon were the only sources of light as we conferred anxiously in the main hall. As the hours passed, we grew increasingly contemplative, lost in pensive machinations. It became evident that we were driven by an irresistible need to share any crucial knowledge we had concerning the baron and the château.

Our survival depended on our astuteness and collaboration—but that fragile unity would gradually begin to fray over time. Most unfortunate of all, none of us possessed any meaningful knowledge of the château or much detailed information about Baron Von Henkel himself.

We would have to rely solely on the guidance of our instincts and intellect during our time within the property. This was the precise challenge the baron had imposed upon us. He had chosen his participants carefully—those he believed capable of playing his unnerving game of death.

As we remained gathered in the main hall, we earnestly discussed a viable plan to escape the château. We revealed to one another the scant information we possessed about both the château and the baron. Mr. Bonham, being a detective of notable intelligence and experience, began to speak with measured intimation and logic. He pointed out details of the château’s partitions and the grand chandeliers hanging from above. According to him, everything about the château’s design was concentric and deliberate—and the key to our escape, he suggested, lay in deciphering its architectural intricacies.

What was immediately apparent to us was that the candles had been provided for vision, and the weapons—once found—would serve for defense or, perhaps, murder. If the doors were closed, they must have been secured manually. Our first course of action was to inspect the front door. Upon doing so, we found it firmly shut. The doorknob would not budge, and our only option seemed to be the keyhole.

The dilemma was clear: we had nothing suitable with which to pick the lock—save for Madam Leasure’s earring. In desperation, we tried to open the front door using the earring, but our attempt was futile. The delicate piece snapped under the strain. In the ensuing commotion, Madam Leasure lost the other earring, and with the dim light we had, it was impossible to search properly for the tiny accessory.

After our initial failed attempt to escape, we considered other possibilities. Mr. Mathenson speculated that the château might conceal a hidden passage, one unknown to us at the time. Since the château had once housed English military soldiers, it seemed plausible there could be a secret route—perhaps through the cellar. This idea was met with cautious interest but remained, for the moment, mere speculation.

We also discussed the proximity of the river and the rumour of an abandoned tunnel that might still exist. The château was perched on a steep slope, and with erosion, any attempt to traverse unstable ground could lead to disaster within minutes. Another notion we entertained was whether an acquaintance might report our absence or try to call the château and, upon receiving no answer, raise the alarm. But when we asked if any of us had informed a loved one or friend of our plans to spend the night here, there was no favourable reply. The logical assumption would be that we had simply stayed the night—nothing unusual.

It became clear that the baron had planned his deception with meticulous precision. We returned to the possibility of an interior passage hidden somewhere within the château—a prospect that intrigued us all and seemed the most promising lead to pursue. However, the problems were formidable: the poor visibility, and the lurking, unspecified danger we all sensed in the air.

Before long, we would encounter our first chilling brush with death. As we stood gathered in the corridor, deep in discussion about the secret passages, a horrifying event unfolded—one that would make us realize with grim certainty both the severity of our predicament and the full measure of the baron’s madness.

Monsieur Villeneuve was standing at the edge of the main hall, speaking quietly with Madam Leasure, when his eyes drifted to the fireplace. He seemed intrigued by the chimney, and a bold idea struck him—that perhaps an escape route lay hidden within it.

Without hesitation, he moved closer and peered up inside the fireplace. In that instant, as if by some sinister design, the fire roared to life, engulfing him in flames. His death was swift and horrifying.

Madam Leasure, frozen for a moment in disbelief, let out a piercing scream, her face draining of colour as she witnessed the dreadful scene. The sight of Monsieur Villeneuve’s body, blackened and smoldering on the hearth, was seared into our minds—a grotesque and deeply disturbing image none of us could unsee.

I rushed to Madam Leasure’s side, trying in vain to calm her trembling and hysteria, while Mr. Bonham and Mr. Mathenson sprang into action. Grabbing one of the heavy curtains from the hall, they beat back the flames until Monsieur Villeneuve’s body lay still, the fire subdued at last.

Monsieur Villeneuve was the first casualty of Baron Von Henkel’s twisted game. His death left no doubt—the game had truly begun. Now the grim question hung heavily in the air: what horrors awaited us next, and who among us would be the baron’s next victim?

With no means to bury Monsieur Villeneuve, we did what little dignity allowed, covering his charred body with the thick curtain. We could not afford to linger in sorrow. Time was pressing, and survival through the long, cold night was now our only focus.

We chose to remain in the main hall—it was spacious, and the torches lining the walls offered the best light and visibility. The cold crept in steadily, and ironically, despite the ghastly scene at the fireplace, we huddled near it for warmth, drawn together by both fear and necessity.

The horrifying death of Monsieur Villeneuve had left an immediate and indelible mark on our minds. Bitter as it was, we knew there was no time to dwell on grief or despair. Resolution and swift, deliberate action were now paramount, tempered by sober introspection.

An hour slipped by under a suffocating veil of dread. At precisely eleven o'clock, the deep, resonant chime of the grand clock in the main hall rang out, its echo slicing through the stillness like a grim herald. Each toll seemed to weigh upon us, a dark premonition that settled into our bones. I was aware of many things that night—the tremors of fear, the gnawing cold—but the tolling of that clock haunted me most, as if each strike edged us closer to an inevitable doom. Still, I clung faintly to the hope that perhaps, hidden in this nightmare, there was some silver lining yet to be found.

Mr. Bonham, ever the thinker, sat absorbed in his own deep musings before finally breaking the silence. He proposed we abandon the temptation of pursuing the château’s most difficult and dangerous exits, and instead adopt a strategy of tactical prudence. When pressed to clarify, he explained, with characteristic calm and logic, that the baron had surely anticipated and obstructed any obvious route of escape—setting traps where we might instinctively turn.

As his words sank in, a grim understanding passed among us. We conceded to his insight, realizing that recklessness would only serve the baron's wicked game.

Once again, we revisited our deliberations, seeking new paths to freedom. The recurring notion of hidden chambers and secret passages resurfaced, this time taking on a more palpable weight in our minds. We began to understand that our survival would depend as much on the sharpness of our intellect as on the keenness of our instincts—every decision a balance between reason and intuition.

The conversation between Mr. Bonham and Herr Brennwald had taken an unexpected turn, drawing my attention to a seemingly trivial detail: the portrait hanging above the fireplace. It was not uncommon for portraits to show signs of age or wear, but a scratch on this one intrigued both of them. Their curiosity seemed harmless enough, but it was enough to prompt a closer examination.

I carefully took down the portrait, and it was then that we noticed the chilling detail—the eyes of the baron were missing. The realization was immediate and unsettling: someone had been watching us, and that someone was likely the baron himself. Though we could not be certain, I felt a deep conviction that it was indeed him. This meant that he was still somewhere within the château. The question, however, was where?

This discovery brought a fleeting sense of hope—perhaps we could track him, confront him, and force an escape—but it was short-lived. The worst calamity of the night was about to unfold, and it would be as sudden as it was deadly.

As we continued to process the portrait's grim revelation, the unexpected happened. Herr Brennwald, in his efforts to return the portrait to its place, tripped over a hidden wire. In the span of a second, he collapsed to the floor, triggering a mechanism we had not anticipated. A sharp, pointed arrow shot from the shadows and struck him in the throat, the impact instantaneous.

The scene was grotesque—a man struck dead in a heartbeat by a silent, unseen force. His body lay crumpled on the floor, blood pooling beneath him, his lifeless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Madam Leasure's scream echoed through the hall, a sound of pure terror that shattered the fragile calm we had briefly clung to.

I rushed to cover Herr Brennwald’s body with one of the nearby curtains, my mind racing. Two victims now lay dead, and the rest of us—four souls—remained trapped in this nightmarish game. The atmosphere in the château had shifted, the walls themselves seeming to close in on us. It was no longer a place of intrigue or mystery but a suffocating graveyard where death lingered just beyond the next corner.

The realization was undeniable now: the baron was playing his game with lethal precision. And we, the remaining guests, were no longer just players—we were his prey.

The tension in the room had reached a boiling point, and the collapse of Mr. Mathenson and Madam Leasure was evident. Their once-held composure had begun to shatter, and I could see the fear in their eyes, particularly in Madam Leasure’s frantic movements. There was something unsettling about the way she trembled, her delicate features betraying a deep sense of dread that even I could not fully understand. Perhaps, as a woman, she was more predisposed to the emotional weight of the situation, but the collective horror we were experiencing transcended gender. We were all at the mercy of this malignant game, and no one was exempt from its pull.

Mr. Mathenson, on the other hand, was beside himself with frustration and panic. His words were slurred with distress as he muttered incoherently about the injustice of it all. It was clear that the events had taken a toll on him mentally, as it had for all of us, but his outburst was particularly volatile.

In contrast, Mr. Bonham remained calm. I could see his mind at work, calculating, pondering the mystery before us. His eyes were distant, as if he was piecing together something none of us could yet see. When I asked him what he was thinking, he offered a theory that, though chilling, seemed plausible: the baron might not be alone in this sickening charade. The possibility that an accomplice was among us was the darkest thought we could entertain. It turned our suspicion inward, and that was perhaps the most terrifying idea of all.

Before we could truly digest this possibility, Mr. Mathenson snapped. His voice was accusatory, his eyes wild with suspicion. He turned on us with a force we hadn’t expected, throwing accusations of collusion. He believed, with fervour, that we were all part of the same twisted plot. As he raged, he pointed out that Mr. Bonham, as a detective, and I, as a former soldier, were the most likely suspects—our backgrounds making us prime candidates for orchestrating this whole ordeal. His paranoia had completely taken over, and he wasn’t willing to entertain any reason or explanation.

Then, in a chilling turn of events, Mr. Mathenson revealed the gun. Hidden beneath the very portrait of Baron Von Henkel, the weapon was now in his trembling hands, aimed squarely at Mr. Bonham and me. The madness in his eyes was unmistakable. His words were a venomous mixture of desperation and rage, as he threatened to kill us both unless we confessed to our supposed involvement in the baron's deadly game.

The gun's cold steel glinted in the dim light, the quiet click of the hammer being pulled back reverberating in the otherwise silent room. It was a moment of raw danger, and we found ourselves at the mercy of a man whose mind had been warped by fear.

I tried to reason with him, urging him to calm down, to think rationally. But my words were like water on stone, falling uselessly on deaf ears. Mr. Mathenson was too far gone, driven by the belief that anyone could be guilty in this nightmare. His accusation had blindsided us, but we had no choice now but to figure out a way to disarm him before things escalated further.

Seeing that my efforts were in vain, Mr. Bonham took a different approach. He stepped forward, his voice steady, measured, and full of authority. He had experience dealing with tense situations like this. His eyes locked onto Mr. Mathenson’s, and he spoke in a way that demanded attention, not just from him but from the entire room.

"Mr. Mathenson," he said, his voice unwavering, "I understand your fear, your need for answers, but pointing that gun at us won’t solve anything. We need to work together to survive this, or we’ll all end up dead."

It was a desperate plea, but it was also a calculated move. Mr. Bonham’s calm demeanour was meant to cut through the fog of hysteria and appeal to whatever shred of reason remained in Mr. Mathenson. I could only hope it would work. We had lost too much already—if we turned on each other, there would be no way out.

The heavy air of tension pressed down upon us as we made our way through the dimly lit corridor, our footsteps muffled by the stone beneath. The flickering torches cast long, moving shadows that seemed to mock our sense of hopelessness. Mr. Mathenson’s breath was ragged, his grip on the gun tightening with each passing moment. It felt as though every breath I took was laced with the fear of what might happen next.

His voice, sharp and demanding, cut through the silence as he ordered us forward. I could feel the barrel of the gun press against my back, cold and unforgiving. There was no room for hesitation; we had to move, or he would force us to move. The thought of disarming him crossed my mind, but it was a fleeting one. His erratic behavior made it clear that any attempt to wrestle the gun from his hand could turn deadly in an instant.

Madam Leasure, still visibly shaken, had remained silent throughout the ordeal, her face pale and her eyes wide with dread. I couldn't help but wonder if she was as much a prisoner of her own fear as we were of Mathenson’s madness. Her earlier suggestion that we confess seemed to stem from a desire to end the terror, but she, too, had realized the grim truth—we were trapped, and our fates were not in our hands.

As we reached the cellar door, my heart pounded in my chest. The thick, musty air of the cellar greeted us as we opened the door, the faint smell of earth and decay wafting up to meet us. The darkened space beyond was a void, and I could only wonder what horrors it might conceal. The door creaked shut behind us with an eerie finality, and Mr. Mathenson stood there, watching our every move like a hawk. The silence was suffocating.

I stepped forward, torch in hand, scanning the walls for any sign of a hidden passage. The cellar appeared to be nothing more than a cavernous room filled with wine barrels and crates. I could feel Mr. Bonham’s eyes on me, his quiet assessment of the situation obvious, though he said nothing. We had both grown increasingly wary of Mr. Mathenson’s unstable mental state.

Then, I saw it—a brick wall, solid and immovable. The wall that Mr. Mathenson had hoped would conceal a passage to freedom. It loomed before us like an unyielding barrier, mocking the hope we had clung to. My heart sank.

“We’ve come this far,” Mr. Bonham muttered, his voice low but clear. “If there’s a passage here, it’s hidden well.”

Mr. Mathenson’s frustration was palpable. He stepped closer to the wall, his gun still trained on us, and began pacing, his mind clearly working to find some way around the problem. It was then that his mental unraveling seemed to peak—he was no longer merely a man on edge, but a desperate animal, searching for any way out, any way to regain control of a situation that had spiraled far beyond his understanding.

With a sharp movement, he spun toward us. "There has to be a way!" He yelled. "You two—look closer. Find it!" His eyes were wild, his voice trembling with fury. "There’s something here. There must be!"

I exchanged a glance with Mr. Bonham. He nodded, and together we stepped forward, inspecting the brick wall with a renewed sense of urgency. It was no use, though. No secret passage. No hidden door. Just a solid, unmoving wall.

Frustration gnawed at me, but I kept my composure. We couldn’t afford to let Mathenson see our doubt. He was already teetering on the edge of complete madness.

Then, a sudden thought struck me. Could the wall itself be a part of the twisted game? Perhaps the baron had wanted us to come here, to give us hope and then yank it away just when we needed it most.

Mr. Bonham’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned closer to the wall, studying it carefully. He ran his fingers along the stone, checking for any irregularities in the structure. I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe there was something we were missing. A faint breeze brushed against my face, and for a moment, I thought I imagined it. But no, it was real. There was a draft coming from behind the wall.

“Wait,” I whispered. “Do you feel that?”

Mr. Bonham’s face lit up with understanding. “There’s something behind this wall after all.”

Before we could react, Mr. Mathenson, impatient and frantic, shoved us aside and grabbed at the stones himself. "Move! Let me handle it!" He roared, his voice a mix of desperation and fury.

I wanted to stop him, to remind him of the danger of his actions, but I knew it was too late. His mind was set. The gun was still pointed at us, and we were helpless to prevent what was about to unfold.

Our actions infuriated Mr. Mathenson even more, and he demanded once again that we confess our supposed complicity at once. Madam Leasure implored us to acquiesce, insisting it was the only way we could escape the dreadful château. She pleaded with Mr. Mathenson, trying to calm him down, but as she spoke, Mr. Bonham leaned in and whispered to me that perhaps Madam Leasure was in league with Baron Von Henkel and the butler, Mr. Willoughby.

It was an idea that had not occurred to me before. I knew Mr. Bonham was a skilled detective by trade, and his instincts were sharp. Still, we needed to exercise the utmost caution if we were going to navigate this dangerous situation. Mr. Mathenson warned us that he would be watching our every move closely. The challenge we all faced now was deciding what our next step should be—and bracing for whatever audacious move the baron might make next.

We gathered, as usual, in the main hall, hemmed in by the pervasive darkness that cloaked much of the château. Our discussion centered on what to do next. Before long, the clock struck again. It was midnight, and as the echoing chime faded, I felt a sudden wave of anxiety grip me. The relentless isolation of the château was wearing us down, and we paced the main hall restlessly, searching for answers we couldn’t seem to find.

We had already experienced every intense emotion imaginable throughout this harrowing ordeal. We wavered between uncertainty and hope, all while acutely aware of the baron’s cruelty and relentless deception. Midnight had come, but there were still eight long hours to endure before dawn. Eight hours to survive not only the baron’s sinister games but also the rising tensions among ourselves.

The unthinkable—turning on each other out of sheer distrust—now seemed like a real possibility. Escaping the château and evading the baron remained our greatest hope, but the prolonged ordeal was taking a visible toll on us all, especially on our minds.

We continued pacing and pacing, until at last Mr. Mathenson could bear it no longer. He pointed the gun directly at Mr. Bonham’s head and declared that he would kill him unless he summoned the baron. Mr. Mathenson’s face was a vivid portrait of utter desperation and fury. This time, it seemed impossible that I could calm him or persuade him not to carry out his deadly threat.

As the quarrel escalated and our attention was fully absorbed by it, Madam Leasure suddenly noticed something odd about the wall adjoining the fireplace. There were faint, almost transparent stains marking the surface, and she quickly alerted us to her discovery. We turned to inspect the wall more closely, our eyes scanning for any other unusual details. Tentatively, I reached out and touched it, uncertain of what might happen.

As my fingers pressed against the hardened surface, I applied slight pressure—and to our astonishment, the wall creaked open, revealing a hidden passage we had never known existed. It was a startling and improbable turn of events. The passage was narrow and oppressively dark. If the château itself was already cold and forbidding, this secret corridor was even more clammy and suffocating.

At first, we hesitated, haunted by thoughts of what dreadful fate might have befallen Monsieur Villeneuve and Herr Brennwald. We stepped forward cautiously, every sense alert. Sensing a brief moment of distraction, Mr. Bonham seized his chance and lunged at Mr. Mathenson, trying to wrest the gun from his grasp. The two men tumbled to the ground, locked in a fierce struggle for the weapon.

When the violent scuffle subsided, a dreadful silence fell. Mr. Bonham lay motionless—dead—while Mr. Mathenson slowly rose to his feet, alive and clutching the gun. There was no trace of remorse in his cold, insensible eyes.

He was now in command and ordered me to enter the passage. I obeyed, though with deep reluctance. Once inside, it was clear that someone had already passed through—torn, viscous cobwebs clung to the walls, and the unsettling squeak of rats echoed around us. Still, we pressed on, carrying torches as we moved cautiously forward. I led the way, with Mr. Mathenson close behind, his gun trained steadily on me. Madam Leasure followed, her face drawn and distressed. I couldn’t help but wonder: where in heaven’s name did this passage lead?

The answer soon revealed itself—and with it, a shocking twist that heightened the suspense. We stumbled upon an abditory, a hidden chamber filled with a treasure trove of priceless works of art stolen by the Nazis during the war. But as we reached what seemed to be the end of the passage, we encountered an impasse—a dead end that halted us abruptly.

And then, to our astonishment and dread, Baron Von Henkel appeared behind us, gun in hand, aimed squarely at Mr. Mathenson and me.

It turned out Mr. Bonham had been right all along: Madam Leasure was indeed part of the baron’s sinister plot. She was not merely an innocent bystander but the baron’s devoted mistress, complicit in his maniacal scheme. Mr. Mathenson had suspected quiet collusion on our part, but he had never uncovered the true depths of Madam Leasure’s wicked deception. From the very beginning, she had been entangled in this web, skillfully manipulating events with her feminine charm to aid the baron.

Baron Von Henkel instructed his order for us to kneel. We obeyed, sinking to our knees on the cold, damp floor. Mr. Mathenson, his voice shaking with terror, pleaded desperately for his life.

“Please, don’t kill me, Baron!”

"Kill you? But of course, that is the intention, Mr. Mathenson. Surely you, of all people, should know how to play the game,” the baron rejoined with icy amusement.

“Why have you orchestrated all of this, Baron Von Henkel, when you already possess the trove? If your aim was to make us turn on each other, you’ve failed miserably in that endeavor!” I retorted sharply.

“That’s quite simple, Monsieur Benoit,” the baron replied, his eyes gleaming. “It’s the thrill—the challenge—that excites me immensely. You, a former soldier, should understand that well enough. We Nazis had a clear vision for the world…but alas, the world was not ready for that glorious vision.”

His demeanour was coldly impersonal, his smile chilling as he kept the gun leveled at us. Without another word, he shot Mr. Mathenson in the chest, killing him instantly. Then he turned the gun on me, finger tightening on the trigger.

Before he could fire, something unnatural stirred from the depths of the chasm. A tremor—a strange reverberation—echoed through the passage, signaling the rise of an immeasurable terror beyond reason or control.

Suddenly, four surreal, voiceless beings—eidolons—emerged from the shadows. They stood before us, their silent forms also mirrored by others behind them, as though surrounding us inescapably. Of their appearance, I can only provide the barest description, as everything happened so swiftly. In those fleeting, breathless moments, I struggled to fully perceive the horror of their presence.

They wore chequered harlequin costumes, decked in motley colours. Their eyes gleamed beady and scarlet beneath eccentric hats adorned with tiny jingling bells. Not a single word escaped their lips as they gathered; yet their movements were swift, propelled by a non-material agency that defied any tactile grasp or conventional belief.

Within seconds, they descended upon Baron Von Henkel. He fired his gun wildly, but the bullets were useless—powerless against their spectral forms. In moments, they had slaughtered him, his body crumpling in vain resistance. Madam Leasure, in a panic, seized the baron’s gun and unleashed a barrage of shots, but she too fell victim to the merciless harlequins.

I backed away slowly at first, dread swelling in my chest, before turning and bolting down the passage. I ran—ran as though the very shadows clawed at my heels—feeling the chilling nearness of those unnamable phantoms.

Miraculously, I burst through the entrance door and stumbled into the main hall, gasping for breath. There, waiting in ominous silence, was Mr. Willoughby, gun drawn and eyes narrowed.

He had not sensed the harlequins’ approach and demanded sharply, “Where are Baron Von Henkel and Madam Leasure?”

“They’re dead!” I blurted. “Killed by…by haunting harlequins!” I had no time to explain further—I turned to flee.

As Mr. Willoughby aimed his gun at me, ready to fire, the harlequins emerged from the passage with otherworldly swiftness. Without hesitation, they overtook him, cutting him down instantly, his fate sealed like the others.

The doors were shut, and it was only one o’clock in the morning when I heard the clock chime its hollow toll. There was nowhere left to run, no place to hide. Desperately, I snatched Mr. Willoughby’s gun from the floor of the main hall and pointed it at the advancing harlequins.

I stood there, transfixed, my fate hanging by a thread, at the complete mercy of these spectral beings. My body convulsed in a sudden paroxysm, and I collapsed onto the cold floor, helpless, as they loomed over me. Then, a violent upheaval shook the ground beneath us.

The château’s windows shattered, raining shards of glass across the floor in a deafening cascade. My consciousness slipped away into darkness.

When I awoke, the sound of the clock was still ringing faintly in my ears. Blinking, I opened my eyes to find the dreadful harlequins…gone. They had vanished completely, leaving no trace of their haunting presence. Daylight poured in through the broken windows—the dawn had come.

I had survived the night of unspeakable madness. Rising shakily to my feet, I stared at the entrance to the secret passage—it was closed tight now, as though sealing away the horrors within. I felt no compulsion to open it. My only thought was to escape this cursed château, to leave its horrors behind.

I staggered to the front door and gripped the doorknob. To my astonishment, it turned easily. As the door creaked open, a cascade of money—bills fluttering like autumn leaves—showered down upon me. The promised million dollars. The reward for the one who survived the château.

At last, I was free—free from the baron’s wicked games, and from the ineffaceable terror of the ghostly harlequins. But their horrifying specters would haunt my memory forever.

As I stepped outside, I turned to watch. The château, that grim madhouse of treachery and death, began to crumble with a deep, resonant groan. The earth beneath it eroded, and the entire structure slid down the steep slope, collapsing into the river below. The nightmare was swallowed by the water.

Later, I would learn the final truth: the château harboured a hidden passage leading to the river, situated beneath the remnants of an old asylum—the asylum of the harlequins. What had begun as a sadistic game of perversion had unraveled into something far darker: the revelation of the château’s most sinister secret.

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