The Heresy

A green Rolls-Royce limousine had arrived at Abernathy Castle, bearing several guests who were escorted to the estate. They had been invited to the reading of the will of Lord Bryce Abernathy, who, they had been informed, had recently died due to complications from an unknown illness.

All the guests were presumed heirs to the Abernathy fortune, owing to their kinship with the late baron. The mysterious death of Lord Abernathy would not only stir the curiosity of the guests but would also haunt them during their stay. None of them could have imagined that their arrival marked the beginning of a death sentence, decreed by the laird of the castle himself.

What lurked at the heart of this mystery was an untold tale involving the darkest secrets of a malevolence unprecedented in its relentless horror. The year was 1945. The ancient castle stood nestled amidst the Scottish Highlands of Perthshire, along the northern bank of the dale near the river on the western edge of the village of Weem, to the west of Aberfeldy.

It was a three-storey structure with sculpted dormer heads and angled turrets, round bartizans, a baronial west and east wing, a walled garden blooming with colourful orchards, a vast terraced rubble-walled enclosure, an arched stairway connecting the terraces, and an illustrious coat of arms: a golden eagle with penetrating eyes and a sharp beak. Nearby stood a curling pond, and behind the castle, a scenic backdrop of oak and larch forest stretched far into the distance.

The castle was erected with a central block flanked by towers at diagonally opposite ends, transparent in the intent of their design. The guests marvelled at the architectural finesse and external grandeur of the castle. Still, there lingered an eerie presence at the entrance—something, or someone, seemed to be watching as they entered with cautious curiosity.

Inside, they were greeted by a man named Mr Barclay, the primary solicitor responsible for the personal affairs of the estate, especially the will of Lord Abernathy. Mr Barclay was not only present to welcome the guests, but also to oversee the formalities surrounding the late baron’s legacy. None of the guests knew the full extent of the inheritance they might receive.

The guests were a varied assembly. There was Mr Ralph Mathews, a Canadian professor of average height and build, with short, neatly parted brown hair and observant brown eyes. Dr Robert Patterson, an American physician, was tall and lanky, with dark hair and similarly dark eyes. Miss Ashley Ashborough, an English teacher, was short and slender, with long blonde hair and sapphire eyes.

The two Scotsmen were markedly different. Mr Alistair McCray, a portly businessman of medium height, had short brown hair and striking turquoise-blue eyes. Finally, there was Bram Callister, a tall and broad numismatist, dark of hair and dark of eye.

Mr Barclay gathered them in the Main Hall, where he would discuss the purpose of their gathering. Their presence had not been mere coincidence—it had been predestined, though none of them knew it.

‘Now that you are all present’, Mr Barclay began, ‘we can commence the procedure regarding the will’.

‘Will you explain to us, Mr Barclay, what exactly we should be expecting?’ Asked Dr Patterson.

‘That was precisely my question’, said Mr Callister.

‘Within the span of a week, I expect to have the matter fully resolved’.

‘Why all the mystery, Mr Barclay?’ Mr Mathews enquired.

‘There is no mystery, Mr Mathews. As a learned man, surely you realise that a formal process must precede the allocation of any estate’.

‘You mean legal matters?’

‘Indeed’.

‘And once that time has elapsed, we shall be apprised of the inheritance?’ Pressed Mr McCray.

‘Patience, Mr McCray. In due course, you shall know everything’.

‘Because I am a woman, does that mean I am at a clear disadvantage among you gentlemen?’ Miss Ashborough asked with a hint of intrigue.

‘Not at all! I don’t see why your being a woman would diminish your rightful place in the inheritance, Miss Ashborough’, Mr Barclay replied.

‘It appears we’ve little choice but to wait’, Dr Patterson said with mild sarcasm.

‘And what are we to do in the meantime?’ Miss Ashborough asked.

With a knowing grin, Mr Barclay answered, ‘Enjoy your stay at the castle. You are all invited guests. I’m afraid I must take my leave. I shall return within the week. In the meantime, the castle staff have been instructed to attend to your needs’.

Once Mr Barclay had departed, the guests began to explore their surroundings. They admired the castle’s uncluttered interior, the wide turnpike stair in one of the towers, the Main Hall, the Great Hall, the withdrawing room that entertained visitors, and the gallery adorned with portraits of the Abernathy lineage. They marvelled at the 17th-century tapestries and rugs, Baroque-style furniture, lit chandeliers, the Georgian panelled wood of the walls, the armoury, the iron-gated entrance, the three upper floors and their staircases, the exquisite plasterwork ceiling, the adjacent Ante-room, the wooden roof beams stretching to the eaves, the rich Tyrian draperies, the hearth in the kitchen, the fireplace in the Main Hall, and the two vaulted cellars with thick stone floors and walls.

Some guests remained inside; others ventured outdoors to refresh themselves. They spoke of their expectations, still unaware that by week’s end—or sooner—only one of them would remain to witness the castle’s dreadful secret.

The enigma of the inheritance preoccupied their minds. Scotland was a land steeped in ancient history, resilient through strife and adversity. The baron’s ancestry was firmly rooted in this land. The guests had travelled from far and near to claim what they believed to be their rightful due.

That night, the constant barking of the hounds echoed through the corridors as the guests attempted to sleep. The hounds, loyal guardians of the estate, had been stirred by something unseen. Most of the guests slept poorly, despite the accommodations. The castle’s primary areas were without electricity; the dim light came from chandeliers, lanterns, and lamps placed in corners throughout the structure.

The lack of proper illumination unsettled the guests, who were unaccustomed to such a peculiar and shadowy environment, with mist-shrouded hills encircling the estate in an unwelcome gloom.

When morning arrived, the guests gathered for breakfast. Afterwards, they reconvened in the Main Hall to discuss the strange barking.

‘I’ve never had such a restless night as the last’, confessed Dr Patterson.

‘Nor I, and I’m British’, Miss Ashborough added dryly.

‘What has that to do with the hounds barking?’ Mr Mathews asked.

‘It’s clear you’re not used to the Scottish countryside’, Mr Callister remarked.

‘Are you suggesting we’re naïve simply because we’re foreigners?’ Dr Patterson asked, half amused.

‘Not in the least, Doctor’.

‘I believe what Mr Callister meant to explain,’ interjected Mr McCray, ‘is that this part of Scotland is known for its eeriness. The isolation and this castle can be rather daunting’.

‘What are we to do about those dreadful hounds?’ Asked Miss Ashborough.

‘Not much at present. We could ask the servants to hush them, but that won’t solve anything’, Dr Patterson replied.

‘We’re to be here a full week. I suggest we heed Mr Barclay’s advice—enjoy our stay as best we can’, said Mr Callister.

Later, they gathered in the gallery to examine the portraits of the Abernathy lineage. One painting in particular caught their attention—Lord Abernathy himself. None of the guests had previously known they were directly related to the baron.

From amongst them would emerge the final scion of the Abernathy family.

The portrait depicted a stately man with unmistakable aristocratic bearing. His imposing gaze impressed them most. So much was known of him, and yet his death remained shrouded in mystery. None of the guests had ever met him in person. He was a man of myth to them, yet one who had amassed great wealth.

His repute had been called into question by many enemies. Notably, Lord Abernathy had not been buried at the Old Kirk in Weem but in an unmarked grave with no name carved upon the headstone.

The remainder of the day was spent in conversation. Though kin, the guests were strangers to one another. They exchanged stories of commonality and difference, slowly beginning to peel back the layers of connection—and of fate.

There was a sense of suspicion, and to a lesser extent, distrust, thinly veiled among the uneasy guests. After all, they were in competition for Lord Abernathy’s fortune. No overt preference had been demonstrated indicating one among them was the clear favourite to receive the greater share of the inheritance. The gripping plot of this narrative would be ensnared by the uncertainty surrounding the bestowal of that inheritance and its ultimate revelation.

What was evident was the presence of an enigma lurking within the castle—unknown in its horror and insidious in its essence. Ultimately, it would grip many of the guests in apprehension, culminating in the terrible consequence of death. The situation was never meant to be understood as rational or believable, for the origin of this malevolence had been predestined from the moment they arrived at the castle.

The baron’s inheritance would prove only a pretext for the sinister deception used to lure them there. What had been planned would never be realised by the guests until their ominous fate was sealed. Haunting secrets lay dormant within the castle’s walls, awaiting discovery—secrets that would result in disturbing scenes of heartless cruelty towards fellow human beings.

Each guest arrived with their own private notions of what might transpire upon the disclosure of the will, and the enticing possibility of a substantial inheritance. The servants were obedient, yet unwilling to reveal anything detailed about the late baron. It remained uncertain whether they had been instructed to remain silent.

The castle itself reflected the baron’s proclivities for art and the priceless objects he had so cherished. His untimely death was still a mystery to the guests. One thing was known—he had chosen an heir for his legacy, although that legacy was shrouded in a clandestine mist of darkness.

They were all seated around the dinner table, awaiting their meal. During that time, conversation turned to the secretive nature of Lord Abernathy. It was the principal topic of discussion.

‘The longer I remain in this castle, the more I sense a coldness permeating the halls’, Miss Ashborough remarked.

‘Indeed! I too have felt this cold draught enter my room and body’, replied Mr Mathews.

‘Perhaps it is just me, but I cannot seem to shake the strange atmosphere of this place—and its inexplicable sounds’, Dr Patterson confessed.

‘Sounds, you say, Dr Patterson? What sort?’ Mr Callister inquired.

‘You’ve heard them too?’ Miss Ashborough asked.

‘Do you mean the bloody hounds?’ Queried Mr Callister.

‘No! I mean the echoing whispers of daunting voices’, said Mr Mathews solemnly.

‘I have heard them as well’, added Dr Patterson.

‘I’m certain there’s a rational explanation for these whisperings. Most likely the wind outside whistling past’, Mr McCray declared.

‘If it were merely the wind, Mr McCray, would not the sound be more pronounced than a whisper?’ Dr Patterson pressed.

‘Whatever it was, I doubt it was intended to frighten us’, Mr McCray responded coolly.

‘I have a most unsettling impression that this castle conceals Lord Abernathy’s past’, Dr Patterson admitted.

‘What are you implying, doctor?’ Mr Callister asked.

‘I only find it peculiar that we’ve been summoned to remain at the castle for a week until the will is read—and we are not permitted to leave the grounds without permission’.

‘In due time, you shall all have your answers’, interrupted the head servant, who had been listening at length.

She presented each of them with a silver ring set with a precious ruby, instructing them to wear it on the index finger of their right hand and never to remove it. When asked why, the elderly servant, Mrs Baldrige, replied gravely that dire consequences would follow. She would not elaborate—her stern warning was final.

These rings were but a prelude to the horrific events that would follow. The first of the unpredictable deaths occurred that very night—an unforgettable horror. The death left the guests shaken, as they bore witness to a scene of macabre violence. It was also the night they would come face to face with the evil residing within Abernathy Castle.

Whilst they slept in their chambers, the hounds began barking once again. The noise was loud enough to rouse Mr Mathews, who promptly dressed and, with an irritated expression, set off to locate them. Unable to find any servants, he took matters into his own hands. Near midnight, he stepped outside and attempted to hush the hounds by shouting. In an instant, they attacked him without mercy. The ferocious beasts had somehow been released, and they brought him down, killing him on the spot.

A blood-curdling scream rang out. The sound of death reached the ears of the other guests, who rushed from their rooms. Mrs Baldrige informed them of Mr Mathews’ tragic demise.

The guests were appalled. None had expected such a fate. They assumed the hounds would be destroyed, but Mrs Baldrige refused, placing blame instead on Mr Mathews for provoking the beasts—an accusation that shocked and angered the others.

‘How can you justify such a preposterous claim, Mrs Baldrige?’ Demanded Dr Patterson.

‘It was not my intent to assign blame to Mr Mathews. I was merely stating that the hounds are not to be shouted at’.

‘How heartless you are! That poor man did not deserve such a death’, Miss Ashborough declared.

‘Of course he didn’t, Miss Ashborough. I fear you’ve misunderstood me’.

‘I believe we understand you all too well’, replied Dr Patterson coldly.

‘Enough of this bickering. It won’t bring Mr Mathews back’, interjected Mr Callister.

‘I agree. Forgive Mrs Baldrige—she is but a servant, doing her duty’, Mr McCray said.

‘We cannot allow the hounds to remain. They are clearly a danger to us,’ urged Dr Patterson.

‘Killing them won’t solve anything,’ Mr Callister responded.

The following morning, Mr Mathews’ death remained at the forefront of everyone’s minds. Emotions ran high, and thoughts were muddled by the horrifying incident. The unease persisted with each subsequent tragedy. They had become unwilling participants in a grim game of life and death, scripted by an unseen hand.

The death of Mr Mathews was assumed to be a regrettable accident. Yet, unbeknownst to the guests, another senseless death was imminent. This time, Mr McCray would meet a ghastly end. Standing at the edge of a third-storey stairwell, he suddenly toppled over and fell to the first storey below. His neck was broken, his head twisted grotesquely to the side.

The horrific sight stunned the onlookers. Dr Patterson rushed to him, but it was too late. The others had seen his fall—heard his scream. Nothing could have been done. Shock was etched upon their faces. While it appeared to be an accident, the question remained—was it truly?

Had someone—or something—pushed him? No one had been seen nearby. The mere sight of Mr McCray’s dislocated neck caused Miss Ashborough to faint. Dr Patterson tended to her at once.

‘Poor Mr McCray. What a dreadful way to die!’ Said Mr Callister.

‘I’ve never encountered, in all my years as a physician, two such horrific deaths’, Dr Patterson remarked.

‘Will Miss Ashborough recover, doctor?’ Mr Callister asked.

‘I believe so—once she comes around’.

Miss Ashborough awoke in her room to find Dr Patterson beside her. ‘What happened?’

‘You fainted’.

Her hands trembled. ‘I remember now. Oh, doctor—it was dreadful seeing Mr McCray lying there, stone dead with his neck contorted’.

‘I was equally disturbed. Best you rest’.

‘But how can I rest, when there have been two deaths in two days? What if I am next?’ Her anxiety grew.

‘There’s no need to fret. Both deaths can be explained rationally’.

‘And if the castle is truly haunted? Are we doomed?’

‘I’d rather not believe that’.

That evening, a storm approached. Thunder rumbled in the distance as the three surviving guests sat in the withdrawing room, gazing through the windows. They speculated on the contents of the will and the mysterious ruby rings. With fewer inheritors now than had originally arrived, questions abounded.

Why were they forbidden from removing the rings? Had this all been planned? And if so—by whom? Could one of them be the mastermind, hiding behind a duplicitous scheme? It was impossible to tell.

Alone in his room, Dr Patterson pondered the peculiar deaths. As a man of science, he sought logical explanations, but the castle’s mystery unsettled him. His instincts told him that the servants—Mrs Baldrige in particular—knew more than they admitted.

The dreariness and dull isolation of the castle were beginning to affect the three remaining guests, who were increasingly nervous about their present situation. The distrust between them caused each to be watchful of the others’ behaviour.

Three days passed, and the guests remained mindful of their actions—but so too were another pair of piercing eyes. The inheritance was the only reason they remained at the castle. Was it perhaps their greed that would condemn them to death, or was it their curiosity to discover the truth behind the mystery of Lord Abernathy?

Miss Ashborough, Mr Callister, and Dr Patterson were outside the castle taking in some air. They were still not permitted to leave the estate. Something had caught Mr Callister’s attention as he stared up at one of the castle’s imposing towers.

He pointed and told the others that he had seen the lone figure of a man standing in one of the towers above. When the others looked up, they saw nothing—no one there. Was there truly someone in the tower, or had Mr Callister mistaken a shadow or illusion for a person?

The longer they stayed at the castle, the more their minds became distressed by the unfolding predicament. Their concern was valid, for they were experiencing abnormalities not easily explained—unnatural in both frequency and manifestation.

Dr Patterson had managed to speak with Mrs Baldrige in private. He was keen to question her about the baron’s death. He had noticed that her answers depended greatly on her mood, and he knew he would have to outwit her if he was to uncover the truth.

Thus, he waited for her at the end of the Main Hall, stopping her to request a private conversation. Mrs Baldrige was mildly surprised to see the doctor and to hear his request. Nevertheless, despite his insistence, she agreed to speak with him.

'What exactly do you wish to speak about, Dr Patterson?'

'It is not my intention to pry into matters that do not concern me, but I was curious about the death of Lord Abernathy'.

'I’m afraid I cannot reveal anything more than what has already been publicly stated, doctor'.

'I’ve read the articles concerning his death, but what I fail to understand is what contributed to his illness. Even the physician who conducted the report couldn’t determine the cause'.

'You must realise that I’m merely a servant, doctor. These medical matters are beyond my comprehension'.

'Yes, I’m aware. But you’ve been at the castle for years—you were here during the baron’s lifetime'.

'That is true'.

'Then you must have observed his illness—his deterioration?'

'Even if I had, doctor, I repeat, I can’t tell you anything that hasn’t already been said'.

'You could at least acknowledge whether his complexion was pale, or whether he displayed erratic behaviour before his death'.

'Perhaps he did, doctor. But as you know, I cannot comment on things that do not involve me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have duties to attend to'.

'By all means. Proceed'.

Dr Patterson was not convinced that Mrs Baldrige knew nothing of the baron’s decline. As the head of the household staff, she would almost certainly have been informed of such a delicate matter. Unfortunately, the doctor had failed to elicit any pertinent information regarding the baron’s death. Nevertheless, he was resolute in his pursuit of the truth.

He began to wonder about the baron’s lifestyle. He was not prepared to dismiss this aspect of the man’s life. Thus, while the others were distracted in the Main Hall, he quietly opened the door that led down to the cellar. There, he discovered newspaper clippings that mentioned Lord Abernathy’s death—but one in particular shocked the American doctor.

It claimed that the baron had reportedly committed suicide after brutally murdering his guests. Apparently, he had gone mad and slaughtered the individuals who were present in the castle at the time. If this account were true, it would contradict the version of events told to the public, including the current guests.

The suspense deepened with this horrific twist. The article further reported that Lord Abernathy had suffered from sporadic delusions and fits of hysteria. Dr Patterson was left to wonder: how were these accounts related to the strange events currently taking place at the castle?

Moreover, there was no mention of an inheritance or potential heirs in any of the reports. Yet he and the others had been summoned to hear the reading of a will. Was the will written before the baron lost his mind—or had someone else drafted it on his behalf?

Dr Patterson considered Mr Barclay. He knew that the solicitor would be the one to reveal the contents of the will. Mr Barclay had said he would not return for at least a week. Could he be involved in this contrivance? Were the guests unwilling participants in some elaborate scheme? These questions lingered in the doctor’s mind.

There had already been two deaths, and now only three guests remained alive—none of whom knew the origin of the evil lurking in the castle. Dr Patterson asked Mrs Baldrige to summon Mr Barclay, so he and the others might speak with him directly. It was vital. He was later informed that Mr Barclay had left the area for the nonce.

No specific reason or explanation was given for his sudden departure. Dr Patterson instinctively questioned the timing of it. He returned to the others and informed them of Mr Barclay’s absence, though he refrained from revealing the newspaper clippings he had found. He did not want to alarm the others further, especially given the recent deaths of Mr Mathews and Mr McCray.

Then came another death—one even more disturbing in its consequences. The guests had been conversing by the fireplace in the Main Hall when the fire’s sparks suddenly leapt and caught the edge of Mr Callister’s clothing. Within seconds, the flames engulfed him, and despite the others’ attempts to extinguish the fire, it was too late. He died there on the floor, his final scream echoing throughout the castle.

Miss Ashborough was visibly shaken and suffered a sudden convulsion. Dr Patterson immediately sedated her to calm her nerves and moved her to a room on the opposite side of the castle.

Once she was calmer, he said, 'Miss Ashborough, it is Dr Patterson. How are you feeling?'

'I can’t believe this is happening. Are we next to die?'

'I don’t know'.

'Why don’t we leave, doctor? We should get away before it’s too late—forgo the inheritance!'

'I’ve been thinking the same thing'.

'Then what are we waiting for?'

They headed for the front door, intent on fleeing the torment that had plagued them since their arrival. The idea of remaining at the castle had become intolerable.

As they departed, Mrs Baldrige spotted them and asked where they were going in such haste. They ignored her and pressed on.

Outside, Dr Patterson saw a car approaching—it was Mr Barclay. He had come to speak to the remaining guests. Descending from the vehicle, he was puzzled to find Dr Patterson and Miss Ashborough standing outside in such distress. He tried to calm them enough to understand their words.

'What’s troubling you both? Why are you outside?'

'You knew what was going on and said nothing! You knew this would happen!' Miss Ashborough cried in anger.

'I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re implying', replied Mr Barclay.

'Stop playing games, solicitor. Three people are dead, and there’s something sinister happening here—something you must know about', Dr Patterson added.

'Are you suggesting that I am responsible for three deaths that, as I was informed, were all accidental?'

'And who told you this?'

'I did, doctor', Mrs Baldrige interjected.

'Just as I suspected—you’re both in collusion'.

'Why are we prisoners here?' Miss Ashborough asked.

'That’s what I’d like to know as well', said the doctor.

'You’re both free to leave, but you do so at the cost of forfeiting your inheritance'.

'I don’t care about the bloody inheritance—I’d rather live!' Miss Ashborough shouted.

'Very well. I’ll have the driver, Carl, take you to the village, from where you can leave the area'.

Miss Ashborough was about to step into the car when Dr Patterson stopped her. 'Wait a moment'.

'Three people have died here. The least we can do, in their memory, is learn what the will says'.

'If you insist. Let us return to the castle and the Main Hall, and I shall read the will'.

'That is a good idea', the doctor agreed.

They returned inside and sat in the Baroque chairs in the Main Hall, where Mr Barclay began the formal reading of the will. The guests insisted he be brief, given all they had endured.

When Mr Barclay concluded, both remaining guests were stunned. The only inheritance was the castle itself, to be granted solely to the last surviving guest after one week.

Neither Dr Patterson nor Miss Ashborough could comprehend such a perverse arrangement. They had travelled so far, only to inherit a place of horror.

'Is that it?' Miss Ashborough asked incredulously. 'We endured this nightmare just to inherit a wretched castle?'

'I must agree', said the doctor. 'How are we to determine who lives or dies? Can you not see the macabre nature of this will?'

'I am merely fulfilling the legal requirements', the solicitor responded. 'It is what was stipulated'.

'Then tell us—who was Lord Abernathy truly?' Demanded the doctor.

'I’m not sure you want to know the truth'.

'We do!' Miss Ashborough cried.

'So do I', said Dr Patterson.

'He was a proud man—and a murderer who lost his mind'.

'We already know that. But I sense there is more to this story that you’re not revealing, Mr Barclay'.

'How did you learn that grim truth?'

'I found some old newspaper clippings. He killed his guests—then himself'.

'I see'.

'Tell us—who is haunting this bloody castle?' Miss Ashborough asked, visibly trembling.

'Is it the baron’s spirit?' Dr Patterson added.

Before Mr Barclay could respond, he began to choke violently and collapsed to the floor. Miss Ashborough screamed as the doctor rushed to his aid. Something invisible was strangling the solicitor.

His hands clutched at his throat as if battling some unseen attacker. The image was terrifying. In a panic, Miss Ashborough fled the castle, only to be struck by the approaching limousine. She died instantly.

Strangely, the driver, Carl, had not been behind the wheel—he had been inside the castle speaking to Mrs Baldrige at the time.

Dr Patterson returned inside and confronted Mrs Baldrige, who stood beside a seated stranger.

'What in God’s name is going on here? Who is this man?'

The figure wore a dark suit and trousers, polished shoes, and had an eerie glow in his eyes—red and filled with malevolence.

Mrs Baldrige calmly replied, 'Dr Patterson, may I introduce you to Lord Abernathy'.

The doctor was stunned. “What are you saying, Mrs Baldrige? That’s impossible!'

“It is true, doctor', she said.

'How can that even be possible, if he is dead?'

'He is immortal, doctor'.

She then pointed to the will she held in her hand and told him to sign his name, so that he could become the rightful inheritor of Abernathy Castle.
'All you have to do is sign, doctor!'

'Are you mad? After all that has happened, you still think I’m interested in this wretched castle?'

Dr Patterson began to walk away from the Main Hall, but paused at the doorway to reflect on his decision. The madness of the castle had affected him enough to consider the ultimate betrayal of the other deceased guests. Slowly, he turned and walked towards the table where the will was laid out. What occurred next was baffling in both its motive and consequence.

He signed his full name in the bottom right-hand corner, where his signature was required.

He was the last guest who remained.

Had he sold his soul to the vecordious devil that sat before him? Whatever name one dared to give it, he had sealed his immutable fate with that signature. Perhaps immortality was more alluring than the mundane existence he had known as a mere mortal. Perhaps it offered optimity.

'Now that you have signed, doctor, you are the legitimate heir to the castle—and to the baron’s fortune. I know you were told you would only inherit the castle, but poor Mr Barclay was unaware of the rest of the will'.

'And the ruby ring? What am I to do with it?'

'Keep it on—for it will make you more powerful than you can ever imagine'.

'If I may ask you one question, Mrs Baldrige...why was Lord Abernathy not buried in the cemetery I passed on my way to the castle?'

'That is simple to answer. He was considered a heretic by the Church, who condemned him for his lustful acts and immoral behaviour'.

'What greater sin is there than heresy?'

'None, in the eyes of the Church'.

'I suppose that makes me a heretic as well?'

'Indeed', she replied with a sly grin.

From that day forth, Dr Patterson was addressed as Lord Patterson by the loyal servants who remained. His kinship—linked through his maternal bloodline—was legitimised by his acquisition of the title. He would remain at the castle as the new laird, to be served and revered.

As for the other guests who had died so tragically, they would soon be forgotten. Their deaths were reported as accidental. The rooms in which they had stayed were cleaned thoroughly, and no trace of their presence was kept. Their memory at the castle was completely effaced, and their unfortunate souls were sealed within a dark urn—forever trapped.

Legend holds that the immortal spirit of Lord Abernathy still roams the surrounding forest and village, seeking new victims to terrorise with his sinful perversion.

The first night after the signing of the will was oppressively still. The once flickering torches that lined the halls of Abernathy Castle had been extinguished, and the ancient stones seemed to sigh under the weight of silence. Lord Patterson sat alone in the grand drawing room, the ruby ring still fastened to his finger like a cursed shackle. Its gleam had not dimmed since it was placed upon him, and in certain angles of candlelight, it seemed almost to pulse–like a second heart, beating with a will of its own.

He stared at it, unable to look away for several minutes. The ring had once belonged to Lord Abernathy himself, and though he had laughed at such notions earlier in the day, a deep-rooted feeling within him now whispered that the ring watched him back.

He rose, shaking off the paralysis of thought, and walked toward the corridor that led to the east wing – an area Mrs Baldrige had specifically advised him to avoid until further notice. Naturally, this only stirred his curiosity further. What was so dangerous about a wing that had not been used in years? Was it merely the disrepair? Or had some darker truth been concealed, as with so many other things at Abernathy?

The sconces in the corridor had not been lit in decades. He carried a silver candlestick from the drawing room, shielding its flame with his hand as he passed through the heavy velvet curtain separating the east wing from the main halls. The air here was stale – thick with the scent of dust, mould, and something fouler, more metallic.

Blood.

The further he walked, the more vivid the crimson hue on the walls appeared to become. He told himself it was only the reflection of the flame upon faded wallpaper. Yet, there was something unmistakably wrong in the way the red marks ran downward, as though painted by hands in their final tremble.

He came to a large oak door, bolted with iron, its wood scarred with claw-like scratches. His candle dimmed suddenly, and a chill swept over him, forcing a cough from his throat. He reached out and, with effort, turned the rusted handle. The door groaned open to reveal a chamber unlike any other he had seen in the castle.

It was a study–though that word felt too civilised for such a space. Books lined the walls, but not books in English or Latin. Their spines were marked with symbols– sigils that hurt the eye to look upon for too long. The hearth at the far end was cold, yet ash remained in its mouth, fresh enough to suggest recent use. Most disturbing of all was the high-backed chair placed before the hearth, facing the wall. Draped over it was a tattered burgundy cloak, its embroidery stitched with golden thread that formed the Abernathy sigil–the coiled serpent devouring its own tail.

‘Lord Abernathy’s final seat’, whispered Patterson involuntarily.

As he stepped closer, he noticed the air grow heavier, as though the walls themselves pressed inwards to suffocate him. He touched the cloak gently, but in doing so, heard a whisper that echoed not through the room, but within his mind:

‘You wear my name. You wear my ring. But you are not yet me’.

He staggered back, knocking over a side table. The candle dropped and sputtered on the floor, casting frantic shadows on the walls as the flame fought for life. In that brief moment of darkness, he swore he saw the cloak rise. Not in wind. Not by gravity. But by some intent.

He relit the candle with trembling hands and backed away, but his heel caught on something solid. He turned to see a low table covered in parchment–sketches of human figures in agonising contortions. Ritual circles. Diagrams of the soul. And then…names. His name.

It was there in the same scrawl he had seen in the will.

Dr Patterson.

Over and over again.

Each instance was followed by a single red line–drawn through it, as if to signify his failure, or worse, a necessary death.

He felt bile rise in his throat. He had thought himself clever, taking the inheritance, surviving the madness. But this had all been foreseen. Or worse–engineered.

He stumbled out of the chamber, slamming the door behind him. As he did, a laugh rose up–not from the room, nor from any corner of the corridor–but from inside him. It wasn’t his own.

Back in his chambers, he bolted the doors and drew the curtains shut. He stared at himself in the mirror and barely recognised the reflection that looked back. His skin appeared paler, stretched thin over prominent cheekbones. His eyes, once grey, had taken on a reddish hue – faint, but discernible in the low light.

Mrs Baldrige entered without knocking, as she always did. ‘I see you’ve visited the east wing’.

‘You knew what I’d find’, he said, his voice hoarse. ‘You knew it was all orchestrated’.

‘Of course’, she replied coolly. ‘The castle chooses its heir. Not the will. Not the bloodline. It was always you. From the moment you crossed the threshold’.

He approached her, anger mounting. ‘What have you done to me?’

‘I have done nothing. The ring, however…it has begun’.

He looked down again at the ruby. It no longer shone red–it shimmered black, like oil on fire.

‘You must complete the passage,’ she continued. ‘The ceremony begins at midnight. Down in the crypt’.

‘I’m not going anywhere with you', he muttered.

‘Oh, but you will, my lord. The others tried to resist too. Barclay. Miss Roan. The bishop. But in the end, they all returned to the crypt’.

His knees weakened with amazement. ‘What is in the crypt?’

‘Truth’, she said. ‘And transformation’.

He wanted to scream, to run–but no voice came. No strength. The castle had already begun its work, and he could feel his will bending, like iron softened in the flame. It would not be long now.

He was becoming Abernathy.

Or rather…Abernathy was becoming him.

The wind howled that night as though mourning some ancient loss, its breath slipping through the cracks in the stained-glass windows, causing faint, almost musical moans throughout the castle’s stony corridors. Lord Patterson, no longer certain of his identity, stood before the great hearth of the drawing room. The fire had long since died, yet he felt no cold. The sensation of temperature had dulled; time had blurred. The hours since he had left the east wing were a void in his memory, filled only by the weight of the ring and the sensation of being watched from within.

He moved with instinct rather than purpose now, his steps guided not by decision but by design. The castle was no longer unfamiliar to him. Though he had only walked its halls for a matter of days, each corner, each stairwell, each tapestry seemed part of his ancestral blood. Memories that were not his surfaced in flashes—visions of hunts held in the forest, of blood rituals by candlelight, of secrets spoken in dead languages. He did not know these scenes, yet they belonged to him, as if inherited through some esoteric lineage that transcended mere genetics.

Beneath the grand staircase lay a door that no key could open—until tonight. The moment he laid his hand upon the rusted handle, the wood shuddered, groaned, and gave way. The passage beyond was narrow, with stone steps winding downward, coiling like a serpent’s spine into the black belly of the earth. The air was damp and reeked of soil and age. Moss and mildew clung to the walls, and the faint drip of water echoed like whispers from some unseen throat.

He descended without thought, candle in hand, though it barely pierced the gloom. The silence was unnatural, oppressive, as though sound itself had been banished. Dust spiralled in the flickering light, revealing alcoves carved into the stone, each one containing urns, statues, or long-decayed offerings. Ancient runes had been chiseled into the walls, their edges dulled by time, yet still pulsing faintly with latent energy. The symbols seemed to shift when he did not look directly at them—an optical illusion, or something more?

At the base of the stairs lay a vast crypt. It did not resemble the cold, impersonal tombs he had seen in cathedrals. This was something more sacred and more profane. The chamber was circular, its floor a mosaic of interlocking shapes resembling both planetary orbits and alchemical diagrams. In the centre stood a black stone altar, old as the bones of the castle itself. Behind it, carved into the wall, loomed a relief of a figure cloaked in serpents, its face eroded by time—or by deliberate defacement.

Along the perimeter of the crypt stood thirteen caskets, upright, embedded into the walls like ancient sentinels. Each bore the crest of a different branch of the Abernathy lineage, and all had names engraved in the old tongue. All but one. One casket stood unmarked, its stone lid slightly ajar. A faint mist clung to it, drifting up toward the vaulted ceiling, where countless bats stirred, unseen but present.

The ring on his hand grew heavier, warmer. The weight travelled up his arm, through his chest, into the base of his skull. A low hum vibrated through the bones of the crypt, resonating with something inside him. The altar drew him forth. His feet obeyed. With each step, he shed more of the man he had been: the rational doctor, the sceptic, the man of science. What remained was something liminal—something that had always existed in the shadow of the name Abernathy.

Upon reaching the altar, he found a ceremonial blade resting atop a folded robe of deep crimson velvet. The fabric was embroidered with golden filigree, spirals and sigils repeating the motifs he had seen upstairs. He knew, without knowing how, that the blade was not meant for violence but for transference. The ritual did not demand sacrifice—it demanded acceptance. A bond between flesh and spirit, past and future.

He donned the robe without hesitation, and as the fabric touched his skin, a vision overtook him. He stood in the same crypt, but it was centuries earlier. Torches burned on the walls, and the chamber was filled with chanting figures in ceremonial garb. He saw himself among them, standing not as a guest, but as a presiding figure, raising the blade high above the altar. The chanting grew louder, the walls glowed with blood-red light, and the name Abernathy was spoken as invocation, not title.

When the vision faded, Patterson found himself kneeling. The blade was still in his hand, but the altar now bore fresh markings, glowing faintly in the candlelight. The unmarked casket had sealed itself. Somewhere in the forest above, the wind fell silent.

He rose, transformed not in body, but in presence. The crypt had recognised him. The castle had accepted him. And something ancient and unsleeping had entwined its fate with his.

No longer a guest. No longer a victim. He was Abernathy now, in more than name.

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