The Insidious Ghoul

During the year of 1855, Lord Galbraith, a nobleman from Glasgow, discovered a fair-to-middling man lying on the ground, agroof and kenspeckle, within the solitary cellar of his house. At first, he thought the man was dead, for he lay listless, not moving a single muscle.

When Lord Galbraith approached him, he examined his unfavorable condition, and the man muttered a fathomless utterance. His guise was visibly malagrugrous in tenuity, and his countenance extremely haggard. His hair was unkempt, having grown to reach his reddish lire. In truth, he appeared a gadling not in fine fettle or very hale. He seemed to be suffering from cruel inanition, and he was parched, incoherently muttering as he lay.

Lord Galbraith could not be certain if the man was afflicted with ague himself. Immediately, he carried him to the nearest adjacent apartment in his house, where he could find shelter and regain his necessary vigour, as was Lord Galbraith's intent. He instructed the servants to prepare him a room and a hearty repast, whilst the infirm man took a bath and shaved.

When he was refreshed, they joined one another in the parlour, where the stranger sat in an armchair covered in velvet. There, they shared a bottle of sherry. In time, Lord Galbraith would learn that the man was a former soldier who had fought in the Battle of Waterloo against Napoleon, as well as in the Greek War of Independence. His name was Callum MacClure, and he was a Scotsman by birth.

When Lord Galbraith enquired why the man had been found in the cellar, so untidy and seemingly abandoned, his response was disturbing and unconventional. Callum MacClure spoke with a tremor, explaining that it was not by his own volition, and he cringed in utter horror as he confessed his wanchance. He seemed greatly unsettled, fidgeting nervously as if keenly aware of something troubling him—a developing situation of which he could not speak with ease.

Callum took a deep breath, his eyes distant, as if recalling something from the depths of a nightmare.

'It began on a night not unlike any other', he said, his voice lowering, 'a night that chilled the bones of even the bravest of men. I had been stationed at a small outpost, near the borders of the Saracen lands, with little more than the company of the soldiers and the wind that howled through the barracks. The nights were long, and the darkness, impenetrable. But it was that very darkness that concealed a horror beyond any that could be imagined'.

Lord Galbraith leaned forward, the air growing thick with suspense as the tale unfolded.

'It was during an evening patrol when I first encountered it. We had been sent to investigate strange disappearances—farmers, traders, even whole families had vanished, without a trace. The locals spoke of shadows in the night, figures too fast to see, and voices too chilling to be human. But none of us took heed, dismissing the rumors as superstition. After all, we were soldiers, not peasants'.

He paused, eyes now locked with Lord Galbraith’s, his gaze intense.

'We reached a graveyard on the outskirts of the village, an ancient place where the earth was blackened by the bones of the forgotten. It was here, amidst the stones, that we found the first body. The man’s face was frozen in an expression of sheer terror, his skin drained of all colour, his body a mere husk of what it had once been. No wound, no sign of struggle. Just the emptiness of death'.

Lord Galbraith’s stomach churned at the thought.

'Then, in the distance', Callum continued, 'we heard it. The faintest sound at first, like the rustling of dry leaves in the wind. But it grew louder—closer—until I could hear the unmistakable padding of feet on the ground. My comrades tensed, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. But the thing that approached was not human. It was a figure cloaked in shadows, its form shifting like smoke in the dark. A creature more terrifying than any beast, its eyes glowing with a malevolent hunger'.

He stopped, as though the very memory of it made his chest tighten.

'It was a ghoul, sir', he said softly, 'an unholy thing that feasts on the souls of men. It had risen from the depths of the graveyards, summoned by the vile power of Iblis himself. And as it stood before us, its maw stretched wide in a grotesque grin, I knew that our fate had been sealed'.

The room fell silent, the weight of Callum’s words pressing down on Lord Galbraith’s chest.

'I was the only one who survived that night', Callum whispered, his voice barely audible. 'The ghoul... it devoured them all, one by one. And when it came for me, I fled. I ran until my legs gave way, and I collapsed, here, in the cellar of your home. I was spared, but I have never been the same since. The ghoul’s touch lingers with me still, as does the curse of the damned'.

Lord Galbraith sat in stunned silence, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, its warmth offering little comfort against the chill of the tale.

'It is no superstition, sir', Callum muttered, his eyes glassy with the weight of his memories. 'It is a truth as terrible as death itself. The ghoul is real, and it will come for us all in the end'.

The room seemed to grow colder as the last of Callum's words echoed through the parlour. The fire flickered, casting strange shadows across the walls, and for a moment, Lord Galbraith wondered if the ghoul was already lurking just beyond the edge of his vision.

He had paused before continuing, ‘There is a famous Scottish proverb that says, sir, “He who sups with the devil should have a long spoon”. (A person who has dealings with a dangerous or wily person should be cautious.) He began to narrate his tale afterwards.

It was a windy day when he had returned to the idyllic firth of Scotland, his homeland, as he rode the brisk fluctuation of the tides of the sea. He had been soldiering in the Greek War of Independence, where he had enlisted his service to the high-spirited Greek cause against the overpowering Ottoman Turks.

He had brought back to Scotland several souvenirs from his stay in Greece, such as a scimitar, a Koran, and a Greek urn that had been given to him as token gifts whilst in Corfu. MacClure had yearned for his homeland, and he returned home with a sense of relief and nostalgia. He had been granted a property in a small village by the Duke of York, in recognition of his deeds done in emulation of gallantry in the war.

It was a 16th-century Georgian country house, built with tall crowstep-gabled baronial wings to the east and west. It had a bow-fronted façade to the south, which was a deceptive outward appearance. The rectangular keep was only visible along its north front, and a wee bit on its east side.

The house had been constructed in coursed and harled rubble, rising through three stories, with a crenellated parapet borne on corbels. The enlarged stone mullion narrow windows were adorned with dreary shutters. There was a gabled garret within a crenellated walkway with bartizans at each corner, and a round tower stood with a carved armorial panel in the re-entrant angle, between the wing and the keep, which contained the main entrance to the manor.

The emblazoned motto was, ‘An veritas, an nihil’, (The truth or nothing.) The house featured a vaulted underground, with the main doorway being at the first-storey level. The first-storey string course continued along the 17th-century wing to the east, and there was a plentiful garden of viridity, surrounded by heavy beech trees that stood nearby.

The interior of the house was in excellent condition, and the rooms upstairs and downstairs were well furnished and busked. The wooden stairway was typical of the wood used in a manor, but its labyrinthine configuration with the inspissated balusters and vertical risers was unusually imposing.

At first impression, the manor was embedded with a mélange of ambages, duplicity, and secrecy. MacClure was particularly fond of a semi-vaulted ceiling he had descried in one of the rooms above, which was adorned with an arresting Gothic chandelier. It was a far more pleasant sight than the weary embattled fields he had languished in many times before. The extant servants were present to welcome him, greeting him with the utmost propriety.

The previous proprietor, Lord Glenfield, had mysteriously disappeared. Thus, the manor was bought by the Duke of York, as Lord Glenfield’s young daughter had been abducted and was never discovered. He had no other direct scion of his aristocratic lineage interested in purchasing the house.

There was a hidden mystery about the house, and the inexplicable occurrences at that time had unsettled any potential buyers, including the local gentry. Unfortunately, Lord Glenfield’s wife went mad and never recovered her sanity, although she had been granted the estate as a jointure in lieu of her dower. Sadly, she had passed away years later in a distant asylum. This was the account MacClure was informed of by one of the servants of the house.

He was also told that Lord Glenfield had been a fine wine collector, possessing a remarkable collection in the cellar. However, the cellar was no longer open, for it had been closed and padlocked after the disappearance of Lord Glenfield’s young daughter, Aileen.

MacClure would soon discover the haunting and melancholic truth behind the mysterious disappearance of young Aileen, but he wished to omit the details for another occasion in their conversation. Over time, he had grown fond of the house, as he began to become accustomed to its familiar surroundings. He had learned to appreciate the life in the rural countryside, and the fullness of fresh air he breathed daily. He became well-acquainted with the area and its unique habitat.

MacClure was extremely fond of the brent brae and the loch, which reminded him of the pure sea of Corfu and its rugged mountains of heughs that he often envisioned in a dwam before sleep. As a chiel, he had grown up in a canty Highland family of swink, where the loch and the corbies were always his refuge. He thought much of Robbie Burns, ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ and ‘Is There for Honest Poverty.’

Anon, he would thole the cold autumns and bitter winters again, and see the early braird. MacClure had begun a modest business endeavour in the lawful transport of Scottish goods within Britain. He had left behind his days as a proud soldier and become a reputable merchant. At last, he had known the meaningful prosperity and stability he had yearned for in his eldning, but failed to ascertain in his years of soldiering. It seemed that success was finally attainable, and expectant as a boon. He had met a charming governess, who would fill his days with happiness.

Her name was Helen, a bonny lass with winsome blue eyes and long brown hair ripe with pleasant curls, whom he had fleeched daily. She was sprack as a morning hummingbird and loved the gowans and thistles of the moorland. After nearly a year, MacClure began to sense the presence of a stranger in the house.

Perchance, mortals are not inclined to believe that the terrible Devil walks amongst them. They seek the vim and verve of days filled with good fortune and forlorn the harsh days that they suffer. Subsequently, the tenants of the house had manifested in the form of apparitions. At first, MacClure was visited by the wife of Lord Glenfield. Then, he was visited by the young daughter Aileen, whose cradle still remained as a dwining vestige of a time when she had been but an infant. The drawers and cabinets, along with the solitary piano, were reminders of the domestic chattels of the former tenants.

Yet there was an evil presence far more sinister that had lurked in the house, unbeknownst to him. It was an ugsome ghoul that stirred in the shadows, active throughout the night until the early morning. Gradually, MacClure's ordeal with the boodies became discontinuous. He thought that he had rid himself of the horrid tenants, but there remained one more tenant that refused to leave. MacClure knew that what he was about to reveal sounded mad, yet he could not deny it—it was no falsehood. It was the truth.

The only witness to corroborate his version of events was the loyal servant Mr. Callanach, a mim Carl who no longer walks this earth. He had been an ithand man and a true Scotsman, devoted to the maintenance and duties of the house. Hailing from the Outer Hebrides, he spoke Gaelic as his first tongue, with the cadence of the isles in every word.

MacClure could vividly recall many of their conversations to this day. He had entrusted Mr. Callanach with the house when his own duties kept him away. It was to him that MacClure would relate his tales of glory and sacrifice as a soldier. One day, as they stood by the hall speaking, MacClure had asked him his thoughts on ghosts. Mr. Callanach's response lingered in MacClure's mind with keen interest. He did not sense any deception in his words, but rather a stern warning about something MacClure was only beginning to grasp with growing clarity.

Verily, was this house a portal to the afterlife? If so, what did this all mean for him? The questions gnawed at him, but the answers seemed as elusive as the ghosts that haunted the very halls.

Mr. Callanach, you may think this is inane, but if I may enquire, do you believe in the supernatural, ghosts?' I had asked.

'Aye, sir! Aye believe a wee bit o agowilt kithit only cowes the bairns o the clachans i a ferly. Afauldly, thon is aw! But gin ye must wot then, sir, aye, Aye believe i the deft boodies or drows hicht wha dree their weird. Aye don’t want ye tae spook sae easily, sir, i a widdendream thrawn, wi any talk aboot fremmit boodies tae forfend. Ye shoud know this is naucht more than the auld an wode freet o the hielands muckle o eident kinsfolk forbade. Aye ween thon ye will no find the glaswegians o theedom haverin much aboot this, for they had forborne this foolhardiness o others. 'Tis sackless lor hither an yon foretold, around these lands, sir', he answered.

'I am not sure if this is merely old common superstition within these parts, Mr. Callanach, but I have learnt in my time here within this area that folklore is best to adhere to, when of course reasonable. Therewithal, I have seen the ghosts of this house tofore, and that has left me extremely pensive. Have you not seen them ever about?'

'Jings, kenspeckle boodies ye say, sir?'

'Yes, the former tenants of the house! Have you not seen them wandering the house at night, Mr. Callanach? Nary?'

'Forgif me, sir, Aye am afeard Aye haf come tae an fro from the house manifold times an haf been i the house, but Aye haf found na boodie quitchit yet, sir. Aiblins, ma ears an ma een are no gleg as er an ar bestraucht an ungainly, but whit Aye can say is thon Aye haf niver seen aucht alik tae a boodie within the house, whan Aye haf been here or oncame eft. Withal, ye must understand an foresee, sir, thon Aye dae no spend the nicht hier'.

MacClure lay awake in his bed, the night feeling far colder than usual, as the howling wind of the highlands rattled the windows. The strange wuthering seemed to echo through his thoughts, reverberating in his mind long after the wind had stilled. As he peered out into the darkness from his chamber window, his gaze was drawn to the cemetery, a short distance away by the choughs fluttering amongst the gravestones.

There, amidst the stillness of the night, a shadowy figure was at work—undigging graves, pulling something from the earth with eerie precision. MacClure strained his eyes, but he could make out little of the figure’s form in the pale moonlight. He could tell only that it wore a deep, dark hood, its purpose as obscure as its figure. The figure moved like a ghost, carrying something from the graveyard, a bundle slung over its back as it disappeared into the distance towards a caravan hidden in the gloom.

The unsettling image of the stranger gnawed at MacClure’s mind, and the next night, he found himself unable to ignore the strange presence that plagued his thoughts. He ventured out once again, the pull of the mystery compelling him forward. He made his way cautiously, silently through the winding paths, his feet muffled by the soft earth, until he reached the cemetery. There, in the low, crumbling walls, he saw the figure once more. His heart quickened as the figure was again at work, undigging graves as before, only this time, the moon illuminated the scene enough to reveal the figure's dark cowl.

Approaching slowly, MacClure tried to steady his breath, thinking it might be the sexton, or perhaps the undertaker, performing their grim task in the dead of night. But when he dared to draw closer and spoke, the figure turned. MacClure froze in his tracks.

The stranger’s face, once hidden by the hood, was now revealed. And it was a face that would haunt MacClure for the rest of his life. The man’s features were gaunt, as though he hadn’t seen sustenance in many days. His skin was a sickly, pallid white, stretched too tight over the bones beneath. His eyes glowed—unnaturally so—with an eerie, almost otherworldly light. His ears were large and pointed, like a creature from a nightmare. And his teeth—oh, his teeth were sharp and enormous, jutting from his lips like those of a beast.

A shudder of terror ran down MacClure’s spine as he glanced at the lifeless body lying at the stranger's feet. It was unmistakably the undertaker or the sexton—his body twisted and mutilated beyond recognition. The ghoul had claimed him, and with no care or remorse, was preparing to drag the corpse from its resting place.

MacClure could not contain his fear. His legs trembled, and a cold sweat drenched his body as he stumbled backward, hardly able to believe what his eyes had witnessed. He fled toward the woods, through the dense brush, desperate to escape the horror that now clung to him like a curse. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart pounding in his chest as he ran back to the house.

When he finally arrived, he slammed the door behind him, locking it with trembling hands. He stood there, drenched in sweat, his body still shaken by the terror he had just experienced. What had he seen? Had he truly encountered the ghoul—the undead creature of legend, the one spoken of in whispers by those who feared the dark?

In the silence of the house, the answers seemed elusive. But one thing was certain: whatever he had witnessed that night, it was no mere ghost. It was something far darker, far more ancient than anything he had ever believed possible. And now, it was not just a tale for the local folk to mutter about—it was a nightmare that MacClure would never forget.

He awoke early in the morning to the trill of birds outside the red muslin draperies, as he had hardly slept during the rest of the night. The strange events of the previous evening lingered in his mind, leaving him unsure whether he had experienced a nightmare or a hallucination. Doubt clouded his thoughts. Later, he spoke once more to Mr. Callanach about the disturbing possibility of a foul and sinister creature—known as the ghoul—existing on this earth. Mr. Callanach, however, seemed uneasy with the topic, and MacClure could sense his discomfort, which became more apparent throughout the day.

'Mr. Callanach', MacClure began, his tone serious, "you may think me a fool, but I trust you will give me an honest reply. What would you say if I told you that I have seen, with my very own eyes, a daemon in flesh?'

'When?'

'Yestere’en. From the graveyard nearby!' I had uttered.

'Aye, sir. Aye dinnae ken whit tae say, for I swither. Methinks the dead still wander the bonny earth, clad in the untoward winds. From their darklit abodes of hidden sleep they are sometimes dreven forth; but here in Scotland, we ken well that the dead are like crows, stirring when the sharp devil is called out beyond the ancient cairns. Aiblins, ye should speak to a good man of the cloth, one who can soothe yer worries. Things like this make me fair peely-wally in ma very bones, and I would nae begowk ye, sir, not unwittingly. Thon is nae ma ettle', he acknowledged gravely.

'I understand, Mr. Callanach. I shall speak to a man of the cloth soon, when I am able. But tell me—why do you counsel a man of the cloth?'

'Fash yersel' not, sir, by chasing after bodies, nor by seeking out the business of ghosts and their heavy burdens of tangled tales, which can make a man tremble like a glaikit soul, tholing in the mist and dreich murk of the moors thereafter. Thon is all, sir!' He assured me with a solemn nod.

Every night thereafter, MacClure beheld the grim visage of the ghoul within the clarty graveyard of sepultures. Yet each time, the wretch hied himself away into the mist of the night like a skellum, vanishing with his caravan. MacClure never spoke to a clergyman or minister regarding the ghoul’s existence; he feared that any rational man of God would deem him mad. Thus, he kept his terrible encounters to himself and endeavored to forget the dreadful sweven of the ghoul. There were no wynds to be found in the countryside, beyond the glen or manor, to deliver him from the ghoul’s reach.

One evening, his dear Helen joined him for dinner and stayed the night. She wore her finest braws for him. At first, MacClure hesitated, mindful of the malevolent ghoul lurking near, but Helen insisted, and he acquiesced. That particular night, however, the ghoul appeared—not in the graveyard, but within the very walls of the house. His victim was none other than his beloved Helen. It was a windy autumn night; the wind whistled and howled with a sheer and terrible might, and MacClure, reclined upon the settee, felt its breath brushing against him even within his quaint chamber.

Whilst he slept, a being of the night was peeping—and from start to finish creeping—down into a cellar replete with wine in galore. The ghoul it was, creeping in ghoulish revelry. Then MacClure heard words, strange and foreign: "aant’at koum" (woman, rise)—the whispered echoes of his unrest.

He awoke, his curiosity compelling him to explore this mystery he could no longer ignore. Thus, he made his way toward Helen’s chamber, though the echoes still defied his understanding. As he approached, he caught a foul stench—a heavy, pestilential breath that seemed to arise from some ancient chasm of Tophet.

An ugsome fiend had indeed risen from the pestilence of the graveyard to affright. MacClure opened the door—and Helen was gone from her bed. From top to bottom he searched, ascending and descending the stairs, searching to and fro for her—until at last he found the lair of the ghoul, dwelling vile and serpentine, within his own cellar.

He immediately unlocked the padlock and entered the cellar. His mind was racing, imagining—what horror might he discover? Had he so rapidly lost the essence of his reason—or would the darkness lead him blind into the abyss of no return? All was darkness; only the faintest glim before the abyss could he see. There was total blackness and nothing more he could attest.

From afar, he beheld an inscrutable bizen: a large and wide creation, enthralled by the orphic night. A huge black hole gaped in the wall, leading into a vague and adamantine corridor. His keen instinct overrode his sense of fear, and gently he walked forward, until he reached a murky and nithered chamber, where the gripple ghoul sat upon his throne palatine. There he fed on the rotten flesh of bones and liches, devouring with a horrid satiety.

At this, MacClure thought with dread of his poor Helen. Had she been taken by this uninvited and pamphagous guest? He stood silent and donnered, as the ghastly ghoul, violent and cruel, reveled before him. The creature was drenched in the temulence of goblets of wine.

Around him, piles of deceased corpses heaved, too listless and supine to stir. MacClure beheld the ghoul’s unsightly, horrendous guise—grotesque and colossal in stature. He could not forget the creature’s glabrous visage, nor his sharp nails, dangerous as a feline on the prowl. Peccavimus—they had sinned—and here was God's ire manifested completely in this daunting disguise. MacClure harked, and knew raringly that he stood in no sanctuary of blest angels.

The ghoul scratched and grated his claws upon a human skull, drinking deeply from goblets of wine again and again. The fuscous vault was adorned with the trickling blood of the humans he had so loved to consume with his wine. Endless piles of human bones lay tangled and forsaken—abandoned by their brethren.

The ungodly heathen and rapscallion had feasted amidst unbearable wails near a shrine. MacClure pondered the unthinkable—had this unholy exile feasted upon the bones of his beloved Helen, by a shrine that resembled the image of a bottomless pit? He never found Helen alive.

Slowly, he retreated on the tips of his toes, leaving behind the ghoul's groans, whilst the fiend savoured his spoils, bedoven in drool, grinding his pointed fangs harshly like a canine in mastication. MacClure crept backwards, thinking, remembering always to move ahead. Thence he ran, for he had heard a vociferous roar from the tetchy ghoul abreast. He heard the ghoul’s unyielding rage, and the top of the hall crumbled above as the ground trembled mightily.

Chills ran down his spine as the scene unfolded with terrifying immediacy. The walls shook, and MacClure’s vibrant birr stirred; yet the gruesome image burned into his memory he would never forget. He knew the ghoul was near, seeking his flesh—nine skulls of the pagan shrine standing in the glaur as grim witness. He felt his legs grow sluggish and a sudden, unsettling pain surged in his chest.

He had reached the entrance to the vault—but it was shut fast, bringing him to a sudden, desperate halt.

Had his foolishness condemned him to the bitter netherworld of the sinners vulpine? The ghoul’s roar thundered again, and the foul stench of death choked the air around him. Gradually, his body stiffened; he could run no more. He lurched forward and fell to the ground, agonising.

Paralysed, MacClure was trapped in a paraplegic state, unable to move as terror consumed him. The ghoul had found him—and his screams echoed loud into the forsaken dark.

His screams were deafened within the heavy walls of the corridor of hell he had become a prisoner of. MacClure, once a man of a proud patronymic name, was now but a forgotten soul. His callous reaper—the ghoul—had immured him within the hell of nine levels, forevermore, entombed in the putrid and towering barrow behind the dark walls of the unholy ground.

He was never—never—to be found again, as the ghoul dined upon his glorious throne—dined, with a savage zest, upon the flesh and bones of mine own self. The ghoul had usurped his identity, taking possession of his very name. No visible dissolution was ever seen upon MacClure’s body—it was never found.

He paused for a moment, then continued:

'You see, the ghoul is a nocturnal being, feeding upon the corpses of the dead—but it prefers the warm, trembling flesh of the living. I had once heard of such unholy creatures from soldiers of the Ottoman Turks, who would invoke their names on the battlefield and shout aloud Allahü ekber! (God is Great!) They spoke of ghouls as strong and cunning foes, ambushing their victims with ghostly stealth.

They steal away sleeping souls from their homes—as had happened to Helen. The ghoul—or qutrub, as they name it—is feared by manifold persons, and with good reason. Yet even they share a weakness: sunlight. They cannot endure the pure light of the sun. Dawn compels the ghouls back into their subterranean lairs—cemeteries, groves, or hidden cellars, such as this one'.

He paused one last time before he finished his dreadful narrative:

'Oddly enough, sir, the evolution of a ghoul passes on its ineffable condition. That is to say, the bite of a ghoul can inflict a horrid fever—as can the consumption of a ghoul's flesh. This fever causes the victim to suffer and wallow in an endless hunger, yet they are unable to keep down any nourishment. The gnawing hunger drives them to erratic and savage behaviour. Eventually, the fever afflicts them with such unbearable spasms that no mortal strength can overcome. Unless cured, the victim slowly starves to death... and rises again at the next midnight, reborn as a ghoul, as happened to me.

Only in the blackest hours can such a foul metamorphosis be completed. You see, sir, you should not have spared my life so readily—nor invited me so kindly. It is never wise to welcome a ghoul into your home. I am the infandous ghoul of malison, the usurper of the identities of all proprietors of this accursed house. How gullible are you humans, blinded by your devout compassion, which seals your fate and becomes my amusement'.

At that moment, Lord Galbraith saw the terrible transformation unfold before his very eyes. The man he thought was Callum MacClure shifted hideously into the ghastly, currish ghoul of Arab lore. His flesh twisted, his eyes gleamed with malevolence, and his fangs gleamed in the dim light.

Lord Galbraith looked on with utter horror and disbelief.

'Good God—! You are not Callum MacClure? Then who are you, Devil—truly?' Cried Lord Galbraith, his voice trembling with astonishment and dread.

He stared into Lord Galbraith’s eyes with a profound and harrowing fixation.

'No—Callum MacClure is long dead, as well as the others. You see, first it was Lord Glenfield who fell to me, then his beloved daughter. His wife, though she fled the house in terror, I reached her at last—and she too became my prey. Callum MacClure resisted me fiercely, and I must admit he was a worthy adversary. Yet even he succumbed to my madness, unwillingly. You see, my lord—a ghoul cannot be so easily defeated.'

'Good God! What happened to Helen?' Cried Lord Galbraith.

'She as well...succumbed to my madness', the fiend replied, with a fractional hesitation that made the truth more dreadful.

'Then—who are you, ghastly fiend?' Lord Galbraith demanded, voice trembling.

'Aye...I am the infernal ghoul once imprisoned by Abdullah Behzadi in Persia. But I was freed—besteaded by a Greek adventurer, who unwittingly carried me to Europe. There, I traversed the lands, usurping noblemen of every kingdom and empire. The lieges and thanes of the Middle Ages were but pawns to me', the ghoul intoned, his Scottish brogue fading into a deep, chilling voice laden with malice.

Lord Galbraith tried to rise to his feet, but his body was seized by a heavy stupor, adawed beyond all measure. Like Callum MacClure before him, he found he could not move at all. The ghoul's dominion over him was illimitable and unstoppable, a force against which no mortal will could contend. Its dissimulation was masterful; its corruption inexorable. There was nothing Lord Galbraith could do to prevent the foul ghoul from possessing his mind and flesh.

He, too, would succumb to the unspeakable madness of the night-fiend—a fresh victim to sate its endless hunger. The ghoul assumed the persona and identity of Lord Galbraith utterly and without blemish, leaving no trace of the man that once was.

He would become the new and lone proprietor of the estate of Lord Galbraith in Scotland, for the nonce beselved in his stolen flesh. There would be more innocent victims added to his perturbing ledger, and the insidious ghoul would travel the abundant lands, ever in search of a new lair of terror to usurp—whether by stealth or by guileful easement.

The ghoul, cloaked beneath the semblance of Lord Galbraith, traversed the lonely Scottish countryside, the spectral mist coiling about his steps with the resounding howling of the nearby hounds heard. His eyes, pale and pitiless, glimmered beneath the hood of his travel-worn cloak.

He reached a modest yet stately manor set against the barren moors, where a thin column of smoke rose from the chimney. The windows glowed faintly with the warmth of life and innocence — the very thing he sought to corrupt and consume.

Raising a gnarled hand, the ghoul rapped thrice upon the great oaken door. Each knock echoed through the night like a death knell.

A moment of silence followed. Then, from within, came the sound of hesitant footsteps. The door creaked ajar, revealing a cautious man with kind eyes and a trusting face.

'Good evening, sir', the ghoul intoned, his voice smooth as velvet, yet carrying a tremor that hinted at the abyss beneath. 'Forgive the intrusion. I am but a weary traveller, beset by the cruel night and seeking but a morsel of shelter'.

The man, perhaps moved by pity or bound by the old sacred rites of hospitality, opened the door wider and beckoned him in. 'Come in, stranger. Warm yourself by the fire'.

The ghoul bowed low, masking the wicked grin that he expressed from the corners of his lips. It was the precursor to his evil plan.

Another soul welcomed him willingly—another fate sealed. As the door closed behind him with a whisper of finality, the mist swallowed the house from sight, leaving no trace of the horror about to unfold within.

Thus, the insidious ghoul began anew, ever hungering, ever usurping, in an endless, accurst masquerade across the unwary world.

The moral of this harrowing tale is thus: one must never presume that we mortals are alone upon this earth. The immortal beings of the netherworld are ever watching, ever lurking within the folds of night.

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