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By Franc68

'Non mortem timemus, sed cogitationem'.—

'We do not fear death, but the thought of death'.—Seneca

'Qualis artifex pereo'.—

'What an artist dies with me'.—Nero

Perhaps, you will deem me indubitably mad in the end, or even question the essential relevance of my incredible tale—but I am not mad at all!

I was an actual witness to the vivid vecordy that had endured in that horrible, horrible, vetustuary castle of the helpless clamours of the chosen to die and suffer.

They are the interminable clamours that haunt the abominable castle, with such direful and consequential effects that drain the unwonted thoughts of the seldom guests, who visit the castle knowingly or tralineate.

You see, horror has only a moral boundary to transgress that manifests within the guilt of that unpardonable sin.

Verily, if I had known the unbearable terror of sanguinolency that had awaited me upon that ineffable night, I would have never—never—visited that illusory abode of the lingering souls of anguish and despair.

Oh, the horrific voices of the abundant of defunction still are heard in my head ringing, with the engrossing solitude that surrounds me in the fell and unyielding nightmare I dread daily.

Therefore, I shall proceed to relate to the curious reader this enthralling, chilling, peculiar tale of horror that will compel you to read—but at your absolute discretion.

The night was tenebrous and cold, when I had arrived by carriage to the castle of the count in the year of 1825.

He had requested my immediate service as a solicitor, and I was obliged to assist in that request. In his private correspondence I learned only of his expressed desire to have a representative of a noble reputation from England to handle his discreet affairs.

I had dressed warm for the occasion, and along the road I had glanced at the marvellous view of the rustic landscape that I had enjoyed during my adventures abroad.

I had been momentarily staying in Córdoba, since I arrived in Spain from Madrid. I was expecting to not tarry much, and was looking forward to travel to Seville for intimate leisure.

I shall endeavour to make a thorough and accurate description of this ancient Moorish castle that stood erect on the top of a hillside, towering over the village of Almodóvar.

It was broad and colossal in structure, and its high walls were full with rows of cuspidate spikes, and were flanked by square towers—eight magnificent towers of the Caliphate that had overshadowed the hill and the protruding balcony.

I could not forget the view of the giant watchtowers, as I descended from the carriage and walked through the opening.

There were ample cypress trees that abounded the castle full of fantastic wonders of sundry blooms, such as poppies and daisies with stipules in the staid patios close by.

The perennial castle in its entirety was surrounded, by massive moats and a berm of shovelled earth of the once fortification.

There was a wide river that flowed, from the georgic village to the rest of the province. However, what was more prominent and visible in the middle to be seen by the naked eye was this impressive coat of arms that I had stared at intriguingly, as I had pondered its valuable significance.

I had been told about the unique splendour of the historic castle, and its striking image that imposed upon the small village below the hillside; but never—never—did

I undoubtedly imagine, such ghastly sequence of dread I would experience afterwards. I was forewarned by the suspicious villagers of the ghost of Zaida, who dwelt in the castle and the frequent echoes that originated from the castle as well.

I was ill-prepared to confront the deplorable madness that had happened, in that awful asylum of the insane and forsaken.

Herefore, I had assumed that I would encounter this sort of fictional gossip and these unusual and creative fables of myth.

I had thought much of the numerous tales of folklore in England, and its insoluble mysteries yet to unfold that had made the denizens quail. Europe was full of these plentiful and embellished abnormalities that the sanctimonious abbeys emphasise its denotation and continuity.

I had previously been to Spain in several occasions, but this was actually the first time I had travelled to these parts of the country.

Veritably, the extensive province of Andalusia was well known, for its sundry Roman and Moorish monuments, and its picturesque vineyards and memorable strings of flamenco worldly heard.

Andalusia was the discernible cynosure for inquisitive foreigners, who sought the peregrine whims of escape and pleasure freely fortnight.

But I then headed toward the front gate of the remote castle, as an odd and ungainly fellow had greeted me at the entrance.

From the distance, I had assumed the stranger to be the honourable count who had requested my service; but quickly I would be sorely mistaken and discover that the individual who greeted me was not the man who I had believed to be in the first place.

The elderly man was merely a sedulous servant of the castle, and when I had enquired about the respected nobleman I had sought, his response was very brief and lukewarm.

'He is presently sleeping, sir!'

His answer was not the timely reply that I was expecting to hear. I had entered the primeval castle and was escorted to my chambre; but not before, I was forewarned this time by the servant that it was better for me to not wander in the castle alone—for what reason I did not know.

He was complaisant and was a selcouth fellow, who was very pauciloquent and was shrewd and indifferent in his comportment I felt.

He was also a claviger of the castle, a footman, and perhaps in England he would be construed, by his raffish air.

The chambre itself was dark and clammy, as I could feel the strong chill at once.

Perhaps, because of the lofty heights it was situated, and the proximity of the Guadalquivir River. The wooden shutters were closed too; for nothing could enter the chambre it seemed, and steel chains were used to keep them firmly shut.

I was told by the servant that they were closed, due to the constant activity of the fluttering doves at night who sought to enter, through the finew of the chambre.

Even the smallest mote of dust was seen trickling from the outside. All of these trifling nuances I had thought uncommon; but the important task that had brought me to the castle was very urgent.

I stood patient in my chambre, until I was summoned at last, by the count. The door had opened wide, and I had entered, as he was googling.

He stood willowy and reserved; dressed in all black and had a walking stick by his side, and a long wear had frayed the collar and cuffs of his shirt.

He had a noticeable claudication in his left leg, and his look and decorum were austere and imperant, but yet formal.

I could not help but wonder, and naturally I did wonder, what was that hideous scar that he bore upon the lower right side of his countenance?

This abnormal and visible ulosis he seemed to conceal effectively.

When I had enquired about the scar he was extremely evasive, and wanted to only converse about the sale of one of his properties he owned within the province.

We sat in a luxurious ormolu table and chairs. My curiosity swiftly would be preoccupied with the possible transaction, since he appeared to be a captious nobleman.

We spoke at length about the property, and even though I had learned Spanish he preferred to speak to me in English, with his distinctive accent.

It was something that I had found peculiar, but nevertheless I continued. I had learnt as well that his name was 'Lord Valdemar,' yes—Lord Valdemar! And he was born in the city of Madrid, but had migrated to Andalusia as a small child, fleeing during the rise to power of Napoleon.

He had considered himself more Andalusian than Castilian in parlance and consuetudes.

He had studied in England while in his lively youth of precocity, and travelled much abroad.

He was a Dionysian connoisseur of the world and had visited much of Europe, Asia and even the exotic Americas.

As for myself, I had only seen half of the world that this affluent man and eclectic had seen before.

I had wondered in my perception during a slight interval, about the life of wealth and adventure, as an actual member of the high-born nobility, even as a lordling or aptycock.

I did not perceive any impromptu sciolism or bombastic rhetoric in his words or speech.

He was not much of a man of self-centered jactance, despite his vauntage.

After the formal conversation we had and the necessary transaction that was made for a property he had off the coast I then left.

There would be upon this night no exceeding mirth, no succulent wine, or no sumptuous feast whatever to be regaled.

There were no comfits to taste. Instead, my only welcome to this venerable castle was but another stern and terse warning that bemused me.

What was that stern warning you ask? He insisted that I stayed within my chambre, and that I did not stray from the castle.

'It would be better sir, if you stood in your chambre, during the night. These are the genuine nights that many fear to experience, within this castle I regret', he quoth.

When I asked the reason for this, his response was too vague and he appeared to palter, 'There are many like this night presently, where the unsuspected sound of the wind can be mistaken so easily, for the misleading sound of wailing'.

When I had enquired about the significance of these words, he chuckled and then rejoined, 'Oh, no need to fret much solicitor—for it is the festive revelry of the rout of villagers below that reach the sturdy walls of this ancient castle'.

I had taken dinner in the dining hall by myself. The dinner was nothing more than a mere repast. I was given at least a token bottle of Jerez, Spanish sherry to accompany the dinner.

It was extremely unusual that the count did not join me for dinner in the hall. This interesting occurrence was atypical in British nobility back home, and interpreted as effrontery.

The mysterious circumstances involved during my stay in the castle had started to stir my contemplative thoughts, and question the uniquity of the wonts of the count toward his convivial guests.

I could see within my surroundings the paintings of the direct Valdemar lineage that was on display in the hall.

There was a coldness that I felt once I entered the dining hall, and the table where I dined was as well very cold and solid.

The wood of the fireplace was burning, but yet, the warmth in the hall lacked this heat. Perhaps I was overreacting and was not comfortable, with the ongoing situation instead.

However, it was peculiar that no servants were visibly seen about in the castle, except the old man. My dish was removed afterwards, by the servant.

Once I finished with my meal, I returned to my chambre and sat in my bed, wondering what was meant ere, by those daunting words of the servant that I cogitated afterwards.

And my intrigue lingered and lingered, until I could bear no more. I began to hear very obscure, eerie, loud and loud noises, coming from behind the door and the alcove.

First I heard the sound of some low murmurs, and then the sound of the whistling wind outside roaring, roaring, and roaring, until my curiosity consumed me like an igneous spark, and I rose to my feet to investigate this baffling occurrence.

The sound of the echoes of voices resounded, and resounded, beyond the hollow walls of the chambre, as I walked toward the door.

The muttering voices I could not decipher its origin at that moment, but yet I felt it was probably, Lord Valdemar and the old hearsome servant who served him whose full name I never knew, except for Antonio.

Who else could be wandering in this castle of fear I ruminated?

What was even more harrowing to me was the fact that he had no other confidant in the castle present, just the old local servant I had met.

There was a veil of mystery attached to the lore of the castle that was arresting my urgency. I bode my time listening to the noise of the footsteps walking, within the murky and solitary corridor of secrecy.

Abruptly, the indeterminate noise, the noise outside of individuals speaking had abated forthwith. There was no valid explanation known to me for what had happened, except that the voices were relevant and present at that moment.

Therefore, I seized the opportunity to explore this unique mystery. I had to resolve the enigma that was unfolding gradually.

Even though I was warned not to go wandering within the castle, I did not heed the subtle warning or the preconcerted acquiescence—for I was agog. Instead, I stepped outside my chambre to peek slowly, and past the patio and archways.

I saw the panurgic Antonio carrying what seemed to be a heavy object in a sack, as he put it into the rear of the carriage that rode off, from the grounds of the castle afterwards.

Although it was dark outside, I could see the departure of the carriage and hear the horses gallop away.

Indeed, it was a recherché occurrence that bewildered my perception and interpretation of the sequence that had unfolded, before my very own eyes.

I remained silent and still, so that I would not be detected, as the old man walked passed me. I could see his shadow then, as the light from one of the oil lamps outside shone for a brief instant during the night.

I was not aware of what was truly transpiring in the castle, and with the count and the servant.

However, I sensed something strange was betiding, and the question was simply, what was that mystery that was eluding me?

All that I recalled was the warning imposed upon me that restricted my activity in the castle. I wondered if I had been seen by the count or the caretaker.

Thus, I looked around my surroundings to see, who could be watching me wittingly. I noticed that I was alone, and a cold draught of the wind blew suddenly.

Once more I returned to the chambre, and pondered the possible significance of what I had witnessed outside by the patio.

The strange activities of the old man and his doings in the castle had precipitated my actions and whereabouts.

A dreadful suspicion that was twofold had busied my necessity to disclose the intrigue of the castle. But yet, he was everywhere around the grounds.

Thus, the conclusion I had reached was that the count depended on the old man for everything that dealt with the castle.

But why did he confide so much in this man, and why did he not have more servants to tend to his daily needs?

Since I was leaving in the early afternoon, I decided to attempt to forget all that was overshadowing my stay. I retreated for the night and concentrated on my trip to Seville that I had planned, before my arrival to the castle.

Therefore, when I awoke the following morning, I could hear the commotion outside, after a pandiculation. I saw standing there by the carriage the count, who was speaking to the old man.

Apparently, the right wheel in the back of the carriage had broken and impeded my departure. It was not exactly the tidings I expected to hear. Nevertheless, I had no choice in the matter.

'I am afraid that your departure from the castle shall have to wait tomorrow. I apologise for the delay my good man. I shall promise you that tomorrow the carriage shall be fixed. Once more please accept my apology', Lord Valdemar said.

'There is no need for an apology Lord Valdemar. I fully understand the situation', I responded.

The day was weary and soon the night befell, as I had finished my dinner once more alone in the dining hall. Lord Valdemar had retired to his chambre.

I was explained by Antonio that his master Lord Valdemar had many affairs of the castle to tend personally.

Even though I was summoned to be his new solicitor, there were issues that I was not prevalent to of Lord Valdemar's endeavours public or private.

He had told me that I would be asked to return in a week to finalise another transaction of his plentiful properties.

This time the property was located nearby, in the town of Pozoblanco. It was a town I had passed along the way to Córdoba.

He did not offer me much information, and I was left to wonder about the transaction.

Thereafter, I remained in my chambre after dinner, and was beginning to feel a cold draught that entered the castle, and spread to the chambres and corridors.

Gradually the silence was unbearable, and I was going mad with the solitude I feared.

Suddenly, I heard a noise from outside my chambre. It was coming, from beyond the corridor.

The corridor was empty—no sign or breath of anyone as I stood before the sturdy pillars.

For a moment I had hesitated, as the clamour of some wretched souls in agony, I began to hear nearby. I walked and walked within the corridor, until the strange clamours were nigh.

The cobblestone floor not complanate was rectangular and surrounded, by a crenellated wall half kilometre in circumference.

I looked around me next, to see if I was being observed, but I had sensed no one around me. I had no true notion where the chambre of Lord Valdemar was at—or where the old man slept.

I was completely alone and uncertain, but my intrigue surged by the minute, and the noise accompanied my footsteps in the corridor.

I walked past the chapel and the king’s hall, and what was conspicuous were the armorial bearings hanging. I saw a stone stairway at the end of the narrow corridor leading to one of the mighty eight towers.

Drear and dim, with only the flickering light of the torches in the corridor I climbed the stairs, until I had reached a sinister chambre that the villagers had proclaimed, as the Torture Chambre.

After climbing I saw the front rusty door that was secured and cumbrous with a latch, from the ancient dungeons of the Middle Ages.

I crept toward the edge of the door and heard the sound of those piteous wails even more obstreperous.

Slowly the door began to open, and I hastened unto the corner of the corridor, behind a Tyrian purple drapery to hide myself.

From out of the secluded chambre, stepped a man carrying a sconce that was burning in the corridor that provided some light.

He was cloaked in a sable guise that did not permit me to identify the veteratorian stranger. I had assumed it was most likely to be the old man Antonio, but yet, the little I observed of him, he was much shorter and did not walk with a limp like his master Lord Valdemar.

How could I forget that limp or gait that was seen with his every step taken?

I felt even the powerful stench of his breath, the stench of Death.

He walked passed me unaware of my presence—or was he merely pretending and was attempting to lure me into his merciless chambre of demise?

I tried to maintain my composure, but I started to fret, to fret, and to fret and thus I shivered, shivered, shivered, as my unsettling doubts resurfaced. I took a deep breath of my own, and made the conscious decision that I would enter the mysterious chambre of death reluctantly.

The daunting door was left open by him, and I entered not knowing the unrestricted peril that was awaiting me.

The unspeakable chambre was Stygian and eerie, and nothing else but the darkled and grim shade of obvious discomposure.

The luminous fire of the torches inside were burning and burning, and the insufferable stench of death was surging and surging continuously.

It was such a compelling and undeniable sight of dismay.

Then as I got closer, closer inside the chambre, the moans and groans that were not discrete had increased at intervals. I saw what most humans fear to see ever, the embedded graveyard of the dead—the Plutonian and fuliginous Hades of the condemned of the crescent darkness.

Rotting remains of fourscore corpses coacervate in thick piles, and the disfigured and discoloured faces used as useful masks laying upon the table aside, as a token of unremitting madness and concomitant summotion.

The dissevered limbs and human beings still agonising in their hellish trauma of being peeled and sliced alive, by an uncontrollable lunatic whose disturbing whims of delight would be as repulsive, as his menacing and hidden guise.

Oh the rotting putrid flesh flayed and deartuated, by a wrought saw and sharp axe bedoven, in the vivid pool of pouring coccineous blood.

The blood, the gushing blood, how could I forget the dripping drops of the innocent persons who perished at the hands of such an unstable mind?

Am I mad still you dare to ask intrepidly?

No mere mortal could relate this horrendous tale, without being completely aghast, with what he witnessed and lives to tell the tale afterwards so plainly.

But you see, I am no ordinary or simplistic man of discrepancy. I am as you will quickly discover, a rather intelligent and astute fellow to not be underestimated.

Oh, the frightening tale of horror let me not interrupt any more. Where was I with this terrible tale of ere?

Oh, verily I now remember the unthinkable displeasure that I was experimenting steadily and constantly.

I was in the lonely chambre of execution shocked with the revealing sight of such disgust, and the unvarying wails of vinew—oh the wails I forgot, began to deafen my discomforting ears that they started to bleed, as blood came pouring from my ears at once.

I could not withstand any longer the ghastliness of such extreme nature, and the increasing madness had superseded the sequence of events that were unpredictable.

Suddenly, I ran out of the gruesome chambre as fast as I could, but I was trapped by that devious murderer, Lord Valdemar, who had grabbed me in the corridor.

'Let me go at once, you wretched fiend!' I yelled out loud.

I fought and had resisted manfully, but when I grabbed his nose, his face began to peel off, and what I saw next was a specious man—with no face at all.

His unsightly face was malformed, and the skin was drooping—for he had no apparent nostrils or eyes.

His sockets had no eye balls to be visibly seen, and he was epalpebrate as well. The great intensity of the shock and wear of my brain had caused me to panic in desperation.

I fell on the floor, and when I awoke I was greeted by Lord Valdemar, who had the stolid face of another poor soul as his diabolical mask.

I was bound tightly to a chair and gyves conticent, as he stood before me, with a devilish grin of satisfaction. I descried such a profound and Mephistophelian gaze in his eyes that were hidden, by a carnal mask of predation.

I had to regain my equilibrium for a short period of time, allowing me to imagine what I failed to fully understand.

'You flayed the skin of the dying and used the faces as masks. You are a madman!' I said to him.

He was direct and poignant were his words, 'The madman you speak up sated the consecution and devotement of whims of delight—for they are as evident, as his madness!'

He had hesitated before he said, 'Now, now, my dear fellow, do not resist any more, and think of this as nothing but a horripilated nightmare that is haunting you in the night. Do not be half witted, and instead be mindful of the consequences of your actions'.

He repeated this over and over, till I screamed out loud with hirquitalliency, 'Forcouth devil, be gone therewith!'

'Devil you dare to call me, when it is you who are the monster. Have you forgotten the horrible crimes you committed in the castle? Have you forgotten the fact that you went mad and slayed the faces off your many victims? Your madness caused you to commit such atrocious acts of barbarity—none ever known before', Lord Valdemar said.

'What are you saying Lord Valdemar? You are a very vile madman!' I responded.

He proceeded to tell me the truth I had failed to recognise, 'It is you who are the madman. Your madness has blinded you from the absolute truth. You were once a nobleman from a prominent family, but you became mad, during the years in the castle. You were committed afterwards, but you escaped from the madhouse and killed the solicitor Mr Thompson. Then you killed the devout servant Antonio, when you were consumed by your demented mind. You usurped the solicitor's persona, since you were educated and began to believe you were cured. But one day there was a fire in your bedroom while you were sleeping that burnt your face. This incident rekindled the insanity that you had suppressed. Thus, you began a killing spree and flayed the faces of your victims, for your grisly masks. It was how you covered the burnt scars of your countenance. However, there was one place where the masks could not cover up, the lower right side of your face. On the account of your mutilated actions and your madness, you are here before the tribunal Lord Valdemar'.

I touched my face, and indeed I was burnt, and the scar referred to I bore visibly.

Oh yes the madness, the terrible constriction of the madness that I once alluded to in this account. You see, the madness was the only truth behind this tale of horror that was relevant.

The old caretaker did not exist, for he was nothing more than the caring friar who took care of me daily, and Lord Valdemar was ultimately me in the end; and the fearful castle despite being a castle was nothing more than the hideous asylum of my Torture Chambre.

The echoic voice responding was the daring inquisitor, who was to condemn me, not my voice afterwards. And those disturbing wails of the dying souls were my debile and sackless victims voided of any volition or affranchisement, and immured in this perpetual asylum that was my dreadful castle.

The dire warning you might enquire was nothing more than the inquisitor warning of the imminent danger of my release to the existential world that was already.

And those unsightly motley human masks—yes! The riveting masks the maniacal malefactor flayed and wore were the distinctive faces of those who I slew before in the castle.

The horrifying crimes were imputed to me, without a measure of leniency and unpardonable impunity. The quaint village of Almodóvar would be forever linked to the madness that transpired in that Moorish castle.

The rest of the country would soon know of my despicable crimes and condign punishment of a theomeny.

My name would be then immortalised but yet loathed, by the vengeful families of the victims I killed.

You see, I was once a worthy nobleman of the region, who was sane and respected, till the madness of the castle devoured me forcibly and slowly with time, converting me into a bloody carnifex.

I wore the masks of a thousand souls, and I Lord Valdemar was eventually, one of the last proscribed of the notorious Spanish Inquisition.

You ask again, if I am truly mad. Ha Ha! And those subjective whims of delight were the whims to kill, yes, kill, kill—that ghostly voice in my brain, getting louder and louder, until I had screamed.

'No—avaunt the terrible daemons of the night!'

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22 Dec, 2017
Horror, Thriller, Psychological

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