'Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see.' – Edgar Allan Poe
It was close to eventide in the year of 1858, when I finally arrived at the Montague Estate, situated in the vicinity of the town of Harwood, Lancashire, England. The day was drear and damp as my carriage passed the old causeway leading to the estate, where I had been expected to arrive. The wheels of the carriage were covered in the mire and grime of the solitary country road. The wuthering winds blew fiercely, and the weather was cold and unpredictable, causing the carriage to come to an abrupt halt.
Little did I know that the 18th of April, as I stepped off the carriage, would forever be etched in my mind as the day I met the infamous Devil in person. His name was Mr Montague. I had come to visit him on behalf of his nephew Sebastian, as a solicitor. Through Mr Montague’s will, I had been instructed that the manor and the rest of the country estate were to be bequeathed to the intimate members of the Montague family. Mr Montague's impeccable reputation was well-established in the local area of Harwood, as I had been informed.
His home was a Gothic manor located in the uncharted outskirts of Harwood, built in 1838. It was a house that Mr Montague had inherited through a fortunate bequeathal. The Tudor-style building featured a five-bay, two-storey façade to the front, with a double-pile, two-bay wing to the rear, making it indeed impressive in stature.
A slate roof and chimneys incorporated into the central stairwell rose through the heart of the building. Not much was truly known about the history of the house, other than it had been owned by the Montague family of Great Harwood, who also owned nearby Harwood Hall.
The house also had a classic cellar below, which was added from the original design of its architecture. From what I understood vaguely about the Montague family, they were in the business of collecting prestigious wines from across Europe.
I was kindly greeted by a lackey upon my arrival, and one of the servants escorted me to the main hall, where Mr Montague stood, observing attentively one of the family paintings of his stately lineage. Upon entering the house, I noticed the unique façade featured large, mullioned windows and a central tower, imposing in its grandeur. The accommodation was set over four floors, with a central sweeping staircase that was ornately adorned, casting a bright lustre that overshadowed the quietude of the parlour.
My first impression, upon entering the house, was that it was spacious and elaborate in its architecture. The panelled walls were hung with old tapestries, and the furniture was vintage and pristine, as well as the priceless Persian and Arab carpets. There was an undeniable eeriness that pervaded the house, an aura that was irresistible. At the time, I could not quite ascertain the true essence of this eerie sensation.
When I finally met Mr Montague and was able to converse with him, he was expecting me calmly, with an irrepressible grin. He was not an intimidating man by constitution, for he was a willowy figure with a curly moustache, dressed in a black frock coat and trousers.
His shoes appeared spotless, even though mine were drenched in the heavy mire from outside. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles, which were conspicuous, and his top hat rested near a Victorian chair. It was perhaps not the most propitious occasion to visit the house, given the unpredictable weather, but it was my diligent duty to accomplish the task for which I had come, on behalf of his loyal nephew.
'Mr Clayton, 'tis a pleasure finally to meet you in person. I have heard good things about you from Sebastian, my dear nephew. He seems to entrust you with your valuable expertise in the matter'.
'Forgive me, sir, if I may be modest in saying that by all means, I am no true expert in the field, merely a proficient man of my profession'.
'You bid your diligence well, young man. Nowadays, it is extremely difficult to find such worthy and irreplaceable men of simplicity in nature. I have met my share of fainéants. I must say, all of them despicable rascalions'.
'Thank you, sir. As a solicitor, I carry out my duties efficaciously'.
'No need to thank me. Your decorum speaks for your noble persona'.
He shook my hand and said, 'How was the trip to Lancashire? I trust that it was not too unpleasant'.
I responded, 'A bit surprising, but as a traveller, I was eager to reach the estate at last, despite the inclement weather'.
'Good, I am glad you were able to arrive intact and without much inconvenience. As for the weather, my friend, one must become accustomed to the intermittent fluctuations of its expectant nature'.
'Indeed, sir!'
'The manor has lost some of its natural lustre. You see, the original manor was built in 1668. I had to remodel and refurbish that old house many times, but I could never seem to abandon it. It needs all the affection we can give it. It is fond of me, as I am extremely fond of it'.
'Excuse me, sir, did you say it?'
'It is a form of expression in these parts of the country'.
He began to smoke a cigar and offered me one in token of his formality. 'Cigar, Mr Clayton?'
'I must decline, sir, as I do not smoke'.
'You are an esteemed man of practicality, Mr Clayton, and I admire that peculiar trait. A man must always personify his candour rather than his obsequiousness'.
I was the bidden guest, and Mr Montague made me feel at home in the manor with his conviviality. He invited me to stay the night and dine with him. I kindly rejected his invitation, but after hearing the drops of rain and the distant thunder, I acquiesced, knowing that the roads leading out of the estate would be even more treacherous and unpropitious.
Mr Montague appeared to be a likeable man, yet for some inexplicable reason, he was estranged from many of his living relatives. At the dining table, we discussed the magnificent history of warfare, as well as the current events unfolding in the world. He was an intelligent man who expatiated with such precision and passion, seldom seen in the present day. Despite his selcouth mannerisms at times, he was a man of simplicity and reverence, resolute in his convictions.
It seemed that my stay at the manor would then be interrupted by the audible sounds of an approaching storm. We were discussing the subject of coins, as Mr Montague was an avid coin collector, when suddenly the sound of pounding pipes was heard.
I initially heard the distinct noise faintly, until it began to grow louder in its piercing echo. Mr Montague continued talking, seemingly either oblivious to the sound or too distracted to notice. I decided to remain aloof to the obtruding noise, but it increased to the point where I could not resist inquiring.
'Sir, what is that strange sound I hear?'
He continued with his conversation, indifferent to my question, until I rose from the table and asked once more. Apparently, it was enough to arrest his attention. 'I see there is something troubling you, old boy. May I enquire what the nature of this inquietude is?'
'Pardon my intrusion, sir, but I cannot seem to ignore the incessant clang of what appears to be pipes'.
'My boy, it is nothing but the sound of rusty pipes and the clamour of the rain'.
'I see, but the sound is a constant clang. It is worse than the ringing of a vintage clock'.
'Perhaps it would be better if you retired for the night in your chamber. I imagine the trip here was exhausting. We can continue our conversation in the morning, old boy'.
'Indeed, I am somewhat fatigued. If you will excuse me', I replied.
'Naturally!' He smiled and said.
I left Mr Montague in the dining hall and headed upstairs to my chamber to repose in solitude. At least two hours passed during the unfolding night when I once again heard the clang of the metal pipes. Quickly, it grew into a persistent clangour that irked my acute sensibilities. At first, I attempted to ignore the fastidious sound, but the clanging became too unbearable.
I had walked out of my chamber and headed towards the staircase. My intention was to speak to one of the servants about the matter, but in the end, I realised that there was little I could do, except endure the noise until the morning. It was clear to me that I would have to deal with the unusual noise.
Thence, I decided to return to my chamber. The rain did not help matters, for it merely unnerved me. I suspected the rain might have entered through the leaks of the cellar and reached the pipes, but I tried to convince myself that the horrendous noise would subside after the rain; and, for a brief time, the banging ceased.
To my discomfort, it returned after a few minutes and increased even more in its annoying effects. The hours elapsed, and it was near midnight when the rain calmed and dissipated. Unfortunately for me, I had only escaped the natural wrath of the rain to endure the terrible wrath of the pipes of the cellar. If I had thought that the noise was confined to certain areas of the manor, I was sorely mistaken.
Within the matter of an hour, the banging of the pipes was everywhere. I could feel the steady pounding of the walls as the noise grew and grew with every passing minute, but what happened next was more puzzling. I started to hear the echoes of what appeared to be tormented souls in agony.
Was it the eldritch sound of the wind howling still after the passing of the rain, I asked myself? All of these peculiar sounds had begun to become a daunting obsession, to the point that I sought to investigate the matter of the banging pipes for myself.
As I had stated before, there was nothing I could do but bear unwillingly the unwelcome inconvenience of this madness. I was vulnerable to the heightened state of my debilitating anxiety that I had been suffering since my early childhood. The slightest noise was enough for my acute hearing to be easily provoked and triggered.
I was conscious of one thing that was indisputable: the fact that this ongoing mystery had a rational explanation that would satisfy my suspicion and acumen. I was keen on solving the dubious mystery that had beclouded me since my entrance into the manor.
When I left the room and walked down the staircase, I headed towards the proximity of the cellar carrying a lamp, until I reached it at last, with a measure of apprehension. I was hesitant somewhat, not truly knowing what I would discover with my unwitting approach.
The unfathomable noise that had tormented me suddenly stopped for a brief moment as I cautiously approached. It started to sound at intervals, as if the house knew that I was nigh, and that was too strange for me to understand what was transpiring.
I proceeded ahead to open the door, hoping that the few servants were not awakened by the unannounced exploration of my intrusive prying eyes. As I walked down the staircase, the pungent smell of wine was everywhere, until the stench of death began to permeate over the general vicinity, towards the narrow passage of the door of the cellar. The horrible sound of the harrowing souls clamoured once more, deafening my ears.
It prompted me to pull the handle and open the door promptly. What I saw were the disturbing faces of disfigured beings on the sturdy walls of dread, yearning to be freed from their afflicting burden. The images discomposed me, and I fell to the ground instantaneously.
There was an even more frightening sound that began to resound over the clamours of the walls: the beating of a heart. But it was no ordinary heart. It was the heart of the manor that was throbbing. I could palpably feel the vibratory pulsations reverberate uninhibitedly throughout the passage to the cellar. My anxiety heightened into an intense consternation.
Immediately, I sought to exit the cellar and reach the stairs that led up to the door. The loud and acute reverberation deafened my ears more with every minute, as I could incessantly hear the clangorous ringing. When I escaped the cellar, I had to flee the manor, for the madness inside was consuming me in its powerful grasp. It was a gruesome scene, and the imagery of disturbing flashbacks was too ineffable and unbelievable in nature to be easily described.
Apparently, my implacable indiscretion in prying into the cellar had not gone unnoticed. In fact, the attentive eyes of the manor had been observing every action of mine since my arrival—namely, the unadvised intrusion into the creepy cellar. Despite the macabre discovery that I had found there, I realised that I had to quickly compose myself. I was not certain what to do—leave the house at once, or wait until morning to depart the house of horror. My decision was to leave in the morning.
That implied that I would have to ignore the unimaginable things that I had witnessed in the dreadful darkness of the cellar. As I passed the corridor leading to the staircase that I took to reach my chamber, one of the servants saw me sneaking up the stairs so stealthily. Her name was Lily.
‘Did you need something, sir? If I may kindly ask, what were you doing up so late in the night?’
Naturally, I was a bit unprepared to offer any plausible or logical response. ‘Because the storm kept me awake, I could not sleep’.
‘Of course. I do apologise for any troubling inconveniences that have kept you from sleeping well’.
‘It was not your fault or of your doing that there was a storm’.
‘Unfortunately, the storms in this part of the country are restless—like the howling of wolves, or the cries of poor souls’.
The servant paused before continuing, ‘Was it only the storm you heard, sir?’
The question stupefied me and, at the same time, made me more curious to know what she meant. For some reason, I resisted the intense temptation to tell her what I had encountered in the cellar. ‘I do not believe so. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my chamber. I must depart early in the morning’.
The servant smiled and then replied, ‘Good. May you slumber like a mouse for the rest of the late hours’.
‘Thank you. I shall attempt to do just that’.
If my comportment could be considered odd, the servant’s comportment was even more peculiar, for she seemed to be less vague and more conspicuous. I wanted to scream from the top of my lungs to her about the evil of that bloody house of horror, but I remained silent.
Once the servant excused herself, I returned to my chamber. As expected, I could not sleep for the remainder of my time in that unpleasant manor, and I pondered with a pensive mind the unspeakable things that I had observantly witnessed in that pit of terror that was the cellar.
I contemplated all options, including the option of my sanity. Could it be feasible, I wondered, that what I saw in the cellar was indeed real—not some inexplicable hallucinatory episodes of my mind playing tricks on me? I was always told as a child that riddles were mysteries to be solved.
The baffling question that I queried was: how could I reconcile the preternatural with the natural, or reality with surreality? So much to unlock, and so many truths yet to be revealed. It was utterly mind-boggling to decipher the rationality of the sequences of occurrences that had suddenly betided.
I was lying on the floor unbeknownst to me, when I heard the abrupt knocking on the chamber door. It was Lily, the servant, calling me. The knocking awakened me from my dormant stupor. I was not even certain of the time the next day. I rose to my feet and sat on the bed, trying to regain my reasonable faculties before I answered the door.
When I did, the servant told me that Mr Montague was waiting for me to have breakfast with him. I told her that I would be ready in a few minutes. My clothes needed to be dusted off a bit. So did the cobwebs in my head; however, I was pressed for time, and the matter of the abominable cellar consumed my every thought afterwards.
Once I had composed myself and dressed properly, I proceeded to join Mr Montague for breakfast. I felt an urgent need to speak to him at once about the creepy cellar and what I had discerned with an unsettling realisation, but I had to remain calm and coherent in my words, although I was extremely eager and fidgety.
I could not permit Mr Montague to detect my growing uneasiness or the distraction in my eyes so plainly; yet I was determined to discover the ghastly truth about the unrestrained horrors of the cellar. Was the horror I had seen an actual occurrence, or was it nothing more than my heightened state of mind conjuring things that were, in the end, implausible? I could not depart from the manor without knowing the whole truth. The anxiety to know would consume me entirely, like an opium drug taken by an addict.
I prepared myself as best I could, then walked slowly down the staircase and headed into the hall where Mr Montague was already expecting me, wearing a casual smirk.
‘How was your sleep, Mr Clayton? I hope you were able to sleep well last night and found your accommodations satisfactory’.
‘Considering the unwelcome conditions of the night, I would say my sleep was somewhat as expected’.
‘From what I was told by Lily the servant, you were up late and she saw you heading towards the staircase. Was there a particular reason for that, Mr Clayton?’
‘If you must know, Mr Montague, the terrible noises prevented me from sleeping much. Thus, I was looking to see where the noises were coming from’.
‘The cellar. You were in the cellar last night, Mr Clayton. There is no need for you to conceal that’.
I was not prepared for his clever response, but I sensed that he was referring to the awful things hidden in the cellar. ‘I am not certain what you mean, sir’.
‘I was referring to the noises, of course. The metal pipes.’ He paused, then continued, ‘You were complaining about them yesterday. Have you forgotten, old boy?’
I tried to deceive him at his own game, but he was one step ahead of me and was outwitting me. ‘Indeed. The horrible banging was very palpable and real’.
I chuckled and said, ‘It almost felt as if the manor was alive and had a beating heart of its own, sir’.
Apparently, Mr Montague was not amused by that jest of mine. I could see the intense look in his eyes and noticed it in his serious demeanour afterwards.
‘You are correct, Mr Clayton. The manor is alive. It has been ever since it was originally built decades ago, when I was a small child. I have no intention of seeing this manor owned by any mischievous wastrel. I much prefer to preserve its natural integrity and keep it within the family lineage’.
For a full minute, I thought—did I hear him correctly? Was he acknowledging that the horrific sequence of events I had witnessed in the cellar was real, not a mere illusion? He sensed my momentary lapse of concentration.
‘Are you all right, Mr Clayton? You seem very pensive at the moment. A bit bewildered by something’.
‘Did I hear you say the manor is alive, Mr Montague?’
‘Correct, old boy. The manor is alive. That I can attest to. Even you can attest to that’.
‘Then what I saw in that bloody cellar was all real, not my imagination? Everything?’
‘Yes. All that you saw is exactly as it appears. As I said earlier, I have reconstructed this old manor from fragments to its present form’.
‘Was I not dreaming or hallucinating?’
‘No, Mr Clayton’.
‘How can that be? It is impossible to fathom’.
‘Everything is possible in this world when it comes to death, Mr Clayton. You see, what you discovered behind the horrid banging of the metal pipes are actually the souls of the trapped victims who belong to me—the devil in disguise. For I am the collector of souls’.
I was shocked by his disturbing tale of horror. ‘Are you mad? What are you implying, Mr Montague? Is this some macabre joke of yours?’
He stared deeply into my eyes with a wicked smile that revealed his true disposition. ‘Not in the slightest, Mr Clayton. I am Lucifer in person’.
‘The tormented souls, the spills of blood, and the beating heart. All of those grotesque things and more exist? How is that feasible?’
‘Simple, my boy. All that is, is what it is. Everything within this manor is the sole creation of my wishes. The poor souls you heard are the destined victims of my condemnation, and the beating heart is the heart of the manor itself. As I said before, the house is alive. It watches us. Its eyes are always observant of the actions made by its visitors. Listen closely and you will hear its heart beating now’.
As he spoke, the loud beating of the heart of the manor resounded. It was disconcerting in its intensity, and I was fixated on the manor itself.
‘Can you hear the beating of the heart of the manor? It is the most beautiful sound to enjoy, Mr Clayton’.
‘It is insane, I say. No. This is all a mere hallucination—unbalanced!’
Then the familiar sound of the heavy banging of the metal pipes was heard audibly once again, with powerful echoes that reverberated deliberately.
‘Stop this madness now!’ I screamed, covering my ears with both hands to deafen the penetrating noise drowning me in its insufferable force.
Mr Montague appeared to be greatly entertained by this sick perversion, demonstrating a harsh, derisive laugh. It felt as if time had stopped and the hours and minutes were inconsequential. I could not prevent the inescapable thought of running out of the house to rid myself of this unspeakable evil and these occurrences. As I attempted to scurry to the front door, Lily blocked my escape. She bore a terrifying grin and a dark stare in her sinister eyes.
‘Going somewhere, Mr Clayton? You’ll be needing the key’.
The fear in me rapidly turned into a desperate need to flee the unavoidable manor, and I pushed her out of the way—but to no avail. Mr Montague made certain that my departure from his home would not happen until he said so.
‘You weren’t planning on leaving so suddenly, old boy, without bidding me a proper farewell? That wouldn’t be befitting, since you are a welcomed guest. Don’t you agree, Mr Clayton?’
‘What is it that you want from me? Stop playing games and state your purpose. What are you going to do with me?’ I vociferated.
He smiled once more as he stood before me with his phlegmatic bearing. His voice suddenly changed from a raspy tone into a deep, defiant one. ‘It is not I who will do something; it is the house that will. It must feed itself. It needs your soul, Mr Clayton’.
The clamouring souls from the cellar began to burst from the walls of the manor, manifesting before my eyes. The gripping terror consumed me even more, beyond any rationality. I felt as though my head was about to explode. The noises were intolerable and unbridled. I knew then I had to escape—if not, I was doomed to the brutal fate of my peril.
I had to react to the undeniable threat, or I would become a wretched prisoner of this house of horror for eternity. His grotesque appearance transformed—horns and hooves, the crimson guise of the writhing devil himself. Out of pure instinct, I knocked the servant to the ground as we tussled and took the key from her. There was no time to spare. The dead were coming for me and the house was beginning to swallow me. I put the key in the lock and turned it, then opened the door expeditiously, as Mr Montague laughed uninterruptedly.
At last, I was freed from the unrelenting nightmare of the house. I closed the door and stood before the purity of the morning sunlight’s rays, catching my breath as I fled from the manor into the garden. My heart was still pounding, and my anxiety had not yet abated, but at last the horror had ceased—or so I was led to believe.
‘Going somewhere, Mr Clayton?’
The familiar voice was that of Mr Montague. I was in utter shock. When I turned around to see, it was another man, with a distinctive voice I did not recognise or expect. ‘How can that be? I’ve just left that abominable house with you inside it!’
He looked perplexed by my response. ‘Are you all right, Mr Clayton? You seem to have seen a ghost. Has the Devil stifled your tongue?’
‘A ghost?’ I replied.
‘Did we not have an engagement today to discuss the matter of the manor and its property?’
‘The manor and its property?’ I was still utterly confounded by this strange turn of events and was ill-prepared for what followed.
‘Yes, the property, Mr Clayton. Was this not the purpose of your visit to the estate?’
Could it really be possible that I had simply been tricked into believing that all I had seen and experienced earlier was no more than an illusion of my mind? ‘No, I’m fine, sir!’
‘Then shall we proceed to discuss the matter that brought you here in the first place?’
‘The matter? Yes, of course’, I replied, still somewhat hesitantly.
‘Let us enter the manor and enjoy its splendid wonders as we talk. I’ll have Lily prepare some tea for us’.
‘Lily?’
‘Yes, my maid. You will find both her and the manor most agreeable indeed. After all, you are my honoured guest,’ he said, with a sarcastic grin that seemed to mark his innocence both plainly and candidly.
As we approached the manor once again, my steps were slow and uncertain, though Mr Montague walked briskly, almost with a spring in his stride, as if nothing were amiss. The towering facade of the house loomed larger with each pace, its dark windows like hollow eyes, watching my every move. My mind was a tempest of confusion. Had I truly imagined the ghastly events of last night? The cellar, the beating heart, the tortured souls—all of it seemed too vivid, too visceral, to be a mere figment of a disordered mind. And yet, here I was, returning willingly.
We entered through the grand front doors, and immediately a strange stillness seemed to fall over everything, as though the house itself was holding its breath in anticipation. The familiar aroma of aged wood and stale air enveloped me, and I could not help but glance warily at the walls, half-expecting them to groan or bleed before my eyes.
‘This way, Mr Clayton’, Montague said smoothly, guiding me towards the parlour.
As we settled into high-backed chairs upholstered in dark velvet, Lily entered with the tea tray. She moved with mechanical precision, her eyes downcast, betraying no sign of recognition of our supposed previous encounter. I studied her intently, searching for a glimmer of the sinister grin I had seen before, but her expression was inscrutable.
‘Tea Mr Clayton?’ She asked politely, her voice devoid of any malice.
‘No, thank you,’ I replied cautiously, my mind reeling. Was she part of the deception, or had I conjured her malevolence in a fevered dream?
Montague poured himself a cup and reclined, crossing one leg over the other in a leisurely fashion. ‘Now, to business. You were interested in acquiring the manor, I believe?’
I blinked, startled. ‘Acquiring…the manor?’
‘Indeed. You wrote expressing interest in the property, did you not?’ His eyes glittered with a peculiar amusement.
I struggled to collect my thoughts. Had I written such a letter? My memory was a blur, clouded by the horrors of the night before. ‘Yes, of course’, I managed. ‘That was my original intention’.
‘Splendid,’ Montague replied. ‘But before we proceed, I should like to show you something rather…special. A part of the manor not seen by many’.
I stiffened instinctively. ‘What part would that be?’
‘The east wing’, he said, rising. ‘Do follow me’.
We made our way down a long, dimly lit corridor, the wooden floor creaking beneath our feet with every step. Montague moved with unsettling ease, while I felt my chest tighten with dread. The east wing had been sealed off the last time I was here—or at least, in my previous recollection of events. My curiosity was piqued despite my better judgement.
Montague produced a large iron key and unlocked an ornate door at the end of the passage. It swung open with a groan, revealing a chamber shrouded in darkness. He struck a match, lighting a solitary oil lamp mounted on the wall. A dim, flickering glow revealed a room filled with grotesque paintings—images of torment, damnation, and creatures not of this world. My breath caught in my throat.
‘What is this place?’ I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
‘A gallery of sorts’, Montague replied calmly. ‘Each painting depicts a soul claimed by the manor. A visual record of those who have fallen victim to its...peculiar hunger’.
I stepped closer to one of the canvases and gasped. The face was unmistakable—my own. There I was, painted with agonising precision, eyes wide with terror, hands clawing at unseen chains that bound me.
‘This…this is impossible!’ I stammered.
‘On the contrary,’ Montague said, his voice low and menacing, ‘it is inevitable. The house chooses its victims long before they realise their fate. You see, Mr Clayton, the manor is not merely a place—it is a living entity, as I’ve said. And once it sets its sights upon you, it treats with its hospitality'.
I backed away, my mind racing for a rational explanation, but none came. The air grew colder, the shadows deeper, and the house seemed to pulse with a life of its own.
We left the gallery, and I was ushered into another unfamiliar part of the manor—a cavernous library, lined from floor to ceiling with ancient tomes and manuscripts. The scent of decayed paper and dust was overwhelming. Montague gestured to a large armchair beside the fireplace.
‘Sit, Mr Clayton. There is something you must read’.
He retrieved a hefty volume bound in cracked leather and placed it in my lap. The title, embossed in gold, read: The Chronicles of the Damned. My fingers trembled as I opened the book. Inside were detailed accounts of visitors to the manor stretching back centuries, each entry recounting the last days of those who had been ensnared by its sinister grasp.
As I leafed through the pages, my heart sank. Each name, each fate, was meticulously recorded—and then, with dawning horror, I found my own name inscribed, the ink still fresh. The entry described my arrival, my exploration of the cellar, and every terror I had faced. The words ended with a chilling prophecy: He shall not leave until his soul is claimed and the house is fed anew.
I slammed the book shut and sprang to my feet. ‘This is madness! I refuse to be part of this grotesque charade!’
Montague merely smiled, unperturbed. ‘Accept your fate Mr Clayton'.
Suddenly, a gust of wind blew through the library, extinguishing the fire and plunging us into darkness. Whispers began to rise from the hollow walls, low at first, then growing louder, insistent, almost pleading. The temperature plummeted, and I could see my breath misting in the frigid air.
The house was awakening. It was no phantasmagoria. It was too surreal to believe that I was revisiting the same terror that I had fled before.
Recommend Reviews (1) Write a ReviewReport