Unwelcome

* * * *

A trailing, pulsing mist, clenched at the feet of Craig Andrews as he ran further into the black maw of the ancient corridor. Billowing orange plumes of smoke lined the damp walls, which throbbed with unholy life - a concrete heart, closing in, suffocating, and threatening to ensnare him before he reached the end of the tunnel.

Somewhere in the distance echoed a blood-curdling wail, and he faltered, instinctively knowing the source.

Robin. 

Time was swiftly churning to the end game. Craig was being played the victim by a diabolical cat’s-paw, and within that deadly grasp hung Robin’s fate. Running like a crazed fiend he continued, his chest aching from exertion.

Opening up before him was a large chamber, the dank ceiling dripping with globs of moss, like the melting wax of a candle formed from the rock bowels of mother earth.

A scream pierced Craig’s ears and his eyes focused on the ghastly image of Robin, hovering in mid-air over wicked spikes protruding from an unseen floor, pinpricks of yellow glaring at the tormented man from a dozen pairs of bodiless orbs.

“Wake up! Craig, are you all right?”

He flailed away with his arms, feeling someone grabbing his shoulders and shaking him, mercifully banishing the nightmare that plagued him.

“Craig?”

A pale light illuminated the smooth skin of his face, and his wife Kathy’s concerned sea-blue eyes stared into his own gray ones,.

“Another dream?”

The thirty-year old artist covered his head with clammy hands, his robe damp with sweat. He tried to calm his pounding heart. “He’s still alive, Kathy. Robin’s trying to reach me. It has to be true. The nightmares are getting worse. They’re unbearable.”

Kathy cradled her husband in gentle arms, kissing him lightly on the head. “You really feel that way, even after the police couldn’t find a trace of him?”

“Yes, I do. Maybe Robin can’t be found by just anyone. The mansion is huge - and I believe they failed. The investigation considered only what their eyes told them. I can sense what they can’t. These dreams, they’re terrible. I don’t know what happened to him, but he’s still in that house. I’m sure of it.”

Kathy nodded her, understanding her husband’s grief, and his resolve. “So you’re going then?” “I must. I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t at least try.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll talk to the owner, he was open to Robin’s research to some degree, or he wouldn’t have let him probe at the estate’s mysteries.”

“But it took a lot of convincing, I thought. And what if he doesn’t permit you to enter?” 

Craig answered without hesitation, the husky voice low and firm. “Then I’ll break into that damn place and turn over every stone with my bare hands.” 

The seven-hour drive to Rachfort crawled by, and Craig watched the highway flow by with disinterest, focusing on what awaited him at the end of his journey. As he approached the small town, the countryside transformed into vibrant hillsides dotted with forests of oak and maple trees, embracing the orange and yellow vibrancy of the encroaching autumn.

Few cars passed his blue sedan, as he mulled over his conversation with Jonathan Stickman, the owner of Grabold Manor. Mr. Stickman was still greatly upset about Robin’s disappearance three weeks earlier from the deserted estate. The investigation remained open, but the premises had been thoroughly searched, without a shred of evidence to show that Robin was there, or for that matter, that he had ever visited. 

Craig opened up to the man, pleading for entry. In the end, Stickman agreed, but only after hearing the determination from Robin’s friend. Craig reached a fork, taking the left turn, recognizing a huge dairy farm from his directions. After another mile, he approached a line of dark chestnut trees leaning over a rusted metal gate, and a long, burgundy, limousine sitting in front.

He parked and watched a gaunt skeleton of a man remove himself from the car, scarcely animated enough to complete the act. “You must be the caretaker Mr. Scirolin. Craig Andrews.”

The spidery man ignored the outstretched hand, and pursed his chapped lips into a grim line. When he opened his mouth again, a low, gritty voice chided Craig with sarcastic rebuke.

“You’re a fool, just like your friend.”

Craig felt an immediate surge of anger, but held his tongue. Mr. Stickman had informed him of the questionable temperament possessed by his long-time caretaker. “I’m sorry you feel that way, sir,” he replied.

“I warned Jonathan before, and your friend, now I’m warning you.”

His rheumy gaze was strong despite the years behind them, and circles ringed his eyes. He lifted a bony finger, pointing it squarely at Craig’s chest.

“There are things better left alone in this world. Old things, here before you or me, and they’ll remain long after we are gone. The manor is one of them.”

“Do you know what happened to Robin?” Craig tried to stay calm, knowing that if any could help him, Scirolin was the one. 

“Yes, I do. Grabold took him.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“Grabold? You mean the manor? That makes no sense.”

The caretaker narrowed his glance, measuring Craig. “You understand, all right. You have some of the gift as well.”

Craig hesitated for an uncomfortable moment before answering. “I have psychic ability, yes. You must too, or you wouldn’t ask.”

“Obviously, but soon you’ll wish you didn’t, if you continue. Master Crowel possessed a great measure of talent. He awakened the powers that slumber in Grabold with his research. To his unfortunate end.”

The man’s words were chilling. “That’s not what Mr. Stickman believes to be true.”

To Craig’s surprise, the old man laughed, cackling like bark scraping off a hoary tree. “Jonathan is a fool, too. He chooses to ignore what lurks in the darkness behind his modern comforts, refuses to hear the truth in his own heritage. But at the same time, he’ll never live under the roof of Grabold again. The only reason the two of you were allowed to enter is in the hope of finding a rational explanation to the nature of the manor. Mr. Crowel discovered the truth - don’t make the same mistake.”

He paused, fumbling in his coat jacket and bringing out a metal key. “Let’s go,” he ordered, “I don’t want to be on the grounds after sunset.”

Craig stared at the vast building as the caretaker drove away, holding a small suitcase in his grasp.

Crawling along the discolored walls were sinuous vines of ivy, curling against the structure in a stranglehold for support. Shuttered windows returned his stare in stony silence, as if daring him to enter its vacant premises. Although the great portion of the estate was shrouded in dark forest, the trees immediately near the mansion were of ailing health, the trunks parched, and few leaves hung on the drooping branches, fewer yet on the barren earth below.

The entire scene was one of gloom and decay, curls of mist descending upward from the damp ground, seeking to quench any glimmer of light from above. Several blackbirds circled the aged pinnacles of the estate, gliding lazily in the premature twilight.

Dismal were the visible attributes, but more striking to Craig were the invisible sensations. He was stunned by the undercurrent of vibrations leaking outward from Grabold. Unseen waves of energy pulsed against his finely tuned abilities, warning of latent power and dormant evil. His jaw dropped at the strength he felt, and he nearly turned around to follow the caretaker.

No, he thought. I know the signs, hear the warnings. I must be sure of myself, for Robin’s sake. Yet, how insignificant he felt, standing in front of the brooding mansion.

He opened the map of Grabold’s interior Scirolin had left him. Notes were scribbled at the bottom, describing concealed doors leading to hidden chambers. The locations were not shown, however, so Craig realized that he needed to rely on other resources; his own mental abilities.

Attempting to bolster his confidence, he walked toward the front entrance. Cracked concrete steps lay before him, and a rail of black metal, rusted and bent, sided the short flight offering access to the main doorway. He shuffled forward, stopping before the alcove-enclosed archway.

Two marble gargoyles made of polished obsidian guarded the access, , their large folded wings lay over tails spiked with tiny horns. The architecture was fantastic, unique to his trained eyes. Shiny orbs glittered menacingly at him as he passed, of the type that illusion-shifted, appearing to follow his every step. The faces were twisted and malevolent, but possessed a gothic beauty.

His back felt numb, partly from the cool air, and perhaps also from the watchful figures protecting Grabold. Old power lay deep within the stone hearts of the gargoyles. The crafter had been a master of arts, both sculpting and the occult. Lingering wisps of psychic energy emanated from their dreadful shapes.

The sculptor had also suffered terrible anguish in finishing the work, and the sensation was strong in Craig’s mind.

A large, oaken door stood before him. A brass clapper served as doorknocker, shaped in the guise of a lion with mouth stretched open, revealing rows of countless jagged teeth. Everything here was symbolic, carefully made, conveying awe to any who entered, demanding respect to those with understanding, and whispering of dark consequence to others choosing to ignore.

Craig turned the handle, opening the door. The mansion was never locked anymore, according to the caretaker. Scirolin said that all valuable items were taken away long ago, and only fools would seek to enter now. Craig reached into his pocket, bringing out a flashlight, feeling the bulge of a spare set he’d also brought along.

Matches and lighters, an oil lantern, small tool kit, and a few other items were inside the suitcase he carried, necessities if he were to properly search the mansion. He paced down a short walkway, stirring up clouds of dust devils, the sound of his footsteps echoing dully in the silent house.

Shining the light before him, his beam illuminated empty tables and scattered chairs, the building reeked of intense mustiness, a powerful assault on his nostrils. A large area opened up, and he found himself in the spacious social room. Craig paused, taking out the oil lantern from his case. The wick flickered instantly as he lighted it, the fumes covering up the background scents of the aged house. He pushed the wick to the fullest extent, the lamp forcing the shadows back.

The room had once served as a gathering spot for revelers, and could easily hold a great number of guests. An enormous fireplace dominated the chamber, piles of smooth stone climbing upwards into a miniature mountain of rock, scaling towards the vaulted ceilings overhead. He walked around the confines, holding his lamp up to several portraits depicting various lords of the manor from years long past.

Cobwebs crisscrossed the weathered frames, entangling the paintings in a latticework of spider weavings. Stern faces peered back at Craig - men of strong bearing and cold vision.

His inherent senses also picked up residual energy, originating from somewhere in the room. He could imagine the rise and fall of voices in conversation, dealings of commerce, and blacker business as well, although the details remained obscured. Friends, enemies, and lovers, both public and private, all had once paced through the room in prestigious banquets, decades ago.

Craig felt his chest heaving, perspiration soaking his brow, as the images increased in strength. Feeling a moment of panic, his hands trembled, the light dancing about from his lantern.

Something was happening.

His heart pounded as a wave of psychic energy crushed down on him, and he fell to one knee. The darkness disappeared, and the room flared with vibrancy. 

He blinked his eyes, and when they opened again, the chamber swarmed with people, their chattering lips speaking incoherently, engaged in dialogue that once served as the social hub of the community. Impeccably dressed butlers, servers, and maids, shuffled about in a painstaking effort to accommodate the many important guests. The garments were vintage and garish, telling of status and fortune.

Craig was a spectator to the lavish scene, watching in amazement at the incredible display. His hair felt static, charged by fright, but he seemed ignored - a mortal trespasser to the supernatural event. 

A bearded man stood several feet to his right, and Craig saw the walls through the transparent figure. He wore an overcoat of stark black, gold buttons richly bedecking a broad waistcoat, and Craig reeled backwards, staggered by the wash of power spilling out from the shade. The spirit turned toward him, the spectral eyes gleaming balefully at him. Craig’s blood ran cold, riveted by the frozen stare, and the whole room immediately went silent.

He shivered uncontrollably as the apparition moved its lips, speaking with an airy voice, at the same time close, but also muffled, as if from behind a closed door, or buried underground.

“You are unwelcome here.”

Craig shuddered in revulsion, feeling nauseous. The spirit vanished, and the room was empty once again. He wiped sweat from his face, dazed by the fantastic incident. It had lasted only moments, but the energy still resonated against him in harsh unseen currents. There was nothing in his experience to compare with the event. Craig had anticipated brushes with the unexplainable, but could not believe the magnitude of what had just occurred, and he’d only been in the house a few minutes. The caretaker was right. Grabold should be left alone. The dead ruled here, the living were infringing on their grounds.

Unwelcome.

Memories of Robin passed through his mind, pleading in Craig’s fantasies. He was somewhere inside the manor still, and needed Craig’s help. He couldn’t abandon him, not without at least making an attempt. Craig was wrenched by churning emotions, fear and pity warring for dominance. Holding the lamp up high, he decided to continue, knowing that a warning had been issued.

Grabold had given him an admonition - what would the next encounter bring?

Roaming the lower floor, Craig uncovered nothing. No other apparitions appeared, but he knew that the house patiently waited for him to delve into Grabold’s secrets. He believed the evil powers slept, and the earlier event was primarily a host of restless spirits, reenacting memories precious to their living experience in the manor. It may all have been staged for his benefit, he mused. What worried him, though, was the reason. Was it to scare him off? Or more frighteningly, tempt him onward?

He thrust aside such thoughts, deciding to try the spiraling staircase, that led to the second floor. The floorboards moaned at each step, creaking ponderously as if waking from warped repose. At times he picked up sensations of the spirits wandering the great house. More than once he walked into a cold area, an indication of a nearby shade. Craig considered them harmless, lost in their own trappings beyond the earthly plane, and felt only sorrow at their plight. He could help some move on, but dared not risk an attempt in Grabold. Such an act would assuredly send vibrations through the structure, and the last thing he wanted was to awaken all the slumbering entities, and there were many dwelling in the ancient manor.

He reached the end of the stairs, finding himself perched high above the lower floor. The ascent was longer than he had guessed. Looking down, he peered into the circular opening between the handrail, the light from his lantern unable to reveal the bottom. It was a good drop, and he stepped back, shaking at the thought, the lure of vertigo beckoning him.

He started down the hall, noticing a number of iron racks fixed in the walls, once serving as torch holders. The manor must have been a bright and grand place at one time, he thought. Something happened to change all that, and now Grabold was an open grave, filled with darkness and beings that relished in the darkness.

Studying his map, he decided to try the master bedroom, hoping to find a trace of Robin. So far, there was nothing familiar to him in the house - it was as if Robin had never walked the aged grounds.

The hall was long, and several doors lined either side. He opened each and found the guest chambers, a small library, and the trophy room.

It took him a while to finally reach the great bedroom, carefully passing the closed doors, probing gently with his gifted consciousness. This level felt relaxed compared to the social room, although the trophy room emanated psychic vibration briefly, and then quickly vanished. Possibly a spirit was somewhere within.

The bedroom door was ponderous, and Craig set the lantern down to open the heavy panel. The creaking echoed mournfully down the empty hall, and spider-chills trickled down his spine at the disturbance he was causing. He shrugged away such thoughts, for that path led to fear and then panic. He couldn’t afford either for Robin’s sake, or his own. Wide strands of cobweb stretched across the room, bare except for a massive bed and a hulking dresser.

The headboard over the bed was shaped like a tree, the boughs split to either side and arching forward several inches. A face was carved into the trunk, leering and spiteful. The symbolic artwork clearly suggested that whoever slept there would be under the watchful eye of the graven image. Craig suspected it to be the face of the original lord of the manor, recognizing the features from a portrait in the social room.

He stared at the bed for several moments, feeling no threat from the structure. It may once have contained energy long ago, he decided, but was now only an empty reminder, a relic of a past age, although hideous to behold. Craig turned, reaching out for any remnants of other elements, focusing on the mirror. The object was large enough to accommodate more than one person at a time. The glass was surprisingly dust-free, but a thin crack ran the length, from top to bottom.

His light pierced the mirror, and he was struck by a strange sensation. Gazing into the depths, Craig’s mouth opened in shock.

He was not alone.

A horde of white faces gazed back at him. Men and women alike, pale, glazing eyes, staring hungrily at the mirror, standing alongside of himself. It took every shred of his courage not to bolt away - few people could have kept their senses. Looking out of the corner of one eye, he saw that he was alone in the room, but the reflection spoke otherwise.

The faces were ghastly.

Mouths hung open, spectral lips moved like the jaws on a cat, anticipating a meal. The heads continued to stare ahead, and he knew that his own face was drained of all color. He didn’t know how long the episode would last, and he stood, shoring up his confidence, knowing that to give into his fear would spell the end of him.

His chest ached, the pressure immense on his heart and will. To Craig’s horror, the faces slowly moved, turning inward, looking right at his reflection in the mirror. Bony hands reached out, pawing at his image, and his skin crawled in terror and revulsion. He was faltering. The hands caressed his body as he watched, unseen to the naked eye, petting him, longing for the warmth of his life. Craig shuddered, his body feeling weak, his head swimming on the verge of blacking out.

In front of his waking vision, his face now changed. The features misted and reformed into a short jutting beard, crafty eyes, rounded nose. 

Robin. On top of his own features. Robin’s face drifted away from Craig’s reflection, and the figures in the mirror grabbed him, his friend’s mouth opening frantically, soundlessly screaming in agony. Craig watched as the host of ghouls clawed at his friend, dragging him off and disappearing into a swirling vapor. 

He collapsed to his knees, gasping wildly for breath, devastated by the macabre scene. Craig was soaked to the skin, his sweat cold and clammy. His whole frame shivered in loathing at what he’d been witness to. Was his friend alive or dead? Held captive by some powerful entity of Grabold? The first lord? Craig failed to comprehend the meaning behind this new, but much more horrendous event. Was it to further discourage him, or ensnare him deeper, to share Robin’s fate?

He stood, feeling tired and empty. His resolve was breaking down, and he realized that he was nearing the point of no return. He went to the door, stepping back into the hall.

The corridor was ablaze with light.

Torches were lit, the shadows dancing wickedly on the stone walls. Craig was amazed, his own lantern drowned by the spectral illumination. The hallway was empty, but a single door stood open.

The trophy room.

Dread clutched his throat, and he cautiously walked toward the chamber, bracing himself for the unexpected, if such preparation was possible. He passed the sputtering torches, gauging the insubstantiality of the flickering brands. Although they cast off light, they were unreal. His experience with the supernatural lent a fragile balance to his unique logic, to what the eyes saw and the mind could interpret. Opposing senses conflicting against his inborn perception.

Craig reached the trophy room and the torches disappeared, casting the hall back into darkness. He had anticipated this, and walked inside, his pupils adjusting to the dimmer light.

The walls of the room were adorned with the heads of wild animals. A regal lion sat across from him, mounted in a square plaque. The enraged face of a wild boar was next to the lion, and other figures materialized as he proceeded.

A tiger’s head hung there, along with a heavily antlered elk, several stags, mountain goats, and a black bear, mouth gaping in fury. Centered against the far wall was another fireplace, much smaller than some of the others he came upon throughout the manor. Each room was furnished with one, a common feature in old estates.

The beasts stared at him with lifeless, gleaming orbs, their expressions hostile. He felt a subtle threat in the room, but not from the vanquished creatures. No, there was something else, and he located the disturbance as the fireplace. The structure was created from smooth stone, piled in even sections, all similar in shape. Craig moved the lantern closer, examining the depths of the hearth.

Closing his eyes briefly, he determined that part of the room remained unrevealed, and a hidden chamber existed behind the fireplace. Although Craig was comfortable with his psychic powers, he never claimed to be clairvoyant.

Yet he felt sure there was a room concealed here.

Strong waves of energy circulated throughout Grabold, and he surmised that his own abilities were being greatly magnified. He wondered whether this was part of the manor’s secret, that a reservoir of power was trapped in the aged walls, causing all the supernatural activity, enabling gifted visitors to tap into the vortex. That would explain a lot, he thought.

Craig stuck his head into the fireplace, knocking at the rear wall.

It seemed to be solid, but as he continued the noise changed, a hollow tone answering back. On hands and knees, he pushed forward and a panel slid open, uncovering a black tunnel. He peered inside, and heard something overhead. Craning his neck upward, his eyes registered shock as a face leered down at him.

Luminous yellow eyes bored into his own, and he was unable to draw breath. The face hovered there, unmoving. It was the visage of the specter from the social room, the one that had given the dreadful warning.

Craig gasped aloud, paralyzed with fear, and the image disintegrated. Another warning? Am I close to finding Robin, he thought? He crouched for several moments, waiting for the racing in his chest to subside. The inky blackness ahead of him was like the maw of a predatory beast.

Going into the tunnel was one of the bravest things he ever did. Craig possessed tremendous courage, but he was becoming numb, physically and mentally, from his harrowing encounters at Grabold. He moved mechanically, whether drawn on by his own resolution or another’s will, he didn’t know.

The tunnel sloped downwards and grew larger, enabling him to walk upright. Rocks crumbled beneath his weary feet, and he was a mortal will-o-the-wisp, carrying the forlorn lantern in front, the lost searching out the lost. Time ceased to move as Craig stumbled along, wondering where the passage would lead him. Voices whispered in his ear, but he was unable to catch legible words. He feared his mind was succumbing to the intense strain of Grabold, wearing away at his strength and resolve. 

Shortly he noticed a change in the corridor. The angle leveled off, and a faint orange glow emanated from the walls. A sluggish mist issued from an unseen source, and the sides of the tunnel rippled like breathing lungs, pumping for sustenance. Everything was closing in on him and he started running, tripping over loose rock, falling several times, his shins scratched and bruised. Craig stumbled forward, his mind swimming at the unreality of his quest. It was like a dream, he thought, and then he remembered.

The nightmares, the horrific nights, harboring the fantasies of Robin’s fate. He was living the dream now.

Onward he staggered, feeling the trap grow tighter, panic welling in his breast like a forsaken child. Without warning the tunnel opened before his quaking limbs, the lantern cracked and was in danger of being extinguished, which would finally leave him in the dark without escape.

A great chamber lay around him, and he felt something moist brush his face. The area was glowing, a dim luminescence, and Craig saw strands of moss oozing from a limestone ceiling high above, stalactites aiming downwards like spears of retribution pointing at his heart. He moved further inside and stopped.

A dozen yards in front of him hung Robin.

Hovering in mid-air, wicked spikes of stone fixed beneath his helpless form. A blood-curdling wail of sheer anguish poured forth from his tormented lips, and Craig knew that his dream was now coming to full circle. He watched in shock, frozen at the impossible sight of his friend. What was happening to him? Could he yet save him?

“Go back, leave me.” 

The words came out, strangled and hoarse, as Craig set the lantern down, edging forward.

“No, no.” Robin squeezed the syllables out, warning his friend.

“Robin? What’s happened to you?” Craig drew closer, and then staggered as if from a physical blow. Tiny spots of yellow filled the air around Robin’s form, pairs of diabolical eyes lacking bodies, staring down at Craig. This time, he knew that it was the adamant walls of Grabold that cushioned him, not the warm blankets of his bed. This nightmare would not end in a fortuitous awakening.

A new sound descended on Craig’s immobile figure, shredding his sanity, molesting his mind. It was laughter - low, evil, full of contempt.

He threw his hands over his ears, but the noise defied Craig’s hastily imposed barriers, both of physical and psychic defense. He was crushed by the power behind the sound, the deep resentment, and the overwhelming confidence. The laughter had a name, and it was Grabold.

First lord of the manor, his spirit holding rein upon the ancient house, was strong enough to cross the worldly plane and hold Robin captive, and now Craig was coming under that same deadly grip. He was in danger of becoming enslaved, a pawn to be dominated by the unrelenting specter. He was to become a sacrifice, his essence being sucked away into the ethereal grasp of the evil master, and there was nothing he could do to fight and win.

The truth sank in deep, screaming at Craig’s mind. He had been chosen, through his friendship with Robin. The hands stretched forth from the manor into Craig’s dreams, a supernatural summons, bringing him at last to the chamber, where Grabold’s power was focused, a spiritual trap in the black heart of the structure. It was a funnel of energy, tended by the first lord, during and after his life.

Craig knew it all to be true, the invisible arms of Grabold enveloping him in its dreadful fold at last, bestowing the bitter knowledge, and turning him into one of the manor’s unwilling entities. Craig forced his eyes to open , hoping to discover a means to break the spell being weaved for him. To his horror, he also now hovered in the air, his body limp as he was moved to join Robin and share his friend’s fate. The end was at hand.

He resisted, willing his mind to banish the phantoms. He told himself it wasn’t real, but he was swiftly losing control over his own thoughts. The internal protests voiced determination and outrage, but the foul touch of Grabold drowned out his attempts, claiming domination. Craig surrendered, knowing the battle was lost. He did not possess the power of heart or mind to win such a war.

The eyes followed his progress, only inches from his face. He blocked the image away, pleading a silent prayer to find himself awake once more.

“Stop.”

A new voice reached Craig’s hearing, and he felt the hold of Grabold hesitate. “I have come to fulfill the bargain. Let them both leave, they are of no use to you now.”

Craig flew forward and was dropped mercilessly to the floor. He clawed up from the ground, pushing his battered body to his knees, and looked to find the source of the intrusion. A staircase had opened up on the far side of the chamber, and two men stood at the top.

Through watery eyes, Craig recognized the caretaker, but the other man was a stranger. He was tall, with gray hair and a dark face, and he knew instantly that it was Jonathan Stickman. Scirolin bounded down the stairs towards Craig and Robin, who lay unmoving on the cold ground.

“Hurry, we must leave! Help your friend up. Now!”

Craig was bewildered, but shook Robin, rousing his friend. Glazed eyes met his own, and Craig saw the old spark come alive in the man’s pupils. He pulled him to his feet, and they followed the skittish figure of Scirolin up the steps.

“What about him?” Craig’s chest heaved from the sprint, but he turned to see Jonathan standing before the spikes, his shoulders sagging in a gesture of finality.

“You mean Jonathan Grabold, for that is his real name. He’s come to pay his dues, and is beyond our help.” They entered a stone door, and Scirolin closed it behind them with a surprisingly strong shove of one shoulder. Craig’s eyes scanned the murky air, and he realized that they were in the wine cellar.

“We won’t be truly safe until we’re outside the walls of Grabold. Follow me.”
The unlikely trio climbed solid steps of carved stone, bursting out of a massive wooden door, which opened like a tomb. Through several pantries, and then the kitchen itself, the men continued without pausing. Scirolin lit the way with a lantern of his own - Craig’s was still lying on the floor of the chamber hidden below.

Vibrations of agitated energy assaulted Craig at every turn, and from the look on Robin’s face, his friend felt the same currents of psychic distress. Grabold was greatly disturbed. They reached the social room and the air struck them like a winter gale. 

Icicles hung from the chandelier above, and a frosty breeze drifted across Craig’s ashen face. Cries of lost spirits drifted through the chamber, confused and hopeless. It was unbearable.

Scirolin hurried toward the entrance, and a horrible thought blackened Craig’s mind that they would be forever trapped inside the manor despite their efforts. He covered his ears against the wailing, but the voices remained. The idea was thrust away as the door opened, and the men found themselves outside the house, passing the marble watchers.

Craig felt an aura seeping from the gargoyles, and he grabbed Robin’s arm. Before their eyes the statues shimmered in green mist, and the sleeping orbs opened wide, radiating pure evil.

Muscular limbs of stone thrashed out, grabbing Scirolin in an unbreakable grip. Robin shoved Craig forward, pushing him beneath the monstrous spectacle, sending him down the steps, and he tumbled to the bottom. The moon illuminated the estate in milky radiance, and Craig stared back at the ghastly scene. Scirolin screamed, and deadly laughter rang out.

“Why such haste, old windbag? You’ve had a long life, how soon we forget. Your ancestors served Grabold - and we are reluctant to forget such loyalty.”

Robin stood transfixed, trapped between the house and the stone guardians. The caretaker went limp, and the gargoyles released him. Robin jumped over the lifeless body, bounding down the steps and joining his friend.

“I don’t understand.” Craig stared at Robin, then at the unmoving form of the caretaker.

Robin bowed his neck, breathing in ragged gasps. “Grabold is under a curse. The first lord of the manor called his kinsman to him, when the debt needed to be paid.”

“What debt?”

“A charmed life, free of pain, worry, earthly tragedies. They can refuse, early on in life. They are all psychic, so they must know in their youth.”

“Jonathan?”

Robin shook his head wearily. “He accepted, but tried to renege on the deal. He let me enter the manor, hoping to throw off the bargain somehow, offer me in his wake. I was held, and you were manipulated as well. Jonathan must have realized that he could never escape his fate.”

“But why not? He seemed to be free, for all these years.”

“No, I think he was aware only recently of the summons. My powers were used to reach Jonathan’s mind, show him the consequences of trying to cheat his legacy.” Robin shuddered. “I caught fragments, faint images. It was hideous.”

“What do you mean?”

“To break the deal would mean enslavement to Grabold, in death. He would pay for it in torment, spiritual torture. I was witness to the mental pictures sent to Jonathan’s dreams. It was abominable.” Robin closed his eyes, looking older than his forty years.

“And Scirolin benefited too, how ironic. He thought Grabold’s offer was only to family members. Another pawn, to feed Jonathan with threats, and in the end, claimed by the manor.”

Robin shivered.

“Please don’t ask me anymore, for your own sake, unless you want to share my nightmares as well as your own. You’ve been through enough already, my friend. I owe you everything.”

He turned his back on Grabold, walking towards the parked car, tears of anguish spilling from his reddened eyes. Craig looked at the house one last time. The manor was subdued, the tension drained from its walls. It also felt different - satiated. The hunger was diminished, and Grabold’s spirits could rest once more.

The words of Scirolin again whispered in Craig’s mind.

“Some things are better left deeply buried.”

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Paul Melniczek

Paul Melniczek is a small business owner and a college graduate, with a degree in business management. He also teaches a part time class at a local college, is married with two children. In year 2000 he began writing, and since then has had over seventy stories published or accepted for publication in a wide variety of markets, including print anthologies, print magazines, e-zines, and e-anthologies. Some of these include sales to Fangoria, Black Rose, Cold Storage, and many others.

He is also a musician, playing classical piano and electric guitar. In his free time he enjoys the outdoors, weightlifting, golf, and tennis. Living in the country lends much inspiration to his writing, and he is currently working on another short story collection, a fantasy novel, and a children’s book.