Either this place is haunted, or too technologically advance.
I turn another corridor that looks exactly like the last three, and the lamps light up upon my arrival. Does this mansion have motion sensors or sound sensors everywhere except for the front hallway?
And how am I supposed to know if I’m in the Left wing or not?
Every room I’ve opened up till now is the same. Four poster bed. Vanity. Arm chairs and a coffee table near a rug that looks little a cloud. Two other doors, one of which probably leads to a bathroom.
All of them are spotless clean, unlike the hallways that are coated in a thick layer of dust, and their lamps light up as I enter.
I could just enter one and bolt the door, but it feels wrong somehow. Like intruding in a place I shouldn’t.
Besides, none of the rooms have any phone or landline. Nor clocks. The only one I’ve seen so far is an old grandfather clock that chimed 3 am a while ago.
I pause by a window and peer out to find the vast expanse of a forest waiting, fog hanging in the air.
I’m definitely not in California.
I don’t understand. I was in the houses’ own garden, for God’s sake! Even if that well was, lets say, attached to another through some underground tunnel, how on earth could I have ventured to a place where the closest city is called Aquiliona?
Your terrible navigation skills would get you killed one day. Noah’s snickering voice is clear in my mind. I frown irritably and quicken my pace.
I can’t imagine what everyone back home might be thinking. I hope they’re not too worried. I hope even more, that no one contacts my family. The thought of Tina telling them I fell into the well and disappeared makes my stomach turn.
Not the time to spiral into overthinking, Dinah.
Another ten minutes of walking and I regret not drinking the water or even taking a piece of the jerky. I’m famished.
I turn another corner, and it’s a dead end. Two humongous wood doors stand in front of me, with detailed carvings and glistering golden handles.
It looks the boss door of doors, so naturally I try the handle and it something clicks. The door opens.
And it doesn't disappoint.
It’s a library.
Bigger than any I can imagine, with stairs going both up and down. I gape at the sheer size of the itinerary placed on a dais nearby. Maybe I could just stay here until morning. Being in the library rather than a room, as suggested by the very odd owner, also gives me a small sense of security. If he’s a creep, at least his first guess as to where I am would be wrong.
I feel like an ungrateful brat for thinking that. He’s done nothing wrong, on the contrary, he pretty much saved my life.
But what sort of person does not know what a phone is?
Lamps light up on their own where ever I pass, and I halt.
On the wall in front of me, rows of portraits stretch out. They’re enormous, much like everything I’ve encountered lately. The oils are rich and deep, the lines and shades of the craft so picturesque, I’m in awe of the painter’s talent. Each one must’ve taken ages to complete.
I follow the portraits, reading the names under each.
Oryon C. Sigmond. Janevra F. Sigmond. Nikodim. R. Sigmond.
There are no dates on them, but the dressing stretches a history along the line. They get younger with each generation too. The first portrait was of an old man, but now teenagers, or even pre-teens show on the canvases.
I stop three portraits from the last.
It’s him. The owner of the mansion.
Zepherin R. Sigmond.
He couldn’t be older than 10— 11 at best, but it’s undoubtedly him. Mused waves of raven hair, and bright silver eyes with ridiculously long lashes. Except he’s grinning in this portrait, eyes crinkled. He has dimples.
Maybe it’s not him after all.
Feeling a little bit easier in this space, I walk on. Maybe I was just being paranoid. I’ll just take a book from the next shelf and read until dawn—
The next shelf though, doesn’t have books.
It has bones.
My throat dries up as I observe the never-ending rows. Hands and spines and skulls— big and tiny, some shattered to fragments, and others cracked into two, some in perfect condition.
Okay. Okay. People can have… weird hobbies. Maybe he’s a collector? Maybe they’re fake?
But I remember Mrs. Gaines’ personal doctor coming over to the house. His son had just started medical school, and he once told me how to tell real bones from the fake ones some laboratories keep.
These look all too real.
And it gets weirder from there. A whole wall is decorated with weapons. Whips, swords, piers, daggers, throwing knives.
“Alright, so he lives in a gothic mansion and has a huge collection of bones and weapons,” I mutter, hurrying ahead, “That doesn’t mean he’s—
—I walk into a glass wall. Swearing, I jump back. Lamps light up over my head.
The life drains from my legs.
It’s a woman.
Her dry lips are parted, wispy and thin hair hanging over the greyish skin of her face. She’s wearing a black dress that hangs loosely over her skeletal frame. Tiny, fine wires hold her upright like a marionette. Wide, glassy eyes stare at me.
“Holy shit,” I can’t breathe, “He’s nuts.”
…
I manage to find a map.
It makes no sense.
“What country is Greten?” I glare furiously at the map
I need to brush up on geography later. I move onto the map of a smaller area. The waxy paper shows SerpahFall in detail, the forest around it, and the nondescript Aquiliona. I lean my face into the map to stare at a little blot that looks like a well.
Just along the edge of the forest.
Which means that if this map is correct, I could’ve literally avoided that drake if only I’d turned around and seen this place first.
Which, given the contents of the library, I’m not sure would be a good thing.
Somewhere, the grandfather clock chimes the next hour.
Alright. That well is my best shot.
I trade my previous dagger with another one wrapped in a leather sheath, looping the belt around my hips. I have only one reason for picking this one; it was placed on a velvety cushion, rather than hanging on the wall with all the others.
The Mansion is dead quiet as I make my way through, lamps lighting and going out as I walk past them. I pass by the kitchen, where the food and water still sit. My stomach grumbles, and I walk inside.
I cant eat, but I might just drink some water.
I find a cup on one of the shelves, ceramic and heavy, and fill it up from a pitcher. I down two whole cups, even if the water is freezing.
Speaking of cold, I give the fog outside the window a dirty look.
I survey the kitchen again, the shelves, the long table and chairs. I notice a lump of black, and when I reach for it, a sort of cloak unfolds. Was Sigmond wearing this earlier? I can’t even remember if he took it off when we reached the kitchen.
Before I can think better of it, I put it on, feeling like a little thief as I hurry to the main doors.
I’ll send it back with a thank you card, I promise silently as I close the doors behind myself. And the dagger too.
The carcass of the drake is still by the metal gates, and a chill goes down my spine by looking at it.
“No going back,” I press my hands against my cheeks, hyping myself up, “I’ll get to that goddamned well, get my phone, and get the hell out of here. In one piece!”
The gates open with a brush of my hand, the bolt unlocking on its own. In the single flickering lamp, I can read the inscription clearly when I walk out.
Weakness begets sanctuary. Strength promises protection.
I pull the hood over my head, turning away, “Thank you for your kindness, I suppose.”
The gates close and bolt on their own.
Haunted it is, then.
Starlight23