Chapter 1
There are many rumours of what happened at Skhizein Hall. Some say ghosts roam its halls. I say it’s a demon. I should know. I once roamed those dark halls myself.
Skhizein Hall, that manor, is forever a part of my family’s legacy; an inescapable thing.
My family were the ones who ordered that manor’s construction. I don’t know why. Perhaps they thought it was a safe haven.
No matter: my mother was raised there. She grew up there, free to roam the sprawling fields of green that surrounded the manor. The entire countryside had been hers; there was no other soul in sight. The manor was surrounded by a thick forest so dense that if one was to go into it, they’d likely never find their way out. One could get so easily turned around, and the sunlight barely poked through the branches above. It was difficult to even see past the forest. Even if one were to stand atop the stone lions that adorned the roof, there’d be no sign of life in sight. No neighbours, no villages, no other souls.
That’s not to say there was no one near at all. There was a village nearby, Lhanloftus, but it was a two day’s walk to find it. If you were lucky enough to find a carriage, it’d be only one day away. The city was even further, four days by foot and two by carriage.
The manor was so tucked away, so secluded, that screaming at the top of your lungs would barely be a ringing in the neighbour’s ears.
I suppose, for someone used to conditions such as those, the seclusion of the home had its charms. But even then, anyone could be driven mad in those conditions.
I could recount a story of such an occasion.
My uncle was a good man, that’s something I’ll always remember. It’s been 10 years since I last saw him alive. We were always similar. Not just in our appearance, though we did share the same golden hair and dark eyes, but sometimes it seemed as if we were the same man. I was told so many times that we were.
After my grandfather died, Skhizein Hall had been passed to my uncle. I remember how grateful my mother was when she realized she wouldn’t have to take care of that old manor. She was grateful not to return, she had never talked about her childhood with fondness. She had never talked about my uncle with much fondness, either. Although, I’m unsure she had talked about much with fondness.
We visited the manor occasionally. I remember how intimidating it seemed when I was a young boy, with its staff who had feet so light you could never hear them and those long, never-ending hallways. Yet, as a child, it was the most beautiful place I had ever seen; I felt like the heir I was when I was in the manor, it made me feel as though everything that was promised to me was contained in those walls.
But our visits soon became scarcer and scarcer. I missed the manor and even more, I missed listening to my uncle tell me stories in those sprawling fields of green. But my parents felt that the city was the place for my brothers and I to be and no matter how much I begged to be allowed back, they never relented.
Soon, my father became angry every time I would beg. I never did like to make him angry. He was a red-faced man, with searing blue eyes and a wart on one side of his nose. Sometimes he reminded me of one of my uncle’s stories, one about a witch he had once met, who had eyes like a goat and a wart on her nose.
In time though, I forgot the stories of my uncle. I stopped asking to go and see him. He wrote me letters occasionally. I stopped writing back. Time passed, and I grew older without giving any more thought to the secluded manor, and it lost any beauty I once thought it to hold. I grew from a foolish boy to a foolish man; someone more educated and with a hand too quick to grab a bottle.
Soon enough, I had become the talk of London. My family’s wealth always ensured that I was brought up at every gala, or dinner or meeting of some kind. I was discussed over glasses of brandy and flutes of champagne. I was a name swirling throughout the city, and I adored all of it.
“Have you seen the Thornton boys?” They would ask, “Mr and Mrs Thornton did a fine job, they’re lucky to have three boys such as theirs. The youngest, Huxley is his name, is set to become one of the most prominent men in the whole city.”
And it would continue, “He’ll be a much pursued bachelor, I’m sure of it.”
“Of course, he’ll marry into another wealthy family. Suppose it could be one of us?”
“Which career do you believe he’ll take? I’ve heard he’ll follow his father, but I’ve heard he’s pursuing something entirely different, something artistic. Romantic, isn’t it?”
“I’ve heard he’s like his uncle, but I doubt that,” They’d snicker, “Do you think he’s anything like his father? Perhaps he’s like his brothers?”
It was always amazing to hear people discuss me; to hold me on a pedestal so high. I’ve always ravished in the way people talked about me.
So it made me upset when talk instead switched to that of my uncle. Of course, the gossip surrounding him was far more interesting than any rumours of me.
“That man!” They would exclaim, “He’s a lunatic!”
“Mrs Thornton said in his last letter, he only talked of banging footsteps and shadow figures.”
“I heard Mr Thornton has told her to stop responding to his letters. He’s sending them all to the incinerator now!”
“The man has dismissed his staff four times in two months. It’s no wonder his wife has left him.”
“His wife never left him! Didn’t you hear? She’s missing! He’s likely gone and murdered her.”
“I heard their maid fled the house in the middle of the night. They found her wandering outside a village three days later, dazed and pale as a ghost! Likely saw her misses’ blood on his hands!”
Then my uncle came to the city. He arrived on the doorstep of my family home 10 years ago. Our eyes no longer looked the same; he had circles darker than night underneath his. It was an unexpected visit, and despite the time that had passed, it felt as though we were still as close as ever. He was still the man who had been closer to me than my own father ever had been. I was the only one at home when he paid his visit, and I made sure that he was saw to and treated as the good man I saw him as.
“Huxley,” He told me, “That manor… it’s my nightmare. It’s my never-ending nightmare. There’s something – ghosts, demons, something! – roaming those halls, and they keep my awake and terrified every night. Every night, my boy! And in the day, they watch me, they think of ways to terrorize me! I can’t stay there anymore, but I can hear it, calling me back even now. It’s echoing in my head, saying ‘Jacques, Jacques, this is your home. This is where you belong, where you’ve always meant to be. It is your legacy.’”
“Uncle, I’m not a boy anymore,” I chuckled, “Your old ghost stories no longer scare me.”
“It’s not a story, Huxley. It’s the truth! The terrible, terrible truth. I’m tormented, Huxley,” And my uncle, though I knew how strong a man he was, began to weep in front of me. In that moment, I wondered if he were truly the man I remembered. I could not help but look down upon him as he wept, “God, I can’t return! I can’t!”
“Uncle, there’s no reason to beg,” I assured him, “Mother will let you stay, I’m sure of it. You need not make up stories in order to convince her to let you stay.”
“Huxley, I beg of you, you must believe me! It’s not a story, it’s not!”
I didn’t know how to respond to my uncle. I loved him, I wanted to believe him, but the rumours I had heard still echoed in my head. It only brought to mind my lost pride when I was told that I reminded others of him.
“Huxley,” My father interrupted my uncle’s begging, “What’s going on here?”
“Father, it’s alright. Uncle has just come to visit.”
“I’d rather hear it from him than you,” My father looked at my uncle with a red face and hatred so strong that it struck fear into my core, “Jacques, what are you truly doing here? Putting more lies into my son’s head, I’d assume?”
“Matthew, how good it is to see you again,” My uncle greeted him, “I’ve come into your home, I apologize, I know I wasn’t invited, I know I’m unwelcome, but I need you, Matthew. I need your help. I so desperately need your help!”
“There is no help to be found here, Jacques. So, I suggest you return to your carriage and go back to your own home.”
“Please Matthew, I’ve traveled days to be here. Please, just let me explain myself. Let me explain my situation. I’m only asking for a moment of your time.”
“A moment of my time? As if you haven’t taken far too many of those. I refuse to give you another. Go now. Your carriage is waiting.”
And with a resigned sigh, my uncle hung his head low and left our home, too weak to say a goodbye. My father was fuming for days. He was upset my uncle had interrupted his home, tread on his property uninvited, that he had dared try to corrupt me with his silly stories.
He was upset until an urgent telegram was delivered; my uncle was dead. One of the maids had found him lying on the floor of his bedroom, a knife stuck in his gut. I had heard that he was nearly unrecognizable when they found him, his face was twisted into such a look of fear. His body was white, as if all of the blood had been drained from it. He apparently smelled of his favourite wine and had surrounded himself in a circle of salt, though why no one knows. He was a crazed man, that was why. I’m not sure how, but he had even acquired a shotgun and had it aimed at the door, ready to shoot some unlucky intruder.
No one knew who had done it. Most said he had done it himself, and despite when I had last seen him, I was sure he would not do such a thing. Whether it was by his hand, or from pure insanity, or something else entirely, I did not know. My mother would not discuss it and I was left to learn all I could from those who whispered of it.
I felt a profound sadness without my uncle. My father told me not to feel such a way. Even with my uncle dead, my father would never accept that I had idolized the man to begin with. He made it known in the things he called him. Insane. A drunk. An idiot who would squander the hard-earned money of his ancestry. It hardly mattered what my father thought, his opinions went with him to his grave.
Without my uncle, it fell to my mother to keep the manor in its glory. She was reluctant. I would be too. Even the old groundskeeper, who had been employed there for I’m sure as long as the manor had been around, wanted to leave until my mother promised to double his salary. Yet, when I asked my mother why she would not sell it, she would only mutter something about the significance it held in my family. She couldn’t let the house go, I suppose. It was too much a part of her.
I suppose, even now, after everything that’s happened, I still miss my uncle. He showed me kindness unlike any other person I’d known. Even when I lived in the mansion, he was kinder to me than most others had been. I was so much like my uncle. We were almost the same man. Even when I didn’t want us to be, we were, and his legacy was mine.
Perhaps that was why I was drawn to the manor. No matter if that manor was truly hell, no matter if I was a sinner cast in, I was dragged down into its inescapable abyss, and now there, I shall stay.
