fate favors the mad

He entered the house through the servants’ door. It stood half-open, moonlight slipping through the crack on cat’s feet. The old mahogany stairs stretched up to nowhere. He cupped a hand over the candle and struck a match. The smell of sulfur permeated the air. Flickering, the candle cast its firefly glow into the passageway. He left the door open and crept up the stairs. A wild night wind followed him, teasing at the flame and trickling cold into his skin. Fate was favoring him tonight.

The young man paused at the top, hesitant. He put his ear to the door and closed his eyes. One hand strayed to his coat pocket and closed upon tin. The salt-cellar was cool against his fingertips. He drew it out and fumbled in the near-blackness. The candle-flame swayed, uncertain. Far below, the moonlight pooled on the threshold and watched with silent eyes.

He took a pinch of salt and flung it over his left shoulder. All of a sudden the shadows seemed to shrink back. Little tendrils of smoke went writhing up from his light and into the cracks in the walls. The candle guttered dramatically and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. The night wind halted--all was stifling gloom. With a shudder he opened the venerable door and slipped through.

The hallways of the ancient manor were surprisingly free from spiderwebs and dust. Peeling wallpaper rustled as he moved down the thickly carpeted walkways. A candle in a sconce gave off a dull glow, sending pale fingers of wax down the wall. He walked cautiously, testing the floor with the tip of a boot before each step. His thick black coat did little to keep out the autumn chill that permeated through every crack in the walls. A shiver ran up his spine and stopped his process. He froze, heart pounding. All was completely quiet in the house. The thick emptiness muffled even the faltering sound of his breaths.

A chain hung around his neck, with a lucky coin on the end. The dull metal felt almost warm against his fingers. He continued on into the house, moving quicker now. The open door to the parlor loomed up on his left and he hurried past. The bulky shapes of furniture stood, half-concealed by the shadows. Now he was in the kitchen. Here a solitary lantern burned, left perhaps by some forgetful servant. The loneliness began to close in on his mind and he shook it off. He could not afford to lose time. The matchbox hung heavy in his coat pocket.

The young man kept moving. It was not safe to stop. He wandered through the kitchen, silent as secrets, avoiding the loose floorboards that nagged at his boots. In circles he went, candle flame casting mad shadows on the plastered walls. The air smelled like aging wood and dust. Rows of drawers with brass knobs stared at him from the walls, begging to be opened. But the young man resisted. He scanned the room with his eyes. There was nothing of notice, nothing more than what belonged in a kitchen of this size. A leggy, insubstantial spider wound its way over the lantern handle and watched him noiselessly. 

The deep tones of a grandfather clock, resounding from somewhere deep within the manor, sent him darting into the corner. His blood ran cold. Icy sweat dripped down the back of his neck and under the collar of his shirt. He muttered under his breath, reaching again for the salt cellar. But the resonance halted. It was precisely two o’clock in the morning.

Now he hunted with greater intensity. There was no time to fear. He found the winding staircase that lead to the study and hurried up it, breathing hard. The ancient stairs made no noise as he passed up them. The candle wavered in a draft, sending golden highlights whirling on his disheveled hair. Ahead, the door to the study stood tantalizingly open. He lurched toward it--then paused. Carefully, he slipped into the study, polished boots sinking into the Persian rug. One hand clasped at the coin around his neck. It felt cool now, comforting. The young man closed the door, nearly all the way, and lifted his candle to survey the study.

It was an old room, cloaked in grandeur and smelling strongly of incense. A majestic carved desk took up the majority of the space. Bookshelves haunted the back wall, their ornate fronts illuminated eerily by Newt’s candle. The grinning skull of an ape stared at the silent newcomer. Everywhere were papers. Letters, essays, and notes littered the floor and sat in neat bundles on the armchair. A hefty ceramic jar full of quill pens sat heavily on the desk, scuffed from frequent use. Strange shapes sat on the shelves, wrapped in cloth and smelling of mothballs. This was a room filled with knowledge and secrets. But the young man did not step out into the room. He watched with grim dark eyes.

There was no sound in the study. Nothing moved in the dim. It was as if Fate had frozen time. The silent clock stood alone, tirelessly swinging its pendulum. The brass flashed as it reflected the candlelight. Newt reached with trembling hand for the saltcellar. There seemed to be no air in the room. Even the flickering candle brought no relief from the stifling darkness. He clutched the necklace in one hand and flung another pinch of salt with a deft movement. There was no change in the gloom. The salt made a skittering noise as it scattered on the floorboards of the hall. Now he dared look behind him. The staircase was empty.

He glided over the carpet and into the study. The piles of ink-smudged papers rustled as he approached--he began to sort through them. The candle was set aside, where it kept company with the ape’s skull. Its little flame cast Newt’s shadow on the wall, looming up like some archaic monster. 

Weather-worn parchment crinkled beneath his fingers. With growing intensity he skimmed each document and swept it aside. Pages and pages of hand-written material were cast heedlessly onto the floor. A folded stack of papers, wrapped with red twine, presented itself. Newt seized it with trembling fingers and ripped off the twine in one motion. Letters fluttered to the carpet like cream-colored doves. He caught one. One glance at the front gave him the information he needed--the folded paper was emblazoned with an embellished letter W. An electric chill ran down his spine. read.

My dearest W,

I contact you with grave news. I am writing this from the neighbors’--you know the elderly couple down the road?--where they have so kindly allowed us to stay. For this is a grim situation indeed!

It is as we feared. Ever since the trials begin to come we have suspected an ill-meaning presence. And now we have had so much trouble that I am positive this house is cursed. You know of the affairs with Roger’s business, and the garden. Well now I too am affected. This house is always filled with a ghastly chill--I cannot abide it. My -- 

Here ink splatters had blocked out the majority of the paragraph. Newt scanned it with ferocity, caring not for trivialities. He began to read with desperation born of a hunger for answers. In the last few sentences he found them. He held the paper nearly to his nose, processing. This was the missing piece to a puzzle he had spent months deciphering. 

As I write this, my daughters are readying the carriage. We cannot stay in this house any longer. Roger refuses to go. He thinks I have gone mad. And perhaps I have! Oh W, I wish you were here. Perhaps then I would feel safe again. 

The evidence is laid before me, and the verdict is clear. I do not wish to believe it but I must. There is a spirit in our house… a ghoul of sorts. There is a curse upon this manor and I fear it has already fallen upon me and my family. I do not know what the future holds but I know I must protect my poor girls. Be safe, I will contact you again soon.

Sincerely, 

Lona W.

He bent and picked up the papers that composed the rest of the bundle. An addressed envelope waited there for a letter that had never been sent.

Newt straightened up suddenly, his shadow rearing against the wall like a wild thing. A mad look came into his eyes and a shiver coursed through him. His silent query had been answered. There was an evil presence in this house. A curse upon the home that should have been his. Blind with emotion, he tore the envelope in half. The fragments drifted to the stuffy carpet. His boots crumpled them as he turned and hurried to the door.

He pushed open the door and slipped down the stairs, candle smoke trailing behind him. A firm resolve drove him on. As he returned to the main floor of the house, the unblinking stars watched him through the cracks in the curtains. He moved with less caution now, striding across the aging floors without fear. He passed through the parlor and down a set of steps.This was the east wing of the manor--a little tower of sorts that jutted out from the corner of the house. Here, a small yellow door sat framed by floral wallpaper. A thick round window set in the conical roof let in the creeping moonbeams. The scent of dusty rose hung in the air like something out of a dream.

Newt cracked open the door and looked reverently into the little room. All was still. This was a pristine place, a place out of time. A vase of purple autumn flowers rested on the nightstand. Embroidered linen curtains hung motionless. The faded pink quilt on the bed was neatly folded. Even in illness, the occupant of this room had clearly taken pride in keeping up tidy habits. Not a thread was out of place. He took this all in breathlessly. It was as if he was looking down into a locket. This place held memories--memories he could not again enter. He exhaled, melancholy creeping into his veins and grasping at his heart. For the first time since entering the manor he allowed himself to close his eyes. The madness in his heart loosened its grip on him and lay down softly, like a great cat.

On the whitewashed wall above the bed there hung a portrait. Daubs of oil paint glistened in the candlelight as he crept forward. It was a new painting, perhaps a few months old. The frame was gilded with gold leaf, in a fashion that had always pleased the dwellers of the manor. The girl herself looked radiant in the portrait. The ruddy cheeks and dark eyes were as lifelike as any artist of the time could have portrayed. One fair hand clutched a wildflower. Curls of hair framed the face, as elegant as befit a Roman goddess. Around the maiden’s neck, a silver coin hung, glinting in the painted sunlight.

He choked--fell to the floor. His pendant seemed to tighten around his neck, threatening to steal his breath away. It was on a longer chain than hers. He remembered finding the two coins in the manor attic. A single hole ran through the center, bored long ago in a foreign mint. She had suggested mounting them on chains, hoping they would bring good luck. They had spent hours in the attic, fiddling with the chains and talking. The charm was meant to keep him safe, yes, but it was a mere piece of metal. She was his good luck charm. She always had been. But now the charm was all he had left.

She had faded away slowly, a wildflower bitten by frost. The illness was full of ups and downs. It teased with sharp claws, played with her like a hunting cat. One day she would be able to sit up, and to eat again. One week the doctor had pronounced her well enough to go outside. But the curse was patient. It stalked her, caught her again and pulled her back into the darkness. With the summer leaves she had finally wilted. And Newt had never been the same.

But now the hole in his heart was filled. Now all his questions were answered. It was not Fate that had stolen his lover away. No, Fate was a longtime friend of his. It was something else, a hateful creature from the black mists of death. Some kind of spirit formed from shadows who’s cruel possession over the manor had cost him everything. It was a tangible enemy, an outlet for his emotion. And now he felt nothing but madness. 

Bent on the carpet, he clenched his fists until the blood left his palms. It rushed into his face, hot and blinding. The lucky charm burned against his chest. The candle fell from nerveless fingers and lay against the wood floor, scorching a black hole in the varnish.

He staggered to his feet, turned away. The soft eyes of the girl in the painting seemed to beg him for help. The room swirled around him. The curtains rustled in an unnatural breeze. Against the floorboards, a black tendril of smoke curled up like a talon.

The tears lasted only seconds. He ran to the window, breathing hard. The smell of burning tugged at the edges of his senses. Outside, the cold, emotionless moon stared down on the manor. It peered through the window at the hopeless boy in the room of his love. Somewhere in the house, maybe the ghost was watching him too. The blurred stars were the eyes of Fate. She was smiling down upon him. His eyes burned and he dug his fingernails into the windowsill. They left little half--moons when he turned away. There was nothing here for him any longer. Everything had been stolen from him. 

He strode numbly across the floor and knelt to pick up the candle. A little section of the boards smouldered, glowing cracks spiderwebbing across the charcoal. The lucky charm burned like the dying candle. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he knew his enemy was near. He stared at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes, watching. No sound came from the house.

“I know you’re here.” He rose, trembling. A piece of flaming ash dropped from the embers of the candlewick. Hot wax oozed slowly down his wrists. The darkness seemed to shift, to form. The ghost was at the door. Air trembled as an imperceptible tremor went through the room. The painting smiled down at him, innocent. Fate had always meant for this to happen. He knew now what he must do. Fever quivered in his veins. He tore the lucky coin from his neck, pressed his lips to it. The candle grew hot in his hands and he strode to the curtains. The candle flame caught easily in the soft, dry velvet. It shone, reflected in his lover’s painted eyes, as the room began to burn.