Unmaking

A summer storm fell upon the manse rather suddenly, and began relentlessly pelting the stained glass windows with rain. Each drop popped loudly, echoing throughout the hollowed shell of the once great entry hall. The man had made it inside just in time, managing to fall victim to only a few eager droplets. He thanked the stars that the ancient wooden door had mostly disintegrated at this point. The inside of the building had unfortunately suffered a similar fate. Once beautiful rugs lay tattered and drained of color, hardly protecting the old stone floor. Furniture lay broken and strewn across the entirety of the entryway, or piled in dusty heaps along the walls. Both time and wildlife had taken a hand in ravaging this place over the past few decades. 

'Sad really,' the man thought, wondering if this venture would be worth it after all. He had heard a rumor of a long lost relic belonging to whomever formerly owned this property, and though most people believed it had been destroyed or stolen, some said it remained unguarded, hidden deep within the manor's abandoned halls. The man shook his head to dispel the gathering doubt, and began to explore the building. 

Slowly, cautiously he prowled through corridor after corridor, carefully checking every room as he went. He found nothing of interest or real value. Dinnerware, tattered clothing, enough books to fill at least three great libraries. It all could have been worth something long ago, but in its current state it was nothing more than rubbish. 

After nearly an hour of exploring the drawing room, kitchen, servants quarters, ball room, and every parlor and office he came across, there remained only one place left to look. He approached a massive set of wooden double doors at the end of a short corridor. This hall was different in that the walls were not lined with doorways on either side, but instead were adorned with alternating candelabras and colored banners of the house. 

'The throne room,' he thought, 'and the lord's quarters beyond.' It could be nothing else. And where better to stash a family heirloom, than in the safety of a lord's private quarters? Thunder boomed unreasonably loud outside, and the man gave a start. He realized he had gotten so caught up in his search of the manse that he had completely forgotten about the rain. He gathered himself with a deep breath before shaking his hands rapidly as he blew it out in a sigh and grabbed the door handles. With a grunt, he pushed them open, revealing a most unsettling sight beyond. 

The walls were made of dark, ancient looking wood. The ceiling reached impossibly high, and was decorated with heavy metal chandeliers who’s holders hung wantingly. The single hallway continued forward for perhaps two bowshots. Along the entire length of the floor rested a plain yet beautiful red carpet. Somehow, it and everything in the hall had retained its color and remained mostly undamaged; save for a heavy layering of dust, and several piles of bones scattered at intervals down the darkened hall. Human bones, he realized with a shudder.

The man was speechless as despair suddenly washed over him. He wanted to turn back. He knew in the depths of his very soul that he needed to escape this place. However, he nearly screamed in terror as something had compelled him not to retreat, but to take a step forward. One step. Then another, and another. Before he knew it, the man was halfway down the hall. He could see a door at the far end, and knew that's where the relic lay. 

He took another step forward, somehow no longer scared. Nothing else mattered to him save for what was behind that door. He was so determined to reach the end of the hall that he never heard what was creeping up behind him. What had been stalking him since he opened the wooden double doors behind him. He didn't even feel the knife as it plunged deep into his back, piercing his heart. 

He heard a clattering on the floor behind him, and turned to inspect it. Looking down, he again would have screamed, if he had been able to. 

His shirt barely clung to him, mostly in tatters and drained of color. The bones in his hands and forearms were exposed between lumps of now rotting flesh. In his right hand he held a large, single edged, curved hunting knife. Raising the blade to inspect it, he saw his reflection in the immaculately polished metal. 

His hair was almost completely gone. The flesh of his face hung lazily, barely clinging to the bone of his now exposed skull. Distantly, he wondered how he could still process any of what was happening. He felt no fear or pain, only an intense, otherworldly sadness. He didn't know how it happened, but he knew he was dead. Transformed into this mindless, ghoul-like aberration. He would have screamed if he could have. He felt that deep in some nearly forgotten recess of his core. 

His gaze drifted to the ground. A pile of bones lay at his feet. Fresh bones, not decayed or discolored like those strewn all about him. This must have been what killed him. Somehow, he had become that which had stalked him. He knew, somehow, that he would remain here. That he would share the same horrid fate. 

Suddenly, something beyond his control caused him to dissipate into a cloud of black mist which then floated to the ceiling before dispersing. He sat suspended in the air, his undead gaze fixed on the now closed double doors he had entered through. 

Still he felt no fear or pain. The sadness lingered, but it became drowned out by a sense of overwhelming urgency, and a realization that he now was bound to this spot, doomed to wait in unmoving silence. 

For days. Years. Decades. Until the next foolish adventurer wandered into the manse seeking the knife.