Something Wicked

Something Wicked

D. A. Ratliff

Something sinister happened here. Once home to nobility, the old manor hall had closed its doors to the world forty years ago and, forgotten by the surrounding community, faded into memory. Only a shadow of recognition as passersby barely registered the rusted iron gate. Then I found the diary in my dead uncle’s library, and I knew. Sinister lived there.

I tried everything to gain access to the property with no luck. Not finding any descendants of Lord and Lady Chamberlain who had lived there, nor any solicitor or lease agent who could provide me with access, I took matters into my own hands. I loaded a bolt cutter and flashlight into my car and headed to the manor house.

That it was All Hallows Eve was not lost on me. My mother was a Pagan who celebrated Samhain, the ancient celebration that became All Hallows Eve, or Halloween. It is the night the dead may walk among the living. As I parked among the thick brush next to the enormous gate, I wondered if I would find the dead tonight.

It took considerable effort to cut through the chain binding the gate, and I shivered in the cool air as the sweat on my body evaporated. I wished I had brought a machete to pass through thorny weeds as once beautiful roses dug into my skin.

It was dusk when I reached the front door. I was shocked at the deterioration of this once magnificent house. As a child, I played with the Lord’s son, Liam. Such an honor, I thought then, as I was the son of a commoner. Steeling myself to what I would find, I pried open the splintered front door and entered.

The musty smell of dust and damp decay assaulted my senses. I could taste death in my mouth. I flipped on the flashlight and was immediately stunned by the view. Cobwebs hung everywhere, and a thick layer of dust covered every surface. Mine were the only footprints as I carefully trudged through the first floor, only to find more of the same.

The stairs creaked, the sound grating on my nerves as I climbed to the second floor. The classroom that Liam and I played in as children drew me down the hallway. As I walked down the corridor, the temperature began dropping drastically.

Dimming light spilled through the vast broken windows, revealing a debris-filled room. A lone bed frame sat in the center. Other beds sat stacked against the wall beside metal tables holding medical equipment. My uncle, a doctor, disappeared about the time the house was closed. From the entries in his diary, he was obsessed with bringing the dead to life again.

“Ronald Langford.”

I froze—my uncle’s voice. I turned. His shimmering form floated before me, dressed in a suit and lab coat. I found my voice. “You experimented on them.”

“I did. I was close to a breakthrough, but the maid poisoned me. I killed her before I died. She was the last.”

As he spoke, the ghosts of the family and staff began to fill the room. I had the overwhelming feeling they intended for me to join them. I backed away, but they kept advancing, chanting my name. I ran.

I kept running until I reached the car, panicked because I had locked the car door. I fumbled with the keys but managed to get inside, and shaking, I drove away. I would return in the daylight, padlock the gate again, and leave the ghosts to their deaths.