Isle of Serpents

Nathairden House materialised out of the crepuscule like a pale spectre, and I, Frederick Lewis, was struck by its singularity. Visibility this evening is dismal due to a griseous miasma coating the entirety of the surrounding marshland.

As we trundled over uneven ground in the pony cart, nearing this sombre structure, I noted how Nathairden House looms over the landscape, luminous under the full, blood-red moon. The locals call this place Snake Island, and I glance around the encircling swampland, certain that I see mossy-grasses writhing with coiled vipers.

Spindle-like tree branches beckon me forward, emitting an eerie echo. An incantation both enticing and forewarning.

Mr Kipple stops the cart at the opening of the path leading up to the house and will go no further. Handing me a lantern, he exits at pace.

Abandoned. Resigned to my prescribed employment, I walk forward propelled by an unknown force towards the fabled façade. For a moment, I think I see a light flicker, red incandescence in an upstairs window. But the house is shut up, the occupants deceased. Moth-like, I feel inexplicably drawn to the lustre.

I halt at an obscure dark patch on the path. Shining the lamplight, I realise it is a dead cat. Fur matted with mud, inert eyed, skin savaged. I wonder if it has survived submergence in the marsh. Lying masticated and leeched of its lifeblood.

The apparition of a clattering carriage is conjured out of the fog like a ghost galleon on tempestuous tide. Phosphorescent, phantom horses barrel forth. A woman steps out in front of it. Just before impact, she lets out an unearthly wail. The siren screech erupts from her hollow, cavernous mouth, unleashing alongside it a swarm of flies.

All spirits are swallowed by the swirling vapours.

Seeking solace. I race towards the house.