The Haunted Mind Chapter 1

The gravel crunched beneath the wheels of the carriage as it pulled to a stop outside the late Baron Rathbone's estate. I climbed out and the driver was already waiting with my bag and brolly. I turned my collar to the cold, damp fog which permeated everything with its heavy presence. Even the light from the gas lamps couldn't cut through its stubborn thickness.

I tipped the carriage driver a little extra for his trouble and thankfully took my belongings. As I walked through the iron gates and down the long pathway to the front door, I could hear the driver snap the reins, urging the horses to continue their route. The carriage wouldn't be back this way until the next day, which was fine, it gave me plenty of time to finish my work.

I could hear the echo of the horses' hooves clip-clop clopping further and further away. One of those carriage wheels was squeaking ever so slightly, but the noise played gleefully upon my tattered nerves. That sound cornered me from behind as I faced the giant oaken door into the mansion. Twin gargoyles obscenely decorated the door knocker which hung from their mouths. Their eyes almost glowed. Were they watching me?

I wasn't looking forward to the unpleasant task which lay ahead of me. I was the one the short straw fell upon, when it came time to decide who would provide the assessment, clean up, and perform minor repairs to my uncle's estate, preparing it to be auctioned to the highest bidder.

I hated the Baron. He was an old miser and didn't bother to leave a bit of his wealth to any of us. His eccentricities and bizarre view of things possessed him to pen his will which declaring his favorite whore his sole benefactor. Yet, somehow it was the family's job to see to it that all went according to plan.

The Baron had expensive tastes, not only in food and wine, but also in women. He settled for nothing but the best wenches and whores that the town of Haverford West could offer. He took a special liking to Madam Beatrice, who owned the town's brothel, but personally obliged his sexual needs, which were perhaps more bizarre than the mansion's décor, and perhaps a bit darker. He loved how she pleased him so much, that in a night of intoxicated passion, he signed the family fortune over to her. Perhaps she would convert the place into a new brothel? God and the holy saints only knew. I didn't care to.

I shoved my hand into my inner coat pocket and retrieved the heavy, jewel encrusted brass key. It was the master key to the whole mansion. I thrust it into the large keyhole, shook it a couple of times before the lock yielded and pushed the door open. The rusted iron hinges let out a ghastly moan and the door creaked as it gave way for my entrance.

You, my companion in this story should be advised here and now that I have a couple of irrational fears. Darkness itself is not my friend, especially in tightly enclosed places such as caves and tunnels. The other thing I fear is the dead itself. Mark me, I don't believe in ghosts or anything of that nature, but I fear the disease and the festering rot they leave behind. The place where my uncle had died could have been scoured with the strongest of ammonias and drenched with the finest whore's perfumes, but I still fear touching anything his body did when it passed.

I am normally a logical man of science, and I keep a tight rein on my religious beliefs as a devout Catholic. In most cases I wouldn't fear anything that the sciences had already understood. Yet the rot of the dead was almost eternal. Once you have smelled death, you never forget it. It stays with you until your own passing from this world. I was unfortunate to have smelled the rotting body of my own grandfather as I worked with the mortician to prepare him for his final resting place.

His body had been left out in the sun for too long the day before his funeral, and the hot August weather sped up the rotting process. To make things worse, due to the heat, the bloat often occurring with the deceased's body caused his belly to explode and I will leave it to the imagination as to what that looked and smelled like. It could very well be my imagination, but to this day, I swear that I can still smell it on my clothes.

“Balderdash,” you might say, “You burned those clothes years ago.”

That is true, my friend and companion, I most certainly did burn them, but I can still smell them clearly, as though I were still wearing them. Phobias and disturbances of the mind do not understand logic or the rational mind. The memories are still as fresh as the moment they first occurred.

I had already visited the local opium den to calm my nerves for the task I was about to face. Opium was fine in a pinch, but it wasn't a silver bullet. My fears were already getting the better of me as I set foot across the threshold. I had never been inside of the Baron's mansion and not a single member of our family had either. He was a bit of a recluse and he could afford to be after he built his wealth single-handedly through ill-gotten gains.

My first task was to size up the situation. I had to decide what the cleaning and repair costs would be, and since I had a limited budget to work with, chances were I would be laboring alongside any help that we could afford.

I lit my oil lamp to combat the thick darkness once I stepped inside. My heart pounded as I looked around. The main hall was lined with expensive and rare art, much of it was ghastly and disturbing. Faces of ghouls, skeletons and hideous beasts stared back at me from the canvases which adorned the walls. The frames were decadent and simply served to boast of the man's great wealth.

I could hear a scuttling sound somewhere in the dark beyond; then a scratching and a gnawing. Damned rats. The curses of Hades itself be upon them! No, you might be wondering, my list of phobias doesn't include rats, however, I have a deep loathing of the vermin because of the rot and death they're capable of leaving behind.

I raised my lamp to see beyond the few feet that the halo of light afforded. I didn't want to see what was in the dark places, but I couldn't live with not knowing. Scuttle scuttle scuttle. I could see tails and feet through the cracked floorboards beneath me. Bile hit the back of my throat as the phantom smell of death with no source hit my nose, and it was all I could do to keep it down.

“Curses! Foul vermin!” I spat.

In spite of the disturbing display, I turned my attention back to the artwork. While I found each painting to be unsettling, there was a certain seductive quality about them. The images drew me in, as though they were each portals to worlds all their own. It was as though, if I wanted to, not that anyone would, I could reach out and take the hands of the ghouls or the claws and talons of the beasts which were so vividly depicted.

The scuttling ceased, but my attention was demanded of me by a steady, rhythmic thud. I could deduce that it was the sound of footsteps, and those feet were wearing sturdy work boots.

“Hullo? Who's there?” I lifted the lamp once again.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Closer and closer the footsteps came towards me. I drew the stiletto dagger from my belt. It was as sharp as a serpent's fang and was sure to do damage to any adversary that I faced.

“Stay back! I warn you! I am armed!” I called.

My voice betrayed panic. I could begin to see a large, shadowy figure emerging slowly from the darkness. I could hear shallow, labored breathing. It didn't speak. It just walked, closer and closer, and finally it emerged into the swath of light from my flickering lamp.

What I saw terrified me. It was a man about my height, but he was covered from head to toe with lacerations of all types. A large gash on the side of his head exposing his skull completed this horror show of a man. His skin was a pale green except for the parts that were bruised or stained with his own blood.

He was muscular and I doubt there was an ounce of body fat on him. His naked form stopped and stood directly in front of me. The smell of death emanated from him.

“Wh-what? Who are you? What business do you have with my uncle, the Baron?”

My words made no sense as I look back on them now, but when one is faced with sheer terror beyond imagination, ones faculties aren't fully engaged. The brute of a man pointed a long, bony finger directly at me.

“What? Do you know me? I'm quite sure I bloody well don't know you. Speak man!”

Then, as if things couldn't have gotten any worse, they did. I stared in horror as piece by piece the man's body fell apart. As though it were meat falling off of an overcooked rib, the flesh fell to the ground. A black, bubbling fluid gushed everywhere, it was as thick as oil. The stench of death permeated the place and I lost all control of the contents of my stomach. Vomit poured from my mouth, blending with the sick blackness at my feet.

Then, I felt a strange wind surround me, and it was as though it passed right through me. I could hear whispering voices saying my name. The breeze felt good for a moment, then I felt as though something had entered me. The flame on my oil lamp flickered out and I couldn't see a thing.

“Baron!” I whispered into the darkness.