The gates yawned open, a mournful groan escaping their rusted throats. The hinges weren’t stiff, yet there was something unsettling about the way they swung—almost as if they had done this a thousand times before, welcoming lost souls into the black maw of the estate. The wind cut through like a blade, carrying the scent of damp earth and decay, as if it whispered secrets long buried under the soil. Beyond the gates, a path climbed toward the house. Behind the estate was flanked by weather-beaten headstones that jutted from the ground like crooked teeth. Generations of the estate's long-dead owners slumbered here, restless in their eternal beds.
It was clear why no one trespassed on these grounds; the air was heavy with an ancient dread, thick enough to choke on. But fear was a stranger to Charles. He had walked through worse shadows, and when the chill October wind sank its claws into him, he met it with a smile. As he moved forward, each step seemed to echo, swallowed by the darkness that waited at the top of the hill.
Behind him, miles back along a lonely dirt road, lay his horse. Lifeless. Eyes glassy, mouth twisted in a frozen scream as if warning him to turn back. But the house was calling him—no, demanding him. Inherited or not, this estate had chosen him. The curse whispered about in town was nothing but folklore, he had told himself again and again. A mere coincidence that only he and his brother, Allan, remained to claim it. Allan had refused, content in his sun-drenched African sanctuary, leaving Charles to face the shadowed legacy alone.
As he approached the mansion, its silhouette loomed larger, darker, consuming the moon’s pale light. The door, massive and carved with images too worn to decipher, creaked as he pushed it open. The sound was deafening in the silence. Stepping inside, the air grew colder, the kind of chill that seeps into your bones. His breath fogged before him as he spotted a bench near a dusty piano and collapsed onto it, exhaustion overtaking him. The house was every bit the relic he expected: sheets shrouded the furniture like spectral figures, and dust clung to the air, swirling in the lamp’s dim glow.
But something else caught his eye. The old grandfather clock at the corner, its face illuminated by a shaft of moonlight, was still ticking—its hands precisely on midnight. He blinked, staring at it, unease slithering down his spine. Hadn’t it been nearly frozen just moments before? Doesn't a clock chime at midnight?
Charles lit the oil lamp he'd found resting on the hearth, the match hissing as it met the fuel. The flickering flame danced shadows across the walls, twisting and bending into shapes that teased at something just beyond his vision. He drew from his pipe, the warm tobacco smoke filling his lungs, comforting him as he took in his surroundings.
The staircase wound upward, disappearing into darkness, daring him to ascend. The steps groaned in protest as he climbed, his own breath echoing in his ears, the silence amplifying every creak, every rustling bit of old wood. At the top, a large chest sat draped with a tartan—his family’s tartan—and an ancient sword rested atop it, gleaming even through layers of dust.
As he reached out to touch the blade, a chill ran through him, and for a moment, he thought he saw his reflection in the blade, not as he was, but twisted—eyes sunken, teeth jagged, mouth pulled into a hungry, feral grin. He jerked his hand back and took a step away, his heart pounding against his ribs. He reached for the sword again. This time nothing happened, so this time he picked it up. He noticed the sheath sitting behind the trunk, covered in cobwebs that were likely inhabited ages ago.
Brushing it off as an overactive imagination, he continued exploring the manor, curiosity drawing him from room to room—each more derelict than the last. When he finally reached the master bedroom, he felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. The air was thick, stifling, as if the very walls were holding their breath. Charles ran a hand over the peeling wallpaper, wondering what stories it might tell if it could speak.
Hunger clawed at him, gnawing like an animal trapped in his belly. He headed down to the kitchen, navigating the maze of hallways that seemed to twist and warp in the flickering lamplight. The air grew thicker, the shadows deeper. The glass in the window behind the sink had been shattered long ago, allowing a draft to slither through like the breath of a corpse. Peering outside, Charles froze.
Something moved. Slow. Languid. The shadows outside blurred as if they were alive. He stared harder, trying to convince himself it was just his mind playing tricks—until he heard it.
HUFF. HUFF. HUFF.
The sound was wet, labored, the ragged breath of something massive and unseen. The hair on his neck stood on end, and his heart hammered against his ribs as he drew the sword, its weight suddenly comforting in his grip. A predator’s instinct awakened within him. This was no deer. Something out there was hungry, and it knew he was inside.
A deafening chime tore through the silence.
BING DONG! … BING DONG! … BING DONG!
The clock struck midnight again, each toll rattling his bones, each one dragging him deeper into the nightmare. Then came a whisper, barely audible over the wind.
“Ye’ve come to the wrong place.”
Charles spun, sword ready, and found himself staring into a room that wasn’t his own. The dusty sheets were gone, replaced by vibrant tapestries, and the room flickered with warm candlelight. Standing by the hearth, his back to Charles, was a man clad in an elaborate tartan. Charles knew that face—he had seen it a thousand times in portraits, paintings that hung in his childhood home. It was his great-grandfather.
“Who are ye?” the specter asked without turning. His voice was ice, biting and cold. “An Englishman wearin’ mah sword, ye say? Come tae steal from me, have ye?”
“No!” Charles protested, but his voice felt small, insignificant. The old man turned, his eyes empty pits that burned with a blue, unnatural glow. “I am of your blood.”
The specter laughed, a hollow, grating sound that made Charles’ teeth ache. “Blood means nothing here, boy.” And with that, he lunged. Charles raised his sword, the steel clashing in an explosion of sparks. They fought—sword against sword, spirit against flesh—until, with one final stroke, the ghostly blade passed through him, chilling him to the core.
The room returned to darkness. Dust. Silence. As if nothing had happened.
Shaken, Charles stumbled to the piano bench. But the house wasn't done with him. He glanced toward the cracked door, and there, moving through the moonlight, was a shadow. The sound returned, that same HUFF HUFF HUFF—closer this time, thick with hunger.
Before he could react, a beast lunged at him—a wolf, its eyes glowing like embers, fangs dripping with malice. Charles felt a searing pain as it tore into his flesh. He fell to the ground, vision dimming, blood pooling around him.
And then... he stood.
He looked down at himself, his own body lifeless, torn asunder by the beast. He reached out, hands translucent, and saw his spectral form shimmer in the moonlight. A sob rose in his throat as he reached to touch his own face. The wolf turned, teeth still stained with his blood, and snapped at the air, catching his ethereal wrist.
Pain shot through him again, but something changed. He felt his soul twisting, merging, and he became the wolf—the man, the beast, the curse. The spirits that had watched from the shadows drew closer, whispering, guiding him. They welcomed him as one of their own.
Suddenly, his vision snapped back into focus, and he found himself staring through his own eyes once more. The beast had vanished, as if swallowed by the shadows. Trembling, he looked down to see a dark pool of blood slowly spreading across the floor, and from its crimson depths emerged a trail of paw prints, glistening in the dim light, leading out of the room and into the unknown.
From that night forward, Charles Forsyth roamed the grounds of his inheritance—both man and beast. A guardian and a terror, a cursed echo of all who had come before. And on nights when the moon was full, the estate would awaken with the whispers of the dead and the growls of the beast that now claimed it.
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