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My Dear Reader, Not Every Story Contains a Happy Ending. Discretion is Advised, as themes of terror and death are explored. Please keep in mind that all events and characters are works of the author's imagination and are intended for distraction only; any similarities to real events, fictions or fictitious situations are strictly coincidental.

I've been called the necessary evil of Fielora for as long as I can remember. Such a title came with the loneliest of existences, I am certain: I wouldn't have known any other way if it were even introduced or explained to me. Never had I given thought to the life of an Engineer in the sixty years of my life; neither puphood flight of fancy nor my forty-two years as a Crown Loyalist, and an Estate Executor.

Yet, looking back on my years with whimsy, I believe that even the slightest interest in such objects as cogs and sprockets could have saved my life. Here, in a suffocatingly narrow, stone staircase, I found myself regretting such a narrow field of study.

I had stepped upon a pressure plate that had activated a switch of sorts. A rod of steel, nearly as thick as two of my fingers, had been driven through my leg just above the ankle, extending from the wall, spring loaded to fire through the ankle of any beast such as myself whom had not noticed the spring-loaded stair that acted as its trigger. The pain had given way to a final, surreal numbness now. The flesh of my toes had begun to run colder than my blessedly-poor circulation would have had them otherwise.

In my horror and agony, I had dropped my faithful, oil lantern, which had immediately shattered against the stonework, blanketing the stairs beneath me in oil that then ignited. While at first I had considered myself lucky to not have burned alive, looking back I am not certain that those moments would have been much less preferable to staying, locked into place on the stairs as I was for hours.

The firelight the oil had caused gave me more than ample opportunity to memorize each detail of the trap and its anchor. The spike had been driven through the bowels of the stone wall, running parallel to the ground until it was stopped by only the other side of the staircase. Within moments, however, the firelight was gone--leaving me along with my agonized howling, and frantic grasping at the leg locked in the sadist's embrace.

I lost track of how long I'd listened to my own screams echoing in the cellar staircase around me. There would be no other here in the Estate until morning: my insistence upon staying until the work had been completed would now be my end. By dawn, I would most certainly be dead to Rust Fever or blood loss.

There was no disengaging the mechanisms. I had tried, only to renew my agony and, I believe, shatter my bones further. I laid back against the staircase, mumbling to whatever God would listen for Salvation, or comfort in my final hours. The Darkness seemed to whisper back to me, robbing me of what little peace I prayed that I would be able to find in the dusk of my life.

My wandering mind travelled the papers that I had read on this estate--the very ledgers that had once passed through my paws now returning with stunning clarity. The beasts that owned this property prior to my arrival, and their collective deaths, were blessedly-short-lived. Arriving as refugees, they had utterly failed to integrate to the high moral standards of Charinthosse, returning to our fair, Fieloran shores within months of their departure. Upon their former home being reoccupied, they arrived to this particular estate--which was far beyond their modest professions, if they'd had any to speak of. Unlike others in their street, which was populated by carpenters, confectioneers, and even a tax collection office, they were gypsies. Tarot readings and seances were their ply and trade, even though none in their community would have openly acknowledged belief or interest in such occult practices.

Of course secretive interest remained--enough so to allow the beasts to make payments in full upon their property up until three months ago, when payments had suddenly stopped. Investigators roamed the house through and through--I had thought from the foundation to the highest floor--however, this spike would have most certainly been found were that the case. There had been no signs of struggle or even a body to be had (at least nothing that had been reported to me). The house was, quite simply, deserted. The lawful time to wait had expired, and I was called to the estate shortly thereafter.

An estate this old had its own tales of woe and haunting. Undoubtedly folk had died here that had never been disclosed or discovered by the general populace. I'd had no reason to believe that such secrets (while I felt them blatantly obvious, given the towering, open, echoing spaces that were built above me) were malicious. At least I had believed such until the time I found myself in this trap. I felt a lump form at the top of my tongue, and I did my damnedest to inhale around it. Tilting back one, final time, I howled for aid and air--listening for a moment to my own screams as they bounced around the staircase around me. Like a fool, I had allowed the door at the top of the stairs to swing closed behind me, and there was none on the estate as I remembered.

When my voice finally fell hoarse, and sobs and panic threatened to take me, I laid back on the stairs, staring upward into the tangible darkness. I realized then that no one would weep for me at my funeral--as utterly hopeless as it was to believe. In life, I had been a codger of a employer--a lone wolf in spite of the Church's teachings to marriage and union, and a bit of a drunk as well. How empty my life felt, now that I was finally gazing at the final product that my sixty years had wrought... There was so much left undone.

Not that it mattered, I supposed.

It was then, with my head laid back against the cold stonework that I heard something that made my heart leap. A creak--the telltale groan of weight, pressing against an ancient board above me.

"HERE!!!" I found it in myself to scream, my heart fluttering with joy. "HERE!! I AM HERE!!" I began to scream over and over again. I cared not if they were robbers, bandits or thieves. They could have everything I owned if only they assisted me to the top of the stairs!

My heart gladdened further when I heard the footfalls stop, and I felt a grin split my features. "The staircase! I'm trapped! Please, HELP!!" I cried further, adjusting myself, only to be brutally reminded of the stake driven through my foot. I sucked air through my teeth, only to sit up and grind my teeth against one another. "For the love of God, please!" I shouted anew, panic and pain invading my voice, causing it to crack.

There was only silence.

"M... MY NAME--!" I yelled. "I am Archibald Felder! It is the year 1883!" I began to spout, praying now that my potential rescuers didn't simply believe I was a spectre, trying to lure them to an unfortunate, gritty end. Certainly ghosts would have no knowledge of current events! "Snowfall last year was record, and the summer is set to be cooler than average! Please, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I AM NO GHOST!!"

I finished, my heart pounding in my chest. It was unfortunate, I realized, that my elevated heartbeat only served to further bleed me onto the stairs. It was a risk worth taking...

... But a risk that fell upon deaf ears. Or at least the ears that debated upon the knowledge of ghosts, and what it was that ghosts knew.

"ANSWER ME, PLEASE!" I yelled, my voice cracking from strain now. I could hear urgent, hushed murmuring, even if I couldn't make out what was being said. It came from the top of the staircase. To this end, I pounded my fists against the wall. "I SWEAR TO YOU I AM NO GHOST! I AM EXECUTOR ASSIGNED TO THIS ESTATE!" I protested, hoping to inspire some sort of cooperation.

The voices became more urgent, and there was now a definite, if not uncertain hiss to their words. I could count four--no!--five--not even...! W... were there... were there a dozen voices, whispering above me? I fell silent, my ears straining to heart whatever it could have been.

It was close now... So very... very close. Close enough to touch. Close enough to hear that these words were of no language I knew. I felt my heart stop in my chest, and my blood began to run cold... These voices were not from above me.

These voices were next to me.

They were on the inside of the--no...! NO that was impossible! From inside of the walls...! Moving... downward. From above me--then next to me and down into the murky depths beneath me. My blood ran cold when the whispering stopped, and I heard the utterly unmistakable sound of shattered glass, grating against itself as it was brushed away.

Fire. Light. The matches in my--in my damned pocket! I fumbled for them, panic now invading each of my movements.

There was a creaking beneath me... the sound of stone, being burdened with the sudden weight of... something.

The first match was struck, but it did nothing to dissuade the incredible blackness around me. I could only see so far as my knee--and I tossed the match toward my foot in hopes that it would catch a residual pocket of oil. It did not.

The creaking approached... the fourth, and fifth step now--not that I knew how many separated myself from my guest.

The second match was struck. There was a glint! A light and flicker that one may see in the gentle reflection of an eye, or... two eyes... No three--three pair...!? Four, there was.... I couldn't count them all--clustered too close together. There was an eye for each of the whispered--

DAMN MY ATTENTION!! So horrified was I that I burnt my fingers! A third match--a third! I could feel the pressure on my legs now. Whatever it was, it was atop me, and I struck the match desperately against the wall...!

Not that it aided me. The final sight of this life--my final sight, was to be a single, mangled paw reach through the darkness, covering the match to douse the flame.

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You can get the pretty .pdf version of this on my Patreon! It contains several Easter Eggs, and a few further clues as to the mysteries of the Estate.

https://www.patreon.com/kaudec

This story is recognized by South Gate Books and Trade, LLC (pending) as Minor Canon

S/N : KAUD-001-2110-0001