Repast Of The Damned

Here is my second story / post! Comments are more than welcome!!

Repast Of The Damned

The damp, dark, dreary grayness of the shadowed horizon settled over my melancholy mood like the shroud worn by an ancient crypt keeper, as a four-in-hand carried me over the jagged, irregular highway to Paston House by the town of V_____. My purpose was a visit to my hoary         homunculus of a friend, Lord Malcolm Tunstead, the current possessor of said residence. Although the titles of Lord and Lady had fallen mostly out of fashion at the time of this story, Lord Tunstead was one of those patriarchs of a kind of parochial mind that stuck with what was what. He had transcribed a note of letter to me, confessing that although over the past year, we had fallen out of contact since the death of Lady Tunstead it was meant as no misuse of our friendship on his part. Malcolm’s letter suggested that he was suffering with some sort of illness or potential breakdown; and it went on to request a visit to renew our friendship and comfort his emotional turmoil. 

So it was, that on the chilled, humid eve of the twenty fourth day of November in the year 18__, I found the carriage turning a cusp on the road and my eyes first fell upon Lord Tunstead’s personal sanatorium where he had illicited a solitary repose since the passing of his late spouse. The absolute, utter dreariness of Paston House, coupled with the bleakness of the hour and my own personal forlorn constitution, served to send a bristling, petulant shiver of incertitude along my spine. The clouds hung low over the rook-like towers embraced by the figures of gargoyles crouched like mastiffs, holding dominion over the black stone frontal facade, beleaguered by narrow, leaded glass windows as dismal as a swamp fog at night; letting in little glimmer of irradiation and letting out little of the aversions imagined by the hapless onlooker of this particular site. 

I found myself dropped at this portal of apparent abyss, carpetbag and valise in hand as my apathetic carriage man rushed off without so much as a fare-you-well, no doubt off to the nearest tavern to warm his bulk by a warm fire, mug of beer and the possibility of a harlot to share his forsaken bed, and to whom he could tell tales of haunted houses, evil spirits, and the terrors of the highwayman. My hands being occupied by my personal baggage, I proceeded to strike out with my booted foot upon the door of the discouraging vestibule I found myself at. My heavy thudding was at last rewarded with the sound of approaching muted footsteps from within. The door to the lair yawned open to the pale, chalky, frosted countenance of Tunstead himself. 

He no doubt noticed the surprise within me at the sight of the lord of this great manor opening the door to a visiting guest himself, especially when the lord had resources in abundance, combined with a mind accustomed to the traditional etiquettes of aristocratic society, of which he was considered a part, for he frowned forlornly saying, “The help has taken their leave, and at least, now that you have arrived, perhaps my home will once again feel a little less like a tomb and more like what it once was. Welcome to Paston House T_______.” 

I ventured forward with an unvoiced, rather likely notion that from the looks of the place, what it once was, was in fact a tomb, however, what I said aloud was, “It is good to see you again Malcolm!” as I marched stoically into a dimly lit candle sconced lobby besmirched with wall mildew and cobweb dust, along with a smell which reminded one of that which accompanies the opening of an old musty trunk in an attic. 

“I’ll lead you to your room. Dinner is whenever you’d like. The larder is still quite well stocked so we won’t be wanting there. Also, I have full library next to the study. It has the complete set of the works of M_____ of whom I recall you are so fond.” As he put forth these facts, I achieved the feeling that he was trying to instill within my head a predilection for an object which has no hope of being other than loathed, yet its owner believes that if it is glossed over it gains an illusory effect on the beholder, making it seem somehow better and more bearable than it really is. On the other hand, I appreciated the gesture and thanked him heartily. 

My first few days at Paston House were spent viewing Lord Tunstead mope about his home. I often came upon him in some odd alcove, or entrenched within his study, wringing his hands and mumbling while reflecting on a framed, oil canvas done for him by a local artist of some renown, of his  late wife, Lady Wilomena Tunstead. At these times Malcolm would not be disturbed and I was unable to engage him in conversation of any sort, as hard as I might    try. Whenever this happened, I would find other ways to occupy my time and wait for Malcolm to overcome his bout of melancholy. These periods often took their toll upon my person, as I was quite often left to wander through the seasoned passages and august, unfeeling rooms. Commonly, I found myself lost in some odd nook or cranny and would spend the most of that day searching for my path back. My nights were spent tossing and turning about as I lay in the bed, for try as I might to bury my head upon the pillow, I found I was held awake by the sounds of strange gnawings and grindings issuing forth from a crack in my floor. This sound I came to consider was that of rats, probably feasting away on the spoiling food stores set below in the cellar. The very annoyance of this constant digestion is what drove me, along with boredom to these explorations, in an attempt to seek solace in activity. At last, on one outstanding occasion, in the term of what was possibly the third week of my occupation of Paston House, I discovered myself deep within the center part of the main residence, on what I suspected to be one of the lower floors, when I came across a downwards, spiraling, narrow staircase beginning in a niche off one of the many suites. 

I had not noticed this particular piece of construction in my past jaunts outside my quarters and could see no reason not to further explore, other than the chance of future inflammation of arthritic joints through my lower extremities, due to the rigor and sodden atmosphere provided throughout most of the stone-encased retreat. I had come to welcome these small walks outside of my chambers, however, as the lesser of two evils (that being inside my quarters or outside), as it was a set of rooms much too large and heartless for my character. It made one tend to feel oppressed. Taking a candlestick from a wall sconce and lighting it with a bit of flint and steel I had upon my personage of habit, I proceeded to make my passage forward. The left arm, being my candle arm, caused me to reach forth with the right, touching with my hand the sweating, moss and fungus covered black stone, so that I could feel my way along as well. The air entering into my lungs grew heavier and compressed with each further tread downwards. The stairs had been built such that each step was carved out from rectangular, somewhat similarly sized slabs of dark, chipped granite. As I made my way along this stairway, I found that the darkness ahead of me was lightening, the source of this illumination being, so to say, a light at the end of my way. A few steps more and I discovered that mine eyes could discern a great archway out of which shone a glow, shifting in such a manner as to suggest the presence of a great lantern inside the room ahead. 

A low sepulchral, lamenting moan rising as if from beyond what is considered the normal boundaries for sound climbed upon a foul draft of air, reaching me of a sudden, causing me to trip backwards and douse the light of the candlestick; and inside that split second of time I thought that the air had carried upon it, up from below, the words “woe, woe” as if in a single rush of breath from a place no mortal should ever bear witness to, each word drawn out as extenuating as humanly possible. 

Until of late, I was unable to fathom that which it was which compelled me to continue forward that day, but now, looking back in retrospective, I have begun to perceive that it was probably the same compulsion which draws people to public executions, that is, a deep need to view the fundamentals of man’s mortality or immortality second hand while being close enough to the situation as to have it affect one directly. As I proceeded forth, my hands began to shake as my body broke out all over in a cold sweat. I managed at last, to creep to the very edge of the entry and leaning, ever so cautiously and noiselessly outwards, this entire process of descending the stairs having taken up a period of approximately three quarters of an hour, I finally beheld what lay inside that loathsome, subterranean cavity of black, miserable rock. 

Oh alas, what torment that lay festering within those tumultuous walls deep within that fetid earth! How I prayed that Almighty God would strike out mine eyes so as not to allow me to view this desecration, but still I found myself staring with unbridled distaste at the tremendous atrocity before me! What I had stumbled upon in my ignorance of the architecture of noble Paston House was not the cellar I had assumed to find, but a crypt for the deceased lineages of Tunsteads from over the courses and eddies of time. The pile of death incarnate lay before me in rows like a shopkeeper’s stall display in a vulgar, morbid marketplace of bones and littered flesh. The bones of many a person lay scattered amongst the granite tomb slabs, some from a more recent time, still had nuggets of red meat, marbled with white hanging off them like colored, tissue streamers. The walls of the room and a number of the cadavers had grown thick with a strange species of phosphorescent fungi, and it was this peculiar plant species which caused the strange glow bathing the ghastly vault with unearthly illumination. As my eyes slowly grew accustomed to the luminescence, my ears began to discern the same strange gnawing, grinding, smacking which had held me awake for hours at night and kept me at bay from my quarters in the daylight hours. Suddenly my eyes bulged in their sockets, as my heart skipped for I at last beheld the revolting source of that raucous hunger. 

Deep within the shadows was the pale Lady Wilomena Tunstead, shrouded in the garb of the dead, her nails grown long from her deranged sentence underground, with her hair grown long and gray, her face caked with offal, yet still I recognized her from the upstairs canvas. She sat, ungainly legs splayed out before her, as frightening as any medusa or banshee, eating from the flesh coated femur of the latest victimized innocent to be laid out here below that evilly enshrouded keep of the macabre. 

I spun about, retching upon my boots, gasping for air, trying to fight off the reeling, dizzying feeling which always comes at the beginning of a swooning faint. I don’t know how, but somehow, I managed to begin a hastened stagger up out of that wretched hell to save my mortal soul. As I passed through onto the head of the stair, I came face to face with pallid Lord Tunstead, my old friend Malcolm, almost bowling him out of my way in my hurried rush to get away. 

“For the love of all that is sacred,” I grabbed at his collar and yelled, “What have you done?” 

Tunstead fell back, swaying on the ground, in relief at long last having found a confessor after weeks of mental anguish and screamed out his litany of sin in a hurried torrent. 

“Please, you must, I beg of you, you have to understand, she was driving me insane! She nagged you know, incessantly getting on about this thing and that, driving at me. It was hell, I tell you! At last, one night in a fit of anger, I struck her in the base of the skull with the candelabra. I thought she was dead. I told the servants that she slipped, and hit her head on an old trunk at the foot of our bed. They were suspicious, see, but I managed to allay their fears and we carried her body to the crypt below. However, as you saw,” At this note, Malcolm began laughing maniacally and I shook his body roughly by the shoulders, until he could go on, a mad glare to his eyes and an edge of insanity lending a nervous lilt to his voice, “she wasn’t dead! Heh, heh! We all thought, but she wasn’t really. The blow though had done something to her mind, driving her over the edge. I turned her into a crazed lunatic. She awoke, addled in the crypt below the house, her mind turned, afraid to come up the stairs lest she might have another confrontation with her attempted murderer. I heard her though! I knew she was still alive! At night in my room, I could hear her gnawing, sucking the marrow for sustenance out of the corpses laid to rest before her. Every night, I laid awake, hours on end, listening to that God awful ghoulish chewing! After a time, I moved to new more modern chambers after having renovations made on a wing further into the house. But then, she must have run out of food you see, ha ha, deadly matron! She began to sneak up at night, looking. First, it was a kitchen servant who disappeared. A young, soft boy. Then another of the servants. The whole superstitious lot grew suspicious of me! Of me! They had no way of knowing the truth, but soon they left, cursing me in the town so I could find no replacement help. 

“At last, there was only myself. All alone in this house, I sent for you. Please, please forgive my selfishness, I beg you sir! I thought by your coming I could gain a week maybe two before she got me, hee, the deranged are so strong. I can’t leave you see, because I feel guilt. So guilt-ridden I know. I know that in the end I too shall be devoured in that dark catacomb, but yet, I still wanted to buy some time! Just a little time I beg of you!” 

Lord Tunstead suddenly attacked with such unexpected ferocity that I barely made my escape. I managed, as we struggled at the top of the stair, to give the fiend a toppling push in the center of his chest, sending him barreling, head over heels, down, down to the waiting mold and the dead, both the still and the living. As I turned on my heel to flee, never to set foot inside that dark mausoleum again for either the sake of Heaven or Hell, a most unwomanly, spectral scream of vengeance issued forth from the stairwell, intermingling with the panic-stricken screech of Wilomena’s attempted murderer.