Old Brandbury
Old Brandburry was something of a local legend. It was a decrepit mansion, though no one was entirely sure what year it’d been built and the general consensus was a vague “oh, sometime in the 1800s or other.” No one was entirely sure how many levels were in it, so they went with precisely that: many. It stretched skywards with faux-turrents that mimicked a medieval castle, yet sprawled in the middle flatly and boasted large, ominous windows that peered outwards like the eyes of a cumbersome beast.
Rather than be loved and tended like a historical sight, Brandburry had become the thing teenagers dared their delinquent cohorts to vandalize. It sagged sorrowfully as though waiting for the day when the foundations would finally crack, letting its center topple down.
When the wind blew, one could almost hear it sigh.
The myths and ghost stories that went with such a site were wide and wonderful. Some claimed that it was the place where a widower had hung himself after the loss of his wife, and that he still roamed the halls calling for his precious Delilah. Others told tale of a woman who, after numerous miscarriages, took to stealing children from other mothers and leaving them in rooms about the house, tending to them until she grew bored and left them to die. Yet others said that a crazed Shaman lived there, working black magic by night and hexing the home in strange and terrible ways. The stories stretched hither and yon, predictably, none really having any bearing on the truth.
The fiction seemed far more entertaining, but it was only that. Fiction.
And so it was that Stephanie found no issue running to the home when the storm broke. The tattered coat she held over her head did not hold back the rain. Her shoes, stuffed with newspaper, slammed over the rotted deck and she rested beneath the eave to catch her breath. She shivered. Such weather was no good on her old bones.
The door hung ajar. She gave it a push and it creaked open. Dust motes formed a gritty greeting as she stepped inside, wringing some of the water from her layers of clothing. She knew she’d have to strip later. It would do no good to have so much dampness pressed up to her skin.
Stephanie looked up and whistled. “Ooooh. You got a creepy way about ya, I’ll give ya that.”
The entryway yawned upwards to a domed ceiling, bleeding into a staircase that curved elegantly away both left and right. An old, dusty chandelier clung valiantly, trailing countless cobwebs so that it looked like the crystal itself was unraveling. The carpet was in need of a good beating, but the pictures woven into it showed countless faces and figures, all of them staring outwards silently.
“Brrr,” Stephanie mumbled. The homeless woman crept further in, swiveling her head around, looking for a light source. She did not look down again. She did not see the silent eyes following her.
“S’a pity they let it go t’ waste. Lovely digs, this, with a bit o’ spit n’ polish. Bet I could make it shine.” Approaching one of the carved balustrades, she hawked and unceremoniously gifted it with saliva, using her grimy sleeve to rub it in. The wood shimmered. “Ah, see? There we are now.”
The eyes narrowed. Noses wrinkled in disgust.
Stephanie moved. She found a set of matches and struck one, pulling some of the newspaper insulation out to form a short-living torch. Some of the ashes fell instantly down, burning on the images, and their faces took on looks of pain and horror. As the fire spread further, others stepped forward and batted it out, glaring upwards at the intruder.
“Bet they got a bed upstairs,” she murmured. “A real bed, now that’s somethin’ I’ve not had in quite some time. Be good for this old coot.”
The carpeting traveled upwards along the curving stairs. Wealthy feet shouldn’t have to contend with the coldness of wood in winter. Said wood creaked in protest at her passing, and she looked down again. She thought she saw movement, but the torch had worked down to her hand and it scorched her fingers.
“Yowch!” She screeched, dropping it. She immediately set to stomping out the embers with her foot, leaving a black scar behind. Around the new void, the faces took on the look of piteous wailing.
Still upwards she went, step by step, her joints creaking as much as the stairs themselves. She huffed and dropped another torch, left another scar. As she lit the third, she perched herself precariously on the last step at the top, turning back to admire the climb she’d made.
The carpet jerked violently.
Stephanie tumbled. She screamed. First her arm snapped, then her leg. Her back gave way with a sickening crunch as she thumped back down, down, down. At the bottom she rolled, nothing but a heap that made breathless sounds, her face pale, her mouth working over the words ‘help me’ without any voice.
Lightning tore through the windows and lit up the room. The folds of the carpet curled and began to roll her, her agonized face disappearing beneath the fabric as she flailed what limbs she could still move in futile protest. She could see their angry visages pressed against hers, mouths open in cries of vengeful rage. Further and further she was wound, tighter and tighter, and the carpet pressed itself flat.
When it unrolled again, Stephanie was gone