Chapter Text
The house loomed in a way most houses don’t.
Gale checked the address for what felt like the hundredth time. This couldn’t be it.
“Rolan. This is a fucking mansion”
“And? It’s cheap and old and you have it for six months. Just enjoy it.”
“If it’s haunted and I die I’m coming back and making your life hell.”
Rolan’s laughter through the line was both irritating and pleasant. Much like the tiefling, himself.
“All right, Gale. Go explore, I have it on good authority that it’s full of old shit the owner left behind, I’ll call you tomorrow and you can tell me about it, yeah?”
“Yeah all right. Thank you, Rolan”
He hung up and just stood there for a moment. It really did look like something straight from a horror movie, not hideously large, but sort of opulent in a way that suggested rich use a long time ago, but not for a while. The paint was chipping and a part of him worried that his foot might crash through the porch once he stepped onto it.
It didn’t. Just creaked ominously as he moved inside the house.
The inside looked exactly like he’d been expecting. Gaudy wallpaper, weird paintings, too many rooms and-
Incredibly dusty. He sneezed. Made a mental note to find some cleaning supplies.
He’d packed light, as he’d been assured the place was mostly stocked, and it didn’t look abandoned, someone had obviously come in here periodically and made sure everything was mostly in working order. There were lights and heat and running water, and when he found the main bedroom, there were clean linens in a drawer. But it was fairly obvious that nobody had been living here for a long time.
A part of him found that kind of comforting.
Rolan hadn’t been kidding, though, the place was full of knick-knacks and when he ambled into a room full of books he almost had to just sit down for a moment. They looked old, spines cracked and when he pulled one out the smell of old paper and dust tickled his nose and he found a smile pulling at his lips.
Incredible.
He immediately knew that this room was it. This was absolutely where he’d spend most of his time.
Kitchen was next in his trip around the place, modest and respectable, pots and pans and a cooler he just had to plug in and it whirred to life. Good. He pulled one of his bags onto the counter and put away an assortment of sealed jars, made sure the burner worked and was satisfied that while a trip to town would be prudent soon, at least he had all the things he needed to cook up his potions, so he wouldn’t die or anything.
Then he took the rest of his things back to the bedroom, dropped the bag onto the floor and sat down on the bed.
“Well, Gale. This is it. Time to figure your shit out. Think Rolan is right? This the place for it?” He said to himself.
His voice rang out loud in the silent room and he got no answer back.
He drew a deep breath, rubbing a hand over the center of his chest, over the constant ache that was his companion now. He’d already dosed today, would be good for another couple of days, but the anxiety was always there, this minor fear that they’d miscalculated and his heart would give out while he was sleeping.
Gale didn’t sleep much nowadays.
Over the next few days Gale simply… settled. A quick trip into town got him the items he needed, and to his surprise, it wasn’t very much, the house was better stocked than he’d expected. And while he was mildly lost on what to do exactly, the library room provided a much needed diversion. He lost at least two days the first time he decided to go over the tomes in those shelves.
There wasn’t anything mind-blowingly interesting, mostly just relevant to what he liked; old stories, descriptions of the magic that used to rule these lands and ancient fables. More fiction than he’d expected, or at least those kinds of tales you read but weren’t quite sure whether they were actually fiction or just a very colorful retelling of a real person. He made a note of a few of the titles, the ones he had a feeling might interest Rolan.
One of the brightest delights he discovered was an old record player, buried under layers of blankets and other assortments of things, but when he tried it, he was pleased to find it working, as well as a few records around. Not many, and most of them not quite the kind of music he tended to go for, but pleasant all the same. Perhaps he’d be able to find some more in one of the antique stores in town.
On the third day, he called Rolan.
“So… was I right or was I right?”
“You were right.”
“Damn right!”
“The place is absolutely gorgeous and the library is incredible. They have books I’ve never even heard of!-“ He’s puttering around the kitchen, making sure the bubbling pot doesn’t boil over. “Honestly, I could probably spend the entire six months in there.”
“But you’re not, right? I mean, I know we talked about you taking time away from everything, but there is a town nearby, you should try to meet some people, at least a little bit.”
“Yeah, yeah. Maybe. I just want to… It’s been so long since I was properly alone, you know? I kind of just want to enjoy it. It’s so quiet here, although-“ He paused.
“Although…?”
“There’s a basement I don’t have the key to, did the landlord mention anything about that?”
“No… I don’t believe so. At least not specificially.”
“Hm… well I’m sure nothing important is down there, probably just storage for the owner that he doesn’t want busybodies in, but…”
“Spit it out, Gale.”
“Last night, I thought I heard something. Banging… or scratching. I don’t know, maybe it’s just rats. I mean, this place is old enough that rats wouldn’t be completely out of the realm of possibility. I’m sure it’s fine.”
“I can ask him, if you want?”
“No, no, it’s fine.” He hitched a shoulder up to pin the phone in place as he moved the pot off the burner and added a pinch of one of the powders he had in a jar nearby, nose wrinkling at the acrid smell that assaulted him as the hot liquid hissed.
“Gale… are you sleeping?” The question came after a moment, caught him off guard slightly, and a wave of vertigo had him slumping onto a stool, resting against the counter as he watched the solution bubbling.
“I… yes. Sure. I mean, enough. I get a few hours a night… usually.”
“Gale…”
“Rolan… what do you want me to say? It’s fine. I have it handled, I promise. I’m taking it easy, relaxing, no stress and all that jazz.” He let out a sigh that he was sure Rolan would be able to hear over the phone line.
“All right. Just… call me if things get bad again, if not me then… I don’t know. Wyll or something.”
“I will. Thank you, Rolan.”
The line clicked silent and Gale sighed. He knew Rolan cared, and he did appreciate the check-ins but sometimes he had to really bite down on a snappy ‘I already have a mother’. That would be rude, though, and the last thing he wanted was to hurt the boys feelings. It was so rare he let them show.
Maybe once he’d settled here properly he’d extend an invitation, it’d do Rolan good to get out for a weekend, and this place looked like it might be quite lovely once spring properly hit. He wondered if anything interesting grew in the garden attached to the house.
His hands shook a little as he finished stirring up the mixture in the pot and shifting it into a glass bottle, leaving it to cool for a bit. It smelled bad, but right, should last him for a few days. It smelled bad, but right, should last him for a few days. It really was unfortunate the solution didn’t keep very well, as he’d really like to make it in larger batches. This process was unpleasant and left his nose burning for hours afterwards.
The actual injection was worse, though. And even though he’d long since lost count of how many times he’d done it, he wasn’t used to it, probably wouldn’t ever be. The stab wasn’t so bad, though the needle was long and a little thicker than he liked, and when his hand trembled like this and it jostled the needle it hurt. No, it was the moment the solution hit his veins, when his blood carried the intense burn to his heart and the fire bloomed into all his limbs.
He usually did this in a place where he could lie down immediately afterwards. The living room had a nice sofa for it. He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth hurt, pulled the needle out, dropped it on the table and collapsed back against the pillows, waiting for the burn to subside.
It was agony every time, but once the surge passed, there was the telltale ease behind his ribs, the pressure letting up and he’d be able to breathe a bit easier for a time. So he focused on breathing, fingers tapping lightly on the dark mark over his heart and when he closed his eyes, he couldn’t help but picture it, the ball of magic, the ‘orb’ growing there.
He wondered how long it would be until it completely overtook his heart. Would it kill him? Probably. Considering the chronic pain he already dealt with most days, it wouldn’t be pleasant either way.
Gale refused to fall into self-pity, though. He did this. The thing was a direct result of his own failure and ill advised actions. His own damn fault.
The next day he opened his laptop, saw five unread e-mails from Mystra and immediately closed it again.
The strange dreams started a few nights in.
The first night he’d honestly been too tired to dream of anything, just fell into the (surprisingly comfortable) bed and passed out for ten hours. But that was an anomaly, he blamed the travel.
Most nights he slept for only a few hours here and there, catching snippets when he became so tired his eyes wouldn’t focus on the page he was reading anymore. More often than not he’d either wake up with an open book on his chest and no memory of what he’d been reading, or he’d nod off, drop the book on his face and startle awake again.
Still, there was that thing about dreams. Even if one only slept for an hour or two, they happened, and while Gale had always been a vivid dreamer this felt like something different.
There was always the hallway, it was too long to be the one in the house, but otherwise it looked very similar. Long and dusty, dark, the light from the window cold, like moonlight as it illuminated the row of paintings lining the walls.
He’d had a hard time making out what the paintings depicted at first, just looked like a swirl of muted colors and vague shapes, but the further he walked the clearer they got. Each new one he passed a little more solid.
There were people. Portraits. And as soon as he could make out the faces he’d pause.
They were all incredibly beautiful. And stiff, posed for the painter and something about them made his skin crawl, anxiety buzzing under his skin, the feeling he’s being watched.
But there was never anything there. Just the endless hallway and the paintings.
He always woke up feeling like he’d lost something, grief for something he couldn’t identify twisting in his chest. Mourning. He didn’t know what. But it made him want to cry.
Tonight felt different. Perhaps he was sleeping easier due to having injected just a few hours before and the pain in his chest was temporarily eased. Perhaps it was just chance. But the hallway looked brighter, and as he started the trek he always was compelled to undertake, it actually seemed to be getting shorter.
Maybe tonight he’d reach the end of it.
The paintings were the same as always, rows upon rows of gorgeous people, people that slipped out of his mind as soon as he passed, watching him placidly.
They all had red eyes.
Had they always had red eyes? He couldn’t remember. But now they did. So very red, and as he continued down the hall the rest of the paintings seemed to fade into blackness, leaving only the eyes, the red glow in shadowy faces and he wanted to stop walking, wanted to go back, dread growing in his belly as the knowledge settled in him.
He didn’t want to see what was at the end of the hallway. Something terrible. Something terrible would happen to him if he got to the end. And with some effort he managed to stop moving, but when he turned back there was nothing there.
Nothing but the dark hallway and the glowing eyes and he was stuck, dread filled both ways, behind and in front.
He wanted to scream but everyone knows you can’t scream in dreams.
He woke up with the scream lodged in his throat and it took him a long time to fall back asleep. But once he did, the hallway was blessedly absent. For now.
The locked basement door continued bothering him, and he’d looked everywhere without any sign of a key. He was sure there was nothing of note down there, but the urge was there, the urge to be sure. Rationally, he was sure it was just storage, locked because the owners didn’t want any tenants getting into their stuff, but-… what if it wasn’t?
It didn’t help that the noises didn’t stop. Never loud enough to hear unless he was quiet and listening out for them. Little thumps, scratches on wood.
Probably rats. A house like this was bound to have vermin, but there was still something, a little nudge in the back of his mind that said that maybe it wasn’t, and wouldn’t it be good to find that key and actually know for sure?
Damn him for never picking up the art of lockpicking. But as it was, he had to just put it out of his mind for the time being.
The dreams didn’t stop. Although, admittedly, most nights as soon as he found himself in that cursed hallway, he’d snap awake and it’d take him hours to fall back asleep, if he did at all.
He couldn’t quite figure out why the hallway unnerved him so much, besides that feeling of wrong that overtook him whenever he found himself there. There wasn’t anything much more frightening than the darkness and sure, the faces in the paintings were getting a little stranger every time, but he’d seen scarier things in his novels as a child.
Perhaps it was this determination, the knowledge that his curiosity was stronger than his fear, evident in all the dumb situations he’d gotten himself into through the years, of course, that meant that next time it happened, next time he fell asleep and found himself in that hallway, he didn’t wake up. No, this time he was determined to walk.
And while he did walk, each step was heavy, like molasses swirling around his ankles, the movements took effort and for a while he wasn’t sure he was moving at all. It was frustrating and the momentary urge to scream washed over him.
But he was moving. Slowly, but still moving, the hallway getting darker with each laborious step, the paintings getting more and more unclear and once again, the only visible thing was the glowing red eyes in pale faces.
There were so many of them. He never knew if he’d passed one more than once, if the images were being repeated or if there really were that many, thousands. Then-
Then he was at the end and there was a wall, a window, the cold glow of the moon illuminating the floor he stood on and for a moment he just stood there, confused. This couldn’t be it? There was nothing there, just the wall and the window and even as he leaned forward and peered outside there wasn’t really anything to see there either.
The grounds were dark, no movement, trees not even moving in the wind. He’d never seen the grounds this still. He’d-… he’d never seen the grounds. Not these grounds.
He stepped back from the window and turned and there was a door. The door had not been there before, and when he opened it, it did without effort. He’d half-expected it to be locked, but it wasn’t, it swung open and Gale took a moment to survey the room revealed.
It was big, big but as soon as he stepped inside the door swung shut behind him and there was a sense of claustrophobia, like the room shrank around him. He drew a deep breath and stepped further inside.
There was another painting. A giant one. It took up the entire wall straight ahead and as he moved closer he couldn’t look away.
It was a man. Regal, dark, finely dressed. Old-fashioned, like one of those regency romances, royalty, and he knew it was whoever owned this place. There was something about the man that made his skin crawl. Something in those narrow -red- eyes that had him squirming, had him wanting to look away but unable to, had him wanting to wake up, run away, even as he moved in closer. He was beautiful in a cruel way.
Movement. A mount he had assumed was simply a pile of sheets moved and he was kneeling in front of it. A chain lead from the gilded frame of the picture to the mount and as he reached out his hand trembled, fingers curled around the sheet and pulled, revealing a body.
Flesh whiter than he’d ever seen, only colored by streaks of blood originating from an odd collection of cuts across its back. They looked dead and he shivered, the horror of staring down a corpse sending a shiver through him. His breath hitched, a throb of pain in his chest as he reached out. He didn’t want to touch it but he couldn’t stop it from happening.
When the tips of his fingers made contact with the freezing cold skin of its cheek, bright red eyes snapped open and he screamed.
He screamed as sharp teeth tore into him.
Gale didn’t sleep again that night, haunted by the phantom feeling of teeth, of the glow of the eyes and the ice-cold sensation of flesh under his fingers. It had felt so real, he couldn’t get it out of his mind, the creatures face so vivid whenever he closed his eyes and it bothered him that the place had looked so much like this house. Like he was missing something important and that if he looked just a little harder, he’d be able to find the paintings, the room with the cruel man and the corpse.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to. But the urge was there. The curiosity was all-consuming.
And without really knowing why, or making an informed decision to do so, he realized he was searching, scanning the pages he was reading for any hint of the secrets this place held. He thought about calling Rolan, and while, yes, he really should call Rolan just because it was about time to check in on him again, he didn’t think it would give him any new information about the place.
He had a feeling Rolan hadn’t rented this place through the actual owner. Doubted highly he’d met the cruel man in the painting. Didn’t really think he himself wanted to ever meet him. It was the dead man - in retrospect he was certain it had been a man- under the painting, who’d attacked him. It still scared him, but he needed to know.
And the more time passed, the more he started to hope to return there. That perhaps if he could return to the hallway. If he could find the man again, he’d see more. That perhaps he could figure out something more about him, where he was, what had happened?
And more than anything. He needed to figure out a way to get into that locked basement.