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“It’s kinda spooky . . .”
Mantaro shuddered. The manor house stood alone against fearsome cliffs, with the choppy waters of the loch surrounding it on one side, although – if he were to be honest – it looked more akin to an old Scottish castle. A few crows cawed from the nearby copse of trees, while the wind caused sprays of water to crash over onto land. It was cold. It was clammy. It was also surprisingly dark for so early in the morning, like light had yet to reach these lands.
Rinko stood behind him, with her hair mussed from the winds. Jacqueline stood to her side, with her long fingers sweeping her thick locks of red hair to one side, where she held them with a graceful and elegant touch. They looked towards Robin Manor. It looked unloved in recent years, with its huge windows dirty and some even cracked, and the outside walls were crumbling in places, so that it could have proved the perfect set for a Gothic novel. Rinko bit into her lip, as she held back her obvious disappointment and asked:
“Do you think it’s haunted?”
“It could be,” said Jaqueline. “Don’t they say that England is the most haunted place on the planet? It’s known for all sorts of supernatural creatures . . . leprechauns in Ireland, banshees in Scotland . . . it could be because it’s so old. It has so much history.”
“Hey, Japan has history, too!”
“Yeah, and Japanese ghosts are so much scarier,” adds Mantaro with a wince. “Like, here, the most you’d see is a woman in white or a pair of mischievous little kids, but they just a foreboding omen or something, aren’t they? In Japan, they have that long black hair and white face and drag you into hell or through a television set or into a well.”
“Oh, you’ve seen many ghosts to know, have you?”
“Hey, I watch movies! I know what’s what!”
Jacqueline carried on towards the manor. The luggage would be waiting for them inside, and the weather was only getting harsher as the morning turned into daytime (or at least for what passed as ‘daytime’ with the black skies turning into a grey mist). A fine rain began to descend, not so harsh as to be a problem and yet not so gentle as to be pleasant. It cast an array of dew-like droplets over Jaqueline and Rinko, adding an almost ethereal essence to their beauty, and yet – as pleasant as it looked – it was still cold and wet and miserable outside. Jacqueline looked over her shoulder and asked them with a curious tone:
“I always thought Japanese ghosts were meant to be friendly?”
“Like Casper?” Mantaro adds.
A heavy sigh escaped Rinko. It was one thing to be dragged out of bustling London to the creepy countryside, but another to have two aliens reduce her entire culture to ‘Casper’, who – she was tempted to add – was far from a Japanese ghost. A bolt of lightning flashed in the distance, followed not long after by the crack of thunder. The rolling sounds of the oncoming storm were the same even across an ocean, like electricity crackling in the air, just waiting to explode, and – as she pinched the bridge of her nose – she said in a frustrated tone:
“Look, let’s just go.”
“Fine,” complained Mantaro. “I could do with a shower, anyway.”
“Stay out here any longer and you won’t need one,” teased Jacqueline.
“Tch! Tell me about it! I know they said it always rains in England, but this is –”
A figure moved. It was almost imperceptible, being that the morning hours were still dark and the manor was in such a state of disrepair, but there it was in an upstairs window. The curtain twitched. The figure emerged. It looked down at them with pale eyes in a pale face, with ghastly white hair that fell in all directions, and its eyes – its eyes! – were fixed on the trio below that were alone in these foreign lands. Mantaro paled. Jaqueline clung to him, while Rinko shivered and took a step back. In absolute unison, they chirped as one:
“You first!”
The three poked and pushed and prodded at one another, until – with a burst of luck and strength – both women were able to shove Mantaro ahead. He glared back at them, but they simply pointed to the grand front doors and signalled him onward. He obeyed. Mantaro took slow and steady steps over the gravel, with his eyes ever upward on that eerie figure . . . a flash of lightning . . . at once the figure was gone, as if it were never there. A hard knot welled in his throat, like he might be sick or choke, and yet he continued his walk forward.
He knocked at the front door, while Rinko and Jacqueline stayed behind him. The knocker was old and heavy, a relic of some bygone era, and it let out an equally heavy thud, one that echoed about the vast interior beyond. Silence. The few seconds that followed felt eternal, until – finally – a few footsteps made their way to the front doors. They stopped. Mantaro tensed his shoulders, unsure what to expect and ready to square off, but finally it happened:
The door opened.
It opened with a loud creak reminiscent of many a Saturday morning cartoon. The hinges groaned with the weight of centuries, with a high-pitched squeak almost superimposed onto the low bass-like rumble, and slowly – ever so slowly – a familiar face emerged. Kevin. He stood without his mask, so that his pale skin and long blond locks were on show, and a new pink streak ran down the side of his hair, a stark contrast with his black shirt and black pyjama bottoms. He looked tired, but no more so than usual. Mantaro mumbled:
“Er, did that door just creak?”
Kevin glared. He did not look dressed to receive guests, almost as if their very presence was new information to him, and – to further back this point – he checked his expensive watch and then looked to a grandfather clock within the hall. He huffed. The expulsion of breath caught at his hair, as he opened the door wide and stood to one side. A few suitcases were piled up in one corner, although most were missing and likely waiting in the upstairs rooms, and Mantaro noticed a thick layer of dust over almost every surface. It was uncomfortable.
“It’s an old door, mate,” explained Kevin. “I just need to add some oil onto the hinges.”
“Okay, but what about the ghostly figure in the window?”
“What? You mean my dad?” Kevin rolled his eyes. “Look, he’s in a video meeting. He was probably just checking whether you were here or not, because – you know – you prats were due about twenty minutes ago. What? You think this place is haunted or something?”
“N-No, of course not!”
Mantaro blushed. He stepped foot into the hall, as Rinko and Jacqueline followed, and at once noticed that it was colder inside than outside. A thick draught blew through the house, with the single-paned windows rattling in some corners, and every so often a door would slam, caught in the stream of air between this open door and some other open window. The house felt alive, despite feeling so cold. It had a life of its own. Jacqueline once again grabbed at Mantaro’s arm and held tight, with her warm body a small comfort against him.
“Well, come on, then,” says Kevin.
Kevin shoved his hands into his pockets, as he shuffled his way through the corridors. The old manor held a labyrinthine atmosphere, with doors leading off in all sorts of directions, and various turns leading on to feel lost even with an expert host. A cobweb or two would get caught against one’s attire, or – worse – strike against the face with a horrible taste of dust and an ever-lingering feeling of something crawling against the skin, and the ‘reassurance’ that living spiders would not occupy dusty cobwebs was no reassurance.
Eventually, they came to a lounge. It was perhaps the warmest and brightest part of the house, or at least that they had so far seen, and at once all three visibly relaxed and settled in as if they this house were their personal home. Mantaro flung himself on a comfortable sofa, while Jaqueline cuddled up next to him, and Rinko knelt beside a roaring fireplace to warm her hands not far from the flickering flames. A nice tune played smoothly from a radio.
In their relief, they had failed to pay any mind to Warsman. He sat on the sofa opposite the two lovebirds, with a warm mug of tea on the coffee-table beside him, and in his callused hands he held a thick novel written entirely in Russian. He wore his mask, as was his usual style, but wore loose trousers and a woollen jumper, so that he seemed almost a whole other person, and his eyes – ever soft, ever expressive – watched them with a silent interest. The bright light from the flickering flames caught at the exposed black metal, casting an ethereal glow over him.
“Hello,” said Nikolai. “It is good to see you again.”
“Hey, you too!” Rinko chirped. “Er, I hope this doesn’t seem rude, but I noticed that you’ve got loads of cobwebs and dust in the hall. Is everything okay or . . .?”
“Ah, is this the new small talk?” Nikolai teased. “I thought that people usually stuck to topics such as the weather or traffic, but it seems commenting on another person’s abode is now an acceptable manner of greeting an old friend. How strange, but times do change.”
“Ignore these pillocks,” snapped Kevin. “They think this place is haunted.”
“Do not!” Rinko snapped back.
“Look, we don’t stay here often, do we? Daddy usually stays in his townhouse, so he can be nearer to work, and Grandfather passed away last year. Unless there’s a big get-together, like this weekend, no one really has any cause to stay here. You guys are early, but the maids should be here in the morning to do a spring cleaning. It won’t be dusty then.”
Rinko let out a visible sigh of relief. Kevin moved across the lounge to sit on a windowsill, with his arms hugging one leg and the one leg dangling over the edge. He would have given an old movie star a run for their money, with his blond hair and yellow eyes illuminated by the moon and stars beyond, and the paleness of his skin heightened by the flashes of lightning on the pitch-black landscape. The rain trickled down the single panes of glass, with the pounding of the raindrops sounding like the panes may shatter at any moment.
A loud bang echoed out. It came somewhere upstairs, like a heavy thud of a body, a dead weight on old floorboards, and – as if in unison – all eyes turned upwards. Mantaro paled. Rinko froze. Warsman simply turned the pages of his book, but Kevin – sensing the palpable change in atmosphere – brought his hands to his temples. He rubbed with two fingers of each hand, while he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath through flared nostrils.
“We have bats in the attic,” says Kevin. “They’re endangered in this bloody country, so there’s not much we can do to get rid of them. It’s not a ghost, or a demon, or even a bloody cryptid that exists in some silly story or other . . . just bats.”
A long howl followed, but one eerie in nature. It came from outside, as if in the distance, and yet the source could not be seen, as the rainy windowpanes reflected back nothing but the interior of the lounge. It could best be described as a ‘cry’, like that of a newborn wail, and it stuck painfully in the psyche, as a cold chill washed over the three friends. They looked over Nikolai and straight to Kevin, who locked eyes with each of them in turn. He held a long and hard stare, and said in a cold and serious voice:
“That’s just foxes.”
A rough croaking sound broke though the rain, loud and inhuman, much like a demon from a supernatural horror or the primordial scratching of two tectonic plates, and nothing in nature could quite match the mental image that it brought forth. Kevin merely said:
“Muntjac. It’s a barking deer.”
A howl. One piercing and shrill, like a werewolf or a wild creature, but this time in came from upstairs, within the confines of the house. It echoed downwards as if in warning, something that perhaps could be called ‘human’, but only if one were generous with the term.
“Daddy probably just stubbed his toe.”
They fell into an awkward silence, as the fireplace cast moving shadows about the room. Rinko sat close enough to feel the flames, while Jacqueline rested her head on Mantaro’s chest, and Nikolai – ever silent, ever patient – drank his tea while he read his book. The eerie atmosphere pervaded every inch of the lounge, penetrating through the otherwise pleasant company, and a cold shiver ran down each of their spines. It left them all tense. Afraid.
Kevin leaned his head against the cold pain of glass. The lock of pink hair caught on some condensation, adding to his ‘alternative’ look, and Mantaro smiled to remember the criticism that Kevin used to get whenever Robin was in his presence . . . ‘you look far too much like a punk; why must you dye such beautiful hair?’ It was rare to see him unmasked, but the sight was proof of trust and that trust was proof of friendship. Still, that moment of contentment was at once ruined by a strange smell . . . something putrid, rotten . . . diseased . . .
“Er,” Mantaro mumbled. “Can I smell sulphur?”
“I burned some eggs,” huffed Kevin. “I’m a bad cook, okay?”
“And is that a bloodstain on the rug? The eyes on the portrait are –”
Kevin lifted his callused hands. It was a gesture of surrender. He turned his blue eyes onto each of the three in turn, pausing to take them all in, and his chest expanded slowly with a deep and heavy breath that soon turned into a long sigh. He swung his feet onto the floor. He dropped his hands onto his lap, as he slumped forward and took time to gather himself. A draught swept through the lounge and caught at the embers, which in turn threw an exaggerated light over his person, so that light and shadow mingled in a strange battle. He looked truly alive.
“Look, it’s an old house!” Kevin waved a dismissive hand. “The floorboards creak when the house settles at night, and the wind howls down the chimney, and draughts will catch at open doors and slam them shut. You must have the same issues at Muscle Palace, no?”
“No! That’s because Muscle Palace isn’t haunted!”
“Neither is this place! The ‘bloodstain’ is a wine stain from my childhood, and the portraits are all of various family members, but a few are designed to make it seem like the eyes follow you, because it makes the portraits more personal. The worst thing in this house that you’re likely to see is Nikolai before his morning coffee. The ko-ho sounds more ghastly than a ghost.”
Warsman tossed a cushion at him. He effortlessly caught it with both hands, but – despite the playful chastisement – he bore a bright and affectionate smile. It was the first time since their visit that Mantaro saw Kevin smile, and it was almost sweet in a way that Warsman was the one to bring a smile to such a stoic face. It was love. Warsman returned to his book, but – with an ironically timed hissing of breath – closed it and rested his hand on the cover.
Mantaro watched. It was hard to read his expression, if not impossible, as the mask was so impenetrable and the eyes so robotic in nature, but his shoulders were soft and his fingers traced graceful patterns on the cover in such a graceful fashion. He seemed relaxed. It was the sort of demeanour that was contagious in nature, as – very quickly – Mantaro felt relaxed just by being in his presence, and he could have melted into the sofa in pure happiness, with his arms wrapped around Jacqueline and the scent of her apple-scented shampoo washing over him.
A bang echoed out.
It came from the staircase beyond the lounge, where the shadows consumed the house and cast it into a pall of darkness. The sound was rhythmic, like the tick, tick, tick of a metronome, but harder and colder . . . a body being dragged down stairs, an axe dropping down steps . . . it conjured otherworldly images, but not one pleasant in nature. All three friends turned to look out of the door, each peering into the abyss beyond, and all waiting – waiting – to see what creature might emerge from the darkness. Mantaro swallowed hard.
A white figure materialised on the bottom step. It was translucent in nature, with a stark white face and long limbs hidden beneath an equally white robe, and it almost glided along the staircase, with its hand tracing a slow path down the bannister. A low groan emitted from its throat . . . raspy, primal, demonic . . . a cold sweat broke over Mantaro, as his heart raced within his chest and his mind grew hazy and unfocused. He was dizzy. Weak. Frightened.
It was hard to say who ran first, except that Mantaro remembered elbowing someone to get out of the opposite doorway as quickly as possible. He was a man possessed. The sheer adrenaline rush blinded him to everything except his escape, as he practically clamoured over Jacqueline and bulldozed past Rinko, and – joining the cacophony of their screams – he let loose a high-pitched wail that could put any ghost to shame. Rinko and Jaqueline fought to get out of the door behind him, while Kevin could only stare on with confusion and dismay.
“Hey!” Kevin shouted. “That’s just Daddy, you twats!”
Warsman burst out into laughter. Robin simply came to stand sleepily in the doorway, where he rubbed at his mask as if it were a fatigued face. The three friends were long gone, each likely hiding in a very different part of the manor, and Kevin – exhausted and defeated – sank his head into his hands and rubbed his temples. Robin could only look between his best friend and child, as he furrowed his brow beneath his mask and wondered where the others went. He cast his gaze finally back to Kevin, before he let out a yawn and asked tiredly:
“What did I miss?”