Chapter 700
Rain lashed against the windows of the old farmhouse, each drop a cold finger tapping against the glass, mirroring the unease growing within Julian's chest.
He had come from the warmth of Bermuda seeking solitude, a respite from the turquoise waters and perpetual sunshine.
This inherited property in the grey, damp countryside seemed a world away, steeped in a different kind of atmosphere, thick with the scent of damp earth and something else, something indefinable yet subtly disturbing.
He was thirty-three, a man accustomed to the predictable rhythm of island life, where storms were brief tantrums, not drawn-out sieges. This place felt different, ancient, holding secrets in its very stones.
The will had been clear, leaving him this isolated farm, a place his great-uncle had abandoned decades prior.
Curiosity, more than any real desire to own rural land, had brought him here. The farmhouse was habitable, if somewhat dilapidated, but it was the stables further down the overgrown track that had piqued his interest.
He could see them from the kitchen window, a long, low building swallowed by shadows even in the weak daylight hours. They seemed to watch him, silent and expectant.
The first few days were spent exploring, cautiously at first, then with a growing sense of adventure.
He discovered the stables were far larger than he had anticipated, divided into numerous stalls, most empty, some still holding the faint, lingering odor of hay and horse sweat.
It was a place frozen in time, harness hooks rusting on the walls, discarded horseshoes scattered like forgotten coins. He found old tools, leather tack, and a sense of profound stillness that settled heavily.
It was on the third night that he heard it. A sound carried on the wind, faint yet distinct, a low, rhythmic thumping from the direction of the stables.
He dismissed it at first, the house creaking in the wind, or perhaps the branches of the ancient oaks groaning against each other. But the thumping persisted, a steady, unwavering beat that burrowed into his awareness.
He got out of bed, pulling on a thick sweater against the chill that seeped through the old stone walls, and moved to the window.
The rain had lessened to a drizzle, and the moon, a sliver of pale light, occasionally broke through the clouds, casting fleeting shadows across the yard.
He could see the outline of the stables, darker than the surrounding landscape, silent except for the persistent, rhythmic thumping. It was louder now, closer, and undeniably coming from within the stable building. Curiosity wrestled with a nascent unease, a feeling he couldn't quite place, yet it held him rooted to the spot.
He hesitated for a long moment, telling himself it was just the wind, or some animal seeking shelter in the old building.
But the rhythm was too deliberate, too measured to be natural. He fetched a flashlight from the kitchen drawer, its beam cutting a weak swathe through the gloom, and stepped out into the night.
The air was cold, heavy with moisture, and the ground beneath his boots was soft and yielding. As he walked towards the stables, the thumping grew louder, resonating in the stillness, a dark heartbeat in the rural silence.
He reached the stable doors, two large, heavy panels of aged wood, secured by a rusty latch. The thumping was coming from inside, definitely, a solid, repetitive sound that vibrated through the wood.
Taking a deep breath, he unlatched the doors and pushed them open. They groaned in protest, hinges stiff with disuse, and the beam of his flashlight sliced into the darkness within.
The interior of the stables was cavernous, the roof lost in shadow, the stalls stretching into the gloom on either side. The thumping was louder still, echoing off the wooden walls, and he could now discern a secondary sound, a soft, scraping noise accompanying the beat.
He moved further inside, his flashlight beam dancing across the stalls, picking out details – empty mangers, cobweb-draped partitions, the glint of metal from forgotten buckles.
And then he saw him. At the far end of the stables, in the deepest shadows, stood a figure. He was tall, gaunt, barely illuminated by the weak flashlight beam, but Julian could make out the shape of a man, standing motionless in one of the stalls.
The thumping was coming from him, or rather, from the stall beside him, where something unseen was being repeatedly struck.
Julian's heart quickened its pace. "Hello?" he called out, his voice sounding thin and reedy in the vast space. The figure remained still, silent, as if carved from shadow itself. The thumping continued, rhythmic and unsettling.
He took another step forward, his flashlight beam wavering slightly. "Is anyone there?" he asked, his voice firmer this time, laced with a growing tension.
Slowly, the figure turned its head. It was a man, undeniably, though his features were obscured by shadow.
He was dressed in dark, worn clothing, and as he turned, Julian could see something in his hand, a heavy wooden mallet, raised slightly as if paused mid-swing.
The thumping stopped abruptly. The only sound was the soft drizzle of rain outside and Julian's own ragged breathing.
"Can I help you?" Julian asked, trying to keep his voice even, though his nerves were tightening. The man remained silent, his face still hidden in the shadows.
He slowly lowered the mallet, the scraping sound returning as it dragged against the wooden stall partition. Julian stepped closer, drawn by a morbid curiosity that overrode his apprehension.
"I just inherited this place," Julian explained, gesturing around the stables. "I'm just checking things out." Still, the man said nothing. He remained rooted to the spot, his silence more unnerving than any words could have been.
Julian took another step, closing the distance between them. As he moved, his flashlight beam caught the man's face for a fleeting moment.
What he saw sent a jolt of cold fear through him. The man's face was pale, gaunt, with eyes that seemed too large, too dark, reflecting the flashlight beam like pools of black ink.
They were fixed on Julian, unblinking, and held an expression that was utterly devoid of warmth, devoid of anything human. It was a look of cold, ancient sorrow, a gaze that seemed to pierce through him, chilling him to the bone.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the drip of water from the stable roof. Julian could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
He wanted to retreat, to back away slowly and leave this unsettling figure in the shadows, but something held him rooted to the spot, a morbid fascination with the silent, spectral man.
Finally, the stable man spoke, his voice low, raspy, like dry leaves rustling in the wind. "Lost," he said, the single word hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.
It wasn't a question, but a statement, delivered with an unnerving finality. Julian frowned, puzzled. "Lost? What do you mean, lost?" he asked, stepping closer still, his fear warring with an insistent need to understand.
The stable man moved then, stepping out of the stall and into the dim light. He was taller than Julian had initially perceived, his frame thin and almost skeletal.
His clothes were old, patched and faded, hanging loosely on his emaciated body. He held the mallet loosely in one hand, its head stained dark, the wood worn smooth with age and use.
"The way," the stable man rasped, his dark eyes never leaving Julian's face. "Lost the way. All of them." He gestured vaguely around the stables with the mallet, encompassing the empty stalls, the silent space.
Julian's unease intensified. This man wasn't just strange, he was…off, disconnected from reality, speaking in riddles.
"Are you…are you the stable man?" Julian asked hesitantly, trying to make sense of the situation.
The man nodded slowly, a single, deliberate movement of his head. "Been here," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Long time." Julian glanced around the stables again, the empty stalls seeming to mock him in their silence. "Are you…working here?" he asked, a ridiculous question even as he uttered it.
The stable man's gaze deepened, his dark eyes boring into Julian's. "Work never ends," he murmured, his voice laced with an undercurrent of despair that sent another shiver down Julian's spine. He raised the mallet slightly, his gaze shifting to the stall beside him, the one from which the thumping had originated. "Come," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "See."
He turned and moved back into the stall, beckoning Julian to follow with a skeletal hand. Julian hesitated, his instincts screaming at him to stay back, to retreat into the safety of the farmhouse and lock the doors.
But the morbid curiosity, the need to understand the source of the unsettling thumping, drew him forward. He followed the stable man into the stall, his flashlight beam illuminating the space.
The stall was empty, seemingly. Just straw on the floor, the wooden walls, nothing unusual. Julian frowned, turning back to the stable man, a question forming on his lips.
But then he saw it. On the floor of the stall, half-hidden beneath a layer of straw, was a dark stain. It was almost black in the dim light, and it emanated a faint, metallic odor that made Julian's stomach churn.
He bent down, pushing aside the straw with the toe of his boot. The stain was larger than he had initially thought, spreading across a wide area of the stall floor.
And then he saw the source of the thumping. Embedded in the floorboards, almost flush with the surface, was a series of metal rings. Heavy iron rings, set deep into the wood, arranged in a pattern that made no immediate sense to Julian.
"What are these?" Julian asked, his voice low, his flashlight beam focused on the rings. The stable man stepped closer, looming over him in the confined space of the stall. He raised the mallet again, and this time, Julian understood.
He brought the mallet down, hard, onto one of the iron rings. The sound echoed through the stables – a dull, sickening thud. The thumping from before.
Julian recoiled, stepping back from the rings. "What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice sharper now, his fear finally breaking through.
The stable man didn't answer. He raised the mallet again, and brought it down on another ring. Thud. Thud. Thud. He began to strike the rings in a rhythmic pattern, the dull thuds echoing in the silence, each strike sending a jolt of unease through Julian.
As the stable man continued his rhythmic striking, Julian noticed something else. Faint lines, almost invisible at first, were appearing in the straw around the rings. Thin, dark lines, spreading outwards from the embedded metal.
He leaned closer, peering at the lines in the dim light. And then he understood. They weren't lines. They were cracks. Cracks in the wooden floorboards, radiating out from the rings, spiderwebbing across the stall floor.
The stable man continued his rhythmic pounding, the cracks widening with each strike, the wood groaning under the repeated impacts.
Julian watched in horrified fascination as the stall floor began to splinter, the cracks deepening, spreading, forming a fractured pattern around the iron rings. And then, with a final, resounding thud of the mallet, the floor gave way.
The wood splintered and collapsed inwards, creating a gaping hole in the stall floor. A wave of foul, stagnant air rushed upwards, carrying with it a stench that made Julian gag.
He recoiled, stumbling backwards, his flashlight beam falling into the newly created abyss. Darkness. Absolute, impenetrable darkness. And from within that darkness, a sound.
Not a thumping this time, but a different sound, a soft, rustling, scraping sound, like something shifting in the depths below.
Julian held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest, his flashlight beam trembling as he tried to pierce the darkness of the hole.
The stable man stood beside him, motionless, his dark eyes fixed on the opening in the floor, a strange, almost expectant expression on his gaunt face.
The rustling sound grew louder, closer, accompanied by a low, guttural groan that seemed to vibrate from the very earth beneath their feet. Julian's blood ran cold.
He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that something was down there, something ancient and terrible, something the stable man had been calling forth with his rhythmic pounding.
And then, from the darkness, something began to emerge.
Slowly, hesitantly at first, then with growing urgency, something was rising from the hole. Not a creature of flesh and blood, not an animal, not anything Julian could readily identify.
It was…a darkness given form. Tendrils of black, viscous substance, like tar mixed with shadow, writhed upwards, coiling and twisting, reaching out of the abyss.
They were slick, glistening in the flashlight beam, and they exuded an aura of profound cold, a cold that seeped into Julian's bones, numbing him to his core.
The tendrils thickened as they emerged, coalescing into a mass, a writhing, amorphous shape that swelled and pulsed in the dim light of the stables.
The stench intensified, a cloying, sickly sweet odor that spoke of decay and corruption. Julian stared, paralyzed by terror, as the shapeless mass grew larger, its tendrils reaching out, probing the air, searching, seeking.
The stable man stepped forward, his gaunt face illuminated by an unholy light reflected from the writhing darkness.
He raised the mallet once more, not to strike, but to offer it, extending it towards the amorphous mass, as if presenting a gift. And then he spoke again, his voice a mere whisper, barely audible above the rustling, groaning sound emanating from the darkness.
"Yours," he rasped, his voice filled with a sorrow that echoed the cold despair in his eyes. "They are yours now." He turned to Julian, his dark gaze locking onto his. "Lost," he whispered again, the word hanging in the air like a curse. "
Lost the way. And now…you are lost too." And with that, he stepped forward, towards the writhing darkness, towards the abyss he had opened. He walked willingly into the grasping tendrils, offering himself to the shapeless horror that had risen from below.
The tendrils closed around him, engulfing him in an instant, swallowing him whole. The darkness pulsed, and then, with a final, shuddering groan, began to retract, sinking back into the hole, pulling the stable man with it.
In moments, it was gone, the hole in the stall floor empty, save for the lingering stench and the faint echo of rustling darkness.
Julian stood frozen, his flashlight beam fixed on the empty hole, his mind reeling from what he had just witnessed. The stable man, the rhythmic thumping, the darkness from below – it all coalesced into a nightmare reality that defied comprehension.
He was alone in the stables again, the silence heavier now, oppressive, broken only by the drip of rain outside. He was lost, just as the stable man had said. Lost in a world of shadows and ancient horrors, a world he had stumbled into by chance, by inheriting a farm he never truly wanted.
He had come seeking solitude, but he had found something far darker, something that had claimed the stable man, and now, he knew with chilling certainty, had claimed a part of him as well.
The weight of the encounter settled upon him, a burden he would carry back to the sun-drenched shores of Bermuda, a shadow forever cast across his island life, a reminder of the darkness that lurked beneath the surface of the world, a darkness he could never truly escape, eternally haunted by the stable man and the abyss he had opened.