《I Have a Dark Manor》
The Rainy Night Heir
Raindrops were pelting Cole Gray¡¯s leather jacket like relentless debt collectors. He wiped the water off his face, stared at the crumpled lawyer¡¯s letter in his hand¡ªwrinkled like a shriveled pickle¡ªand then glanced over at the iron gate across the street. The faded plaque for ¡°Gray Manor¡± had long since peeled away, leaving only a rusty imprint. When soaked by rain, it oozed a red hue, almost like blood that hadn¡¯t been wiped clean after a stab.
¡°100,000 visitors a year? This crappy dump wouldn¡¯t even get a stray cat to do its business!¡± Cole sneered at his phone¡¯s camera, rolling his eyes. The livestream¡¯s title was all flashy¡ª¡°Paranormal Adventure! Mysterious Inheritance Revealed!¡±¡ªyet only 37 people were tuned in. One comment popped up: ¡°Stop showing off, streamer¡ªgo drink some toilet water already!¡±
Grinning, he pointed the camera at the battered gate. ¡°Alright, folks, watch closely¡ªyou''re about to witness some real supernatural mojo!¡± He fished a deck of cards from his pocket, the Ace of Spades spinning between his fingers like a tiny electric fan. This trick had scammed plenty of suckers outside Vegas casinos back in the day; who¡¯d have thought he¡¯d have to use it to open his own door? Just as the card brushed the lock, his finger suddenly went icy cold.
¡°Fuck!¡± he cursed, yanking his hand back to find a smear of dark red on the card¡¯s corner that reeked like rust.
The manor¡¯s main building loomed in the rain¡ªdark, grim, and hunched over like a limping old mutt. Cole crept into the foyer on creaking wooden floors, and as his flashlight beam swept across the ceiling, a swarm of bats burst out, nearly blanking his face.
¡°Welcome to Gray¡¯s Haunted House¡ªfree entry, and if it scares you, well, too bad!¡± he announced to the camera, flashing a ridiculously cheesy peace sign. Suddenly, the viewer count jumped past 100, and the chat exploded: ¡°Ceiling! There¡¯s something on the ceiling!!¡±
Cole looked up¡ªand nearly lost his mind. Dangling from a beam was a plaster angel statue, its cracked mouth oozing dark, dripping fluid.
¡°Guys! This is the lost art of levitation!¡± he blurted, fumbling to whip out a magnet hook hidden up his sleeve. With a loud clang, the statue crashed at his feet, sending a cloud of dust swirling. The chat lit up with ¡°Streamer, you rock!¡± and one user named ¡°EverydayGhosts¡± even dropped a yacht gift.
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Over in the study, an old, creaky desk¡ªbarely hanging together¡ªheld an envelope sealed with wax stamped with a one-eyed crow. Cole just pried the seal open with a letter opener when the blade¡¯s tip started spitting out tiny sparks.
¡°Dear nephew,¡± he read in a trembling voice, ¡°if you can¡¯t get this dump to hit 100,000 visitors in a year, the place goes to the Dark Moon Society¡¡± Outside, a thunderclap boomed, and suddenly red letters began to seep through the back of the letter: Don¡¯t trust those bastards.
In the corner, an ancient telegraph machine started buzzing like it was possessed, spitting out a paper strip covered in sticky red words:
Task 1: Fix up the puppet theater (Progress 0/1)
Reward: Unlock the staff break room
Warning: Don¡¯t you dare open the attic door!
¡°My uncle¡¯s sense of humor is dark as hell,¡± Cole muttered as he snapped a photo of the paper strip with his phone¡ªeven though the screen was filled with static. Then the chat went berserk: ¡°Behind you! Behind you!!¡±
Spinning around, his blood ran cold¡ªthe telegraph¡¯s plug wasn¡¯t even plugged in. From the direction of the attic came creaking sounds, like nails scraping on a coffin lid. Just as Cole¡¯s hand reached for the doorknob, the whole house began shaking like it was in the middle of an earthquake. A crystal chandelier crashed with a massive bang right where he¡¯d been standing, showering the camera with shards of glass. The last image before the stream cut off was the ceiling, covered in scratch marks as if clawed by ten cats.
Clutching the letter opener, Cole backed away as the dark hallway filled with the rustle of fabric. Out from behind an oil painting stepped a figure as white as chalk, dressed in a crisp black suit sharp enough to be a weapon, with a silver ponytail that swayed hypnotically. The guy was also holding a small silver bottle, spraying disinfectant with a sizzling sound.
¡°I¡¯m Lucien DeDracula¡ªthe (sort-of) caretaker of this dump,¡± the man declared in a tone as cold and stiff as a coffin board. ¡°That is, if you manage to survive tonight.¡±
Cole tucked the playing card back between his fingers and quipped, ¡°What, are vampires rebranding for a second career now?¡±
¡°First, don¡¯t call me that lame-ass term,¡± Lucien snapped, grabbing a wet wipe to clean his letter opener. ¡°Second¡¡± He suddenly materialized behind Cole, his cold breath brushing against his ear, ¡°your old man once tried to burn this place down¡ªwith this very knife.¡±
Without warning, the telegraph went berserk again, spitting out another paper strip drenched in a bloody vibe:
Emergency Task: Find your old man¡¯s eye before midnight (Countdown 01:23:45)
Lucien¡¯s disinfectant bottle clattered to the floor. For the first time, Cole saw that arrogant guy actually look scared. Then, the attic door creaked open just a crack, and something round rolled down the stairs¡ª
A bloodshot eyeball, with a crow¡¯s mark etched into its pupil.
The Blood Pact
Rain lashed against the manor¡¯s stained-glass windows as Cole Gray stared at the pulsating eyeball on the study floor. Lucien Dracul, his newly acquired vampire valet, lifted the grotesque orb with silver tweezers. The silk handkerchief beneath it sizzled, eaten through by blackened rot.
¡°The Eye of the Abyssal Watcher,¡± Lucien said, his Transylvanian accent sharpening each syllable. ¡°Your father held one just like this before he vanished. Burned his palm to the bone.¡±
Cole rotated the antique letter opener in his hand¡ªhis father¡¯s letter opener. Moonlight caught the Latin inscription near the hilt: Veritas in sanguine. Truth in blood. The blade¡¯s edge bore scorch marks shaped like raven wings.
¡°So you let him torch the place?¡± Cole prodded the eye, making it twitch.
Lucien¡¯s disinfectant spray bottle froze mid-spritz. ¡°The night your father pried open the cellar door,¡± he said, polishing an already immaculate candelabra, ¡°every portrait in the Rose Corridor screamed until dawn.¡±
The third-floor hallway exhaled frost as they climbed. Cole counted mold blooms in the peeling wallpaper¡ªblack roses with thorns that bled tarnished gold. Lucien yanked him backward just as a rusted bear trap snapped shut where his foot had been.
¡°Your great-grandfather¡¯s welcoming gift for tax collectors,¡± Lucien said, crushing the trap under his Italian leather boot. ¡°1967 was such a¡ creative year.¡±
At the puppet theater¡¯s entrance, twin copper serpents coiled around the doorknob. Cole pressed the letter opener¡¯s tip into a snake¡¯s hollow eye socket. The Latin inscription glowed crimson, and gears groaned behind walls. The door creaked open, releasing a stench of rancid grease and decay.
Thirty marionettes hung from cobweb strings, their porcelain faces cracked into permanent screams. The stage curtains bore waxen handprints¡ªtoo small to be adult, too twisted to be human. Cole stepped on a warped floorboard, and the entire platform flipped.
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They crashed into a wine cellar turned laboratory. Rows of glass jars lined the shelves, each holding animal eyes floating in murky fluid. The telegram machine in Cole¡¯s pocket vibrated violently. He unfurled the new task slip, its message bleeding fresh:
MATCHMAKER GAME: FIND THE WATCHER¡¯S LEFT EYE (43:12 REMAINING)
WARNING: REFLECTIONS LIE
Lucien¡¯s silver pocket watch began ticking backward. Cole raised his phone flashlight, only to see his reflection grin maliciously. The mirror-Cole lunged through the screen, ice-cold fingers seizing his wrist.
The real Lucien stabbed the phone with a steak knife. The screen gushed black ichor as the vampire tore his shirt open, revealing a raven-shaped brand over his heart. ¡°This mark binds us,¡± he hissed. ¡°Die recklessly, and I¡¯ll resurrect you just to kill you myself.¡±
They split up in the jar labyrinth. Cole¡¯s fingertips brushed a raised symbol on a jar¡¯s base¡ªthe same raven sigil from Lucien¡¯s chest. Mocking laughter echoed as three mirror-Coles materialized.
¡°Mommy and Daddy¡¯s eyeballs are in jar B-12!¡± they chorused, voices dripping with static.
Lucien hurled his disinfectant spray upward. The liquid arced through the chandelier, refracting into a spectral net that pinned the impostors. Real Cole flicked a playing card¡ªits edge sprouted razor blades midair, slicing through the illusions¡¯ throats.
Jar B-12 held a desiccated left eye veined with gold. When the twin irises met, Cole¡¯s right arm erupted in pain. Blood-red tattoos crawled across his skin: a manor bound by chains, the largest padlock positioned exactly over Lucien¡¯s raven brand.
The vampire scrubbed Cole¡¯s arm with holy water-laced sanitizer. ¡°The pact is sealed. Every death of yours now costs me a decade trapped in this purgatory.¡±
Back in the study, the telegram machine coughed up a sepia photograph. Cole¡¯s parents were chained to a roulette wheel, their eye sockets hollow. Scrawled on the back: ¡°We gambled their retinas last time. Your turn.¡±
A crash thundered from the attic. They arrived to find boot prints in the windowsill frost¡ªsize 7 women¡¯s, with a tread pattern matching Lucien¡¯s 1950s fashion magazines.
As Cole polished the letter opener, flakes of Latin script chipped away, revealing older runes beneath: ¡°Only the undying may witness the truth.¡± Lucien stared at the dawn bleeding through stained glass.
¡°Before your father burned the West Gallery,¡± he said, snapping his watch shut¡ªits inner mirror showed no reflections¡ª¡°he claimed this house guards something older than the Dark Moon Society.¡±
From deep below, iron chains shattered.