“Of course- oh. I suppose you’ve only seen the basement so far. Yes, this is Eldergrave Manor, seat of the von Kranssovs. Uh, welcome.” Kemp watched in bemusement as she dipped a small curtsy. “Sorry to be rude. We don’t get many visitors, so I’m not really sure how the maids say hello.”

“…That was fine,” said Kemp faintly. “Its just not what I’m used to. Anyway. Could I have my belt?”

“Of course!” Nikha handed it back, having forgotten she was even holding it. After buckling it, he pulled out the pathfinder.

Nikha, meanwhile, stared about in wonderment at their surroundings. They seemed to be in a perfectly normal Eldergrave hallway. Patterned rug, dark paneling, old paintings and phlogiston chandeliers- all was where it should be.

She turned back to Kemp, who holstered the device. “It says left.” They glanced back and forth, but couldn’t really tell a difference. Both directions went straight a ways, then hit a corner.

“Let’s be off, then,” said Nikha, and they were. By the lack of windows, this hallway was somewhere in the interior of the house. Nikha didn’t recognize it, though. Most likely it had been twisted like so many of the others. Their walk was uneventful, if unsettling. The rug muffled their footsteps and muted the creaking of the floor, and the light was good as well: bright blue-white phlogiston arcs filtered through crystal chandeliers. The paintings, though, were far from wholesome.

For every portrait or battle scene that had gone unchanged, two more had been warped into something awful. The faces of Nikha’s ancestors wore slight, sinister smirks, their proportions just slightly off. Others had a strange, almost iridescent pallor to their skin, some property which conjured up thoughts of albino snakes or eyeless cave fish. The landscapes were even worse. Here, a mountain of ice with black ichor flowing from a hole in its side. There, a procession of emaciated gray figures, certainly not human, marching across a desert of ash. Here, a woman, eyeless and handless, kneeling in supplication before a black sun. There, a vertiginous view across a city made of mold, its eye-aching architecture and impossible spires drooling down a great cratered scarp beneath a sky full of strange stars.

“Your family has some-urk-daring tastes in art,” said Kemp as he peered queasily at one that looked like a forest of green, rotting meat.

“All the nasty ones aren’t supposed to be here!” Nikha protested. “They only showed up after things got weird.”

“Like this one?” He pointed at a portrait of a man whose face seemed to possess the worst qualities of both a bulldog and a toad.

Nikha squinted at it a moment. “No, that one’s normal. Count Feodor von Ferizhin. My great-great…great-uncle, I think? Yes. Hasn’t changed.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Nikha shrugged. “He’s been dead for at least a century, and I doubt I’d have liked him anyway.”

“I…see.” At first the hallway had been clean and unspoiled, with the exception of the paintings. The farther they walked, though, the worse it got. It began with a few dark stains on the carpet. Then they appeared on the walls too, smears and gouts and even handprints of dark red.

“Um, Nikha, there’s blood everywhere.” Kemp spoke in a whisper, nervously pointing at the walls.

“Oh, I know.” She kept going.

“Is-is that normal?”

“Of course it isn’t- Oh. I see,” she said over her shoulder. “A lot of the house has been like this since I woke up. I suppose it’s almost stopped bothering me.”

“Maybe I’ll get used to it too,” replied Kemp, though he still looked uncomfortable. The bloodstains grew in frequency until they rounded a corner and came to a spot red all across the floor and halfway up the walls, with splashes nearly reaching the ceiling.

“It’s like someone slaughtered a couple of pigs,” Kemp muttered. They were both so busy looking at the mess that they didn’t notice the filthy man standing on the other side-at least until he took a step back and made the floor creak.

Nikha’s gun was at her shoulder and cocked almost before she realized it. Kemp froze, then moved his hand to his belt. The man’s hands immediately shot up. “Wait! Wait! I’m not going to hurt you!” His voice was cracked, frantic-and familiar.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

“Yeskov?” called Nikha. “Viscount Yeskov, is that you?”

“N-Nikha? Von Kranssov? Yes, it’s me! Would you, er, could you kindly refrain from shooting me? I s-swear, I mean you no harm.”

“Oh! Yes, of course.” Nikha lowered her gun and leaned toward her companion. “That’s the Viscount Efrey Yeskov, Kemp. Another local noble. I’ve met him before.”

He reluctantly stopped going for his gun. “Are you sure we can trust him?”

She thought about it, a slight frown on her face. “I…I think so. We can hear what he has to say, at least.” Yeskov approached them after they put down their weapons. He looked ragged almost to the point of comedy, like a character from one of Belichnikov’s farces. His tight blue breeches were torn and stained, he was missing a shoe, half his pink doublet’s buttons were gone, and the out-of-fashion ruff at his neck had gone sadly floppy and was missing a chunk. The whole ensemble was stained and spattered with blood and other fluids, as was his face- which, with his weak chin and watery eyes, had always reminded Nikha of the stunted lapdogs favored by some noblewomen.

“It is good to see you safe, Nikha dear!” he exclaimed with a weak smile. “I had feared the worst. And who is your friend, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“He’s-“ Nikha shut her mouth, remembering last time.

Kemp gave her an appreciative nod. “I’m Kemp Ysantov, sir,” he said coolly. “Good to meet you.”

“Ah, the pleasure is mine, young man. If I may so inquire-“

“My apologies, Yeskov, but do you have any idea what’s going on?” Nikha felt a little bad about interrupting him, but from the few times he’d visited her father she knew he was the sort of man who wouldn’t take offense, as well as the sort that would go on forever about nothing if she didn’t.

“I understand my father had some kind of gathering last night, and then when I woke up this morning there was blood everywhere, and things are all wrong, Yesika is dead-“ She cut herself off and held her breath a moment, trying to calm down while Yeskov looked at her nervously. “What I am trying to ask, Viscount, is what happened?”

His face assumed a pained grimace, and she realized immediately the sort of answer she would receive. “I must confess, dear girl, that I am nearly in the dark as you are. Oh, please don’t be cross with me-“

“I’m not, Yeskov,” she said through a furious scowl. It was only half a lie.

“Er, of course. Last night we indeed had a gathering organized by your father. ‘We’ meaning a group of like-minded dabblers in engineering, phlogistics, the physical sciences…nothing so formal as to even have a name. We’d been corresponding for years, but this was the first time we all met in person. After our discussion we adjourned to the ballroom. The drinks were flowing quite freely, and I must admit I overindulged. You know what they say about we Tsevians and liquor, of course.” He made a weak, forced laugh, but Nikha just watched and waited for him to continue, Kemp standing impassive by her side.

“I cannot remember much of what happened past eleven o’clock or so, but I awoke in nearly so filthy a state as I am now, and in this vicinity, wherever that may be.” He blinked rapidly and for a moment Nikha thought he would cry. “I don’t believe I ever recieved a full tour, Nikha, but your home is much larger than I’d thought.”

“It’s...” Nikha sighed. She was too weary to explain. “Yes. It is. Have you seen my father, Viscount? Or anyone else?”

The raggedy nobleman perked up as she asked. “While I’m sorry to say I’ve not seen the dear Count Lyiz since last night, there is one spot of light in this mess. Soon after waking I found a group of survivors, and we’ve holed up in the servant’s refectory.”

“Survivors?” Kemp suddenly asked.

“Y-yes. I’ve encountered more than a few, ahem, mortal remains since waking. Something terrible has happened, as I’m sure the both of you have realized, and the living seem in rather short supply. Now, perhaps you’d like to join us? We’ve running water, at least, though the food’s all turned.”

The pair turned to each other. “What do you think?” Nikha whispered.

“I don’t know…you said you’ve met him before? What’s he like?”

Nikha thought for a moment, a small frown crossing her face. Yeskov had visited a few times to shoot pigeons with Papa, chattering nervously about local issues: Conscription drives, the Summoner’s Tithe, the spread of seditious literature-and literacy-among the peasantry, other things of that nature. All very boring stuff, in her estimation. She’d only bothered spending any time around him at all because he always brought his bespoke Bond & Rwfllch shotgun, imported all the way from Cymdwth. He never hit much of anything with it, but it was a very fine piece and he’d let her try it out.

“Harmless,” she finally said. “That’s the word which comes to mind.”

Kemp frowned back, hemming and hawing, but finally assented. “Okay. We’ll go with him and see these survivors. But I’m keeping my gun close.”

“M-me too.” Nikha was a bit surprised he was so worried. But then again, he did get attacked by that woman before. And Yeskov’s not looking too trustworthy. The older man was waiting antsily in his filthy finery, eyes darting everywhere but at them. “Very close,” she confirmed, then turned back to Yeskov with a firm nod. “Viscount, we’ve decided to accompany you.”

“Splendid!” shouted Yeskov, so loud and sudden Nikha jumped. “Ap-apologies. Present circumstances have my nerves rather frayed. That’s wonderful, I mean to say. Please follow me, now. Everyone will be ecstatic to see the lady of the house is safe and sound.”

Anger flashed in Nikha’s eyes, and Yeskov went white as a sheet.“My mother is the lady of the house, sir. The Chatelaine Merianne Lutresse Tamourginne de Mivral et Langue-Crecy von Kranssov, in case you have forgotten her name. Viscount.”

“I-I-I am so very sorry, Lady Nikha.” He bent into a full vow. I hope you can forgive my, er, gaffe. If you would…” He made an ushering motion with his clammy hands.

Nikha paused a moment before answering, just long enough to worry him. “You are forgiven, Viscount. Lead on.” Yeskov bobbed his head and turned, heading the same way they’d been going.