Amélie Dulay 3rd may 2049

It has been years since I came here. The arrival via the overland roads was pleasant, all birdsong and fresh air. I had opened up the Cabrio and bought some groceries from a farm on the way, picnicking at noon halfway to my destination on a hill with vision of a beautiful valley full of fields and woods. Before dusk, I arrived, the crumpled up paper in my hand.

“Amé. You are the only one I can ask for this now that most of my students left me. I willed you my property – do with it as you wish, but go there and bring my effects in order. Most importantly, take my research and send it to a university you trust. I know that you have broad interests and of course I thought you as a child, so you should understand enough to make an informed decision. I know you think I am crazy, and my most sincere wish would be to simply leave it at that. Unfortunately, I have no such luxury. Please forgive me. - oncle Pièrre”

Of course, the place wasn’t visible from the road. And of course, the weather had changed, giving the proper backdrop to my task and feelings.

I could have spared myself the arduous track to the house from the townward side of the property by finding the dirt road that entered it from amongst the hills with their dilapidated vineyards, which had fallen into disrepair during the recession of ’24.

Of course, the property's own orchards had been neglected long before that. I knew the old dirt road was still maintained, since I had been the one paying for the maintenance, a not insignificant sum each year, in the vain hope to maintain my uncle’s strenuous grip onto society and a semblance of normalcy. But In my wisdom, I decided to park amongst the villas and housed on the edge of the town, fumbling with the heavy keyring the notary had provided me with. The rusty cast iron monstrosity defied my attempts to open it until I came back with my car’s toolbox and broke off the padlock. I had planned to break the lock, not the fixtures on which it was mounted. Oh well. The obstacle out of the way, I began my ascent to the top of what uncle had named lookout hill. The mansion was visible from there, as was the path needed to reach it through the wooded land. The ancient, weathered stone steps, placed here during the time of the empire were uneven and overgrown, and while climbing, I got the same eerie feeling I vaguely recalled from being a child. Back then I had not been able to tell why the old mansion and the surrounding lands gave me the willies and at the same time held me spellbound. Now, after reading a lot, I can at least partly articulate it: The property seems indifferent if not outright hostile to human habitation. Despite the rainy climate, withered, fruitless blackberry bushes and old gnarled trees, cover half the serpentine path; the erstwhile apple orchard turned into a strange, Lovecraftian vista, the trees, and soil affected with an unknown fungal blight. This, I reckon, is also responsible for the taste of the infested apples I picked. I cannot adequately describe it. It is bitter and putrid, but strangely refreshing and welcome at the same time. Alien and removed from ordinary experience as all here is. Devoid of even birds or small mammals, only bugs and insects thrive here, primarily spiders that were too big for my taste and dark brown moths with white antennae, giving off an acrid smell. Neither as a child nor now was I ever able to determine the origin of the buzzing sound, or the nature of the miasmic, dense air.

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The only thing I can tell is that like a good horror story; the place never let go of me, had sunk its talons deep into my very essence, and haunted both my dreams and waking reveries. I instinctively, with a primal notion, hated the place and yet never could shake the thought and longing to see the things my juvenile mind told me stalked this land when man slept, those things that made the woods creak and the bitter winds blow.

Since I was a child, I dreamt of this place and the stories and secrets uncle Pièrre would tell me. It was only when I became adolescent that I realized that the brilliant man was losing it. That was when I distanced myself and sought to coax my uncle out into the world instead. Prior to receiving his last will, I hadn’t spoken to him in years. I walked down the overgrown path, struggling with the thorny blackberry vines and dirty gossamer spider webs. The moths continuously divebombed my face, and the unpleasant buzzing made my skin crawl and my hairs stand on end. The ape in me felt a hostile presence keeping their eyes on me, and bawled to turn and leave, while the human tried to laugh it off.

When I arrived at the house, I was covered in small cuts and filth, and it had started to rain. The old pickup stood in front of it, between the main villa and the guesthouse, and reminded me that I could have spared myself the uncomfortable and frankly unsettling track. I again fumbled with the keys, only to have the door open in my face and to be confronted by a haggard old, gaunt man wielding a crucifix and a sawed-off shotgun, seemingly haunted, by what demons I do not know, and unsure which of the objects would protect him from this sudden intruder. That was my first encounter with Olaf Helstrom; mathematician turned my uncles’ student - acolyte? And groundkeeper.