The House of Grant - Chapter II

“So, Professor Lowe, now that we have established that you are no better than other men, let us get on with the business.” This woman was Lady Clarissa Grant. She was a complete albino. She was cursed to live in the dark and she used this too her advantage. Controlling the whole village from her seat of mystery.

“I did as I was asked to by your private ape, Bartholomew. I gained entry to the house of Mr. Daly. I used a standard practitioner trick, the hand of glory. It is the hand of a hanged man, dried, dipped in wax, made into a candle. Opens doors, immobilizes occupants and fascinates party guests. I used the tools to break into the wall. I found the box there. The house was a convent before. So thar’s that.”

“Very well, Professor Lowe. Now we get to work. The box as you may know was made of the same stone on which the first Lady of House Grant was murdered by those savages. The box contains her heart. It is supposed to have trapped one of the spirits that rules the netherworld. And now here it is. I am pleased.”

She did not look pleased. She never was. The blood red eyes could only muster pity and condescension.

“So, here is the key. Which I procured independently as a gift to you. Now the small matter of my final payment.”

Derision was writ in her eyes when she said, “Yes, how could I forget? Bartholomew, hand over to him the deeds to the manor. With the power that this box brings me, I don’t need this hellhole.”

She took the key and moved towards the box.

“Lords of the Darkness, your freedom is at hand. I am your servant. I ask only one thing. Mercy in your madness. Appear in a shape that I am fit to witness... Please.”

The box hissed slowly and the lid opened with a bang. There was a puff of smoke and then nothing.

“You lying scum! You tricked me! Lowe, I will not –”

Color flooded Lady Clarissa’s lifeless cheeks. For the first time in her tortured existence, she looked human. Bartholomew rushed to her aid, fearing the worst.

“Don’t touch me. Ape.” The words were like a cold dagger to all those who heard them. Bartholomew froze in place.

“But I was only trying to help you, M’lady.”

“I DON’T NEED ANY HELP! Be the monkey that you always were.”

Bartholomew was now an ape. Surprisingly, the tuxedo still fit him nicely.

“And you, Lowe. What are you? A pig, maybe or a weasel.”

Froth formed at her blue lips and her eyes looked like sunken pits of congealed blood. She tried using her powers again. Lowe stood unperturbed.

“In the house of Mr. Daly, along with the box, was an inscription in some rudimentary dialect. I am no fool, Madam. Your power won’t work over me. The shaman did his job right. The shaman’s servant did his job better. The box contains not the heart of the first Lady of House Grant. It holds the heart of the Shaman.”

Lowe ripped open his jacket to reveal a seal bearing an inscription in the same savage dialect of the tribe. The seal shone with an eerie light. Lady Clarissa screamed as if stabbed by a dagger. She turned away from the seal, “TAKE IT AWAY!” 

“By the names Lonim, El Morrh and Nehen Syeth Nehen. By the name of Ado, the saint, your jailer, whose corruption and malignance protects me. And by your own name, Homir, a minor disturbance in the bowels of this rock. By knowing the name, I command power over thee. I know your kind are liars and the Shaman must have tricked you into submission. So, By his name and his words, I command thee to obey me.”

The woman collapsed to the floor. When she rose up, It was a different voice that spoke. A voice that rumbled through the house.

“Very well, human. Command me.”

“Yes, the usual. Wealth and riches. I know it isn’t original but I don’t have many needs. Nevermind, I am just messing with you. Just go back quietly into your lithic prison and stay where you are. I command you in the name of Ado, the shaman who trapped you.”

The woman leapt towards him. Lowe quickly grabbed the box and held it open, trapping the spirit inside.

“Stupid bitch.”

--

Bartholomew, the ape wasn’t seen or heard of. 

The villagers didn’t care about the House of Grant. 

A week later, the manor was sold to a Hollywood starlet. She was determined to hunt down ghosts. 

She was contacted, a month later, by a certain Professor Lowe who claimed he could find any ghost she wanted. 

All he wanted was her autograph on a blank cheque.

The House of Grant - Chapter I

A time when man was more of an animal than he is now, though some would surely dispute that, there was a man, bent by his own greed. His lust for power and an ambition to conquer the worlds lead him down a dark and dangerous path. A path that saw him surrender to forces far greater than him. Puissant spirits of utter malevolence. He was driven to the brink by them and dangled there. He begged for mercy and pledged undying loyalty to them. They freed him in return for complete servitude. His tribe called him Shaman.

This man, the Shaman was not very happy. He was old and sick now. Most likely to be stabbed to death by one of his own power-hungry underlings. He, however, had a duty to perform. A ritual. He commanded his servant to bring him the book.

The woman was bound to the black slab of stone. Gagged. She was completely clothed in black. Moonlight bounced off her translucent face and slid off the stones casting eerie shadows. A face, so pure and unmarked, that one could see through it. She was unconscious. His underlings begun chanting. He raised his azure knife and muttered a few arcane words. Words of power. Words that sent a shiver through the gathered vermin. The knife flashed as it dived toward her heart.

The stone was stained in her blood. The shaman was never happy. He was content now and he smiled like a man freed of his duties. He laughed in his big booming voice. A flash of light caught his eye. He could see the servant’s knife glinting close to him. The knife was nestled in his heart. He died satisfied.

Scotland. In the present.

There is a single house on the hillock. It looks like a crooked old raven when seen from the distance. It is a house of disrepute and sickness. A sign of nature’s triumph over frail human will. It is the House of Grant.

One man stands in front of this house now.

Peyton Lowe. Born German, raised British. Professor of very old follies and fungus.

He has a briefcase in hand, an umbrella in another. He is dressed as befitting a gentleman yet somehow exuding an air of shabbiness that is characteristic to those of the scholarly kind. He takes hold of the rusty knocker and taps twice on the door. The door creaks. A butler opens the door. He is a specimen of no real distinction. Lowe steps in and immediately, he is swallowed by the house. The darkness gropes at him with cold, lonely fingers.

“Excuse me, could you take my coat and case?”, he says and turns around.

“You will have to excuse Bartholomew, my butler. He is old and his hearing is not as good.” The voice is old, clammy and repulsive. Light is scarce inside and as his eyes adjust to the dark, his eyes find the source of the voice. He is quick to control his shock but not quick enough.

She has reptilian scales for skin.