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.