I was happy, for a time. My descendants had purchased the home, and even better, they spoke of the history, of my family, and of how long the home had stood. It was a legacy I’d thought lost, but it was fleeting, at least in my eyes. While I was fortunate enough to watch several children grow within these walls for several years yet again, things had changed. I don’t know how or why, but the walls of this house began to feel, thin, for lack of a better word. I had no experience with demonology, I’d had no formal training in how to be a spirit, or what it might entail, and as such I had no idea that one of my descendants had brought with them a terrible evil that was, eventually, allowed to enter this house, staining everything it touched with such foulness that to my eyes, and to those of the children, this once comfortable home became a nightmarish landscape that hardly resembled the manor I’d spent so much time in.
But the adults could not see it, nor could they notice the shadows that loomed in the corners and dark places, or the faint whispers that echoed from places I could not understand. They could feel the chill though, the undeniable cold of the thing that had somehow found its way into this home. It was a dark, unrelenting force that could be in one location and then another, could assume different forms, and was somehow, in some horrible way, attached to a young woman that was of my bloodline.
I could tell you that eventually the darkness was excised, cast out, thrown down, whichever action strikes your fancy. But that would be only a small fraction of the story. I could tell that all was well once the family was rid of the spirit, but that would be a bald and glaring lie. Instead, I must tell you of how things truly happened, if I am to rest easy knowing that what happened was, in its own twisted way, for the best.
I suppose I should start with my part in this.
(to be continued)