If Morning Never Comes - Episode Five
If Morning Never Comes - Episode Five
In Which: We Arrive at a Mysterious Manor
Welcome to “If Morning Never Comes,” a serial adventure from and proudly published by . If this is your first time, catch up before you begin this chapter:
Episode One | In Which: We Meet the Ashley Family
Episode Two | In Which: Charles Makes A Grisly Discovery
Episode Three | In Which: The Subject of Vampires is Introduced
Episode Four | In Which: Charles Encounters a Fight, a Girl, and an Invitation
Please enjoy!
~ The Editor
The next evening found the Ashley family’s carriage rolling across the bleak scenery of the moor. The horses’ hooves clopped along the road in repetitive rhythm. The sun was breaking through the region’s perpetual haze, casting long black shadows over the barren ground.
Inside the carriage, Charles pulled at his cuffs. If he kept still, the sleeves sat properly on his wrist, but the slightest motion pulled them up, exposing not only his forearms but his obvious lack of sophistication and style. He adjusted his cravat. He had never much cared about fashion before, but tonight he would see Genevieve Tarrant again, and that had inspired him to acquire an interest in his appearance.
He sat next to Charity, opposite Eleanor and his mother. Mrs. Ashley fanned herself vigorously. If she wasn’t sweating already, she soon would be at that rate. She fidgeted and huffed in her seat. Her red face and rumpled finery provided a fine juxtaposition to Eleanor’s understated beauty.
Eleanor was a lovely girl. Her dress was white. Some of her hair was pinned, with the rest falling long on one shoulder. Her face was pale, her eyes dark without the slightest hint of a smile or twinkle. She always took these things so seriously.
Charity, on the other hand, was bouncing up and down and pressing her face up against the carriage window. Her dress was green with a white front. Her hair, piled up as always, was already in danger of collapsing.
“Ooohh, can’t he drive any faster?”
“This pace is entirely appropriate, Charity,” said mild Eleanor.
“I can hardly stand it! We’re really going to go inside that old house. Do you suppose there will be a tour?”
“We’re going to a ball, not a museum,” snapped her sister. “And if you embarrass me tonight with any talk of ghosts and goblins, I swear that I will positively despise you forever.”
Charles craned his head to look out his window as they argued. While he would never put it as bluntly as his younger sister, he was as interested to go into the Raines manor as she was. The old house had stood abandoned for as long as he had known of it, and it did have an air of decrepitude about it. He had often wondered as a boy what might be lurking in that strange house.
But tonight, thoughts of Jenny dampened any supernatural speculation. In silence he remembered their brief meeting from the day before. She had been happy to see him, he could not believe it. They had been friends, but it had been years since she was sent away to school, and he had not seen her since her return. The Tarrant family was on hard times now, but no anxiety could be seen on her face. And how beautiful she had been! Charles could still feel her hands in his if he concentrated. He had come up with a thousand different daydreams of what might happen when they met at the ball tonight. Most of them ended with him defending her honor against some boorish drunkard with his fists. He would just have to wait and see.
Next to him, Charity squealed and pointed, “There! There, do you see?”
As they rounded a hill, the four Ashleys leaned in to the small window and saw Raines Manor. It was dark, painted black with red accents. And the house was colossal. Its peaked roofs reached high into the sky, stacked next to, on top of and behind each other. The towers and upper levels all ran together. The manse looked confusing, like a maze unfolding before their eyes. Set against a cliff of rocks at the bottom of a slope, the road curved until it descended into a settled line straight towards the main door. Other carriages were unloading in front.
“Isn’t it ghastly?” whispered Charity. Mrs. Ashley shushed her daughter.
They stepped out of their carriage, assisted by a footman in red livery. Charles took a deep breath before he descended, adjusting his cravat one last time before donning his silk hat. They made their way inside through towering front doors. Charles could not help but stare at the remarkable height of the house. The doorway itself was ten feet tall or more, the doors thick dark oak. He could see the inside was but dimly lit and Charles felt as though he were entering a sepulcher rather than attending a party. He could see his sisters whispering in front of him. Even Eleanor was overwhelmed.
No windows were open to allow the rare sunlight to steal in. The entrance hall was paneled with dark wood and floors. The darkness made Charles feel uneasy and cramped as they were escorted in. There were doors at either end of the large hall. Both were shut. A wide, climbing staircase covered in crimson carpet stood directly opposite the doorway. Sconces on the walls burned gas, but the real light came from down a long corridor, to the right of the stairs. The light drew them down into the house.
They entered a dining hall, which was brightly lit and populated with familiar faces. The central feature of the room was a long, brown table surrounded by heavy chairs, gilded on the edges. Multi-armed candelabras hung at even intervals along the walls. Despite the brightness of the room, the flickering candles cast deep shadows. The decorative theme of black and crimson carried here as well, with gold added into the mix. And the house had a queer scent. Charles could not identify it, but it smelled like an earthy incense, like something he had smelled once in a dream. The small groups of neighbors murmured all around him.
Charles took an offered flute of champagne and sipped as he made his way through the long room. No one here was a particular friend of his. He had no particular friends as far as he was aware. So he took the opportunity to observe the room. There were no fewer than eight doors exiting this dining hall, and all were shut with bright brass handles and hinges.
Charles came to the end of the table, near the fireplace. It was burning, of course, but the flame was low. Above the mantlepiece, Charles saw a grand portrait of an old soldier. The man had a strong jaw and a brilliant white beard. Medals cascaded down the breast of his jacket, and he held his plumed hat under his arm, a saber at his side.
The painting was very lifelike. The eyes arrested his attention especially. They were black as night, and they bored into Charles as he stared. The imperious eyes had a glint of light painted deep within them, and Charles could imagine the brow furrowing at him for staring so impertinently. The strange smell of the house filled his nose and overloaded his senses. For half a moment Charles fancied he saw the eyes flash, but his hypnosis was interrupted by a familiar accent at his side.
“I don’t think he likes you staring at him.”
Charles turned and caught his breath. He greeted Herr Stryker, who smiled beneath his mustache and turned back to the portrait above the fireplace.
Charles gestured with his drink before he took a sip, “He looks like a man accustomed to getting what he wants.”
“Or one who fought long and hard to get what he wanted, only to succeed and find that what he wanted did not satisfy him.”
Charles looked at Herr Stryker. The old man was so serious that he could not help but smile. The German turned to him, eyes patient.
“Herr Stryker, I’m starting to believe my sister must have hired you to follow us around telling ghost stories.”
Stryker laughed his high-pitched, closed-mouth laugh and clapped Charles on the back. The old man was strong. He turned him from the painting, indicating the crowded room.
“Come then, Mr. Ashley, and let us instead think of the living.”
“Mr. Stryker!” cried a woman’s voice. Charles’ mother waddled over and clasped the hands of the German man. In Charles’ opinion she was exposing far more of her bosom than was desirable at her age. Herr Stryker seemed to think so too by the way he rigidly kept his chin at her eye level.
Pleasantries were exchanged. All was well, the weather was lovely, and the party most intriguing.
Mrs. Ashley asked, “Have you made many more friends since you dined with us not long ago?”
“Friends? No, I cannot say that I have. Friends are hard to come by, Mrs. Ashley.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Stryker. Surely you have won over my family at least! Eleanor may be a bit of an old puss, but I believe she found you rather curious.”
“Mother!” reprimanded Charles, quietly. She did not hear him. He downed the rest of his champagne and held his gloved hand in the air for another.
“I have found, Mrs. Ashley,” explained Herr Stryker, “that friends easily won are easily lost. So please accept my reticence as a compliment. We would not want our love to sour prematurely.”
“Oh, tosh!” scolded Mrs. Ashley. “I know for a fact that Vicar Clarke thought very highly of you. And as he always says, friendship is as friendship does! Of course, he didn’t come up with that himself, it is a saying of Christ, I believe. Or Saint Peter, I really do get the two mixed up.”
Georg Stryker frowned at the mention of Vicar Clarke. Charles noticed. He himself thought the vicar rather pretentious, but he had always chided himself for thinking poorly of a churchman. Now he could see that his new friend – or acquaintance, he supposed – had arrived at a similar conclusion almost immediately. Distaste was written all over his face.
But Mrs. Ashley never passed up the chance to miss a nonverbal cue if she could, and she did not break her pattern here. She instead began to speak of the party and the house.
“What do you think of this place, Mr. Stryker? Is it haunted after all?”
“I certainly have no reason to think so.”
“It is rather ghoulish, all the same. What sort of people do you suppose could live in a place like this?”
“I’m sure we’ll find out this very night.”
“Yes, if our host and hostess would only show themselves. I would be simply mortified to allow my guests to stand unattended for so long. Very bad form to keep us waiting, don’t you think, Mr. Stryker?”
“It’s Herr Stryker, madam. And you’ll excuse me, but I must decline to speak ill of our generous hosts, particularly as I stand in their home and drink their wine.”
Charles’s eyes widened. He stared first at Stryker, then his mother. Her lips were opening and closing like a fish out of water. She muttered something under her breath that could have been an apology or a protest, then stepped away with a curtsy, her glass of champagne tilted upside down over her mouth.
Charles and Stryker locked eyes. The old man seemed prepared to defend himself against a rebuke from Charles. But the young man burst out laughing. He tried to regain his wind, but was obliged to lean on the mantle above the fire to steady himself. More than a few faces turned in his direction. Stryker remained stoic.
He finished his laughter with a cough and begged Mr. Stryker’s pardon.
“You may have it, Mr. Ashley,” he said. “Although I’m starting to think that the impropriety of your family may be a generational curse.”
“No, no Mr. – Herr Stryker. I only...well, I’ve never seen anyone close down my mother so quickly before. Did you see?” he began to snicker again. “She looked like a chastened child in the nursery!”
Stryker cocked his head, “Some men might take offense if another were to speak to his mother in such a fashion.”
“Some men might not have been entertaining dreams of doing the exact same thing for years.”
Herr Stryker looked and saw the venerable Mrs. Ashley speaking with another group. One man’s head craned around the room, looking for a way out. Stryker smiled, his mustache bunching up.
“She does have a way with people, doesn’t she?”
“A way?” scoffed Charles. “She’s a hyena. She thoroughly enjoys every encounter, but her laughter grates on your ears like a cheese knife.”
“You seem to have acquired something of that laughter yourself, Mr. Ashley,” quipped Stryker.
Charles lifted his glass to the man and drained what was left. The room was filling up now. Men and women in their evening finest graced every corner of the dining hall. Men in their dark suits and white cravats and gloves. The women in lavish gowns of myriad colors and styles. Monocles and earrings and pocket watches glinted in the firelight. The narrowness of the room was felt.
Charles looked about for Jenny. In the excitement over the house, he had forgotten all about his promise to meet her there. Now he examined each group, but she seemed to be absent. His moment of mirth with the old man faded. He called for another champagne.
Stryker reproached him, “Thirsty, are you? Boy, we have not even sat down to table yet.”
Charles shrugged and took the glass. He held it in his hand but did not partake. Stryker studied him. Charles avoided his glance. He heard the man tut-tut to himself. Again, Charles was caught between how easy it was for him to like the forthright old man, and how annoyed he was when that same forthrightness was aimed in his direction.
After a moment, Stryker sighed and changed the subject, “You know, your mother was right about one thing.”
Charles was relieved to break the silence, “What is that Herr Stryker?”
“It is rather odd that our hosts have not yet made an appearance, is it not?”
“It is. Although for all I know they might be here already. I’ve never met them before.”
“No one has,” said Stryker with strange certainty. “No one has met them or been in the house before. And yet here we are. Very curious.” He took a sip of his own champagne, so Charles felt like he could do the same without judgment.
“If they keep this up,” added Charles, “Charity will be so convinced in her mind that they’ll never be able to persuade her otherwise.”
Herr Stryker turned to answer, but at that very moment a servant entered the room from one of the locked doors. His livery was the inverse of the footmen outside. His was black with red and gold designs. He stood at attention and announced,
“Ladies and gentlemen: Mr. Edgar Raines.”
He stepped aside and every breath was held. The room was silent but for the crackle of the fireplace. In stepped a man, tall, strong and pale as the grave. He was dressed in a black dinner jacket and trousers with a ruffled cravat that stretched from his neck to his naval. It was the color of blood. His own hair was black as night and brushed back on his head. Even Charles could tell that he was strikingly handsome. He wore a condescending smirk on his bloodless lips. His voice was gravelly, like one whose throat had recovered from some violent injury.
“Welcome to our home,” intoned Edgar Raines, “my dear friends.”
His eyes rested on Charles. They were commanding and cold, with a glint set far within their depths. He smiled. His teeth were long and straight and white as bleached bone.
Next to Charles, Georg Stryker spoke in a barely audible whisper, “Mein Gott.”
I am so enjoying this story! Thank you