Edward Taylor bounced along the road on horseback, weary and disheartened, and disillusioned by war. The low, rolling green hills of the countryside were beautiful and familiar to him, and he’d known each of the small farms, and their tenants, by name, since his childhood. 

The fields were a luscious green, and the flowers dotting the roadside were bright and lovely. The breeze carried their sweet fragrances to his nose, and he felt a small comfort in the familiarity.

And yet, he could not help feeling like a failure. He was a captain in the Hussars, and he had been in the front lines of the fight in France against Bonaparte. He had been proud to serve, and he had planned to remain enlisted for more years yet. 

However, he had suffered a serious leg injury when he was shot in the thigh by an enemy rifle, and it had been nothing short of a miracle that he could walk after his recovery. Despite his tall frame and strong build, he would have a terrible limp for the rest of his life. Thus, the Hussars had discharged him from his service.

He had not had the heart to write to his parents to tell them. On the journey home, he’d thought he could mentally prepare himself to give them the news when he got home. But all the trip had done was to give him too much time to dwell in his shame. 

He had no idea how he could face his father and mother with the news that he would no longer be serving in the military. And yet, as he approached Chimneys, the family home, all those thoughts fell away, and his heart dropped into his stomach. He pulled his horse to a stop at the entrance to the driveway, his mouth falling open in shock.

The gate separating his family’s country estate from the road was rusted and broken, hanging off its hinges on one side. What he could see of the driveway before it disappeared over the hill leading up to the mansion was overgrown with weeds, nearly invisible beneath the long grass. It was clear it had not been traversed in ages; from the looks of it, not since he had left for battle two years before.

A sense of foreboding began to creep into his bones as he travelled up the overgrown path. The park and surrounding fields of the estate looked much like the driveway, only littered with dead flowers and sickly shrubs, as well. Piles of stone which he knew had used to be statues lay crumbling on the ground, and the fountain in the centre of the grounds was broken into pieces.

But it was the manor itself that finally made Edward realise that something was terribly wrong. Its once white wooden walls were stained with black dirt and green mould. 

The wisteria vines, usually kept in check by the gardeners, had taken over large areas of the exterior walls, climbing all the way up to the roof of the five-story mansion. The wooden lattices supporting them were decayed, and he saw that two of the windows upstairs were broken. Edward picked up his pace, spurring his horse into a fast trot toward the stables.

Despite the condition of his family home, he was still caught off guard by how rundown and empty the stables were. Half the roof was sagging, and only one of the stalls still had its door attached. Behind it was an old, frail looking mare that appeared to have not eaten properly in days. And, in front of her, sweeping the floor with a rotten broom, was an ancient stable-hand.

It took Edward a long moment to recognize the old man as Robert Ebbs, the family’s devoted stable-hand. His face had been taken over by a scraggly grey beard, much as the estate had been overtaken by grass and weeds. Edward could not discern what colour the man’s clothes were because they were covered with stains and dirt. Though his breath did not smell of alcohol, his eyes were red and glassy.

Edward stared in shock. If he had been filled with apprehension before, it had just turned into outright panic.

“Robert,” he breathed, struggling to find his voice. “Robert, what has happened?”

The stable hand looked around as though searching for the source of the voice. Edward stood right in front of him, debating on whether he should reach out to the man. He decided against it, lest he’d become blind and truly did not see him.

After a moment, the man’s eyes settled on Edward. Though he appeared to be rather more looking through Edward than at him, he grinned.

“Oh, heavens, milord!” he said, with a wheezy chuckle. “Is it you? Truly?” He paused, slapping his knee, and laughing wildly. “Your father will be awfully glad to know you’re back from the war at last. He’s been fretting over preparing you for the earldom, I understand.”

It took Edward a minute to realise the old man thought he was his elder brother, Austen, and therefore heir to the family title. The confusion answered at least one of his questions; his brother was not home yet from the war. But it also filled Edward with a dozen more.

Skipping over the mistake in identity, Edward then put gentle hands on the man’s shoulders.

“Robert,” he said softly. “What has happened to the estate? What is going on?”

The man stepped back, blinking in confusion. Edward thought Robert might have realised his mistake, but he just laughed again.

“It is good to know you’re back, milord,” he said. “Things have gotten into quite a mess while you’ve been away.”

Edward ground his teeth, trying to keep his composure. With all he’d seen so far, he had little tolerance for a half-mad man who didn’t even know to whom he was speaking.

“It looks that way,” Edward said with exaggerated patience. “Can you start from the beginning?”

“Things have changed at Chimneys since you’ve been gone,” the old stable hand said.

Edward waited; the man was barely coherent. He held his breath, waiting for anything the old fellow had to say. But when five minutes had passed without any further explanation, Edward sighed with frustration.

“What has changed, Robert?” he asked, more forcefully this time. “What has happened?”

But the old stable-hand no longer seemed to see him. He was staring through Edward, as though looking into some distant time and place.

“Things have changed at Chimneys, milord,” he repeated. “They have changed a great deal, indeed.”

Edward growled, not surprised when the loud sound did not faze the clearly half-witted old stable-hand. He ran his hands through his hair, barely restraining himself from pulling out his thick black locks.

“I do not understand what that means, Robert,” he said. “How have things changed? Why has everything gone to pot?”

But it seemed the stable-hand was no longer in the present moment; he was muttering instructions to stable lads whom only he could see, no longer acknowledging Edward’s presence. He was pointing to empty stalls as though counting imaginary horses and babbling incoherently, an eerie smile on his face.

Edward quickly realised he would get nothing further out of the man. He turned away, closing his eyes against a sudden wave of nausea. If the stable-hand believed him to be his brother, and thought he was talking to real people, what could he expect of the rest of the manor?

With great hesitation, Edward made his way to the manor. He did not bother knocking on the heavy wooden door, as he was sure no one would answer. And when no one came to investigate the loud creaking of the opening door, his heart sank. Surely, the mansion could not be as abandoned as it appeared, could it?

Things have changed at Chimneys since you’ve been gone: Robert Ebbs’ words rang in Edward’s head as his footfalls echoed through the empty halls of the manor. Things had changed, indeed. And Edward was suddenly terrified to find out just how much.

“Hello?” he called, wincing at the loud reverberation of his own voice. “Mother? Father? Austen? Nathan?”

Only as he stood surrounded by nothing but the sound of his voice bouncing off the walls of the entryway of his family’s country seat did he notice the feel of the place. If he were blind, it would be easy to imagine that he had entered a mausoleum, rather than his own home. 

The air was cold and damp, smelling of mould and decay, and the lack of light reminded him of a funeral long since ended. Dusty draughts of stale air whisked past his head like so many ghosts, as if begging him to release them to their eternal rest. He shivered as his skin broke out with goosebumps, and suddenly, he longed to be anywhere except for this place—what he’d always thought of as home.

The rug in the great hall was filthy; it was impossible to tell what colour it was. Edward knew it was a light, patterned beige, but now, one might have thought it to be mud-brown. Or blood red. In the poor light, it could have been either. 

Stranger still, it was cockeyed, wadded up at one end, so that anyone wandering through in the darkness would surely trip and fall. There were yellowed crystal vases with long dead flowers on the tables lining the great hall, and the smell of decaying plant matter assaulted his nostrils. He swallowed, flinching with each loudly echoing step he took.

Glass crunching beneath his feet made him stop for a moment. There were small streaks of sunlight coming in from nearby windows, and he quickly realized the glass was in fact crystals from the chandelier. Then, he saw with shock, just ahead of him, on the filthy floor by his feet, lay the chandelier itself. 

He squinted to see in the marginal light, noting how rusty the metal parts and chain that had held it up had become. There was not a single candle in it, and the impact with the ground had bent and warped the frame. Upon further inspection, he saw the chain had snapped. But why had no one removed and replaced the broken chandelier?

“Mother?” he called as he approached her parlour. The room was completely dark, the curtains fully drawn. There was a terrible draft, and the room smelled of rot and sour champagne. His heart pounded in his chest, and he moved on to the other rooms.

Next, he paused at the door of his father’s study. There was only enough light for him to see the edge of the large desk, which was coated in a thick layer of dust. With the aid of a weak sunbeam coming through the window, he could also see papers scattered on the floor in front of the desk. He walked forward, and only when he kicked something with his foot, did he realise that the door was held open by one of the chairs.

No, he thought with deepening horror as he knelt to move it and found it in pieces. The chair was thrown here.

“Mother,” he called loudly, chilled at the dismal echo. “Father.”

Still, no one came, and panic claimed Edward. He ran toward the stairs, slipping on debris and patches of dust.

As he rounded a corner, he caught a glimpse of himself in one of the cracked mirrors on the wall. His deep-green eyes looked as though they had aged ten years just since that morning. His black hair was loose from its ponytail and hanging in damp clumps around his waxen face. 

His sharp chin quivered, and he turned away from his reflection. With his gaze fixed on the floor, he finished traversing the way to the staircase with great care. The dread mounted within him with each step, and it was all he could do to keep going.

He paused, staring up at the stairs with a grimace, as bile bubbled and threatened to spill past his lips. Surely, it was his imagination, but for a moment, he thought he could smell the familiar odours of sickness and death. What on earth would he find when he reached the top of the stairs?