literature

'Brief Candle' - Chapter One

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CHAPTER ONE


The Night They Came


The night they came for the cultural elite the air was filled with the laughing, cheering and joyous singing of those assembled in Lord Wentworth's mansion on the outskirts of a humble town. The large forest that surrounded the mansion was dense, thick and dark. A film of fog slithered amongst the gnarled trees and dirty-brown, Autumnal leaves. Such a forest as this, undoubtedly, led to many stories being told in hushed whispers. Tales of lurking monsters, crazed people and creatures of unknown, otherworldly origins populating the darkest regions of the forest were rampant. The stories always had travellers attacked, mutilated and killed during night-time treks down the road that connected their part of the world to the rest of humanity.

Many of the people that had gathered for the New Years Ball at Lord Wentworth's mansion had been raised upon those stories and, while they believed that these creatures of malice and cruel intent were just fodder for scary stories, they soon would come to realise that the denizens of the underworld were no longer consigned to fantastical tales.

The mansion itself was large, magnificent and sprawling. A gravel path, lined with topiary in all shapes and forms imaginable, connected the entrance, a pair of wrought-iron gates with marvellous embellishments, to the large, oak door. The armed guards that stood either side of the concrete stairs that led to the front of the mansion had their swords sheathed. They stood stoic and expressionless as the guests arrived in their tens and hundreds, ready to strike at those that caused – or even so much as look like they would cause – problems.

The guests, men and women of all ages, were all unified by their immense wealth and disdain for the lower-classes. This was perfectly clear in the clothings and adornments the fine men and women donned with such pride that their smiles seemed to widen their face to an uncomfortable width. There were silken gowns made with the finest material in the brightest of colours, pristine suits and immaculate bows, shoes as shiny as a crystalline lake, hats of the finest craftsmanship and jewellery so delicate, golden and beautiful you could have mistaken it for the personal favourites of the Gods themselves.

Yet, for all the eccentricities of the guests clothing and all of the wealth they each had accrued, it was not a touch upon the sheer garishness of the interior of Lord Wentworth's mansion. Paintings larger than humans hung heavily upon the walls. The finest carpets and rugs from around the world lined the shiny, wooden floorboards.

All adjoining rooms on the ground floor of the mansion were closed and guarded. Lord Wentworth stood at the top of the grand staircase that lead to the second, and top, floor. Behind him, looming large, was a large painting of his grandfather, the first lord of the manor.

Lord Wentworth extended his hand in welcoming crowd upon crowd of revellers to his abode. The usual pleasantries were exchanged with sincerity and genuine interest in the other party.

“Do go through,” Lord Wentworth asked of the each of the guests that passed him. “Eat, drink and be merry! This night comes but once a year!” Lord Wentworth would exclaim as he soaked in the smiles of those that had gathered to welcome the New Year in with him.

The upper floor of the mansion was a sequence of large halls that seemed to go on for an age. Huge, ornate stained glass windows in various patterns and designs stood proudly between the tapestries and animal heads that lined the chamber. Music swirled and looped around the entire room. The melodies filled the air in such a manner that it became intoxicating and enthralling; an aural nirvana. For that one night, spreading through the various halls and corridors of the party, a wave of euphoria and bliss seeped into and took a hold of every living soul in that very mansion. All was beautiful. All was peaceful.


***


The stroke of midnight was swiftly approaching and the excited chatter amongst the revellers was drowning out the violinists and cellists that had been hired to play the old year out and the new year in with their crisp, clinical skill across the strings. The last few guests had made their way into the main chamber, shutting the doors behind them, as Lord Wentworth took to the centre of the room.

Fifteen seconds. The noise in the room had quietened in anticipation. Lord Wentworth took one last look at the large, free standing clock at the far end of the chamber and cleared his throat.

“Ten!” he shouted. Guests grabbed each other in a tight embrace.

“Nine! Eight! Seven! Six!” chorused the room, each number being shouted louder, clearer and more excitedly than the one it followed.

Five! The musicians put down their instruments and joined arms.

Four!

Three!

Two!

One!” all of the guests screamed. That was but a whisper compared to the bellowing that had escaped Lord Wentworth's throat. “Happy New Year!” Lord Wentworth erupted. The chamber became a scene of jumping and embracing and kissing from all angles.

The door to the chamber flung open, crashing against the wall. The guests reeled around and all sounds died away as two bodies slid across the floor, blood streaking on the polished floor.

From the shadows stepped forth a man of such power and presence that all the air from the room seemed to have been sucked out by his sheer existence. This man, decked in blood-red and ebony that fitted majestically, stood with no expression and a masquerade mask covering the top half of his scarred face. At this ominous and frightful sight, the once happy guests now wore masks of fear, dread and abject horror.

The menacing man strode into the room. Not a sound came from beneath his feet. The crowd of people parted as he walked towards Lord Wentworth. The man's eyes did not blink; they remained fixed upon the rotund frame of Lord Wentworth.

“Seize him!” instructed Lord Wentworth but not a soul moved. A pin drop would have been deafening in that chamber, such was the silence that had enveloped all within.

The man continued forward at a slow, methodical pace as if he was a hunter stalking a deer.

Nearer and nearer he moved. Guest after guest he passed with not one blink of an eye from those around him. They were transfixed by him.

“Guards, seize him!” was the command but no-one dared. “That's an order!” Lord Wentworth barked with spittle flying. A large vein had grown across his sweat-soaked brow.

The man came to a stop but a few yards from Lord Wentworth. The two men stood staring. While the powerful man in red was calm and composed with a stare that could cut to the very core of a man, Lord Wentworth was a wreck. Try as he might, he could not move. Words became bricks in his mouth.

“Why are you here?” Lord Wentworth rasped, the words as weak and limp as he was.

The man in red steps towards Lord Wentworth. The crowd parts as the man forces Lord Wentworth backwards.

“What do you want?” cried Lord Wentworth, the fear evident in his quivering voice.

“You remember my name, old man?” the man said. His voice was chilling, his delivery unsettling.

“William,” stuttered Lord Wentworth, “they call you William.”

The man continued to back Lord Wentworth towards the large clock. “You broke your word,” hissed William. “There was a code between your kind and mine. A code I had made nearly a century ago with your father.”

Lord Wentworth collides with the large clock, his back shattering the glass. The shards dance across the floor and crunch underfoot.

“Now, you're forfeit.” William bares his large, white fangs and sinks them deep into the neck of Lord Wentworth. The blood gushes out, painting the floor in the sanguine shade of claret.

Lord Wentworth's body hits the floor. William turns to the guests, blood still dripping from his lips. “Look outside,” he growls. The crowd, in unison, crane their neck towards the windows and peer through the coloured glass into the night sky. The large, chalky moon hung in the sky. A faint chorus of screeching grew louder and louder. Pure horror became etched upon the inhabitants of the chamber.

The stained glass windows shattered into hundreds and thousands of pieces. Two dozen bats flew in and began circling like owls around a family of field mice.

With surgical precision, the bats swooped down and, in mid-air, transformed into seemingly-human creatures with sharp fangs and cold, lightless eyes. They overpowered the men, the women and the children and began feasting upon those they killed.

The room became drenched in the blood of the rich and the glamorous. One by one they fell to the power and the ferocity of the vampyres yet, despite the chaos around him, one little boy stood in the corner of the room. His eyes never wavered from William.

“How curious,” William muttered as he clawed through the throng of people towards the stoic young lad.

William knelt before the boy and stared deep into his eyes. “My, my. You are a brave one, aren't you? Tell me, what is your name?”
No response came from the boy, his gaze was fixed and his mouth was shut.

William removes the blood-stained masquerade mask and drops it at the young boy's feet. “Remember this compassion, boy,” William said in a low, piercing voice. William shoves the boy to the ground and stands on the sill of one of the shattered windows. William stares back at the young boy who was still fixed upon William before jumping out into the night sky.

Having satiated their lust for blood, the rest of the creatures followed William out of the mansion through the windows and, once again, the sky was dotted with bats.

The young lad slid forward, keeping himself low to the ground. He grasped one of the strings that served to tie the mask in place and pulled it towards him. He sat inspecting the blood that had pooled on the elaborate mask.

The boy did not think, did not move. His mind was empty, vacant of all manner of thoughts. He was as calm and serene as a frozen lake despite his presence in a room that reeked of agony and death. All around him were bodies upon bodies, each riddled with puncture wounds and gashes across their flesh. Such a sight would have sufficed to fall even the mightiest of mortals yet, seemingly oblivious to the carnage around him, the young boy just sat and stared at the bloodied masquerade mask.

Chapter one of my novel-in-progress. Decided to test the waters with the opening chapter.
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