She ran. Somehow, though her legs were long past exhaustion, she kept running. Terror had driven all other thoughts from her mind, leaving only the instinctive command to flee. And so, she ran.

While not consciously thinking about them, images of that night flitted through her head like a bizarre slideshow: the twilight glow of the park with intermittent puddles of light from the old-fashioned lampstands, the dark shape silently crossing the moon’s face, the quizzical looks of the people she sprinted past in her panic. Now, coherent thought was replaced by a single primal compulsion; She must escape.

Having long since left the pedestrian paths for the deeper cover of the woods, she was surprised to find herself back on pavement. She was even more surprised to find that she was no longer running. It seemed as if she had been running her whole life. Now, her body was at its limits, muscles screaming from overexertion, glands unable to produce more adrenalin. She realized how exhausted she was and nearly collapsed, but the fear drove her forward, step by ragged, weary step.

As the noise of the blood rushing in her ears faded, she listened for sounds of her pursuer, and heard nothing. Maybe the hunter had given up the chase for easier prey. She looked behind, her eyes still shining with near hysteria. She resembled a bird, ready to take flight at the slightest hint of menace. She watched the woods for a time, listening for the telltale rustling of leaves, looking for any movement in the branches. But the woods were silent and still, so she turned her face forward again. And there she saw him.

He was not far ahead, frantically waving her to him as his glance flitted from her to an unseen terror behind her. She felt a surge of that most human of all emotions, hope. With it came a final burst of energy that allowed her to cross the gap that separated them. Like a long lost lover, she ran to him. He gently grabbed her hand and pulled her along with him toward the trees on the other side of the path. When they were hidden in the copse, he moved as if to stand between her and whatever pursued. She began to believe she might actually survive this night.

Then he turned around and with one finger under her chin, moved her face up to meet his. As she gazed into his eyes, she grasped the depth of her error. He smiled as he watched her hope, so recently reborn, die. He relished that most cherished moment, that instant when the quarry realizes that all is lost. He savored his triumph as her soul surrendered to despair.

Such was my love for Elizabeth that I had declared myself willing to scale the highest mountain, face the gravest danger to claim her heart as mine. With her gentle, sad smile, she had replied that I had only to ask her father for her hand in marriage. With the lightest of hearts, I had hastily arranged to travel to her father’s country estate.

And so it was that I found myself approaching a manor the likes of which I had never seen. The entrance to the estate had been flanked by two singularly ugly columns, vaguely Grecian in design, yet lacking in grace and proportion. The drive itself was well maintained, with nary a bump under the carriage wheels. But long rows of massive trees pressed close to the drive, adding an air of gloom and disrepair. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief as we broke from the trees and I felt the touch of the warm summer sun on my face.

We rounded a bend and the manor house loomed ahead. Contrary to fashion, the house rejected any sense of symmetry. Peaked turrets rose randomly, skeletal fingers jutting harshly into the blue sky. Differing rooflines jarred the eye, causing it to seek a more pleasing line. A multitude of windows sparkled cleanly, reflecting the bright summer sun. But behind the glitter lurked darkness, like the eyes of a predator intent upon its kill.

I shook off my flights of fancy as the carriage drew to a stop in front of a massive, ornate door. Such a gentle and refined creature as my Elizabeth must surely be a reflection of her environment, logic told me. My anxiety over this important journey, combined with days of weary travel, had skewed my perspective of the eclectic manor.

Descending from the carriage, I approached the door and pulled the bell cord. The bell echoed loudly inside, announcing my presence. As I waited, I admired the detailed carvings on the door. The door detailed the final scenes of a hunt, showing the fox’s growing frenzy as the pack kept him cornered, waiting helplessly for the arrival of the hunter and his ultimate demise.

I was studying this final scene when the door slowly swung open, revealing a woman well past the first blush of youth. Her severe gray dress and pristine apron appeared to reflect her personality as well as her household position.

“I am here to see Lord Cawley,” I informed her.

With a slight motion of her head, she led me through the door and into a cavernous hall. Our footsteps echoed off dark marble floors as we passed beneath the critical eyes of other generations, frozen in time in their gilded frames. Opening the door to a large study, she ushered me in, then silently crept away.

A large man stood at a sideboard, pouring amber liquid from a crystal decanter. With deliberate motions, he finished pouring his drink. Then he turned to face me. Eyes the color of midnight bore through me, looking into my very soul. A coldness grew in my stomach, slowly spreading through my body.

The hunter led his skittish horse carefully down the steep, rock strewn path leading into the small canyon. The air was filled with the sounds of baying hounds somewhere ahead of him. They had cornered their prey in the caves at the end. There was no way out. They at least, were not afraid of it.

His horse could smell the beast. Its flanks were lathered with sweat and it shivered below him. He himself was nervous. He wiped his sweating palms and triple-checked the cartridges in the double-barreled shotgun held under his right arm. He had only gotten a glimpse of the thing but he was more terrified than he had ever been in his life.

He remembered seeing it in the shadows between the trees. It had been watching his camp. When it realized it had been spotted it had disappeared like a wraith. He could still see it in his mind though. It had been larger than a man and had walked on two legs. It was covered with a reddish brown fur, but it had looked like no animal he had seen before. The thing that had scared him the most about the beast wasn’t the creature’s teeth, which had been barred in a menacing grin. It was the evil intelligence that had burned maliciously in its dark black eyes.

The wind had shifted and his dogs had caught the thing’s scent. He hadn’t been prepared, and the dogs had torn loose from his grip and taken off after the creature. He had had no choice but to follow. The dogs weren’t his and if he came home without them he would be punished. He dreaded this since his lord was not known as a forgiving man.

Down the path he heard a pain filled howl. His horse flinched and almost lost its footing. He tightened his grip on the reigns and calmed the horse. Another scream came from one of the dogs. It was followed by a murderous, rage filled roar. The hunter swore under his breath and decided his life was more important than the dogs. He started to turn the horse.

His horse caught another whiff of the beast and reared suddenly, throwing the surprised hunter painfully to the ground. Free of its burden the horse fled up the hill. The hunter scrambled across the ground for his fallen gun. He drew the weapon to his shoulder and sighted down the barrels. The end of the gun shook. The air around him seemed to have gone completely still. Nothing dared make a sound in the woods. His mind raced as he tried to decide what to do next.

The sounds of struggle down the path ceased. The hunter licked his lips and began to carefully pick his way up the slope with his weapon at the ready. Down the path he heard something moving quickly in his direction and almost squeezed the trigger.

The curtains in Agatha's room sighed and wavered as if night itself was pressing upon them. Now and then a tiny part formed and spilled blackness into the room, an ethereal ink skittering mercurially across the floor and under the bed.

Agatha pretended not to notice.

Instead she pulled the blanket closer and tried to focus on the open Bible in her lap.

...I shall fear no evil, for Thou art with me...

She realized that she had been rereading the same psalm for at least fifteen minutes. She redoubled her focus, but was thwarted almost immediately by a knock at the door. In the sparsely furnished bedroom, each blow rang like distant cannonfire. Agatha was momentarily startled, but composing herself she marked her place and laid the book gently on the night table.

As she opened the door the pathetic flame in her oil lamp guttered and threatened to expire, but the figure in the doorway could be none other than Mathers. He was tall and gaunt, and if he had a first name Agatha doubted she would ever know it. He looked for all the world as if he'd been built of the same stuff as the house -- gnarled fingers of leftover bannister rail, face of weathered floor board, hair of tarnished silver, which incidentally matched the small tray he bore.

"The Lady's tea is served," Mathers intoned. His voice, though modulated, cut through the silence like a dagger.

"Thank you, Mathers. On the table please," Agatha replied, standing aside to allow him passage.

"Very good, Madam." As he spoke Mathers moved to arrange the serving set with autonomic precision, pouring a single cup, adding one lump of sugar and just a splash of cream. Agatha knew she must have told him how she took her tea, but just now she couldn't for her life remember when. Upon finishing, Mathers glided back to the door frame and regarded Agatha with unfathomable patience.

"Will there be anything else, Madam," he asked.

"No, thank you, Mathers. That will be all tonight."

"Then if it pleases Madam, I shall retire for the evening," he replied, adding, "breakfast will be served at half past seven." Breakfast had been served at half past seven every morning for the past four months. Agatha murmered an acknowledgement as she gently closed the door after him.

For several moments Agatha stood at the door, listening intently. She heard nothing. She had heard nothing prior to the knock at the door. Since inheriting the old Ravenswood rectory, Agatha had climbed the great stairs in the main hall hundreds of times. Each time the stairs released a series of groans that reverberated through the corridors as if the entire house was in agony. Yet now, she heard nothing.

Jon stood alone before the great steps of the Temple and wondered again at the mysterious fate of the old city. The last time he stood here he was a disgraced acolyte being kicked out of the Temple Order for various indiscretions that involved the High Priest's daughter, and there had been thousands of people watching him walk away. Jon smiled at the fifteen year-old memory, adjusted his old acolyte robes, and began the long climb above the silent city to the Summit Sanctuary.

Given his history with the Temple Order, Jon had never expected a warm welcome on the day he eventually returned to the City of the Gods. He had bitterly protested against returning now as such a grim messenger, but naturally his history wtih the Temple Order was the reason Glem had chosen him for the task. Unwelcome or not, he was the only leader in the group who knew anything about Temple protocol, and the High Priest needed to know about their gruesome discovery. Any of the others would have been forcibly detained or perhaps even shot long before they came anywhere near the steps of the Temple itself.

At least, that would have happened to anyone else if there had actually been any guards, temple workers, or, indeed, anyone in the city at all.

Instead, the great City of the Gods was silent and still. Jon had gone out of his way to avoid human contact on the journey, but the main highway - usually bustling with commercial traffic - had been deserted. The enormous city gates had been left open, the guardhouses and archer turrets abandoned. Yet even while he crept stealthily down the quiet, gloomy streets towards the Temple, Jon had been unable to shake the uneasy feeling that some malign presence had noted his arrival.

Now, half-way up the giant ziggurat that was the Temple, Jon's disquiet increased with every step. He looked down at the Temple's shadow, cast like an inky cloak over the city that lay sprawled below. The lack of movement and the muted silence made his skin crawl, as if he were being smothered by an invisible blanket. Suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of vertigo, Jon grabbed desperately at the cold stone steps.

Jon had lost track of time when he finally mounted the last step and crossed the threshold of the Summit Sanctuary. Built into the very peak of the Temple, the Sanctuary had no walls, but was divided instead by a complex series of pillars and curtains arranged around a square altar in the center of the room. It was as silent as the rest of the city. Jon crossed the marble floor to the west side of the Temple, and looked across the sea into a blood-red sunset. As he basked in the fading warmth of the sun, Jon was suddenly aware that the Sanctuary was not deserted. The world went cold as Jon belatedly realized that something dark and terrible was standing behind him.

Twilight spread her feathery wings, gathering the pale man into her ebon plumes, as a lover to her breast. The tremulous light of the moon highlights his gaunt features as he sits, clutching his knees to his chest, in the hallowed shell of an abandoned cathedral. The soft susurration of one thousand unanswered prayers caresses his mind, causing his hands to grasp even tighter to his ragged legs.

“God please, I need your help.”
“If only You will let it happen.”
“Please I beg of you, Please don’t let, Please help, Please save, Please give, Please, Please!”

The echoed words of prayers, long since uttered and expired, fill his mind, driving him further into his misery.

He has lost track of the days since they started. Since that night, now sepia toned in memory, when he first heard the whispers. At first he lay there, in the surety of his madness, and then gradually, as hours passed and daylight reigned, he was not so convinced that he was mad. To his amazement, he got up and preformed his daytime duties without flaw. There were no further portents of impending derangement and the incessant honeycomb drone of ghostly words became the background to his daily life. Until that fateful moment he heard a whisper call his name.

“Jon”.

At first the words were indistinct, but over the ensuing days they became razor sharp and more insistent. The whispers formed a chorus to his panicking thoughts. Through the mass of voices he heard one calling to him over and over.

“Come to me Jon!”

He resisted at first, his will a shield to the battering of the ethereal tones and supplications of that nameless voice. Until, in a moment of desperation, he ceased his vain struggling, and simply gave over his will. He broke down the walls he had erected to stem the tide of shadowy missives. He shut down his automatic defenses and quietly listened.

“To the East, through the forest, many miles, come to me, my love.” The disjointed message came.

So he followed. As the night turned the world of green and blue into simple shades of gray, he followed. Through the branches and brambles, through the muck and the mire, he pursued the gossamer trail of that haunting voice till he found himself here, at a forgotten chapel in a nameless wood. He struggled under the whispers burning call, till he stumbled, tired and spent from his long journey, at the base of a gravestone. Using shaking hands he tore the clinging ivy from the stone, using bare hands he cleared away the dust of ages, to read the inscription.

Ana, beloved wife of Jon. Born 1605 - Died 1642.

“Jon my love, help me, save me, free me.”

He stumbled into the church, breathless and disoriented, fell to the ground and clutched his knees as the voices surrounded him in their sonorous tide.

“Two hundred years ago” he mutters, and wonders, what this all means.

I woke with a start. The windows had all blown open, and all the lights had gone.
"Luke," whispered Tracey, alongside me, "I'm scared, there's someone downstairs. "
"Jeez, Tracey they are just laying it on."
Yep, we were there for Channel Six's Dare, Sleep In a Haunted House. All we had to do was last a week without outside contact and $20,000 smackers would be ours.
What I hadn't counted on was that Tracey, a tough, LA girl, was in fact terrified.

"OK." I swung out of bed fully dressed and grabbed my gun.
"A gun? They didn’t say anything about guns, Luke," said Tracey.
I chuckled. "They didn't say anything about not having guns either. Now you wait here."
"Don't leave me," whimpered Tracey, "Please don't."

I pushed the gun into both her hands and levelled it at the door. "OK--if anyone comes through that door besides me, shoot them."
"What if it's not an anyone but an anything?" she wailed.
"Well, shoot that, too," I said.
I slipped on my shoes and made for the door. On the way out, I picked up a heavy poker. Sometimes an East LA education comes in real handy.

Three-quarters of the way down the sweeping staircase, I realized there was someone there. Some clown was standing motionless at the bottom of the stairs, with a sheet over his head.

I eased up to him real careful like, poker at the ready and said: "OK, dude, if you don’t pull that sheet off your stupid head by the count of ten, I'm going to crack you so hard your teeth will be chewin' your eyeballs."
I began to count. The dude didn't move. Well one thing I have learned is, if you give an ultimatum, you’ve got to follow it through.

"7-8-9 10- don’t say I didn’t warn you."
I hit him. Not a kick-ass, crushed-skull type whack, but certainly a sit-this-one-out-for-half-an-hour whack.
The poker bounced off his skull, and he stayed upright. That’s when I laughed - a freaking statue. I was talking to a freaking statue. I pulled off the sheet.

Jeez, they'd done a good job. Both eyes were missing and his face looked like it had been through a mincer. It was a real B movie prop.
I was still laughing when he reached forward, took the poker from my hands and bent it double. Then he reached for me.

I hit the staircase running - and screaming: "Tracey, the gun! Get down here!"
I took the stairs four at a time and burst into the bedroom. Dim in the gloom, Tracey was still sitting up in bed, levelling the gun.

I jumped on the bed. "Gimme the gun!" I shouted in panic. The footsteps were on the landing now.
I tried to wrestle the gun from Tracey's fingers but she was frozen with fear.
Something entered the room behind us. I tried to grab Tracey to shake her out of it, but my hand just encountered a bloody stump. She was headless.
I screamed.
Something seized my ankle in a cold, clammy grip.

The night was still, and the trees cast their shadows on the castle walls, looming like giant deadly strangers. The full moon illuminated the images, making them seem even more ominous. Sonya awoke with a start, not quite certain what had caused her heart to be pounding so. The silence was almost deafening, yet she was certain that a noise had caused her to awaken. She lay quietly, eyes open, as she waited to see if the sound would come again.
Sonya felt frozen in fear, and knew trying to move would be pointless. She also knew something else. She was not alone. Whatever menace had caused her to awaken was now invading her senses in another way. There was no sound, no sight, no smell, no taste, or feel of this uninvited presence. Rather it was an invasion of her very soul. She wondered, if perhaps, a dream had awakened her and cast this uneasiness upon her spirit. She closed her eyes and tried to remember if she had been dreaming, but nothing came to mind. She took a deep breath and could see it. She pulled her comforter up to her chin, noticing the air in the room was visibly cooler. It was then that she heard it.
A pitiful scratching noise was coming from behind her mirror. She stopped breathing a moment just to listen. The noise must be what had awakened her. She breathed a sigh of relief, knowing the culprit must be a harmless house critter. Slowly she pulled back the cover, and slipped from the bed. She took her lantern, walked over to the dresser and peeped behind it to see if she could see the target of her discontent. She saw only a piece of paper lying there. She picked it up and saw it was tinged in what looked to be blood. She gasped when she read the words, "HELP ME". The scratching noise continued and seemed louder than before. She turned and ran from the room in an effort to escape the horror behind the wall. But there was no escape, as the pitiful scratching seemed to follow her down the hall and into the library. No matter how fast her legs carried her, the noise followed her. It became a chase. The horrible scratching continued to follow her from room to room until it seemed to invade her senses. With seemingly a mind of its own it seemed to battle her for her very sanity.
"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" Sonya screamed. The scratching stopped. And then a voice that seemed to come from the bowels of the earth said, "H..E..L..P M..E.." Sonya tried to scream, but nothing came out. She backed up until her back was against the opposite wall, and she felt the scatching begin there. There was nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide to escape whatever force seemed to be after her......unless she went out of the open window. One slip of her foot would lead to her death far below in the castle moat. She closed her eyes and chose to do the only thing she knew would keep her alive.

It all happened some cold winter night, I would tell you - if you were there to tell - and you'd believe me, because such tales were meant to be told on some cold winter night out in the middle of some forgotten corner of the land. You would believe in the story, during the telling, if you thought it all happened somewhere far away, somewhere expected. So after these first few words of caution, I shall continue as if it were so; my tale did not happen on a cold winters night, nor in some out of the way corner of the world- but I shall not go so far as to tell you where, or when, it did.

I was dressed for the night, or for the evening I should say- that is, low heeled shoes highly polished, dinner jacket, waistcoat and wingtips. A dark green pocket handkerchief had seemed appropriate for an evening in a library, and I wore a cravat of matching hue, loosely folded and pinned with a silver badge. It was not an occasion for any sort of cane - I would have been considered too pretentious with a cane - but I took my best hat none the less and the long black overcoat I wear to the opera when the fancy takes me.

I must admit that I was a little nervous. The synod gathered for few occasions, much less for such a man as me - only second generation in. And yet, they had agreed...

They had agreed that I could have been on to something.

The castle was there and not there at the same time. It was a dark, hulking fortress that exuded a miasma of incongruity – if you entered, the hairs on the back of your neck and on your arms and on your entire body would invariably stand up and you would shiver, as though a cold wind passed through your body. And if you happened to glance at the castle in a certain angle, you wouldn't see the green, grassy horizon that was beyond it, but someplace else. Someplace sinister, with black smoke curling around buildings made of bone and obscuring the sky, shrouding the stars, only the moon visible, but red, a red, blood moon. And, shaking, perspiring with fear, you would jump backward in terror and the horrific landscape would be gone from your sight. But you know that if you hadn't moved, if you had stayed and watched the blood moon rise, then you could not come back, would never be able to leave that gruesome panorama of death. And you would be right, because the castle was there and not there at the same time.