Part 4

The Haunting of Parsons Manor

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     The storm raged on outside, relentlessly battering the walls of the mansion with its raw unchecked fury- lightning lit up the night in violent bursts, thunder bellowed with cacophonous claps that shook the very walls of the manor as if to rattle the once proud edifice to the ground; howling winds buffeted the derelict old structure, wailing and moaning like a banshee robbed of her glory, and a torrential rain assaulted the window panes as if they would shatter the feeble plate glass that held nature’s fury at bay, allowing the storm to enter the very house itself with all of its destructive force.
    Paul watched the spectacle from the comfort and safety of the well lit master bedroom, glad that he did not have to face this dark, dreary night in the eternal shroud of darkness that pervaded the rest of this forlorn manor. He left the window and resettled by the fire, taking comfort in the radiant warmth that it brought to this otherwise cold, dank setting. The melancholy hymn resonated from the gramophone, keeping the oppressive silence at bay, yet allowing the somber atmosphere to remain intimately close, while it aided in the passing of the time. As the youth became more comfortable with his surroundings, it soon dawned on him that he hadn’t eaten since much earlier in the day. He put a couple of logs onto the fire to keep its blaze burning bright, and then got up to fetch his backpack.
    After a moment of fumbling through his supplies, Paul withdrew a smaller sack containing two wrapped mason jars and a loaf of bread. He tore off a chunk of bread and began eating it to stave off his hunger until he could heat the jar the rest of his meal by the fire. The youth removed the wrapping from the first jar, producing a container of freshly brewed tea, which he immediately opened and took several gulps from. The dark amber liquid left a bitter taste on his tongue as it washed down the smaller bits of bread that clung to his parched mouth, threatening to strangle him if he didn’t moisten his tongue soon. He then removed the second jar containing his mother’s beef stew and sat it as close to the fire as he could without burning himself to let get warm.
    It didn’t take long for the stew to get warm enough for him to eat. He had to turn the jar occasionally to ensure that it was getting warm evenly, but when it was ready, he used an old shirt to remove the jar from the heat and loosen the old zinc lid so he could eat. He fished around in his supplies until he found the spoon that he had packed and then sat back to enjoy a hot meal. Outside, lightning flashed with a cacophonous clap of thunder that shook Parsons’ Manor to its very foundations. Leaden sheets of torrential rain battered the widows even harder than before obscuring any possible view beyond its pummeled panes. Paul breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that he had found the firewood when he did; else he may have been forced to sit the night through in the damp, cold darkness that crept into this manor, shrouding it in perpetual gloom.
    As he took in the comforts of the master’s chamber from his camp, on the floor near the fireplace, he leisurely consumed the meal that he had brought with him. Paul didn’t realize how famished he was until he took the first bite of the stew. It felt good to have the piping hot mixture of savory broth, meat, and vegetables warming him from the inside, lifting his spirits, and pushing away the hunger that he did not realize was affecting him in this cold, clammy dwelling. Downstairs, the old grandfather clock tolled, its hollow tone reverberating throughout the shadow ridden halls, reminding him that he was still in the proximity of that creepy timepiece that worked, it seemed, of its own free will. Just hearing that vile tone sent an involuntary shudder coursing through his body, despite the warmth of his new safe haven, as if to tell him that he was still by himself, in a place where no one should ever have been. He grabbed a couple of logs, more out of reflex than of necessity and tossed them onto the fire, sending a shower of sparks spiraling up the flue, to knock the edge off of the uncanny chill that seemed to have crept into the room. Lightning streaked the sky with a loud burst of thunder that sounded like a cannon had been fired off in the nearby woods, rattling the windows in their panes, and rumbling off through the night as it echoed off of the distant mountains.
    Paul spooned frustratingly at the final morsel which seemed to evade his every effort to retrieve it from the bottom of the jar. After a moment of grumbling and coaxing, he managed to coerce the last bite onto his spoon. Lightning lit up the night sky in a brief, yet ominous, highlight of blue, setting the windows aglow, if only for a second. From the corner of his eye, Paul spied the face of someone leering malevolently at him from the window by the bed. His pulse quickened as he jerked around to see who was there. There was a loud clatter as his jar and spoon fell to the floor, its clamor echoing through the all but empty room. As his eyes focused on the window, lightning flashed, revealing only an empty rain battered windowpane. He was both relieved and unnerved by the absence of whatever he had seen, for he was sure that someone was there. He sat watching, waiting for whoever or whatever had been there to make another appearance, but as nothing happened, a starting realization dawned on him, adding a sense of practicality to the situation. Paul realized that he was on the second floor of the mansion, and the window itself was several dozen feet above the ground. Had he been in the drawing room below, then it might have been possible for someone to be staring in through the window, if only to see who would dare to occupy this ramshackle dwelling. As it was, only someone with a ladder or some other means of scaling the side of the house could peer in through the bleak weather-stained portal. Paul got up and hesitantly stole toward the window to peer out, when lightning illuminated the grim rain-washed portal revealing a plausible solution- for as the sky lit up, he saw his reflection in a manner that was more noticeable during the brief seconds of illumination than at any other time. Paul allowed himself a sigh of relief as he accepted the possibility that he had been startled by his own reflection yet again even though a cold, prickling feeling in his spine and an uneasy sinking in the pit of his stomach told him that he wasn’t entirely convinced. The room had grown quiet, he’d noticed, deliberately turning his attention away from the window and any thoughts of what might or might not have been there just seconds ago. Using the fact that he was already on his feet as a welcome excuse; Paul sauntered over to the gramophone and gave it a few cranks to start the music again. Once more the soft sad melody of the lonely ballad filled the silence of the room with its solemn timbre. Satisfied to have the haunting tune to help break the almost tangible silence that had settled over the place, the youth returned to the fireplace and retrieved his eating utensils, putting them away so that he would not forget them come morning.
    Time ticked away slowly, with only the occasional soul-wrenching toll of the old grandfather clock to steal the tranquility from the chamber. The slow, soft music helped to sooth Paul’s nerves, acting almost like a morose lullaby as it played on into the night. Between the warmth of the fire, and the fresh hot meal that he had consumed, the youth soon felt his eyelids growing heavy. He stretched, feeling the warmth soak into his weary limbs, and then tossing a couple of logs into the hearth for good measure, leaned back onto his bedroll. As he lay, basking in the heat of the glowing fire, his mind began to drift over the events that had taken place this evening- his departure from the home of the Jenkins’ Brothers- the long lonesome walk down Old Briar Run- the raspy cry of the solitary raven that seemed to guide his journey as it flew past him along the way- his arrival at the derelict old manor- the chilling encounter with the mounted goat’s head in the den- and the inexplicable tolling of the cyclopean old grandfather clock whose very tone resonated with the foreboding reminder of ominous tidings. As if to herald his thoughts, the clock tolled, echoing through the darkened halls of Parsons’ Manor, causing the youth to shudder involuntarily as its unearthly peal cut through the air, even above the ballad that still played on the record player. Once the spine-tingling din of the clock had passed, fading into the night, Paul relaxed as the heat of the blazing fire washed over his weary form. The music soon stopped; allowing silence to creep back into the old mansion, save for the random pop and crack of the fire only a few feet away or the steady rumble of thunder outside. As Paul lay, bathing in the radiant heat of the fire, the sounds gradually grew more and more distant until they were merely a fading memory.
    …Once more Paul wandered through the open woods of Rockhaven, autumn leaves shifting with each step in chorus of hushed whispers. It wasn’t raining, and hadn’t appeared to have even sprinkled in more than a week. The tall sentinels of ancient timber surrounding him were ablaze in autumn splendor; an appearance enhanced by the chill breeze that blew through the glade, carrying with it the icy touch of the coming winter. Stray leaves that had been caught up in the passing waft tossed and swirled like restless spirits in the sunless gray sky. From what he could tell, he was alone in the dell, save for a distant raven, whose raspy voice split the silence on occasion. A glum, low burning, and cheerless fire spit and sputtered in a crude, makeshift pit before him, its flames desperately clinging to life as it fed on the gnarled limbs of some dead snag that had long ago succumbed to the elements and passed its fate on to the gasping flames. Something moved in the nearby brush; the heavy rustling like a person tromping through the underbrush. Amidst the crackling limbs and leaves, Paul could hear hushed, hoarse whispers that mocked him profoundly with the eerie impish laughter of children that moved around to remote and random places, always just out of sight as if to keep him guessing their apparent location. Leaden-hued clouds blotted out the sky beyond the rusted canopy of boughs that reached out at various angles as if to support the very weight of the heavens above. The cool evening breeze, which seemed to ebb and flow at whim, grew into a gusty wind that came and went with the sharp hissing breath of some vile beast that had been awakened from its ancient slumber. The air became cold and clammy as the chill of night began to settle on the land, its pestilent vapors encroaching upon the teen, and diminishing what little warmth his tiny fire had to offer…
    Paul awoke with a shudder as the damp chill of the air settled upon his body. The fire had burned low, leaving only angry red coals in its place, along with the occasional tongue of bluish flame that licked the air in search of something to feed its unquenchable hunger. Without its roaring blaze to keep the stormy night at bay, the moist, cool air had encroached upon the master bedroom, leeching the warmth from all within reach of its clammy tendrils, including the youth himself. Lightning flickered outside, lighting up the night in monochromatic shades of blue that highlighted the room in spectral splendor before fading back into the darkness, and thunder growled like the awakening of some ancient unearthly beast as it shook the walls and rattled the windows, announcing the storm’s continued and menacing presence. Wind and rain howled in an unholy torrent as the elements threw themselves against the walls of Parsons’ Manor, time and time again, as if to wear through the structure by sheer force of will. This was only trumped by the ghastly peal of the cyclopean sentinel downstairs as it resonated through the forlorn corridors of the mansion, its disturbingly hollow notes robbing the peace as it stole into the room.
    Paul quivered; a reaction that had little or nothing to do with the damp chill that slunk into the room whilst he slept. Rousing, he stretched against the cold and lethargic stiffness that had settled upon his prone form, and then set to gathering enough kindling to build the fire back up. The coals were stubborn at first; however, they soon accepted the tiny bits of wood that had been placed among their bed with a pleasant crackle. Within a moment or two, Paul had worked the fire back up to a steady blaze that once more pushed back the dank chill of the night.
    He had turned to fetch a few more logs to place into the growing flame, when he was stopped short by the groan of something heavy moving at the base of the stairs. Thunder rolled across the land in an ominous roar that drown out the silence and handicapped his ability to listen to what he might have heard; if only for a few seconds. While he sat with a log in his hand, poised to be placed in the fiery hearth, he strained to hear whatever had made the grumpy entry floor protest so profoundly. After a moment, he reached out and placed the log onto the fire, taking much needed care to not make any incriminating sounds. His head snapped toward the door of the master bedroom as he heard a loud thump, followed by the sound of something heavy being dragged along, upsetting the cantankerous floor at the bottom of the stairs. The hair stood up along the back of Paul’s neck, sending a tingle of icy cold fingers down the back of his spine. He was supposed to be alone in the old house. His pulse quickened, as he heard the heavy thump and drag reached the stairs. His heart pounded even more as he realized that the bedroom door was standing open several inches, even though he could have sworn that he had closed it when he had settled in earlier. Part of the youth wanted nothing more than to jump up and shut the door to keep out whoever or whatever was climbing the stairs, but he knew that if he did, they would see that he was there and come after him.
    The frightened teen’s thoughts were interrupted as the thud and dragging sound ascended the stairs, slowly as if someone were pulling a body up the long staircase. With each heavy step, the sound grew closer, echoing through the hollow shadows of the empty hall. Paul’s mind raced about what he should do; he looked to the bed and to various closets trying to think about where he might hide to keep from being found, only to have the thought’s driven from his mind by the hellish peal of the grandfather clock resonating through the foreboding gloom of the abandoned old manor. He felt his body wanting to curl up and deny him any control of movement as the toll was followed by the sound of the approaching doom that made its way up the stairs.
    He sat fearfully watching the door, knowing that whatever or whoever was climbing the stairs would be there at any moment when something shuffled nearby. The thump and heavy dragging had all but reached the upper landing, but that was now only a mere part of his main concern, for Paul realized to his ultimate dismay, that he was not alone in the room. As if to confirm his ill-omened tidings, the gramophone, which had been so instrumental in pushing back the somber atmosphere of the dark, stormy evening in this sanctuary of shadows, wound itself and began playing the eerie, haunting melody without the help of anyone’s touch. It all began to sink in to Paul as he felt his nerves turn to water- the old gramophone and its melancholy ballad had lured him to this room, away from the safety of the drawing room which was so close to the front door and his only means of escape. He had been lulled into thinking that he was safe- to dropping his guard against the signs that had been so prevalent had he only listened to his instinct rather than reason, and now, like a fly which had wandered too far into the widow’s web, only to find that its presumed safety was the true snare of the trap, and escape wasn’t as easy as once believed.
    Paul surveyed the room with a wary eye, now seeing danger and deception where he, only a short while ago, found solace. As if to garner the mood which had overtaken his sensibilities, lightning crashed outside, illuminating the night with concussive force that shook the house to its very foundations. Wincing against the thunder that rattled the windowpanes, the youth’s eyes roved over the common effects of the room- the linen shrouded vanity that had not seen the light of day in more than a decade- the old gramophone that now played with a horrifying mind of its own- and the ornately carved canopy bed which had not seen use since its owners had departed so many years ago, with an uneasiness that bordered panic, for Paul new that he was anything but alone at that moment. As he took in the finer details of the room, he realized that he was, once more, being watched from the window. He glanced at the portal, turning only his eyes to catch a glimpse of whoever or whatever was there; however, when he saw it, he just as quickly wished that he hadn’t, for glowering at him from the windowpane was the mummified face of a corpse. Sunken eyes full of hatred and malice bore straight through his soul, peeling away at the layers of Paul’s reason, and baring his very being for the vile thing to see. Before he realized what he had done, he turned to look fully at the deathly visage that glared at him so violently from the rain battered portal. The skin had dried, growing taut and leather-like with emaciated cheeks that had shriveled around the bones, drawing the thin cracked lips back, exposing dried teeth and gums in a frightful mockery of a wicked grin. Lightning flashed beyond the thing, turning its leering grin into a dreadful silhouette whose shadow chilled his blood as it fell upon him.
    Terrified beyond words, the youth could not tear his eyes from the glowering face that stared through his very core from the twilit window. Even as he heard the slow approach of the thump and dragging of whatever horror lurked near the top of the stairs, his fear of the face in the window kept him frozen, unable to move from the place where he sat. Every part of him wanted to run; wanted to scream; wanted to deny what was there, staring at him with such malevolence that he could feel his skin crawl. He knew without question that the ghastly visage belonged to none other than Jonathan Parsons. The one name, associated with this accursed estate that put an icy tinge of fear into the hearts of even the bravest of men in the town of Rockhaven. It was just as the stories had said, even the ones told by Charlie Baker and the Jenkins Brothers- he had taken them up on the dare, even talked his way into it, and now here he stood; staring at the disembodied head of Jonathan Parsons, absolutely paralyzed with fear. The withered, cracked lips of the mummified head somehow managed to contort themselves into a malevolent smile that drew them back even further upon the gums making the grisly visage even worse. Patches of dark, mud caked hair dotted the weathered cranium in sparse areas and fell in wet clumps as the zombie-like countenance nodded, propelling itself from the windowpane and rolling along the old wooden floor to land at Paul’s feet. The youth’s eyes followed the unearthly corpse’s movements, though he himself was too petrified to do anything else.
    Without warning, the mummy-like head bounded up; its dirty teeth sinking into the soft yielding flesh of Paul’s left leg. The sudden explosion of pain that shot up the accosted limb snapped the youth out of his terror induced shock. Screaming both in horror and in pain, Paul began thrashing his leg about in an attempt to dislodge the corpse head from his throbbing limb. During the desperate frenzy, Jonathan’s head was tossed from his leg, taking a piece of his calf with him. Paul cried out both in horror and in pain, as he grabbed his injured limb. Warm red liquid coated his hand as he tried to staunch the bleeding, while gaping wide-eyed at the withered cranium that turned and sneered at him with a bloodstained grin. Paul fought to scramble to his feet, despite the burning ire in his leg, but just as he was about to make any headway, the mummified head of Jonathan Parsons leapt propelled itself at him once more. Its shriveled jaws snapped, teeth clacking, as it moved in for another bite of the young man’s soft flesh.
     Paul wasn’t sure how he did it, but he managed to evade the snapping skull’s advance. As it sailed past him, the youth looked around for a weapon that he could use to fend off his ghastly attacker. A sickening wave of pain blazed through his leg, threatening to overwhelm him and send him crashing to the floor. Beyond the door, whatever was climbing the stairs reached the upper landing dragging its heavy burden along with it. The zombie-like head turned and bounded up at Paul’s face, catching the terrified youth off-guard. All he could do, in his defense, was to throw his arms up in an attempt to deflect the thing’s attack. Paul realized his error when the snapping jaws of Jonathan Parsons dug into his forearm. White hot pain seared through his left arm driving the youth mad with terror as he screamed, tearing and pulling at the shriveled head with his good arm. Jonathan’s teeth dug in, chewing and thrashing as it fought to retain the flesh that it held in its withered jaws.
    Paul’s mind was wild with terror as he tried to rid his arm of the corpse’s head. Paul’s fingers scraped and dug at the dead leathery flesh until he managed to dislodge the mummified cranium. A searing explosion of pain coursed through his arm as the stained, bloody mouth took a chunk of his arm with it, leaving an angry gaping wound where it had been. A stream of red ran down Paul’s left arm, dripping onto the floor, a mark that would forever stain the hardwood planks. He felt the pulse racing through his arm and leg- felt the crippling throb that grew in his injured limbs that swelled to a fever pitch, threatening to steal his control and leave him helpless before the cruel corpse-thing- he even felt the warm sticky liquid that oozed steadily from each bite, but he was too terrified to care about anything other than getting away from the undead corpse that defied all logic and sensibilities that once kept his world grounded. The head of Jonathan Parsons lolled around and with a wicked sneer, lunged at him. It danced among his feet snapping and biting at anything that came within range. Paul jerked and thrashed, taking several nips before the thing managed to latch into his other leg, and begin whipping about like a rabid dog.
    Paul fell to the floor with a wail of stark terror, his hand searching for anything that he could use to rid his leg of its violent assailant. Without thinking about what he was grabbing, the young man’s fingers closed around the first thing that he encountered. A shower of sparks swarmed up the chimney as he pulled a log out of the fireplace and began swinging it at the zombie-like face that was mauling his leg. Hot coals singed Paul’s hands beyond recognition, but the youth was too terrified to notice as he frantically beat the dead, bloody head until it was loosed from his leg, leaving only a chunk of torn skin and muscle in its wake. In a desperate attempt to get away, Paul swung the searing hot log against the side of the long dead skull, knocking it across the master bedroom. He quickly discarded the flaming brand, putting it back into the fireplace whence he grabbed it and began scrambling for the door of the chamber. He didn’t have time to examine his ruined hands as he staggered to his feet and stumbled toward his only way out. He tore open the bedroom door, leaving a blackened-bloody handprint in his wake, ready to tear down the stairs; however, he was staggered back as his eyes fell upon the mummified, half-decayed trunk of a body pulled along by a pair of dirty, spindly, skeletal arms ending in withered, bony, claw-like hands.
    He held out his charred and bloody hands in denial as he beheld the grisly spectacle before him. Thunder clapped outside as though heralding the arrival of this grim spectacle that seemed to sense his every move. The room swirled as Paul reeled against the door face, the sheer horror of his circumstances overwhelming is very being. The tell-tale clicking of snapping teeth drew his attention from the creeping torso to the mummified skull of Jonathan Parsons which had started toward him once more. Paul cringed as the crawling body reached up for him with a gnarled bony claw. Torn between the disembodied head and the decayed remains of a torso that groped the air for him, Paul stumbled back, and then threw himself into a frantic leap hoping to make it to the stairs. His hopes were dashed as he felt the raking burn of bony fingers tearing at and into the flesh of his leg. He cried out as the sharp unbearable pain seared through his lower limbs, taking his mind away from what he was doing long enough for him to miss his landing. In his moment of pain and confusion, Paul didn’t feel himself falling, nor did he feel the floor rush up to meet him in a crash that bounced his head, hard, off of the floor. A brilliant flash exploded through his eyes in time with the concussive force that blurred his senses and stole his vision if only for a vital second. The white flash soon dissipated, leaving a myriad of star-like blotches barring his full vision. Something warm ran down his forehead, stinging as it dripped into his eye- a hot coppery taste penetrated his lips and coated his tongue as a steady stream of blood poured from his busted nose, yet all Paul could think about was tearing his leg away from the mummified corpse’s vile clutches before Jonathan’s snapping skull got to him.
Thunder roared as the storm bared its fury, shaking the walls of the house and adding to the dizzying blur that had clouded Paul’s mind. The ghastly peal of the grandfather clock rang out from the great room, adding to the cacophony of the distress that weighed upon the moment. As if to drive him further from his rationale, the gramophone played that mournful ballad, louder than ever, making the his head ring with a dissension that made it difficult to retain his bearings. With a desperate tug, he wrenched his leg free of the deathly claws that held him so, their bony fingertips tearing bloody grooves down his leg as he pulled himself free. He stumbled clumsily down the long staircase fighting the urge to give in to the merciless gravity that threatened to pull him to the base of the stairs against his will.
    The crabby floor of the foyer groaned and complained as vertigo overtook the injured youth and brought him plummeting down the last part of the stairs. Dazed from both the fall and the grievous wounds that he had received in the last few moments, Paul struggled to push himself up from the floor; however, to his distress, the room spun uncontrollably around him, stealing his equilibrium, and dropping him back to the floor with a groan. From behind, he heard the distinctive dragging and of Jonathan Parsons’ body, as the dreaded cadaver made its way to the edge of the upper landing. Fear of the approaching horror sent an icy chill through Paul’s prone form, forcing him back to his feet with an uncomfortable grunt. With a desperate lunge, he raced toward the front door as fast as his injured legs and blurred vision would allow. Cracked and bloody fingers groped frantically at the lion-headed doorknob, turning and twisting until the heavy wooden portal groaned open. He was ready to get out of that damnable mansion where clocks chimed of their own will- vile goat’s heads ruled the den with the malcontent of a fiend- where gramophones played haunting ballads that lure unwary victims into their diabolical melodic clutches- where shadows ruled and fed upon the mundane, twisting it and turning it into a hellish fiend that dogged guests with every breath and every step- and where the zombified remains of a demented killer roam the halls in search of their severed brethren, bringing harm to anyone or anything in their path. Paul staggered back as he was met by a pair of gaunt, decayed pair of disembodied legs, tapping its feet at the threshold of the front door. To his horror, they began stiffly walking toward him, step by step, backing the terrified young man into the foyer, where the grumpy floor mocked his every movement. Something snagged Paul’s foot, tripping the injured youth and sent him sprawling backward to the floor. He flailed desperately at the empty air as he fell, only to feel the wind blasted from his chest as he landed hard on the old hardwood floor. Stunned, Paul was unable to move as he lay there, gasping for the breath that had been stolen from him by the impact of his fall. His heart sank as he heard the horrid clack of Jonathan Parsons’ teeth approaching, as the decrepit head tumbled down the stairs followed immediately by the heavy, clumsy, clamor of the cadaverous torso. Paul hated the sinking dread that washed over him as the nightmare before him continued to get worse with every turn of events. He liked it even less when the dismantled corpse began ambling toward him with a pace that insinuated its malign and sadistic sense of anticipation.
    Paul struggled to get his limbs to respond against the waves of pain that wracked his body from the abuse that he had received over the last few moments. Striving against the nauseating agony that protested and resisted his every effort, Paul managed to scramble, crab-like into the dimly lit drawing room, hoping that putting a little distance between him and the creeping horror that was Jonathan Parsons would buy him some time to recover his footing. White fires of blistering pain blazed like an inferno in the seared flesh of his chapped, raw, and bloody hands, with each motion that he made, threatening to knot up his arms and render them useless at any given moment. A blue haze lit up the room as lightning flashed violently outside, revealing the dismal dwelling to its only living occupant. He gazed in fright as the dismantled parts of Jonathan Parsons halted their pursuit long enough to begin assembling themselves into the gangly, patchwork semblance of a man. Paul knew that he didn’t have much time to waste, so with agonized effort, he scrambled into the shadows of the drawing room, hoping beyond hope that he would make it out of this place alive.
    His heart pounded so heavily that he could no longer tell the difference between the pulse that coursed through his veins, and the raging storm that assaulted the mansion. Jonathan Parsons stood upright, nude save for a few tattered rags that once may have resembled clothing, but now only served to enhance the ominous nature of the undead thing that stalked the halls of the manor. Lightning flashed illuminating the ghastly being in somber hues that revealed a face so full of malice that it nearly made the youth faint from the horrid nature that lay behind the undead thing’s daemonic eyes. The walking corpse moved with the rickety grace of a marionette just learning to walk on its own, but quickly picked up its pace as it gathered its composure. Jonathan moved toward the drawing room swiftly for something that had been dead for nearly a century. His eyes burned with an unearthly fire, laden with menace as they seemed to pierce the lingering shadows in search of his prey.
    Paul’s breath caught in his throat as he forced himself back to his feet, fighting with every motion against the pain and dizziness that bore down upon his very being. His encounter with the legendary specter of this estate had left him with a shattered view of reality, and a nearly broken body from the ferocity of the thing’s relentless assault. He searched for any means of escape that would take him as far away from this God-forsaken manor, though he could feel the damage that this experience had done- his hands were ruined- his legs ached and burned as did his left arm; as if severe infection had set in to his wounded limbs- and his face throbbed as it had begun to swell from his fall at the top of the stairs.
    The gaunt form of Jonathan Parsons made for the youth at a terrifying pace, his gnarled, twisted claws groping at the air as they sought to dig into their intended prey. Paul, frozen with fear at the unbelievable speed and grace of such a thing as this corpse, was nearly unable to move in time to escape the grisly corpse’s foreboding advance. He made to dash by the gangly thing, and run for the front door, but he was caught fast as a flash of hot pain burned into his left shoulder. Sharp bony fingers raked across his arm tearing shirt and skin alike, drawing another stream of warm sticky fluid from his already abused body. Paul hardly felt the blood that ran down his arm and back as he fought wildly to get away from the mummified thing that had snagged his torn garment. Another hand clasped his wrist in an iron-like grip, digging its bony claw-like appendages sharply into the young man’s flesh.
    Sunken eyes burned with malign glee as Jonathan Parsons ensnared his victim, drawing him closer. The withered corpse released the youth’s torn shirt and reached up with its gnarled hand, stroking the claw-like appendage dauntingly along the side of Paul’s face before clasping the teen’s face tightly, just under the jaw. Paul winced both in pain and revulsion as the sharp, bony fingertips dug into his face, forcing his mouth open despite any efforts he made to resist. The undead thing that was Jonathan Parsons moved its decaying, zombie-like visage close to the young man’s, opening its mouth as wide as the taut, leathery tissue would allow. Shrunken skin cracked and frayed, dropping flakes of dirt and dried flesh with each movement- a ribbon of fresh blood oozed from its oral cavity where Jonathan’s teeth had found their way into Paul’s tender hide, mingling the scent of decay with the repulsive coppery tang of a fresh wound, arousing a sense of nausea along with the many other infirmities that currently ailed him. As if to further disgust the panic-stricken youth; the undead creature’s chest emitted the wet, sickly rattle of some unknown phlegm-like substance moving around as it drew in a long, exaggerated, and deep breath.
    A new wave of terror gripped Paul, shaking him to the very core of his being as he felt himself beginning to fade in and out while the undead corpse of Jonathan Parsons inhaled. It was as though the cadaverous thing was taking his very life force- like the that vampire feeds on the blood of the living, Jonathan was feeding upon his very essence- maybe even his very soul. With each passing second the room grew more and more dim; even the angry, bright red glow of the coals in the hearth faded from view. Paul knew that he was in dire straits- that he had to do something soon- he had to escape before he was too weak to move. The breath stopped and Jonathan drew back to prepare for another breath, the crack of a dry joint alerting Paul to what might be his one and only chance to get away. In an act born more out of primal instinct and survival than of conscious thought, the youth began thrashing, kicking and screaming at his captor like some trapped beast of the wild, pulling away from the walking dead thing with all of his might. He twisted turned and struggled against the undead thing- against the knotted up wounds that burned like the coals of the fire; then at some point, somewhere, something gave, and all that Paul knew was, he was loose, and reeling backward out of control- out of the drawing room and into the entry hall, only to lose his footing and slam his head hard into the beveled edge of the oaken secretary.
    A brilliant explosion of pain wracked his skull with the effect of a thunderbolt, leaving behind a myriad of spots that bobbed, moved and swayed, hampering his vision. He tried to blink them away but it only made his head hurt all the more. His tongue was numb save for the fresh coppery taste that accompanied the dull ache in his jaw that spoke of him having bit the inside of his cheek. Paul’s head throbbed violently, threatening to rob him of his sight as the world around him blurred in and out of focus. He could vaguely make out the shambling silhouette skulking toward him from the drawing room; yet he could feel the maniacal gleam in its gaze as the corpse advanced. Hurt and terrified beyond words, Paul clambered to his feet, using the secretary to steady his ascent and then lurched for the front door. He only made it a few steps before the room began to swirl in a maelstrom of shadows and highlights that swept his balance up with it. Struggling desperately to stay on his feet, Paul somehow managed to make it to the door before he had to catch his balance against the door face.
    The grandfather clock tolled from within the bowels of the shadows behind Paul, its dull clang pulsing through his hurting head, and sending waves of disorientation through his senses. He was alerted to the vile curses of the foyer’s hardwood floor as its sharp complaints rattled his vision, announcing the dreadful approach of the cadaverous man-thing that was once the owner of this rundown estate. Upon seeing the ghastly figure shambling toward him, Paul fled out into the storm, his mind wild with fright, staggering as he fought to maintain his balance on the murky, overgrown path that had long since flooded due to the wailing torrent. Lightning split the night sky in a blinding flash that nearly made the youth swoon as the intense burst of bluish-white light invaded and overwhelmed his senses. As he tried to blink the numerous multicolored spots from his eyes, he risked a glance over his shoulder, only to feel his heart sink into the pit of his stomach as the gangly form of Jonathan Parsons loped off of the veranda, following him into the raging storm. The harsh, driving rain fell in leaden sheets, which soaked him to the bone and left his clothes hanging from his small frame in limp soggy rags that weighed him down, impeding his every movement as if he was in a bad dream from which he could not awaken. Paul’s injured limbs, infected by the bites that he had received from the disembodied head of his pursuer, festered; the corruption growing, contaminating his once healthy self, making it difficult at best to keep up his ragged momentum. He fought desperately against the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him- to leave him face down in the muck, helpless before the cadaverous monster that pursued him. A clap of thunder shook the heavens and earth, driving the young man to a knee as the concussive blast roiled through the night sky, despite his best efforts to maintain his momentum.
    Paul forced himself back onto his feet, regardless of the pain that once again crippled him; urging himself forward once more, only to be taken aback as a flash of lightning lit up the night illuminating a pair of towering apparitions that loomed over him with soulless hollow eyes that peered into his soul and seemed to drain the very life from his bones, as they all but barred his way out of this hellish domain. Aghast with fright, Paul threw his hands up in a meager defense against the bleached specters as he fought to change direction; however, his weakened legs conspired against him, giving out, and dropping him in an ungainly heap in the swampy muck of the unkempt pathway- a cry of utter helplessness escaped is lips as the rain-washed, overgrown trail rushed up to meet him. The world around him reeled for a moment as he lay there, trying to move, trying to force himself back to his feet once more. A distant flash of lightning revealed the apparitions as the same skeletal snags that seemed to have been watching his arrival at the manor several hours earlier. Their bleached white trunks had obtained an unearthly luxuriance in the wake of the rain and twilight that reflected the sullen sky every time the lightning lit up the night.
    Barely able to drag himself to his feet, Paul shambled forward once more, staggering past the phantasmal snags that were once trees, and fighting to maintain his footing against the harsh winds that buffeted him as though the very elements themselves conspired to trap him and leave him at the mercy of the thing that was Jonathan Parsons. The gnarled limbs of the wicked snags thrashed about in the torrential gale, giving them the impression that they were trying to reach for and claw at the youth as he stumbled by. Glancing around as much as his swirling vision and dazed state of mind would allow, Paul sought for any signs of his deathly pursuer, both relieved and disturbed when he found no sign of the hideous corpse. Lightning flashed allowing his eyes to see the only hope he had of surviving this dreadful night as he viewed the ivy covered wrought iron gate through the torrential downpour, just ahead. He staggered onward, hoping beyond hope that safety and salvation lay just beyond the ivy-strewn border that separated the Parsons Estate from the outside world.
    Paul’s head throbbed- the world around him becoming swimmy as he tried to run, making each forced step even harder as he trudged on with water-logged feet that seemed as heavy as lead. His pulse raced through his body, echoing in his ears- the thunderous beat of his heart, rivaling the raging cacophony of the storm and deafening his awareness of the world around him. His feet were cold, waterlogged, and heavy laden and had become trammeled with the various clumps of wild grass, roots and whatever else he had the misfortune of stumbling across as if the very grounds of the estate had turned against him. Something shuffled in the shadows just far enough out of sight to keep the youth from discerning its origin, and raising his fear to a state of near panic. His heart thudded in his chest like a giant’s fist pounding to break free as he spared paranoid glances about him, praying that one of his glimpses didn’t involve the terrifying image of Jonathan Parsons. With each fleeting look off the main road, Paul was forced to regain his bearings as his vision blurred in and out of focus, making him swimmy-headed at best; an action that cost him valuable time with every occurrence.
    Lightning brightened the shadows, and stung Paul’s sensitive eyes, revealing the gate to be only a few yards away. Paul thanked the heavens above as he broke into a desperate run that had him lurching awkwardly along the unkempt path, and sloshing clumsily through the flooded depressions that lay between him and his destination. When he reached the gate, he was surprised to find that it was closed, though he didn’t remember having closed it when he entered earlier that evening. Paul saw freedom- saw salvation just beyond the wrought iron bars and the draped curtain of ivy that all but obscured it from view, and began tugging at the portal with all of his might. He strained against the wrought-iron gate- against the pain that wracked his body in bursts of white hot hatred- against the agony of his ruined hands, cracked and bleeding from the severe burns inflicted by the flaming brand he used to fend off Jonathan’s skull- and against the onrush of vertigo that rose up against him like a tide of never ending darkness just waiting to envelop him at any given point. The torrent blared on both from the storm and inside of his all but broken body, swelling to fever pitch, and hazing his vision over in a murky haze.
    Just as the gate began to budge, Paul felt the horrifying stab of sharp, bony claws digging into his shoulder, shoving him hard against the wrought-iron gate. Paul felt only the brief explosion of pain as his head slammed into the metal bars, followed by the fading weightlessness of his descent as he fell for what seemed like an eternity to the flooded, overgrown roadway. The last thing that the young man saw was the devilish countenance of Jonathan Parsons leering down wickedly at him, just before blackness overtook his senses.