Chapter Text
The air was unseasonably cold as Daniel Jonathan Cain ducked his head out of the carriage and stepped onto the path. His boots sank into the damp earth as he supposed it was unseasonable by the standards of his native Massachusetts, but perhaps it was a different story at the base of the Swiss alps. He did not savour the idea of shivering through his teeth for the next few months, buttoning his coat to his chin as a chill wracked his frame. As much as Dan would have preferred his assignment taking him to the north Italian riviera, or the beaches of Spain (he would have even settled for the gloomy streets of London if it meant residing in a country of his own tongue), it was not to be so.
This is not a leisurely holiday, he reminded himself. You are here to carry out a mission, not sunbake in the sand.
Dan’s driver dumped his luggage at his feet with all the ceremony of a maid tipping out a chamber pot, then climbed back into his seat. Dan attempted to ask the man the direction of the town square, but he had only picked up enough German to ask for the time and if he could please have a cup of coffee. He blustered through the sentence, sure he was spouting nonsense, and ended up pointing in the general direction of the village with a questioning gaze.
The driver, an elderly Swiss man with a face carved from granite, seemed to understand him though, and nodded to the north with a grunt. “Is not far. Ten hours walk.”
Dan was struck with despair. “Ten hours?” he gaped.
The driver scratched his chin. “Ah. Minutes. Yes.”
“Oh.” Dan’s feet seemed to sigh with relief. “Alright. Good. Thank you- er. Danke.”
The driver merely grunted in response, then, with a flick of the reigns and a click of his tongue, he was turning the carriage around. The horses kicked up clumps of dirt as they trotted off down the earthen path, leaving Dan alone in the open valley with his luggage. He turned in a circle, taking in the high mountains surrounding him, the long swatches of open green grass, and the crisp air chilling his lungs with every breath. He turned in the direction the old man had nodded to, stooped down to pick up his luggage, and set off.
The journey from Boston to the obscure village of Birkdort had been long and arduous. The weeks-long course across the Atlantic to the shores of France had left him green in the gills and longing for even the sight of solid land. Then had come the many train rides, cutting across Europe until he eventually made his way into Switzerland. When the tracks and the paved roads faded into dirt, he was left only with a horse-drawn carriage to take him the rest of the way. As he’d sat in the back of the cab, bouncing and jostling over every rock, nearly hitting the crown of his head on the roof every other second, he asked himself what he was even doing here?
A job, he told himself firmly.
It had seemed simple enough when he’d been approached by a man calling himself Everett Carmichael, offering Dan a ‘unique opportunity’. He still remembered meeting Mr. Carmichael in a shadowy office, a couple of other men in dark suits lurking behind his impressive oak desk. Seated before them, Dan felt like a boy being scolded by the schoolmaster.
“It’s actually quite simple,” Mr. Carmichael had said, fingers steepled together. “We require the services of a doctor. Disturbing reports have been surfacing regarding a relation of ours living abroad. We need someone to pay him a visit and confirm these reports.”
Trepidation had touched Dan’s breast even then. If only he had taken heed of his intuition and turned back at that first sign of unease. Perhaps he could have avoided the unspeakable horrors that were to come and his life would never had taken that drastic, dreadful shift.
But Dan had merely frowned and said, “What purpose would a doctor serve in such a task?”
Mr. Carmichael cast a furtive glance at his two companions and cleared his throat. “Your profession would be necessary, given the…nature of the reports.”
“And what nature would that be?”
“Damned fiendish!” snapped one of the men, startling Dan. It was the first time either of the ferret-faced men had spoken. Now that he’d opened his mouth, he seemed incapable of stalling the tide of accusations against this disturbed relative. “Everywhere he goes, discord and dissent follow in his wake! The people of that village believe all manner of depravity are happening in our estate!”
Mr. Carmichael held up a hand for silence and the man’s mouth clamped shut. He placed his hand back on the desk and gazed with at Dan with a serious expression.
“My cousin has always been troubled. He’s been up to his neck in mischief and misdeeds since the day he was born. He studied to become a doctor, like yourself, though I assure you it wasn’t out of any sense of duty to his fellow man. He was disgraced from the profession following the death of his mentor, Dr. Gruber.”
“Why was that?” inquired Dan.
“The doctor was killed during an unlawful experiment. The details of his demise were as extraordinary as they were gruesome. Shortly afterwards my cousin fled to Switzerland, the native land of the late Dr. Gruber. He’s been residing in an estate that was left to him by my aunt and uncle but we believe, given his history and questionable mental state, that he is unfit to be lord of such a place.”
Mr. Carmichael watched him over his knitted fingers shrewdly and realisation began to dawn on Dan.
“You want me to declare him insane?” said he with a note of incredulity.
“He is insane,” insisted one of the nameless men. “And he doesn’t deserve the castle. By all accounts he’s let the place go to ruins. Barely has any staff and lives as a veritable shut-in. It’s disgraceful! His Lordship never would have left him the place.”
This supposition had Dan raising a curious eyebrow. “You believe Lord and Lady Carmichael never would have left their estate to their only son?”
“No,” Mr. Carmichael said with confidence. “They were not close, you see. My aunt and uncle died rather suddenly. They were in good health so neither had reason to believe there was any rush to fine-tune their wills.” He smiled a wry, nasty smile. “How cruelly ironic the world can be, eh doctor? All their wealth naturally went to their son. He left most of their possessions in America to be repossessed but he took the castle.”
“And you want it for yourself,” guessed Dan, and judging by the angry looks the men behind Mr. Carmichael’s desk shot him, he thought he’d guessed right. He folded his arms across his chest, hoping he could look imposing while sitting in a velvet-cushioned chair. “I will not lie and have a man falsely institutionalised, no matter how dark a stain on your family reputation he may be.”
“Dr. Cain,” said Mr. Carmichael with enough reproach that Dan’s resolve faltered. “I would not ask you to betray your principles. I am not hiring you to lie. All I have told you is true. I guarantee that if you assessed my cousin you would come to the same conclusion all we who are unfortunate enough to have known him have come to.”
The two men behind Carmichael nodded their assent, gloomy dispositions shadowing their eyes.
The budding sense of unease still remained with Dan but he began to wonder. What if this man really was the menace Mr. Carmichael was making him out to be? He could be terrorising the people of that unfortunate village with his very presence. If he truly had performed some sickening experiment on his own mentor, foul enough to get him ostracised from the medical community, surely that was proof to some of what Carmichael was saying?
“I am not a specialist in maladies of the mind,” Dan tried to say but his voice sounded feeble to his own ears. “I studied to become a general practitioner, not a psychologist.”
“That is of little concern,” said Mr. Carmichael with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We are asking you to diagnose him, not treat him. The capable hands at Blackcliff will see to that.”
Dan shivered at the mention of the asylum located on the outskirts of Arkham. He had heard plenty of stories from doctors who had tended to the patients of that place. It was a denizen of madness, full of murderers and sadistic criminals whose minds were deemed too dangerous to mingle with your run-of-the-mill purse-snatcher.
Mr. Carmichael must have seen the concern on his face, as he added smoothly, “And, of course, you will be compensated handsomely.” When Dan lifted his head up and looked at him once more, Carmichael’s lips stretched into a thin smile. “Think of this task as doing a service to your fellow man.”
Dan licked his lips, many thoughts running rampant through his head, before he finally, with a tiny creak of his head, nodded. Mr. Carmichael and the two other nameless men looked at each other with satisfaction. Dan cleared his throat, drawing the attention back to himself.
“And what is the name of the place I can expect to find the new Lord Carmichael?”
“Nowhere,” replied Mr. Carmichael testily. Before Dan could voice his confusion, he went on. “Though he has kept his Christian name, he has been going by an alias ever since he left the country. Apparently, he wishes to have as little to do with us as we do of him. You will know him as Lord Herbert West, and he is residing in Castle Wardfell in the village of Birkdort.”
This was the information Dan had taken with him as he had sailed around the world in search of a supposed madman. The prospect of his task had filled him with dread the closer he got to his destination. What if this man, Herbert West, was not only deprived of his senses but dangerous? Was Dan wandering into a suicide mission?
The scenery did not seem to agree with his despairing thoughts. Though the sky had grown dark and grey with thick clouds, the open valley, sprawling green hills, and fresh mountain air revived Dan’s spirits rather than dampening them. Within minutes he had crested the slope the old driver had dropped him off at and the village of Birkdort came into view.
As Dan passed through the boarder of the town, he admired the quaint brick houses with their high, tiled rooves. The dirt path flattened out into a cobblestone street, lined on either side with street lamps. Soon enough the growing dark would require the lamp lighter to emerge with oil and candle to fill the street with light. It was not yet late enough to drive the townspeople inside; they were out and walking in droves. Dan tried not to stare, aware that he could be perceived as rude, but he had not yet had a chance to perceive the Swiss people outside of the confines of a train.
Those who caught his eye gave him a polite nod as he passed. A few even smiled and said, “Guten Tag,” with a small wave. Dan stammered but managed to reply in kind. He wanted to start in on his task immediately but found his motivation sapped. Now that he had finally arrived, he felt every inch of that travel weighing down his body with weariness.
I need to rest, he thought, before I collapse in the middle of the street.
“Are you lost, Sir?” a feminine voice said and Dan turned towards the speaker.
He was faced with a beautiful young woman, her coppery hair tied back in twisting coils that fell down her back, and dressed in a simple dress of red wool. She had her face turned up towards his, a twinkle in her eye, as though inviting Dan to come closer. Were he in a livelier state of mind Dan may have been tempted to charm the lady and see where their acquaintance could be taken. Alas, he was dead on his feet and could find the energy only to nod.
“Er, yes,” he replied, then realised she had spoken in English. “I suppose you know a foreigner when you see one?”
She shrugged, still smiling. “It takes one to know one, yes?”
“You’re not Swiss?” He squinted, trying to pin down her accent. “Perhaps…Argentina?”
She tittered behind her hand, a charming gesture that had Dan laughing with her. She shook her head. “No. I am Italian. And you are American.”
“Oh dear. Don’t tell me we Americans have been making a name for ourselves for speaking terrible German?”
“No, no. It is nothing like that. Though, I suppose that’s not entirely untrue. No, it is just very obvious with you. The way you look, the way you are dressed, the way you hold yourself…I don’t know how else to describe it other than American.” She glanced down at his luggage case then back up at his faced and observed, “A very tired American.”
Dan laughed under his breath, scratching at the back of his neck. “Yes, that’s true. I have only just arrived in town. I don’t suppose you could point me in the direction of the nearest inn?”
“Of course!” replied she brightly. Her whole face had lit up with merriment, though Dan could not have guessed why. Perhaps she had an unappreciated passion for directing people. She gave a slight curtsy and gestured for Dan to follow. “I can help you more and show you the way. It is not far from here.”
“Thank you, that’s very gracious of you, Miss...?”
“Francesca Danelli,” answered she with a dainty curtsy.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Danelli,” said Dan with a cordial nod.
“And what am I to call you?” asked Francesca as the two began walking down the street.
“Dr. Daniel Cain is my name, though what you choose to call me I leave to you,” replied Dan and Francesca laughed once more.
She led him to an inn not two minutes’ walk from the town square. It was a sturdy building of stone and wood, a lacquered sign hanging from a wrought-iron post above the door read Der Krähenkopf.
“The Crow’s Head,” Francesca translated as she followed Dan inside.
For such a dour name, it had a warm and lively interior. A cosy dining room stood to the left of the entrance, men and women seated around round wooden tables and drinking from steins. To the right a fireplace burned, sapping the cold from Dan’s weary bones and making him sigh with relief. The front desk was free of the innkeeper and Dan was about to turn to Francesca and ask her for assistance when she stepped behind the desk and shucked her cloak.
She smiled at his bemused expression, leaning both her elbows on the tabletop in a way Dan’s aunt would have exclaimed was most unladylike but which he found attractive.
“My mother owns this place,” explained Francesca. She stooped down to ferret around under the desk before rising once more with a key in hand. She tossed it down beside the admissions book, where Dan was scribbling down his details. “I think she would be willing to give you a deal.”
Dan paused in his scribbling, staring intently at the page beneath his hand. Was she being kind or pitying? Did she merely see a stranger in need of guidance or a man in a shabby coat? Dan resisted the urge to turn his body and hide the holes and patches he had been made to sew over along his elbows and by his pockets. He focused on writing down his name as quickly as possible and sliding the book back to Francesca.
“That is most kind,” said Dan stiffly. “But that won’t be necessary, thank you.”
Francesca shrugged her shoulders, though Dan could see she was watching him keenly out of the corner of her eye. “Suit yourself. Breakfast is served at seven o’clock every morning. We can arrange the payment and length of your stay then.”
“Sounds lovely,” replied Dan, accepting the key Francesca handed him.
“You are in room six,” said Francesca, pointing up the stairs. “It is just to the left. Do you need me to call someone to help with your bag?”
“No, that’s quite alright,” answered Dan, heading in the direction she had indicated. “Thank you for all your help, Miss Danelli.”
“You are most welcome, Dr. Cain,” came her reply. “I will see you in the morning. Sleep well.”
“Thank you, I will,” called Dan over his shoulder before he went up the stairs and round the corner.
He found his room quickly enough. It was a simple room with a bed, a dresser, and a desk. He tried to find the energy to unpack but all he could bring himself to do was hang up his coat and remove his boots and belt. After that he collapsed onto the soft bed and was instantly asleep.
When Dan awoke with a start to the first beams of grey light filtering through the window. He blinked against the sleep still sticking to his eyes and rose from his position where he had been laying with his face in the feather-stuffed pillow. He stretched his stiff arms over his head, his bones popping and muscles groaning at the movement, before letting them fall back to his sides.
He tried to shake the fatigue dragging at his ankles as he dressed in clean clothes, but it was in vain. He still felt as though he could sleep another day as he descended the stairs. He longed for his rooms back in Arkham. The small bed beneath the window, the desk he had spent many sleepless nights toiling over his textbooks in, the creaky floorboards his neighbours were constantly complaining about. All of it seemed so far away now.
He was tempted to sink into the melancholic hole growing in his mind but he had information to garner, so he plastered on his friendliest smile and approached the dining room. Francesca was wiping down tables, an apron tied around her waist. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of his approach and immediately straightened up, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“Good morning, Miss Danelli,” greeted Dan in his warmest tones.
“Dr. Cain, good morning,” replied she, two dots of colour staining her cheeks. “I’m afraid breakfast is not yet ready. You’ve risen quite early.”
“That’s alright,” said Dan, lowering himself onto one of the open chairs. “Perhaps you could tell this weary traveller about this town while we wait?”
Francesca laughed at his grin but sat down anyway. “What do you wish to know? The best walking trails? Where to buy your cheese?”
“How about castles?” suggested Dan and Francesca instantly froze up. He forged on anyway, trying to keep his light, jovial tone. “There aren’t too many back home but from what I hear the continent is packed full of them. Know of any nearby?”
“Yes,” whispered Francesca, staring down at her hands knotted together in her lap. “Though I would not recommend it for sight-seeing.”
“What place is that?” pressed Dan, watching Francesca closely.
“There is a place just outside the village, up on a hill,” said Francesca in a quiet voice. “It is called Wardfell.” She shuddered at the word. When she looked up at Dan again her eyes were blazing. She reached out and grasped his wrist, imploring him, “But you must not go there, Doctor!”
“Why not?” asked Dan, taken aback at her ferocity.
“Because it is not a good place,” replied Francesca. She released Dan’s wrist to cross herself. “That man who lives there…The sounds that come out of that castle…It is not a place of God.”
Dan blinked at the stricken look on her face. He cleared his throat and inquired, “You’ve met Lord West?”
“No. Very few have. He has his servants come down to do the shopping for him. I suppose even monsters must eat.”
“Miss Danelli,” said Dan with an incredulous laugh. “You speak of the man as though he is some kind of ghoul.”
“It is easy for you to laugh,” said Francesca crossly. “You have not heard the stories of the people who venture up that way, never to return. I do not know if he is a regular madman who’s kept locked up for the safety of others, or if he is a practitioner of something unholy, but I know you are better off not seeking him out. Please, Dr. Cain. There are other pretty castles out there for you to admire. Leave this one alone.”
When Dan didn’t reply she patted his hand and stood to continue wiping down tables, leaving him to brood.
Soon other tenants began filtering into the dining room, getting ready for breakfast to be served. Mrs. Danelli made her first appearance, a short, plump woman who spoke with her hands and fussed over Dan as she passed out plates of eggs. It was fortunate that Mrs. Danelli enjoyed speaking so much that she didn’t seem to notice Dan’s silence. It gave him the opportunity to think about all Francesca had said.
Here was another voice, this time one not his own, begging him off this path of action. And again, he ignored it to his own doom.
It was not difficult to locate Wardfell castle. It turned out to be remarkably easy to locate the place everyone in the village appeared determined to avoid. A path leading out the north end of the town, snaking higher along the hills promised to lead Dan to his destination. From his conversation with Francesca, he’d determined it unlikely that he’d be able to find a carriage to take him up to the castle, so he was saddled with another day of long walking. At least this time he wasn’t left carrying his luggage.
Dark clouds pressed in on Dan as he wound his way up the grassy hills. He eyed the darkening sky with some trepidation but forged on regardless. He’d dealt with worse than a spot of rain.
The path grew steeper the further along Dan walked. The higher he ascended the colder the air became until his was shivering beneath his coat. The landscape morphed quickly from a quaint picturesque village to an ominous path of cracked rock and scraggly trees. His lungs burning with exertion, Dan glanced over his shoulder to see the town of Birkdort far below him, nestled in its cosy valley. Ahead was a dark path, the faint outline of an imposing structure cut against the gathering clouds.
Dan walked on, clutching his coat tight about his body and startling at the hoot of a nearby owl. His nerves were all a mess as he finally approached the base of a long, steep stone bridge. He squinted against the buffeting wind, up towards the castle stacked atop the hill.
“Castle Wardfell,” murmured he to himself. “I have finally found you, Lord West.”
The rain began to fall as Dan stepped onto the bridge and approached the castle. Several times his boots slipped on the wet stone and he had to catch himself on the guard rail. This left him facing down at the sharp rocks sprouting along the edge of the mountain below with a cold chill in the pit of his stomach.
As Dan caught sight of the front door, he couldn’t help but be inspired by the majesty of the old castle, however his admiration was stifled by his growing sense of unease. It seemed Mr. Carmichael had been somewhat correct in his assessment that his cousin was not maintaining the estate to an acceptable degree—thick patches of ivy grew along the bridge and up the castle’s grey stone exterior, the roof tiles appeared chipped and loose in places, and the whole atmosphere of the building was of a sinister nature.
It matters not what the place looks like, Dan reminded himself as he stepped out of the rain and under the alcove of the entrance. I’m here to observe the master of the house, not the décor.
With that he grasped one of the iron knockers fixed to the immense double oak door and struck it against the wood. The knocks rang out loudly from the inside, the sound rising over that of the pouring rain. Dan pushed his sopping hair off his forehead and attempted to make himself look dignified but this was difficult when his teeth were chattering and his legs were shaking.
It took an age for the door to creak open and even then, it only opened a crack. The wizened face of an old man appeared in the slit, his beady eyes sweeping over Dan. He did not pull the door open wider.
“What d’you want?” the old man barked in English and Dan thought perhaps there was something to what Francesca had said about his undeniable American aura.
“Good day, Sir,” greeted Dan, trying to assume an air of respectability despite his dishevelled appearance. “I apologise for dropping in unannounced but I was hoping I could have a word with your employer, Lord West?”
“The master don’t take visitors,” the old man replied curtly, one leering eye peering around the door at Dan.
“Ah, yes, but perhaps you could show him my card?” stammered Dan and he fished his card out from his coat pocket. It was damp as he passed it to the gnarled fingers of the servant.
“Doctor, eh?” noted he as he squinted down at the card. “Already got one of those. Don’t be needin’ another.”
He tossed Dan’s card carelessly back to him and Dan had to scramble to catch it. As he straightened up, he began to feel the pressure of frustration and desperation pushing at his chest. At his front was a suspicious, unwelcoming servant, and at his back a torrential downpour. He was well and truly stuck between a rock and a hard place.
“Please,” said Dan with more urgency, pressing closer to the doorway. “I must insist you at least ask your master an audience for me. I don’t wish to be disruptive but it is important I speak with him.”
“Write him a letter,” barked the old man with a twisted grin. “He’s much more amicable on paper.”
He stepped back and Dan caught a brief glimpse of the interior. The high-ceilinged entrance hall led to a double staircase that split off and spiralled to the upper floors. A figure stood at the fork of the stairs, his silhouette illuminated against the arched window at his back. A flicker of lightning flashed against the window, briefly casting a white glow on the figure. Dan saw a pair of eyes staring intently at him from behind twin circles of glass.
It was the briefest glimpse, there and gone between heartbeats, but those eyes seemed to glow from the shadows and pierce straight through Dan like a lance. Then the light faded and the figure was once again swathed in a cloak of darkness. Just as Dan sucked in a breath to perhaps call out to him, the door slammed in his face.
He gasped at the rattling iron hinges and staggered back, his collar hitting the falling rain. He shivered at the cold trail trickling down his back and seeping into his shirt. He considered venting his frustrations by banging on the door some more but decided against this course of action. His best chance of being granted an audience with Lord West was to retreat and try again at a later time. Perhaps he would even take the old servant’s advice and write him a letter.
With a sigh Dan turned from the door and was faced with a curtain of rain. What had started as a drizzle on his ascent up the hill had turned into a storm. Rain lashed the bare trees and thundered against the stone path. The only mercy seemed to be that the lightning had retreated, though thunder rumbled ominously overhead. The sight only heightened Dan’s dejection.
He could sit on the doorstep of Wardfell until the storm passed, but the sky was a starless blanket of black clouds with no end of the rain in sight. He also didn’t think loitering would endear him to the residents.
It’s alright, he thought as he flicked his collar up and braced himself. I’m wet already and the worst that can happen is I’ll catch a cold.
He would shortly realise that this assumption was incorrect.
But alas, Dan preferred the idea of getting sick to being driven off the land with force, so he buttoned his coat up and dashed into the rain. He was soaked in an instant, his sopping clothes weighing him down as he ran. He squinted in the dark, trying to find his way, but with his hair flopping over his eyes and water streaming down his face, everything was a blur. His heart pounded as he picked his way down the sloping bridge, his ears ringing with the roar of the rain and the crack of thunder.
Dan envisioned the cosy dining room back at the Crow’s Head. He pictured himself sitting by the fire, warming his chilled skin. Perhaps Francesca would come and sit with him and they could share in a drink. He held onto this image in his mind, determined to drive back the icy chill gripping him.
Just as Dan was approaching the open arch signalling the entrance to Wardfell and he spotted the sight of Birkdort far below him, his foot slipped. Perhaps he had been running too fast on the slick surface and his boot had given out, perhaps the unkempt stone housed cracks and grooves that threw him off his balance, or perhaps it was the unseen hand of fate that tipped him over. Regardless, he tripped.
His hip hit the edge of the rail with enough force to send his body wheeling straight over the lip of stone. He reached out on instinct, trying to latch onto anything to stay his fall, but his fingers slipped uselessly over the hard surface and he was pitched clean over the ledge.
He cried out as he fell, spinning in the air so that when he landed his face was turned up to the sky. He hit the rocks below with a jarring thud, searing pain lancing through his broken body. His head struck the ground and he quickly felt himself slipping away.
No, he wanted to shout as his vision began to cloud over.
The last thing he felt before he was swallowed up by the dark was the rain pattering against his face.
Hands digging under his arms. Rain falling over his head. A voice whispering in his ear.
“You’ll be well soon enough.”
Dan woke with a violent start. He bolted upright and dragged in a ragged breath. He panted hard as though he had been held under water and was only now breaking the surface for air. He blinked against the light of a nearby lamp, trying to get his bearings, but before he could question where he was or how he had come to be there, a surge of nausea had him pitching over the edge of the bed and retching into a bucket. He nearly missed his grip on the bedframe, finding some restriction on his left arm. It was then realised it was wrapped up in a hard cast from his knuckles past his elbow.
He did not remember injuring his arm but then he did not remember much at all.
He remained there, twisted and hunched over the wooden bucket, his shoulders shaking with the force at which he expelled the contents of his stomach. Only once he was left feeling like a wrung-out dishcloth was he able to lift his head up once more.
He found himself in a small, sparsely furnished room. He was laid out on a narrow bed, the sheets soaked in his sweat. Against the wall stood a simple wardrobe, beside it a writing desk and empty chair. Someone had left a lit oil lamp on the desk, casting flickering shadows across the walls.
As Dan sat up an intense pain throbbed from the base of his skull, nearly sending him back to the bucket. He groaned, gritting his teeth until the pain ebbed away. He clutched at his head with the arm not stuck in a cast, his fingers brushing a ring of bandages. He thought to look down at himself and found he had been stripped down to his pants. Several more bandages were wrapped around his torso and shoulder, spotted with blood.
Gingerly, he pushed the sheets away and swung his feet to the floor. He rose unsteadily, his body swaying and aching in every joint. His vision swam and he had to lean against the wall for support until the world came back into focus. He took a few shaky steps towards the desk, his feet dragging heavily as he did. He felt as though he was just waking from a terrible bout of delirium, his bones shaking and his muscles quaking like that of a newborn foal.
I must have injured myself quite spectacularly, he thought wryly as he picked up the lamp with a quivering hand.
Dan had no idea how long he had been unconscious for. Hours? Days? He had no way of knowing without answers.
He pushed the door open and poked his head around the corner of the doorframe, staring out at the dark hall. There was no one in sight on either side. The faint light of the lamp illuminated the high ceilings. The walls were fashioned from dark stone, dressed in curtains of rich red, though the opulence was somewhat dimmed from the dust accumulating on the fabric and the cobwebs strung along the cracks in the wall.
Dan crept down the hall, his bare feet padding softly against the long rug adorning the floor. He held the lamp aloft, casting light on a series of portraits, all of aristocratic men and women with dour faces and regal dispositions. None smiled in their portraits. They all seemed to be staring Dan down, bidding him to leave their ancestral home through leers. He shivered and turned away from them.
When he had first woken up, he thought perhaps he was in Birkdort’s own rural hospital, but that was becoming increasingly unlikely. He suspected he knew where he was, and this did not comfort him.
Dan continued to wander through the many halls, inspecting empty rooms and jumping at shadows. He was considering calling out when he heard a distant moan. He turned in the direction of the sound, ears straining and heart pounding. Again, a strangled cry floated towards him from the depths of the dark beyond.
Dan’s breath stuttered as he took a shaky step toward the noise. The cry was not that of an animal but it did not sound entirely human either. He had never heard such a thing and it set his nerves alight.
A door of iron stood at the end of the hallway, different from all the other doors of ornate oak. The door seemed to shake as Dan approached as though whatever was contained inside was desperate to break out.
He licked at his dry lips and ventured, “Hello?”
His voice cracked, brittle and scratchy from disuse. He reached out a quivering hand to grasp the handle but before his fingers could brush the metal he was halted by a voice.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
Dan spun around at the voice behind him, nearly jumping out of his skin from the fright. He drew in a breath and raised the lamp, casting a glow over the figure that had crept up on him so soundlessly.
The light touched the man’s polished black shoes first, sweeping up over his simple black suit, before illuminating his face. The light briefly flashed over his spectacles then winked away, revealing those piercing eyes of brown tinged with green that had stared at Dan so intently from within the castle. They watched him now, closely and unblinkingly, like those of a cat eying a mouse. Dan had to fight to suppress a shiver at the scrutiny.
“I- I heard something,” Dan hurried to explain. “A person, perhaps. They sounded in pain-“
“Merely the wind,” said the man with a dismissive air. “You know these old castles. They make all manner of interesting noises.”
Dan protested. “But I-“
“You’re recovering from a terrible fall, Dr. Cain,” interrupted he smoothly. His voice was clipped and sharp, like so many other academic types Dan had known. “I would not be surprised if you had not yet fully regained your senses.”
As though summoned by his words, another throb of pain stabbed at Dan’s skull. He almost dropped the lamp trying to clutch at his head, and took several moments, panting at the ground, before he was able to straighten up again.
“I…suppose you may be right,” said Dan, glancing over his shoulder at the iron door. It stared back at him imposingly.
“I usually am,” the man agreed.
He was odd, Dan thought. His posture was ramrod straight, his hands neatly folded behind his back. He bore the same regal air possessed in all the portraits Dan had passed in the long, winding halls. The kind of disposition that came from good breeding and believing that the status one had been coincidentally born into were as much a right as the right to breath air. Dan had passed such men in the streets of Arkham daily. The kind who would scoff at a street urchin begging for coin, or tap their pocket watches as those below them hurried to shine their shoes.
The arrogant tilt to his chin was not what made him odd though. Dan had not spent much time pondering how the Lord of Wardfell would look, but he had imagined something similar to his relatives: tall and impressive. This man, though he held himself with an imposing grace, was slight and narrow in stature. He wore his dark hair short and his clothes, though clearly of fine quality, were plain.
I suppose not every man who lives in an old castle on a hill must dress in ruffles and capes, Dan thought with some self-reprimand.
“We’re in Wardfell?” guessed Dan and the man inclined his head. “I’m to assume you’re Lord West?”
Again, he nodded. “Yes, but I think we can drop the formalities. I believe a certain level of familiarity is afforded when you’ve reset a man’s bones. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Dan glanced down at his own broken arm, held fast in the cast, then looked back to his host. His mind burned with the itch to ask a flurry of questions: What had happened to him? How had he got here? How long had he been unconscious? These thoughts pulsed painfully in his head, threatening to overwhelm him. He said nothing but West seemed to take his silence in stride and turned on his heel.
Over his shoulder he said to Dan, “Come. We had best get you situated. Or at the very least, something to wear. Apologies about your clothes, Dr. Cain. They couldn’t be salvaged.”
For the first time Dan remembered his state of undress and felt himself colour. He held the lamp in front of him in an effort to conceal at least part of his bare torso and West smirked.
He beckoned for Dan to follow and Dan, with one last glance back at the iron door, did so. With every step he ventured deeper into the belly of Wardfell, following the steps of West like one of the children following the Pied Piper to a watery grave.
He did not know it then, but his fate had already been sealed.