The Untainted Descendant

Thick, frilly curtains and the smell of mildew stand out in the interior of the old, Victorian home. Red and black patterned wallpaper hangs loosely on the walls, the edges and corners peeling. A thick layer of blue-grey dust sits untouched on almost every surface, including the tattered spiderwebs hanging off the dining room centrepiece--a golden chandelier inset with burning candles. The gentle tapping of rain on the windows fills the silence in the otherwise stale interior. Grant Hargrave adjusts himself in one of the claw footed chairs, sinking into the well worn cushion under the judgemental stares of the others at the table. “So, you received an invitation, just as the rest of us?” Edgar Cartwrighte, direct heir to the pretentious group Grant now finds himself a part of, speaks first. He sits across the table, a beady stare directed at Grant over the thick wrinkles under his eyes. A wiry, grey moustache covers a majority of his upper lip. One of his hands is bound in a fist on the table, and the other is gripping a cigar billowing smoke. Two brown envelopes sit on the table in front of him, with bright red wax seals. His notably younger wife and the owner of the other envelope, Dahlia, married into the Cartwright family. Once a seamstress for the wealthy, she now dangles in the grasp of one like a freshly buffed pocket watch. She sits with her arm around Edgar’s, her left hand resting toward the other woman at the table. Grant looks up from the ring around Dahlia’s finger, clearing his throat, “Yes, sir. But I dunno why”. He holds up a brown envelope torn recklessly across the top, completely ignorant of the seal on the back. “You don’t know why?” The final person around the table speaks, a woman named Hilda Warwick. She was widowed by her husband, a loyal member of the society. Her nose is permanently upturned in either disapproval or distaste, and her perfect posture is uncanny. Another envelope sits neatly on the table between her sun spotted hands. “If you didn’t know anything, why are you here?” She continued, her eyebrow raised. “I dunno.” Grant innocently shrugged his shoulders, “It looked fancy, and it had my name on it so it wasn’t sent to the wrong person--I don’t normally get mail, ma’am.” “Well, it seems Stanley finds it humorous to invite children as of late.” Hilda glares at Dahlia from across the table. “I’m no child!” Dahlia blurts loudly. She looks over at her husband, shrinking under his gaze. “I mean, I am far from a child. I turned 24 a few weeks ago.” Hilda laughs, and Grant watches the tension bounce between the two women like a pendulum.

The room chills, not only from the tension. A violent breeze spins throughout the room. It picks up the top layer of dust caked on every surface of the space, mixing it with the stale and heavy air. A sour, sulfuric smell replaces the stagnant dampness. The drapes contort on the window behind Grant’s chair, and the rain slams against the panes. Decorative plates and portraits of ancestors rain down from the walls. Canvas wood cracks and glass shatters. The erratic movement and destruction of such a dated, fragile space feels perverse. Dahlia nearly trips over herself to hide behind Edgar, and Hilda has already retreated to the other room, peeking at the chaos from behind the door frame. Grant remains planted in his seat. The chandelier swings vigorously, slicing flame through the air. With one final acceleration, the candles snuff out. The wind disappears, and the chandelier creeks on its chain as it settles back into place. “Now what on earth was-” Hilda’s bewilderment is cut off by an echoed crack from the ceiling. Drywall gently sprinkles down onto the centre of the table. The entire chandelier follows. It crashes through the wooden table, sending splinters of wood and dust ricocheting in every direction. 

“Are you finished?” Hilda huffs in no particular direction, combing the flyaway hairs back into her wiry grey updo with her fingers. Edgar pulls a matchbook from his pocket, grabbing and lighting a stray candle for everyone in the room. Edgar fixes his suit jacket while Dahlia complains about her hair being ruined. The candlelight creates unnerving shapes in the shadows circling the group, like wolves cornering their prey. One shadow, however, moves slightly slower than the rest. Creeping toward a blustering Hilda. Grant leans forward, staring suspiciously at the trick of the light. It produces a low, guttural, animalistic growl. Claws scrape across the floor, and Grant can only watch as it continues to approach Hilda. The creature pounces. It swipes at Hilda, sinking giant claws into the bodice of her dress. Dahlia screams, but Hilda’s wails only escape as deep gurgles. She falls to the floor, a large puddle of red forming beneath her motionless figure.

Grant runs. His ears fill with static. His blood runs cold. Shallow breaths fill his head, drowning out the screams from the dining room. He puts an arm out to stop himself against a wall, unsure if his adrenaline filled legs would have kept going. The house falls into a cold silence. Grant’s deep, anxious breaths come out in quiet hiccups. The candle flame writhes in his grasp, bringing the shadows alive to torment him. His eyes dart back and forth across the long hallway. As he scans the adjacent rooms, a dark, humanoid figure skitters quickly from one room to another--so close it almost crashes through him. Adrenaline morphs into dread as his fingertips turn cold. An incredible weight of fear and exhaustion pulls his body toward the floor, almost heavy enough to sag his skin. The wet, guttural growling continues, now with a source. Grant stares at the exit. The creature lies between him and surviving. He takes a step forward on the old wooden floor, distributing his weight for the smallest creak. Slowly, he approaches the door. The echoed snarls smother him, shrinking him into nothing but insignificant prey. He stops right outside the doorway when he hears the creature start to move again. Claws sink into and scrape against the floor as it traverses around the dark. Grant watches the floor inside the doorway, debating if he could outrun it to the exit. As the creature continues to move, however, it never appears in front of him. In the height of panic, something hits him in the forehead and rolls down his face. 

Grant swipes his skin with the pads of his fingers, holding it up to the candlelight. An unmistakable crimson. He slowly lifts his head up, meeting the milky eyes of the creature responsible for the bloodshed, vacant and recognitionless. It has suspended itself upside down, the blood draining from its mouth and dripping from its forehead. It has rough, wet, almost amphibian-like skin of a muted yellow. The face is humanoid, yet void of any soul, almost as if it were a sculpted mask. Four clawed appendages protrude sideways from its form, more akin to a spider than a human. The creature clicks and snarls as it moves from above Grant, and down the wall next to him. It reaches its face out, inches from the cowering boy. Joints crack and pop as it continues to move across the wall.

A piercing scream rips through the thickness in the air. Grant whips his head around, seeing that Edgar and Dahlia have made their way to the hallway. Dahlia is pale, her violet eye makeup streaking down her face. Edgar stands slightly behind her. Before she can even close her mouth, the creature lurches forward at Dahlia. It thrashes on top of her, scratching and tearing at her body. Her screams echo through the hall as she flails underneath its weight. The screaming stops, but the creature continues. It retches for a moment, spitting a beautiful golden ring across the room. It spins across the wooden floor for a moment, before eventually settling. Grant and Edgar look down at the ring, then back at each other. Grant vigorously shakes his head, gesturing desperately at the door. Edgar looks back toward the ring, taking a confident step in its direction. The floorboard whines under his weight. 

Thick, frilly curtains and the metallic stench of blood stand out in the interior of the old, Victorian style home. Grant holds a candle to the window coverings, dashing out of the building as flame slithers through the main hall. He pulls out the envelope he stuffed into his vest pocket, sorting through the various parchments he was given in the surrounding firelight. The address of the building, intimate backgrounds of the other members, and an information card--one that reads “Grant Hargrave: an untainted descendant of the society”.