Woodlock

1          
         Soft rain pitter-pattered on the cobblestone road. The limbs of the trees swayed and shook with the violent wind that crashed against the side of the wagon. In a smooth, satin suit, sat Frederick holding tightly onto his leather briefcase. The wagon bounced down the road, and stopped at a wooden post. Green mold outlined the edges of the plank and the once black paint was chipped away after years of harsh weather.
        “Woodlock.” Frederick squinted at the eroding words. “Keep going. It’s only a little further.” The driver cracked his tough leather reins and the wagon lurched forward. The surrounding countryside was bare, the only plant life consisting of tall grass and medium sized trees. This was the heart of the English countryside in what would today be the county of Wiltshire. Frederick has grown up in a small town not twenty miles from the edges of the Woodlock property and had seen it standing since he was a small boy. In fact, the mansion was said to have been erected, and completed, in the summer of 1782. It was owned by Mr. Adam Shrueber, known best as the hermit of Woodlock. It was true that Mr. Shrueber was never seen during the daytime in the surrounding city, at any of the marketplaces, nor at the church congregation every Sunday. Every so often Mr Shrueber’s butler, would gallop into town and purchase goods and food and visit the local tavern.
         “He’s lookin’ for a lady-friend,” Frederick’s mother once said, “It must get lonely up in that house.”

        A few miles later, the wagon stopped in front of the large brick house. Cracks splayed across the brick like spider webs, and long green vines grew up the walls. A tall chimney stuck out into the sky, surrounded by dark crumbling shingles. The front door was painted with bright red paint which, like the sign, was peeling away as time wore on.
        Frederick stepped to the door and pushed a small stained button on the side of the house. A long chime rang through the house, its pitch descending into lower and deeper tones. Footsteps crept closer to the door, and Frederick stepped back. The door slowly creaked open and an old, frail man appeared in the grey doorway.
        “Are you here about the offer?” he said in a heavy British accent.
        “Yes. I am Frederick Winkley, I was told to see Mr. Shrueber.” The old man raised his bushy eyebrows and bowed, opening the door all the way with one final creak. The foyer was aged and worn, with fraying burgundy floor rugs and two stairwells on either side. A large crystal chandelier hung from the painted ceiling, ridden with cobwebs and dust. Angels with harps and glowing halos floated above them, in opposition with dark shadows and flames.
        “Purgatory,” said the old man, “Mr. Shrueber was an artist in his younger days, and he painted the ceiling just after the house was built.” The man said leading Frederick up the right stairwell. Portraits of men and women and families lined the railing, all staring with scowls on their faces.
        “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” Frederick said as they reached the first landing.
        “Moxley.” The butler replied walking over to a door on the left. “Mr. Shrueber is expecting you.” He unlocked the door and opened it, then bowed and continued down the hallway. Frederick walked slowly into the room. In the middle of the room, was a large oak desk with a lamp, some accounting books, and a metronome. A black leather chair faced the only window, which overlooked the long driveway and the distant topiary gardens.
        “Mr. Winkley,” a deep voice said, “so glad you could come.” The chair swiveled around and in it sat a pale, middle aged man.
        “Your trip was not too burdensome I hope?” Mr. Shrueber said. He interlaced his bony fingers and laid them gently on the desk. His eyes were a sharp green, shaded by shaggy black hair. His cheeks were shallow, almost malnourished, and looked haggard against his white skin.
        “No it wasn’t that bad. I was tired and slept through most of it.” Frederick said.
        “I’m glad to hear that, terrible storm we’ve been having.” Mr. Shrueber smiled, baring his straight white teeth. “Do have a seat Mr. Winkley.” He gestured to the small wooden chair in front of him.
        “Oh, thank you.” Frederick said. The chair squeaked as he sat and a flash of lightening lit up the sky. Frederick set down his briefcase and set his hands in his lap. Mr. Shrueber sat back in his chair.
        “So you are interested in buying my house?”
        “Yes, I am.”
        “Good. Then I have no problem in selling it to you. After your last telegram, I stopped all correspondence with the other bidders.” Mr. Shrueber smiled again, his teeth gleaming with every burst of lightening.
        “Why would you do that?”
        “I have a good feeling about you Fred, a really good feeling. And you were the only one to accept the price of five thousand pounds. In this sort of economy, everyone attempts to haggle me for a lower price.” Mr. Shrueber reached into a tan filing cabinet and pulled out several stacks of paper.
        “Before you sign anything, however, I must ask you to do one thing.” His wicked smiled faded as he pointed one long finger at Frederick.
        “And what is that Mr. Shrueber?”
        “Don’t, ever, go into the cellar.” He stared at Frederick. For several minutes the two men sat staring. Deeply amused, Frederick chuckled.
        “Might I ask why?” he said.
        “You are a guest in my house, Mr. Winkley. Yes, you are soon to be the owner, but I have not handed you the deed and I do not need any accidents occurring as long as I still run the show” Mr. Shrueber drew a shaky breath and looked down at his hands. He traced a chipped, yellow fingernail with his forefinger and sighed. He opened his mouth to speak again when the door opened.
        “It’s just about time sir.” Moxley said standing in the doorway. Dark circles lay under his eyes and Frederick felt bad for the poor man. He was too old to be serving, and waiting upon a strong man like Adam Shrueber. Adam stood and walked over to Moxley, who waited for him with a wool coat. He shrugged into the jacket and walked over to Frederick.
        “It was very nice meeting you Mr. Winkley, Frederick, but I’m afraid I have some important things to attend to. Tomorrow afternoon we shall sign the papers and I’ll be on my way, but for now you can sleep in the guest bedroom. Moxley will take care of you.” He glanced at the butler for a moment and shook Frederick’s hand. He leaned in close and whispered, “and don’t forget, stay away from my cellar.”
        “Thank you, and I will.” Frederick muttered. Mr. Shrueber left the room, leaving Moxley and Frederick behind.
        “Well, Mr. Winkley, if you aren’t too tired, dinner is served in the west dining hall. If you’ll please follow me.” Moxley turned and walked out of the room. Frederick followed.
        As the two men entered the dining hall, Frederick was blinded by the bright, gleaming lights that illuminated the room. Heaps of bread were stacked in the middle of the long dining table along with bowls of fruit, pasta, and a strange green sauce. Meat marinated on a giant elaborate platter. Only one plate was on the table.
        Frederick feasted until he couldn’t eat anymore. The bread was soft and warm, and the meat rare and juicy. He slouched in his chair and rubbed his bloated belly. Moxley strolled over to him and filled his wine glass.
        “Are you feeling tired Mr. Winkley?” he asked, snapping his fingers. Two maids swooped out of the kitchen and took the platters and plates, still stacked with food.
        “Yes Moxley, I think I should like to retire to my room now.” Frederick hiccupped, a warm feeling radiating through his body. The butler pulled back his chair and helped him to his feet.
        “Can you walk sir?” Moxley asked.
        “Yes, for now, although I do believe the wine is getting to me. Please, if you don’t mind, help me get to my room?” Frederick swayed back and forth and Moxley led him up the staircase and down a dark hallway. More paintings lined the walls, mostly of men and children in traditional clothing, standing tall and still for their portrait. Surely, these were members of Mr. Shrueber’s family, however the resemblance could not be seen. To Frederick, it seemed as if these were placed here as a mock family. Something that Mr. Shrueber could pass off as his lineage.
        “There you are sir,” Moxley said pushing Frederick into the room and waking him from his thoughts, “Please ring if you need anything more.” He pointed to a long silk rope that hung from ceiling to floor.
        “Yes Moxley… Thank you… very… much.” Frederick said stumbling over to the bed. Without changing into his pajamas, Frederick passed out. He dreamed about the children, playing and running throughout the great gardens of Woodlock. Somehow, they were unaware of an approaching darkness. The clouds above the property grew grey, then black as a storm approached. The children screamed, running frantically toward the front door. A creature of massive size, and as black as the sky, pounced upon them, eating them whole in one fell swoop.

2

        “RING!” The grandfather clock hummed loudly, lurching Frederick out of his nightmare. Streaks of drool ran across his left cheek, globules of muck clung to the corners of his eyes, and tears dried upon his face. He yawned greatly and sat up. Moonlight flooded his room, etching eerie shadows on the walls and floor. Frederick rolled out of bed and put on his satin slippers. A loud rumble emitted from his belly.
        “Oh dear…wasn’t that dinner enough for you?” he whispered. Slowly he opened his door and crept into the hallway. The moonlight from the foyer drifted into the depths of the upper floor, giving enough light for Frederick to see where the staircase was. Step by step he descended the stairwell and through a door on his left.
        The room was black. Through the abyss, Frederick felt his way, until he hit a hard surface. He groped around with his hands, investigating, searching. “But for what?” he thought. A sharp pain suddenly shot up his arm.
        “Ahhhh!” he yelped, grasping his palm. He felt around for a lantern. He circled the room several times before he gave up, lighting one of the matches in his shirt pocket. The light was very dim, but enough so he could place where he was.
        He was in Mr. Shrueber’s office. The metronome sat impishly on the desk, small beads of blood dripping off the awl-like pendulum. Frederick frowned and pressed harder on his wound. He looked around for a lantern. Without success, he left the room, blowing out the match and stepping into the ghostly foyer. The beams of moonlight hit the crystal chandelier, shattering into millions of specks on the walls. His finger throbbing still, he made his way to the west side of the mansion.
        Once he stepped through what he thought was the west dining hall door, Frederick groped around, cautiously this time, for a light. His footsteps echoed as he walked around, bouncing from wall to wall. That night while he was feasting, he paid no attention to the windowless aspect of the room. Now in this growing darkness, he felt alone and wished that perhaps the architect could have protested and thrown in a couple anyway. A chill ran through him, erecting all the hairs on his arms and legs. He felt his fingers and cheeks going numb as he continued walking forward. On the far wall was another door, and when he swung it open a quick draft blew out, chilling him even further.
         “Surely I will freeze to death in this house.” He said to no one.

        Suddenly, the ground was gone from underneath him and he stumbled down a long flight of stairs. He hit the stone floor hard on his right arm, sending a sickening crack through the corridor.
        “ARGH!” Frederick screamed. He quickly got up and ran forward. After a few seconds, he smacked into a wall and fell, once again, to the floor. Hysterically, he got up and ran again, cradling his broken right arm with his left. With a hefty moan, Frederick climbed up the staircase he fell down and ran out the door. When he reached the foyer, his nightgown was soaked with sweat and blood. Irritated and dizzy, he went back into Mr. Shrueber’s office; he was sure of it’s location.
        Once there, he pulled off his gown and examined his arm. A long, splintered bone stuck hideously out of his skin. Shards of flesh were missing, and the blood was steadily flowing. Tears formed around his eyes and his face felt flushed. Furiously, he sat down in Mr. Shrueber’s chair and peered out of the wide window.
        The moon lit up the grounds, almost as bright as if it were day. Frederick looked around and assessed the landscape; so beautiful in the daytime, it was no comparison to the shadowy place he now looked upon. The grass blowing in the breeze was fur against the solid sky, it’s fluid movements alive in the night. In the distance, he saw a dark object standing beside the wrought iron gates. It leaned casually against the tall fence, ominous and strange in the moonlight. From the depths of the house, or maybe his mind, he heard a voice.
        “Come to me…” it whispered. Frederick jerked around scanning the room. When he realized he was alone he turned back to look at the shadow.
        Remarkably, the shadow was on the other side of the fence standing in the middle of the driveway, looking up at the room. “It could not have moved that quickly,” Frederick thought. The distance between the gates and where the thing now stood was about two hundred feet. Slowly, the figure lifted its arm and pointed at Frederick. Chills ran through him and he began to hyperventilate. “What is it doing?” He thought to himself. Frederick stood up and blew out the match hoping it would look elsewhere. When he returned to the window, the figure was gone.
         “Come to me…” The trees began to sway violently as the harsh wind picked up speed. It slammed against the house, whistling and hurling. Lightening clapped across the sky, followed by a loud rumble of thunder that shook the house. He heard the door to the great hall open, creaking and squealing. Frederick gulped.
         Hurriedly, he ran up the foyer staircase and down the long dark hallway, soft footsteps right on his heels. He shoved through his bedroom door and slammed it shut behind him. Frederick jumped into his bed and buried himself in the soft linen covers. He listened quietly for a moment. Hearing nothing after what must have been several minutes, Frederick sighed.
         “It’s just some idiot trying to frighten me. They can’t get in here, what am I so scared of?” Frederick pulled off the covers. There in the doorway, stood the shadow, though it wasn’t just a shadow anymore. It stood at about six feet tall and had broad shoulders. Saliva dripped from its lipless mouth. Its eyes were sunken into its skull, and emitted a mysterious red glow.  Frederick’s mouth hung agape.
        The creature loomed out of the darkness of the hall and ambled over to the bed. Frederick screamed as the shadow drug him out of bed and flung him to the floor. Semi-conscious and half naked, Frederick lay upon the cold wooden floor. The creature loomed above him and blackness flooded his vision.

3
         It was the rats that awoke him. The cold stone floor ebbed against his skin creating an almost sharp pain throughout his body. He could hear them digging somewhere behind the walls. Rats and dampness. Frederick sat up, his lower back screamingly stiff. Boxes were molding in one corner of the room. He spotted something stuffed behind them. With a struggle, he pulled it free and examined it. The next second it was skittering across the floor, clashing against the opposite wall. The bone fingers were collapsed and rigid yet seemingly relaxed. The rest of the arm stopped at the elbow, with thin threads of tendon left clinging helplessly to the wrist. Frederick gagged and choked against the floor, heaving up what he thought was the once marvelous feast.
         “This must be the cellar.” He said. “I’m stuck in this god forsaken house and trapped in this god forsaken cellar.” Frightened, Frederick sat lazily against the wall. The coldness prevented sleep, which he so desperately wanted. There was no door, only a barred window about fifteen feet above him. He stared at the boxes across the room, and had a thought.
         “Maybe they’re still good.” He crawled over to them carefully avoiding the forearm he recently discovered. He stood and placed one foot on the crate. Holding himself against the wall he placed all his weight on the first “step”. It creaked then held, and he lifted his foot onto the next. This time he felt the edge of the second crate dip under his body weight, then after a moment of uncertainty, it also held. He looked up and was sure that if this next crate was not too rotten that he could reach the window. He braced himself against the wall again, and lifted his foot, placing it and his weight onto the last crate. The box crumpled under him, along with the previous two that he climbed and Frederick landed with a “thud” on the stone. His broken arm ebbed with pain and began to bleed, agitated by the fall.
         “Christ, I’m really never getting out of here.” Despite the cold, he managed to close his eyes, seemingly beaten by the wretched cellar. This time he dreamt of Shrueber, and the words that he last spoke.
         “…Don’t forget, stay away from my cellar.” Somewhere in his mind, he thought of how neat and clean Shrueber was compared to the dusty and cobwebbed house; the great room, with its magnificent chandelier and gothic painting, the dining hall and it’s lack of windows, and the lands outside, grassy and unkempt. Surely a man such as Adam Shrueber with his black hair and sharp eyes would take care of an antique, even if it is only a house. Next he thought about the arm somewhere close by, it’s presence colder than the floor he was on. What on earth was it doing in here, with him? More importantly who did it belong to?
         “Frederick.” Someone called from a distance. He bounced back to the room, although still engulfed in his dream. Could there be someone here with him? The arm? He felt a warmth nearby, but maybe it was a hallucination.
         “Frederick.” The voice called again. This time his body was being shaken, and he felt a tight pressure on his shoulder. He awoke slowly, blinking and focusing his vision on the old man next to him.
         “Moxley!” he shouted, sitting up and regretting it when his head rushed with headache.
         “Quiet Mr. Winkley, we have not much time.” The old man helped Frederick to his feet, steadying him. “There is much I should tell you. This has gone on far too long.” Moxley looked quickly at the window then around to the limb on the floor. “First, I must get you out of here.” He moved over to where the three crates were once crumbled and lifted up a trapdoor. He gestured frantically and without hesitation Frederick went through the door. They made their way down another dark hallway, rats scattering away from them. They moved out of the hall and emerged from behind of the paintings in the corridor that Moxley had once led Frederick down to his room.
         “Please sir, I’ll explain once you’re safe. For now, wait in your room and lock the door from the inside.” Frederick nodded, afraid to question his savior. He entered the room and locked it quietly from within. He heard Moxley move down the hall and halfway down the stairs.
         “Sir, it’s a pleasure to see you ba-ACK!” Moxley let out a long scream. It echoed dreadfully through the room and thudded against the bedroom window. Then, silence. Frederick stood away from the door, breathing heavily.
         “Moxley,” he whispered, afraid to speak any louder. Thinking the man fell down the stairs; he unlocked the door slowly and opened it. He came face to face with the thing again. He noticed, particularly up close, its blazing red eyes and rotten stink. It’s cold moldy breath blew in his face, making him gag.
         “Hello Fred, I’m very glad to see you again. The past couple days in my cellar have probably been horrid. I was sorry to so rudely place you there but after the incident we had in this bedroom, well, I had no other choice.” Adam Shrueber, greatly deformed and monstrous stepped closer to Frederick, reaching out with his powerful arms. Frederick tripped and landed again on his back, mouth agape in utter horror.
         “Mr. Shru…Adam, what’s happened to you?” He managed to shriek. The thing Adam had become stood about 6’5 and was much bulkier than the shallow man Fred had seen three days prior.
         “Well my friend, I cannot hide my true being from you. I… am a vampire.” The skin around his lipless mouth grotesquely grinned at Fred who shivered on the floor. “Forgive my vulgar appearance but I haven’t eaten as of late and you are looking like a lovely meal.” He growled deeply and pounced upon Fred, who raised his arms in a pathetic defense. Adam struck Fred in the temple with his fist and again on his mangled limb. Fred screamed and backhanded him in the throat. They collided against the nightstand knocking over the antique mirror leaning against the wall. Glass shattered on the floor, and Frederick spotted a long sharp piece knife-like right by his hand. He grasped it and clenched tight cutting into his good palm. Adam threw another punch to his ribs, splintering two of them and bit deeply into Fred’s neck. Screaming, his neck burning with fire, Frederick shoved the glass deep into Adams chest, slicing further into his own hand. The creature screamed and flailed back against the bed. It groped helplessly at the glass, unable to remove it and exploded suddenly into ashes. Fred collapsed on the floor, his head and neck filled with hot venom, and faded into unconsciousness.

4
         The storm subsided, and days turned into months. Frederick, his arm fully healed, buried the body of Moxley on the posterior grounds. With the ashes, he swept them up and dumped them into the river. Now the owner of Woodlock, he trimmed the surrounding fields, dusted the chandeliers, and took down the hideous portraits that were once the heirlooms of Adam Shrueber. He hired a pretty maid named Aimee who cared for the house while he was on business in the city, visiting friends and family, and returning home every night to a peaceful, monster less home. 
          Frederick began to find himself lonely and unable to entertain himself despite Aimee’s company. He released her with a year’s pay and retired to the care of Woodlock on his own. One night, August the 14th, 1886, he awoke from his nap at eight in the evening. The sun began to depart behind the horizon and the bright beautiful moon rose from the hills. Frederick stood from his bed, pulling his robe around him and huddled close to the window. Moonlight flooded the acres of land surrounding Woodlock, creating a beautiful, almost gothic, painting of the lands he recently obtained. Wolves howled in the nearby hills and deer ran quickly across the front path. A soft “thump, thump” shattered the silence of Frederick’s mind.
         “Who’s there?” He shouted to the darkness of his room. Again the thumping emerged from the black and he glanced around. “It’s coming from outside,” He thought returning to the window, pressure building in the middle of his head.
         “Thump, thump. Thump, thump.” He stared directly at a deer standing erect in the center of the brick road. “You haven’t eaten in awhile,” he said, licking his lips. “The food in the pantry is getting stale. And Lord knows it doesn’t taste good anyway.” He felt a deep hunger, a thirst, coming from his body. His muscles ached and his stomach twisted. His pupils dilated until the color surrounding them disappeared. He felt another pressure building behind his sinuses. His hands flew up to his mouth where he felt fangs emerging from his gums. The thumping in his mind grew louder and louder when suddenly he punched his arm through the wide window. Glass shattered and splintered along the bricks below, and Frederick squatted, perched upon the windowsill. He looked at the deer again, hissing at his prey, and leaped after it into the night.