Loftus Hall

About a hundred years ago, a terrible and shocking incident took place in a village too close for comfort to where I live. It is well known to locals and travellers alike, and none dispute the unsettling nature of the events which took place that night. Whether it is true or not is up to you, but I know a lot of people who still get shivers when they hear the name Loftus Hall.

Like most terrible tales, it all happened on a night of dreadful thunder and rain. The sea sought to reclaim the land, battering the costal village with an onslaught of waves and sea-mist.
Loftus Hall stood proudly before a winding driveway and well-kept lawns.
A guest house of the economically privileged, it’s impeccable reputation was known well throughout the South-East. The manor was of late Victorian times, with a wide variety of spacious rooms and chambers.

Being a night of such horrendous storms, the thunder claps and driving rain meant the patrons could get no sleep. Inside, the jovial atmosphere suggested it was high-Summer; the patrons indifferent to the harsh elements.

The bar cum drawing room was the centre of activity on this night, with drinking and dancing to rival the best festivals around the country. The night grew late, and people began to retire to their beds, too full of drink and exhaustion to pay heed to the clamour in the skies.

Several die-hard straggles remained in the drawing room, refusing to call in the night. Spectacularly, three elderly nuns were among the remaining company, along with the bar staff, and a table of poker players adamant that they would win their money back.

The thunder stilled briefly, which gave away to a different kind of bang; the bang of a fist on wood. The front door, for that matter.

Perplexed at the hour of a caller, especially given the harsh weather conditions, the barman moved without haste to allow the late-night caller in. A man dressed in a flowing greatcoat stood at the door, imploring the barman to allow his stay for the night. Not wanting to mar the merriment of the night, the barman unhesitantly granted the poor travellers wish, and promptly poured him a glass of brandy, to warm his bones.

Invigorated by a new member, the poker game continued with gusto, with even the nuns joining in for a quick game, before retiring for the night. The traveller was well versed in every topic of conversation, and played a mean hand of cards each round without fail.

A barmaid was delivering a round of drinks to the table, when a card was fumbled. It fluttered to the floor. Being a courteous barmaid, she immediately stooped to pick up the card, and froze.
A high-pitched scream erupted from her, causing many a confused glance in her direction. The traveller suddenly jumped to his feet, his flowing greatcoat whipping around him by the force of his sudden movement. Then everyone saw the source of the barmaid’s terror.

Hooves.

The traveller stood on two legs, goat legs.

Thin and sinewy and covered in hair, the legs that were previously hidden by the flowing greatcoat were revealed to the shocked audience.
A warble of inhuman frequency bellowed from his throat, and he rose to his full height, a solid seven feet. Placing curses on the barmaid, the people in the room, and the room itself, he leapt effortlessly through the high ceiling above.
When the remaining guests entered the room, all they could do was find out what had happened before the people in the room fell victims to heart-attacks and strokes. The room was boarded up, as was the manor.

It has not been reopened since, and only a handful of people have set foot inside since. The hole in the ceiling is apparently still there, and so is the curse.