Chapter 8: Mrs. Whitaker's Secrets
The next morning, Pluton and Davie set out to find Mrs. Whitaker. Her house was on the outskirts of town, nestled in a grove of ancient oak trees. The path leading to her home was overgrown with wildflowers and tall grass, hinting that she didn't get many visitors.
As they approached the small cottage, Pluton couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation. Mrs. Whitaker might finally provide the answers they sought. The cottage itself was quaint, with a thatched roof and ivy crawling up its stone walls. A well-tended garden surrounded the house, bursting with colorful blooms and fragrant herbs.
Davie knocked on the weathered wooden door, and after a few moments, it creaked open. An elderly woman stood before them, her white hair pulled back into a neat bun. Her piercing green eyes, framed by wrinkles, seemed to hold a lifetime of secrets.
"Mrs. Whitaker?" Pluton asked, tipping his hat in respect.
She nodded, her gaze sweeping over the two men. "Yes, I'm Mrs. Whitaker. What can I do for you gentlemen?"
"We're looking for information about the mansion nearby," Davie said. "We've heard some unsettling rumors and were hoping you could shed some light on them."
Mrs. Whitaker's expression hardened, and she stepped aside to let them in. "Come in, then. We can't talk about these things out in the open."
Inside, the cottage was cozy and filled with the scent of baking bread. They followed her to a small sitting room, where she gestured for them to sit. She took a seat opposite them, her eyes never leaving their faces.
"The mansion, you say?" she began. "What exactly do you want to know?"
Pluton leaned forward, his voice low. "We've heard that strange things have happened there, that the townspeople are hiding something. But no one will talk about it."
Mrs. Whitaker sighed deeply, her gaze distant. "The mansion has a dark history, one that the townspeople prefer to forget. It was once home to the Vandeleur family, a wealthy and influential clan. But their wealth couldn't protect them from tragedy."
Davie nodded, encouraging her to continue. "What kind of tragedy?"
"The kind that haunts the soul," Mrs. Whitaker said quietly. "It started with the disappearance of their daughter, Eleanor. She vanished without a trace, and despite their best efforts, they never found her. Soon after, strange occurrences began to plague the mansion. Unexplained noises, flickering lights, shadows that moved on their own. The family believed the house was cursed."
Pluton's eyes narrowed. "And the townspeople?"
"They chose to ignore it," she replied. "Life was easier that way. Those who spoke of it were shunned, called mad. Eventually, the Vandeleur family left, abandoning the mansion. Since then, it's stood empty, a grim reminder of the past."
Davie exchanged a glance with Pluton. "But if it's been abandoned, why the secrecy?"
Mrs. Whitaker's eyes bore into his. "Because some things are best left buried. The town thrives on its facade of normalcy. Admitting the mansion's dark history would disrupt that. People fear what they don't understand."
Pluton nodded slowly, piecing together the information. "So, the town's silence is a form of protection. But we need to understand what happened there if we're going to uncover the truth."
Mrs. Whitaker regarded them thoughtfully. "If you're determined to pursue this, you must be careful. There are forces at work that you can't comprehend. But if you wish to investigate further, I can tell you where to start."
Davie leaned forward eagerly. "Where?"
"There's an old journal," she said. "It belonged to Eleanor Vandeleur. It might hold the answers you seek. The journal was left behind in the mansion. Find it, and you might uncover the truth."
Pluton and Davie thanked Mrs. Whitaker for her help and left the cottage, their minds racing with the possibilities. As they made their way back to the town, the path seemed to close in around them, the air thick with anticipation.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the town, they prepared to enter the mansion. Armed with Mrs. Whitaker's warning and the determination to uncover the truth, they knew their journey was far from over. The mansion awaited, its secrets ready to be unearthed.
...
As night fell, Pluton and Davie made their way to the mansion, their determination steeled by Mrs. Whitaker's revelations. The mansion loomed ahead, its silhouette stark against the moonlit sky. The air was thick with an eerie quiet, amplifying the sound of their footsteps on the gravel path.
The mansion appeared abandoned but eerily pristine. Its towering structure was a blend of Gothic and Victorian architecture, with arched windows and intricate stonework. Ivy clung to the outer walls, and a wrought-iron gate creaked as they pushed it open. The front doors, heavy and ornate, opened with an ominous groan.
Inside, the air grew colder. The mansion's interior was immaculate, yet devoid of life. The entrance hall was grand, with high ceilings and a sweeping staircase. A massive chandelier hung above, its crystals catching the moonlight that streamed through the stained glass windows. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling, and portraits of stern-faced ancestors stared down at them.
To the left of the hall was a drawing room, furnished with antique sofas and armchairs, their upholstery faded but well-kept. A grand piano sat in one corner, its keys yellowed with age. The room was dimly lit by a few flickering candles, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. To the right, a dining room stretched out, with a long mahogany table and high-backed chairs. A dusty candelabrum adorned the center of the table, and the walls were decorated with elaborate tapestries depicting scenes from centuries past.
They split up, Davie heading upstairs while Pluton explored the ground floor. Davie's glasses were enchanted with spells meant to reveal hidden truths. As he walked through the dimly lit corridors, he scanned the surroundings for any anomalies. Initially, everything seemed normal—dusty furniture, old paintings, and cobwebbed chandeliers. The upstairs hallway was lined with doors leading to bedrooms, each one more opulent than the last. The master bedroom, with its four-poster bed and heavy drapes, looked like it hadn't been touched in years.
Pluton, meanwhile, felt a growing unease. He wandered through the grand hall, the eerie quiet gnawing at him. The library caught his attention—a vast room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. A large, ornate desk sat in the center, covered in papers and quills as if waiting for someone to return. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. His mind drifted to Mrs. Whitaker's warning and the journal they needed to find. As he stood in the center of the hall, he was suddenly overcome by a premonition.
He heard a voice, malevolent and filled with hatred, echoing in his mind. "You mongrel!" The words sent a jolt of pain through him, causing him to convulse and shiver uncontrollably. He fell to his knees, clutching his head, his vision blurring.
When he opened his eyes, the world had changed. The colors had drained away, leaving only black and white. But the walls and ceilings were adorned with red ribbon-like cloths, dripping with a red liquid that stood out vividly against the monochrome background.
Pluton screamed in shock, his voice echoing through the empty halls. He looked around wildly, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The once grand and stately mansion now appeared sinister and nightmarish. The red cloths seemed to pulse and writhe, the liquid dripping from them forming pools on the floor.
As he turned, he felt a cold, clammy hand plop onto his shoulder. He looked down and saw a dead hand, disembodied and oozing a ghastly aura. The air around him filled with agonizing screams and shrieks, or were they coming from within his mind?
Unable to bear it, Pluton collapsed to the floor, his scream piercing the eerie quiet of the mansion.
Upstairs, Davie heard Pluton's scream and rushed down, finding him lying on the ground. To Davie, the mansion looked as it always had—abandoned and silent. He couldn't see the red cloths or the dripping liquid, nor did he see the disembodied hand. All he saw was Pluton, convulsing and screaming in terror.
"Pluton! What's wrong?" Davie shouted, shaking him.
Pluton's eyes were wide with terror as he stared into the monochrome world, the vibrant red still haunting his vision. "It's everywhere! The red... the screams... the hand..."
Davie shook his head, unable to understand. "I don't see anything, Pluton! Snap out of it!"
Pluton's breathing was ragged, and he struggled to regain control. The vision began to fade, the colors slowly returning to normal, and the red horrors disappearing. He sat up, still shaking, as Davie helped him to his feet.
"What happened?" Davie asked, his voice filled with concern.
"I... I don't know," Pluton stammered. "I saw things... terrible things. The mansion... it changed. Everything was black and white, but there was red everywhere. And that voice..."
Davie frowned, glancing around the hall. "I didn't see anything. It was like you just... lost it."
Pluton took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "Maybe it's the mansion's influence. Mrs. Whitaker was right. There's something here, something dark and powerful."
Davie nodded, concern etched on his face. "We need to find that journal. Maybe it will explain what's happening. But you're in no state to continue right now."
Pluton nodded reluctantly. "You're right. Let's get out of here and regroup. We need to prepare properly before we tackle this again."
They left the mansion, the oppressive silence giving way to the night's natural sounds as they stepped outside. Pluton's legs felt weak, and he leaned on Davie for support. The mansion stood behind them, its dark windows seeming to watch their retreat.
As they walked back to the town, the moon casting long shadows on the path, Pluton couldn't shake the feeling that they had only scratched the surface of the mansion's secrets. They would return, better prepared and ready to face whatever horrors awaited them.