Page 47 of Grotesque

G ravel crunched under the wheels of the dark blue Chevy as it came to a halt at the top of the drive.

Next to the sedan squad car. Why was there a police car at Glamis?

Brenda Grendel stepped out of the truck, her high heels sinking between the tiny black stones. She cursed under her breath, resting her hand on the door as she straightened.

Yellow tape blocked the front door, barring entry.

Not that anyone would ever set foot inside Glamis Manor.

The whole town knew that anyone who went in never came out.

That whatever evil lived within drove you mad or drove you to death.

At least, those were the stories Macky always told them as kids.

Brenda had been to Glamis once, but that was so long ago she could hardly remember what it had been like. Vaguely, she recalled the gargoyles, but she could have sworn the house had been made of wood, not stone.

It was supposed to be a vacation home but after a single weekend that resulted in one of her brothers needing stiches from an animal scratch on his back, and the other being thrown down the stairs, Macky packed the family up and never brought them back.

Once the kids were grown and moved out, Macky had gone away too.

Brenda still didn’t know if she had been at Glamis Manor the entire time, or if she had bounced between the other broken-down shacks she owned.

What she did know, was that Macky’s last days had been spent in this hell hole.

“Sorcha!”

It had been weeks since Brenda had heard from her daughter.

She knew she’d been hard on her, but that’s how it went between them.

They would butt heads more often than not, but at the end of the day they would be right as rain.

Except Sorcha hadn’t called her back. Hadn’t answered any of her texts after their last argument.

Brenda flipped through her phone, double-checking the address to make sure she was at the right place.

The selfie Sorcha had sent all those weeks ago showed a beautiful manor in frame behind her.

This couldn’t have been the same building.

It was decrepit, crumbling, quite literally falling apart at the seams.

Sorcha had described the house as being in pristine condition, elegant, and on one occasion, as magnificent. What stood before Brenda was a rotten structure that could have been all those things. Once.

Voices flitted past the fluttering yellow tape strung across the gaping front door. “I don’t know how we’re going to explain this to the community. How do five missing men turn into one hundred and twelve? There was no space at the morgue, they had to take the rest over to Providence County.”

Brenda’s heart faltered at their words as she stormed up the steps. “Hello?” She ducked under the yellow tape, her eyes skimming the dusty, dilapidated foyer until her gaze snagged on the black stains along the stairs leading to the upper levels.

The sound of footsteps came from her right, dragging her attention away from the dark spatter.

An older gentleman, followed by a clean-shaven man strode through the long hallway.

The older of the two was in a tan suit, pressed with sharp lines, while his companion donned the typical uniform of an officer.

“This area is blocked off, ma’am. I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the older man said.

Brenda shook her head. “My daughter lives here. She hasn’t been answering her phone and—” her eyes snapped back to the stains, “—what’s happened?” It was all over the walls.

A flash of a memory darted through her mind. A spiral staircase, distinctly different from the straight, sweeping stairs before her.

The men looked at each other in blatant confusion. The younger one ran a hand over his face.

“You look a little young to be Maxine’s mother,” the first said. The officer beside him gave him a funny look.

Brenda scowled. “My daughter, Sorcha, inherited my mother’s place.

Maxine’s place. She moved here about two months ago.

” She stepped farther into the foyer, peering over their shoulders into the living room.

There were more stains behind them, except these still held their color.

The stains weren’t black, they were dark red.

“Ma’am, I need you to step outside. Come on now.”

Brenda planted her heels. As steep as they were, she didn’t waver an inch. “Where the fuck is my daughter?”

“Lady, your daughter isn’t here. There’s nothing but bod–” The younger officer snapped his mouth shut when the older man shot him a glare.

Brenda’s chest clenched. Her eyes flashed back to living room, to the second floor. “The… what?” Bod…bodies. The stains– it was blood. Blood dried black like that. “Oh my god, is my daughter…?” She couldn’t finish. She couldn’t breathe!

“I saw the house. She only sent me one picture of it, but it didn’t look like this,” Brenda insisted. “Where is she? Did something happen to her?” No, that couldn’t be the reason Sorcha hadn’t returned her calls.

The older man took her by the elbow and eased her outside as her knees buckled. “What’s your name?” he asked gently, settling her on the front porch

“Brenda. Brenda Grendel. My daughter, Sorcha.” Her eyes brimmed with tears.

Her shaking hand dove into her pocket for her phone.

Her thumb skidded across the screen several times as she let out a broken curse.

“Here. This is her. This is Sorcha.” Brenda looked up at the young officer.

“What happened? Has anyone reported her missing?”

The officer took the phone, his face paling slightly. Did he see the same thing she did? That the house was whole in the background?

“You! You know her. What happened?” Why weren’t they saying anything?

The officer grimaced. “I don’t know her.

It’s just—” he gave a look to the older gentleman, “—there’s stories about this place.

” He turned the screen to the man and dropped his voice.

“I think those boys killed it, August. People in town said there was a haunt in Glamis. And look, it’s the same house, but this one is… ” He trailed off.

August, the older man, squinted at the picture on the phone. “You’re telling me you believe in ghost stories?”

“I’m saying that before Jeremy and the guys went missing the house was normal. I told you it was, and here’s the proof. It’s like it happened overnight. Maxine always took good care of her things.”

Brenda snatched the phone from August. “Cut the bullshit. I don’t give a fuck about ghost stories or whatever the town has to say about my mother. My mother is dead. Where is my daughter?”

The officer swallowed. “Gone. At least, she wasn’t any of the ones we found inside.”

August looked between the two of them. He let out a sigh that turned into a cough. He rubbed his wrinkled knuckles into the corner of his mouth. “Would you be willing to come down to the station with us? Maybe you can help us put some pieces together.”

Seconds, then a minute went by before Brenda finally responded. She shook her head, then nodded, trying desperately to keep the tears from falling. “Sure whatever. As long as you find Sorcha,” she spat, rising to her feet with stiff poise.

Sorcha wasn’t inside, which meant she was alive.

The house looked nothing like the one she had sent photos of.

Did she purposefully send me on a wild goose chase?

By the sound of it, the small-town cops didn’t know what the hell they were doing either.

Mentioning haunts made them sound as nuts as Macky.

Brenda walked swiftly back to the truck, her heart pounding.

A flash of white paper fluttered on the ground near her pointed heel.

She snatched it up before climbing in, slamming the door behind her.

Whatever had happened, Sorcha had nothing to do with.

This obviously wasn’t the right place. She was taking her time to respond, trying to prove a point to Brenda that she was all grown up.

She was probably throwing some sort of temper tantrum. Sorcha wasn’t even here, that’s all this was.

She’s trying to teach me a lesson. The nerve.

Tires spun as she whipped the car around and sped down the long drive. Perhaps she should have given her information to the officers.But Bristol was a small town and word traveled quickly. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out she was staying at The Bradley.

Brenda swiped her hand across her face; the piece of paper, still pinched between her fingers, slapped her slightly. Her irritation rose as she read the script. She read it again. On the third read, she bared her teeth. She crumpled the piece of paper angrily.

“Superstitious bitch,” she said and tossed the ball out the window.

There were once three rules of Glamis Manor, all of which have been broken. A spell of protection, poorly crafted, now failed.

1. Do not look into the mirrors for more than a moment, for they are a gateway to his world.

2. Do not invite guests into the manor, for he shall feast on their blood and bones.

3. Do not leave the shelter of the manor after nightfall, for he is the night that corrupts the light.

Long live the King of the Unseelie, may the gods have mercy on the one that set him free.