Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Salem, can’t you do anything about the storm?” Charmaine complained, wrapping her cloak tighter around her shoulders, bowing her head low. Above them, the pitch black sky drenched them with its sweat and tears. A lantern in Charmaine’s hand illuminated barely more than a few feet in front of her, guiding them down the worn road leading to—hopefully—shelter.

Salem, a lithe figure with an uncomfortable slouch in his upper back, paused and looked behind their traveling party. He couldn’t hear much. The rain was far too loud, too violent. Anyone could sneak up on them in these conditions, and it put him on edge. “No,” he said simply, voice a near shout to be heard.

He surveyed his other two companions, two tieflings who were faring even worse than Charmaine. Riza, a tall, muscular woman decorated with too many piercings to count, had no cloak or blanket to cover herself with, preferring to keep it even slightly dry in her backpack. She took the beating with a quiet dignity, but her eyes squinted with painful creases, boots held loosely in one hand. Her bare feet sank into the mud—and still she preferred it this way.

Remy, her brother, announced only thirty minutes ago that his voice was tired from complaining. Salem had never been more grateful for the man to shut up; even in the storm, the constant and low buzzing, like an irritating bug, drove him to insanity. He had little reason to complain. His clothes were completely dry, thanks to intricate hand waves and small humming noises he made every few seconds. Salem guessed it was soothing for him, a sort of repetitive motion that made the long walk more bearable. Still, it would have been nice if he could extend that courtesy to the others.

Charmaine stopped as her lantern suddenly revealed an old, wooden sign toppled onto the ground. She stooped low and cleared off a few drenched leaves. “Everlund,” she announced. “But which direction? What if we got turned around?”

“We didn’t,” Riza told her with enough conviction that Charmaine shrugged and believed it. But Salem knew that Riza knew nothing more than the rest of them.

Another hour of walking, and Salem bounded ahead, climbing onto a large, slick rock to gain a better vantage point. He could just about make out lights in the distance. He called down to his companions, “We’re here!”

“Finally,” Remy groaned. He adjusted his satchel and pushed past Charmaine. “Time to get out of this downpour.”

“You’re barely in it,” Riza muttered.

The old, worn footpath ended where a nicer, if mossy, cobblestone street began. Water pooled between the rocks, forming large puddles that proved impossible to avoid entirely. Small buildings, made mostly of the local wood and stone, packed in close together as if seeking comfort in the otherwise dark and foreboding woods. Despite the darkness of the night, the few rusting street lights illuminated fabric draped from the buildings, wagons covered in water-repellent material, homes with tiny stone gardens on their front porch.

The four of them pushed through the streets until they came across one larger two-story building with candlelight peeking through every window on the first floor. A sign over the front door had been worn so thoroughly that the words could no longer be read, but the faint image of a bed could be seen even through the storm.

It proved remarkably busy for a small town tavern. Over a dozen patrons lingered at the wooden tables or booths, conversing in low tones. A single server paced behind the bar. She multi-tasked as she walked, picking up dirty dishes while pouring new drinks and grabbing plates of fresh food from the small window leading to the kitchen.

Charmaine was the last through the front door, doing her best to remove the mud from her boots before getting too far across the threshold. Salem produced his journal and waved his hands, sending the mud flying neatly back out the door. He repeated the process for Riza and both women smiled at him gratefully.

“Only one vacancy!” called the waitress as she hurried by with a tray of plates. “And the cook is going to bed in half an hour. If you want anything, take a seat and I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

“Take your time, darling,” Remy replied, looking her up and down with a lazy smile as she passed. Riza elbowed him hard.

“No trouble,” she scolded, slipping her boots back on. “We need to buy horses in the morning.”

“No trouble!” Remy swore, placing his hand on his heart. His grin wasn’t reassuring.

The four chose a booth towards the back of the room, shrugging off their equipment and sighing with relief. A few of the patrons cast odd glances at Riza and Remy, but no one interrupted them.

Charmaine broke their brief respite. She leaned forward, placing her forearms on the table, and said, “How far to Neverwinter?”

Salem shrugged. He still had his journal out and was studying a sketched map of the area he’d been working on. He frowned at his own work, feeling like he’d made several wrong assumptions about the terrain that could get them lost. He could get a higher view of the land to fix it, but he didn’t want to fly in the storm.

Charmaine assumed he could control the weather. He could, but not like that.

“Alright, sweeties.” The waitress stopped by and offered a tired but polite smile. “What can I get you?”

“I’d love your company for the evening, but seeing as you’re busy, I’ll settle for a bowl of the soup du jour¹,” Remy said, resting his head on his hand. He winked once.

The waitress chuckled. “Beef and onion with a side of bread. Anyone else?”

“I’ll take a bowl, too,” Charmaine said.

“Same, and whatever ale you have,” said Riza.

The waitress turned expectantly to Salem. He wished people would stop doing that. “Not hungry,” he muttered.

“He’ll take an ale, too,” quipped Remy. When the waitress walked away to place their orders, he turned to Salem and said, “Thanks for the ale!”

“Another two weeks on foot,” said Salem, returning to Charmaine’s question. “Good steeds might bring that down to just over a week.”

“And why couldn’t you just teleport us there instead of… wherever this is?” Remy asked, waving his hand vaguely.

“Just outside Everlund.” Once, he would’ve balked at the idea of mentioning any Guild business around outsiders. Now it seemed as simple as discussing what happened in the Underdark—which is to say, not simple at all, but not as bad as he’d thought. “I can only teleport to places I’ve seen before.”

“You’ve been here before? I thought you said this was quite a distance from Vaasa.” The waitress returned with two drinks. Riza took one and Salem tried to not wrinkle his nose at the mug in front of him until she disappeared, at which point Remy stole it and swallowed a large gulp.

“Had a job in Everlund. Went with a senior,” he muttered, pulling his hood down over his eyes. “Furthest place I’d ever been before I left the guild.”

“You said you were captured from here,” Charmaine said. Riza and Remy looked up with concerned interest, so she quickly added, “Captured by the drow before we met, I mean. You said that’s where you were on the surface.”

“I’m surprised you remember that,” he said with a frown.

“I thought it might be your home. I wanted to remember.”

“Turns out his home is quite a few hundred miles away,” Remy commented, setting his mug down.

“I don’t have a home,” Salem said, ending the conversation.

An awkward silence spread between them. After a long moment, Riza piped up with, “Do we have enough money on us for horses?”

Remy grimaced and made an uncertain hand wave. “I may have spent most of it on that… commission, shall we say. We have enough for tonight, though!”

“Maybe we can find work in town,” Charmaine offered. Salem knew what she was doing: trying to move the conversation in a productive direction before Salem could feel bad about causing their current misfortunes. Maybe she was right. If he sat down and thought about it for too long, he would come to the conclusion that he should just leave. He’d get around faster by himself, anyway, and then Riza and Remy wouldn’t have to deal with him. But he knew it would hurt Charmaine. He found he couldn’t do anything if he knew she would disapprove. It was a frustrating weakness. “It wouldn’t hurt to stay an extra day, anyway. It’s not like we’re in a rush.”

“And to get some well-deserved rest,” Remy added, lifting his mug and reclining in his seat.

Riza rolled her eyes. “We’d be working, Remy, not relaxing.”

“I never agreed to that,” he pointed out. “There are far easier ways of picking up coin.”

“I agree in principle, but likely not in method,” Salem muttered.

The waitress returned and set three bowls of lukewarm but otherwise delicious-smelling soup in front of them. She added a plate stacked with a few pieces of bread. “Gave you the rest that we had,” she said, throwing a wink in Remy’s direction. “You’re my last customers and it won’t be any good tomorrow. Enjoy, sweeties. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“You are a delight,” Remy said, grinning up at her. “We’ll take that room, too. Do you work in the mornings? Or is your evening free after this?”

“Oh, I’m afraid I’m quite busy all day, every day,” she replied. “Just me and my wife working the place. Come see me when you’re done and I’ll show you upstairs.”

Riza snickered as the waitress walked away. Remy pouted at her. “Don’t laugh at me,” he said, sulking. “How was I supposed to know?”

“You’re not supposed to know,” Charmaine pointed out. “Usually, you’re not supposed to try.”

He groaned, but was quickly distracted by the bowls of soup in front of them. While the three ate, Salem flipped through his journal and inspected his notes on Everlund. They’d already left the bulk of that town and moved on to wherever they currently rested, a small hamlet barely worth a mention on the map.

He couldn’t quite imagine being in Neverwinter in less than two weeks. Charmaine said they’d find physicians there that might be able to… to… He didn’t want to think about it. If he gave himself any hope, only to be disappointed when they got there, he didn’t know how he’d react. He’d probably collapse again and need Charmaine to pick up his pieces.

Riza and Remy didn’t deserve that.

Remy slurped the final spoonfuls of his broth, finishing well before the others. “Ah, delicious,” he announced, revealing his fangs as he licked his lips. “Although the beef was a bit tough.”

Well, Riza didn’t deserve that, at least.

“Please, father!” came a cry across the tavern. A brief silence settled over the room, allowing everyone to hear the fight at one of the tables. Two women, one hunched over with gray hairs and worn clothes and one younger in a clean blue dress, engaged a middle-aged man with straw in his mouth and a wide-brimmed hat. The younger woman had been the one to shout, standing with her hands pressed against the table to support her weight.

“I said no,” the farmer said lowly, his eyes darting around to survey the attention they’d attracted. “I ain’t losing you, too, Darmah.”

“If you have any love for me or him at all, you will help me with this,” the woman insisted. Despite her bravado, her shoulders trembled and tears moistened her cheeks. “Or will we sit around until we are all dead and gone?”

Salem couldn’t help his sigh. Across his own table, Charmaine’s forehead creased in the same way it did anytime she heard trouble. She motioned for Riza to let her out of the booth. Of course she would.

“It’s too dangerous,” insisted the farmer. The rest of the tavern slowly drifted back to normal conversation but Salem’s keen senses could still make out their words. “We know nothing about what’s inside. Could be cursed. Could be haunted.”

“Which is why we need to find out!” the young woman insisted.

“Darmah, dear,” said the older woman. “I know you are upset. I have seen this before. The house appears and takes a few of us, then it leaves. There’s nothing we can do.”

“There’s nothing you’re willing to do,” snapped the young woman, Darmah.

“Excuse me,” said Charmaine, giving her biggest smile and adjusting her posture, revealing her aegis. “I couldn’t help but overhear that you seem to have some kind of problem. Is there anything me and my companions could help with?”

The family of three paused their argument to inspect her. Darmah wasted no time before blurting, “Are you a fighter? Could you help me?”

“Darmah,” snapped the older man. “We ain’t got the money. It ain’t these peoples’ business, anyway.”

“Au contrair!²” Salem hadn’t even noticed Remy move from his seat, which was admittedly impressive. And concerning. The tiefling swept forward, offering a small and polite bow to the family. The farmer glared at him, a hint of disgust scrunching his features. “You see, we happen to be in the business of other people’s business, if you catch my drift. And we have no fee!”

“Remy,” Riza started, standing to follow him. Salem sunk lower into his seat.

“Tell me, what’s this about a house?” Remy clapped his hands and pulled up a chair, sitting next to the old woman. “Good or bad?”

“Terrible,” insisted Darmah. Now that someone seemed to be taking her seriously, she sat down and steeled her expression. “My betrothed disappeared inside an abandoned house.”

“Well that doesn’t sound too bad,” Remy commented lightly. “Have you sent anyone to look?”

“He was sent in to look—for some kids,” the farmer growled. “That’s the trouble with that house.”

The older woman leaned in close and grabbed Remy’s hands. “It’s cursed, that house. It comes every few decades to steal our people. The young ones never believe the legends. They go inside and are never heard from again.”

“The house… moves?” Charmaine asked.

The old woman nodded solemnly. “At the end of Thornridge Way. It came when I was just married, and it came when I was a girl. I lost my brother that way, and then my niece. It takes its victims and leaves when it is satisfied.”

“And… someone has gone in every time this has happened?” Remy asked. “You’ve never… considered not going in?”

“We warn them every time! Every child grows up hearing the stories. Yet they’re drawn in anyway. It’s that house. It is irresistible.”

“Well, we could certainly check it out,” said Charmaine. “At least look at the outside.”

“There is no hope,” the old woman warned, squeezing Remy’s hands tighter. He winced at the pressure. “I have seen brave, strong men vanish in that house. I have seen priests attempt to cleanse it from within. Even if you survive inside, the house will vanish when it is finished. Where it goes, I do not know. Possibly the deepest pits of the Abyss itself.”

Charmaine, Remy, and Salem all snorted in unison. Charmaine said, “I understand, ma’am. But I am a paladin of Lady Firehair and I will not turn away when someone’s beloved has disappeared.” She shot a meaningful look at the young woman, who let out a relieved sigh and rested her head against the table. “My companions and I have been through much together. You have sent in your best warriors, true, and I do not claim to be better than them. But I am uniquely equipped to handle curses and monsters. Please, trust me. I will do everything I can to bring those you have lost back to you.”

“If we happen to return the missing persons,” added Remy, cocking his head with a faint smile, “would you mind lending us four riding horses?”

“Three,” called Salem from across the room.

“Three,” Remy amended. “Three horses.”

The farmer stared at him warily, although he now regarded Charmaine in a new light. She stood tall and regal, looking every bit the paladin she claimed to be—bright, fearless, beautiful.

“If you come back,” he said, chewing rough on his straw, “then aye, you’ll get your horses. But I don’t expect you to come back.”

The family arranged the details with Charmaine and Remy over the next half hour, listing all of the missing persons and detailing every legend they knew about the house. It was supposedly haunted, perhaps by ghosts or perhaps by demons. The house lured unsuspecting victims, mostly children, into the premises and then shut the door behind them. No noises came from the house, either before or after each disappearance. No clues remained behind. Only the bystanders could comment, and they knew almost nothing at all.

Salem listened idly, watching the waitress clean up as the patrons slowly filtered out of the tavern. Eventually, even the family left, bidding various farewells.

“Want me to show you to your room?” asked the waitress, dusting her hands off. “Sounds like you got a busy day tomorrow.”

“No thank you,” said Charmaine. “We’ll be heading out tonight.”

Remy, who had otherwise been enthusiastic about the adventure, went still. “What?” he asked. “We’re not sleeping here?”

“Remy, what if the house disappears before morning? We have to go now. People’s lives are at stake.”

Despite not wanting to go himself, Salem snickered at Remy. He stood from his spot at the table and patted the tiefling’s shoulder in mock sympathy. “Maybe there will be a comfortable bed in the death house for you,” he said.

Remy shot him a glare. “We don’t know it’s a death house! We don’t know if anyone has died.”

“Riza, Remy,” started Charmaine, worrying at her lip. “You don’t have to come. I know we’re only here because of a mishap. You don’t have to put yourselves at risk.”

“Don’t I get a choice?” Salem sighed. No one responded.

“As if we’d let you walk into a death house by yourself,” Riza scoffed.

“Might not be a death house!” Remy repeated. “Besides, what else do we have to do in the middle of a dark and stormy night in a town we’ve never been to before? If anything, we’re safer with you than anywhere else.”

Charmaine sighed deeply, but when she turned her gaze back to her companions, they shone with overwhelming emotion. “Thank you,” she breathed, reaching forward to wrap Riza in a hug. Remy put his arms around them both and they stayed like that for several seconds.

Salem shuffled on his feet and looked away.

Remy was the first to break the hug. He declared, “Alright, then let’s go investigate this—potential!—death house!”

The storm kicked up a thick fog. Even as the downpour diminished, giving the companions a brief respite, they could barely make out the entirety of the street. The town was empty and quiet.

Salem’s feet slapped against the cobblestone, leading his friends to the end of the road, which curved up a small hill. Charmaine raised her lantern, but it didn’t help. Only one light from the manor gave away its position in the foggy darkness; someone in an upstairs bedroom, maybe.

“There’s someone in there,” Charmaine whispered, pointing at the window as if they didn’t all see it. “One of the victims?”

“Or what’s taking them,” said Salem, pulling down his hood. He squinted, just barely making out the outline of the manor—tall, surprisingly thin, and ancient beyond words. Its architectural style differed so greatly from the rest of the village that he wondered if it had been transported here from another world—or another time.

A moving house. It would have been fascinating, if it wasn’t so malevolent.

That was when the mists parted, straight down the middle, starting at the front door. They watched in quiet apprehension as the lantern’s glow revealed the harsh, worn details of the building. Altogether too many tall, narrow windows gave no insight as to the interior, smudged with black soot. Each had a small box of flowers hanging off of it, wilted and dying. The light shone from the topmost floor, which must have been the attic. As they stared, it flickered out.

The house loomed ominously before them. A wrought-iron gate in the doorway creaked and opened with a gust of cold wind, carrying a whisper of dread.

Remy broke the silence. “Might be a death house,” he admitted.

“I cannot believe children would be tempted to go inside,” said Charmaine. She swallowed.

“Let’s get out of the rain,” Riza suggested, adjusting her pack on her shoulder. “Haunted or not, it’s probably better than out here.”

Salem disagreed but thought better of saying it aloud.

They shuffled to the archway on the left side of the front wall. Charmaine pushed the gate open, cringing at its loud, shrieking hinges. Unlit oil lamps hung from the ceiling. As they stepped in the entryway, the singing of the wind ceased. Sudden silence, uncomfortable and thick, descended over them. It was broken by the sound of Riza’s feet dragging squelching, thick mud onto the cobble floor.

Charmaine grasped the small brass doorknob, shaking it. “It’s unlocked, just stuck,” she muttered. Handing the lantern to Riza, she threw her shoulder at the door, grunting.

Salem took the moment to study a shield hanging on the wall, emblazoned with a coat-of-arms depicting a golden windmill on a red field. Old, grimy oil paintings of various people surrounded it. He couldn’t recognize any of them, although that didn’t surprise him. He guessed the decorations meant a noble family once lived here, which would match with the (admittedly faded and eerie) architecture of the manor.

Charmaine threw herself at the door one more time, but it suddenly swung open. She gasped and stumbled past the entryway. Turning around and wiping the wet hair out of her face, she glared at Remy. “Not funny.”

“Very funny,” Remy said seriously, “Except I didn’t do it.”

“Nor did I,” said Salem, furrowing his brows. Darkness permeated the house beyond the doorway, impenetrable without a light, even for Salem’s celestially-blessed eyes. Learning more about the interior would be impossible without stepping through that threshold. This late in the evening, with such an aura about the house, it seemed like a point of no return.

The house lured its victims, claimed the old woman. Charmaine’s comment had been right—why would children willingly go inside? Yet he could not deny that his interested had been piqued by the semi-sentient nature of the building. He wanted to explore it, even without wanting to find the victims.

Perhaps that is what the old woman meant. The house adapted itself to those who came close. Children could be lured with a sense of harmless adventure—experienced warriors like Salem and Charmaine could be lured by the presence of evil and darkness. It toyed with them because it knew they would take the bait anyway.

Charmaine turned again with a start, eyes wide, glancing around the interior. Riza handed her back the lantern, and she lifted it to reveal the main hall. A strong scent of dust hit them, like they had disturbed something thousands of years old. Nervous but ready to be out of the cold rain, they shuffled in, one-by-one.

The main hall ran the width of the house, about thirty feet wide by fifteen feet long. To their left was a blackened fireplace and to their right was a sweeping, red marble staircase. The lantern barely illuminated that far into the room, casting flickering shadows across the walls. A tall grandfather clock, made of old varnished wood, sat at the base of the stairs. The lantern’s flames glimmered in the reflection of its glassy face.

“Oh, a fireplace,” Remy said, walking forward and snapping his fingers. A small orange flame appeared in the pit. There was no wood, only the burnt remains of what might have been anything. The flame hovered there uncertainly, growing no larger and providing neither adequate light nor warmth. Remy huffed.

“There’s someone here,” Salem reminded them in a low whisper. “And it’s dark. We could be ambushed—“

As he said it, every lamp in the room came alight with flame at once, burning their eyes. The wood-paneled walls were ornately sculpted with images of vines, flowers, nymphs, and satyrs. Besides the entrance and the stairs, there were four other doors in the room, all closed. The grandfather clock ticked now—had it been ticking this entire time, and Salem hadn’t noticed? Above the fireplace sat an old family portrait of a man, a woman, two children, and an infant. Even the fireplace’s small flame had grown into a roaring fire, still fueled by nothing. Yet shadows lingered in every corner, and the house felt no safer in the light.

“Remy,” Riza hissed.

“Once again, not me. You know, I’d appreciate being given the benefit of the doubt, just once.”

Salem inhaled deeply, studying the room’s design, thinking about what he had seen. “Whoever’s here knows that we’re here, too,” he said at a normal volume. “That’s the only explanation.”

“So, what? They’re messing with us?” Charmaine asked, clutching her lantern like she was afraid the lights might go out again.

Salem walked over to the fireplace, inspecting the portrait. There was a plaque beneath it:

“Salem!” Charmaine shouted. He spun around to find the other three staring at the wall above the staircase, where a thick, dark red liquid had begun to drip from the wood paneling. Slowly, it formed letters, then words, then whole lines. When it completed, Riza read,

“It seems that there’s some kind of monster that’s going to wake up at midnight.” Riza frowned, tapping her clawed finger against her lips. “If there’s a way to stop it, why would they tell us? They being, whoever wrote this.”

“Perhaps this is a game,” suggested Salem. “All participants must know the rules of the game. This is a warning, but also a clue. It is teaching us how to play.”

“Alright, then it’s definitely a death house. I don’t know about you ‘morsels’, but I’m out,” Remy drawled, turning on his tail and walking towards the door. Before he could make it there, it slammed shut. He lunged forward and tugged on the knob—but it held fast. “It’s fucking locked!”

“Well, ‘morsel,’ guess you’re staying with us,” Riza snapped. “Salem, can you pick it?”

“Probably not, if it’s magically sealed.” But he pushed Remy aside and knelt down anyway, pulling out his small kit.

“Great. Just great.” Charmaine sighed. “Okay, so we’re in a haunted Death House, there’s a mysterious creature that’s going to eat us at midnight, and we can’t leave.”

Remy crossed his arms, attempting to downplay his momentary lapse of coolness. “Hey, can’t you two angels just… I don’t know, scare it off? ‘Beast of Evil, thou hast no power here!’”

“That’s not how it works,” deadpanned Charmaine. “We don’t even know what it is.”

“It won’t open.” Salem stood from the door, discarding a broken lock pick with some disdain.

Riza had been staring into the fire. Now, she turned to addressed all of them. “We need a plan. What time is it?”

“Just after eight o’clock,” Charmaine said, pointing to the grandfather clock. “If that thing is correct, I suppose.”

“Then we have just under four hours to find a way to escape this house. The riddle on the wall suggested we could bring the beast a gift. Playing along with this game, at least for now, might be our best chance—unless we find another exit.”

“We also need to look for survivors,” insisted Charmaine.

“Or bodies,” quipped Remy, earning a glare from the two women.

Salem surveyed the closed doors and the staircase leading into further darkness. “Then we have a deadline. We’ll search the entire house room by room if we must. We stay together until we know what we’re dealing with.”

They all nodded. Charmaine chose a random door and pushed it open, sighing when it revealed nothing more than a cramped cloakroom, dusty and covered in moth balls. Cloaks, hats, and other garments hung from ancient rusted hangers.

“Look.” Salem fished a small letter out of a coat pocket. It crinkled uncomfortably in his hands, yellowed almost beyond readability. He squinted. “It’s addressed to a Lady Lovina Wachter. Anyone know her?”

The companions shook their heads. Salem tore open the letter and read,

“That’s dated from the fourth century,” Charmaine pointed out. “That’s over a thousand years ago.”

“I don’t think this letter would have survived that long,” Riza said.

“It’s referring to a different calendar,” Remy commented offhandedly, staring at the portrait above the fireplace. “Neyavr isn’t a common name for a month.”

Salem followed Remy’s gaze to the portrait, then reread the letter. “This house must have belonged to a Durst family. I saw a mill in the family crest outside.”

“I wish we knew what that date meant,” said Riza. “Is it some time in the past or in the future?”

Remy scoffed. “Do you think anyone would want to host a party in a house that looked like this? Definitely the past.”

“Does anyone know where Barovia is?” asked Salem.

They all shook their heads. No one had even heard of it.

“So this house is from a place none of us have ever heard of, possibly from a completely different time period, and it can magically move itself while no one is watching.” Salem slipped the letter into his journal. “Lovely. Next door, then.”

Across the room, Riza spun the knob of the door next to the bottom of the staircase. She’d barely pushed it a few inches open before jumping back, eyes wide. “Something’s in there,” she whispered.

Charmaine pushed past her and raised her aegis, though the slight tremble in her lips betrayed her supposed bravery. She nudged the door open with her toe and then braced herself.

When nothing happened, Salem conjured a ball of light and thrust it inside. The four companions peered through to see a large, comfortable den. Chairs, bookshelves, and even a fireplace filled the room. What had scared Riza was in fact three wolves, although none of them twitched even a muscle.

“Taxidermies,” Salem commented.

Remy poked Riza in the back and snickered. She slapped his shoulder hard.

The first wolf, the one that evidently startled Riza, stood against the far wall. The other two faced it from the opposite side of the room, positioned next to each other in a defensive formation. Salem strolled in first, examining the cabinets and bookshelves. Remy plopped down in one of the armchairs and ran his fingers through the animal pelts.

“Look at this,” Charmaine called from the table. She lifted a small mounted piece of needlework so that Salem’s glowing orb illuminated it better. “I think a child did this. It says, ‘For Miss Klara.’”

“That wasn’t one of the names on the portrait,” said Remy, bending backwards over the chair to look at it. “Who’s Miss Klara? A tutor? A nanny? Another noble?”

Charmaine’s face had fallen. She set the needlework down as if it might hurt her. “Whoever she was, I’m not sure she was very welcomed here.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s…” She hesitated. “It looks like it’s supposed to be two children holding hands with a woman, but the woman’s face has been… destroyed. Cut up.”

“Look at these,” Riza interrupted. She pulled two small toys under one of the armchairs. Both resembled gray wolves, each with a myriad of stitches and patchwork that suggested they were well-loved. She flipped them over. “One is marked Rose and the other Thorn.”

“Rosavalda and Thornbolt,” Remy offered. When the other three turned to him, he said, “What? That’s what the children were named in the portrait.”

“You and that portrait,” Riza commented, rolling her eyes.

“Of course I was interested in the portrait! It depicted three children, but only two were mentioned in the plaque.”

Salem turned from the bookshelf he’d been inspecting. “What do you mean?”

“Come on. I’ll show you.”

They returned to the main hall, where the sconces still flickered with flames. Remy pointed to the portrait. It was as he said. It depicted a man and a woman, most likely Gustav and Elizabeth Durst, and three children. Two were old enough to stand by their parents’ side, but the third was a mere infant, held by the father and swaddled in so many blankets that it could barely be seen.

“Are you sure that’s supposed to be a child? The plaque doesn’t mention it,” said Charmaine.

“What else would it be?” asked Remy.

“But the plaque says they had only two children.”

“Exactly,” he replied smugly.

“Who knew you were so perceptive?” drawled Riza.

Salem interrupted, “We’re still on a time limit. We need to go.”

“Wait.” Riza held up the two stuffed dolls, which she had brought with her. “Do you think these might be the gift that riddle was talking about?”

Salem shrugged. Charmaine studied them for a moment, frowning. “Why would a monster want children’s toys?”

“Maybe the monster is a child,” offered Remy. Riza wacked him again. He yelped and rubbed his arm, pouting. “It’s just an idea!”

“We know the house lured mostly children,” Salem admitted. “It’s possible. Take them if you want, but let’s keep exploring.”

The second floor seemed just as quiet as the first floor, at least initially. As the four companions came off the staircase and fanned out through the hall, Salem’s keen hearing caught a faint sound. He followed it, then pressed his ear against the door he suspected. From behind it he could hear what sounded like… music.

Silently, he motioned for the others to line up behind him. They did so without a word, each of them picking up on the music as they came closer. “Harpsichord,” Remy mouthed.

Charmaine went it first, as always, but once again there was nothing to fear. As soon as the door swung open, the music stopped. Before them was a large and elegant conservatory. Long, white drapes covered tall, grimy windows. An unlit brass chandelier hung from the ceiling. Partly eaten upholstered chairs lined the walls.

On the far wall sat another fireplace. Atop its mantelpiece were alabaster figurines, each depicting a different well-dressed dancer mid-spin.

Remy, it seemed, couldn’t help himself. He pushed forward towards the large harpsichord settled in one corner of the room, grinning as he inspected its old wood and dust-covered keys. “They had taste,” he commented, running his fingers along it.

“I thought you preferred smaller instruments,” Charmaine said as she moved towards the windows. She pulled the drapes back and attempted to peer outside, although between the grime and the darkness, little could be made out.

“Only because I live such a mobile life,” he replied airily. He sat down and played a simple ascending scale. It still sounded mostly in tune despite its age. Then he missed a key and paused. “Huh.”

“What is it?”

He stood and opened the top of the harpsichord, squinting at its insides. “One of the keys is stuck,” he mumbled, then lit up and said, “Aha! Gotcha.”

Remy produced a small rolled-up piece of parchment from within the strings. He unfolded it and raised an eyebrow. “Waltz for Klara?”

“Seems like this Klara was pretty important if someone was composing music for her,” said Riza. She glanced over his shoulder to read it. “It doesn’t look like a child’s work, though.”

“Could she have composed it for herself?” Charmaine asked.

“Wouldn’t that be a little… arrogant?”

Remy said, with a wink, “Not if she’s good enough. Let’s see how it plays.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good—” Salem started, turning from his spot at the fireplace. Before he could finish, Remy had already sat down again and began deftly playing the song from the sheet music.

The melody was gentle yet rhythmic, almost haunting as it echoed through the quiet and dusty room. The four listened as Remy played, wondering if any clues could be deciphered from the sounds.

Salem ducked out of the way just as a loud crash sounded from the mantelpiece. They all looked over to see that two of the figurines had fallen from their place, both shattered on the ground. Remy ceased the music immediately, and in the following silence, they heard the low sound of scraping wood echoing from somewhere else in the house.

“Whoops,” said Remy, not sounding apologetic at all.

“It would seem that this house does not like Klara,” observed Riza. “Or, rather, whoever lived here didn’t.”

“Ghosts?” Charmaine asked.

“Do you sense any?” asked Salem.

She pulled her shield over her shoulder and closed her eyes. Pale pink flames flickered across its gilded edges. Remy shifted uncomfortably at the piano, fidgeting with the collar at his neck.

Charmaine’s eyes shot open. She turned to meet Salem’s stare and whispered, “Undead. All around us.”

“Great,” said Remy. “It’s officially a Death House.”

“That would explain the house’s behavior,” Salem pondered. “But not the beast. Ghosts may hunger but they cannot literally eat anyone. How many ghosts?”

Charmaine concentrated. The flames on her aegis seemed to quiver in the presence of so many undead. “At least five in the house, but I’m sensing a lot more below us.”

“Is there a basement? We didn’t see any sort of entrance on the first floor,” said Riza.

Salem counted in his head. “Possibly a ghost for each member of the family, if that portrait was correct. And if it’s indeed the Durst family haunting this place.”

“Who else would it be? And what about Klara? Wouldn’t that be six?”

Salem shrugged.

For a long moment, none of them said anything. Then Remy piped up, “I think we ought to find that gift, and preferably soon.”

“I found the source of that creaking noise,” said Salem as he pushed open the door to the library. Red velvet drapes covered the windows, plunging the room into darkness. Salem sent four magical balls of light to illuminate each corner. Bookshelves lined the southern wall while a mahogany desk and chair sat opposite them. A rolling wooden ladder lay collapsed on the ground.

“What is it?” asked Charmaine, moving into the room behind him.

He pointed to the far corner. The last bookshelf in the row had swung out on hinges, revealing a blank wooden wall behind it. Upon closer inspection, a small panel made of dark wood broke the otherwise homogeneous material. A hollow niche, jagged and irregular, sat in the center. Salem bent down to examine it. “It looks like a keyhole. I’m not sure what kind of key would fit in here, though.”

“Why would playing that song open the bookshelf?” asked Remy, even as he ran his fingers lazily over the dusty tombs. “If it’s meant to be a secret, then only someone who could play would be able to open it.”

“Well, presumably at least one person in the house knew how. They wouldn’t have a harpsichord otherwise.”

“Oh, gods,” muttered Riza. The other three turned to see her standing over the desk. “I… Hold on, let me read this.

Riza finished with a grim expression.

“Hey! I was right. A tutor or a nanny,” said Remy. “Possibly both.”

“She left because she was pregnant,” Charmaine muttered, eyebrows knitted together. “Did that last line sound off to anyone else?”

Remy made a face while he concentrated. “Wait. The plaque downstairs said ‘their two children’.”

“And?”

“Their two children,” he insisted. “Mr. and Mrs. Durst. Maybe that infant wasn’t both of theirs.”

Charmaine gasped. “You mean it was Klara’s?”

“We don’t know that for sure,” said Salem, reigning in their momentum. “We need to keep moving. It’s almost been an hour.”

“You’d think they’d extend the staircase down into the basement,” commented Remy. He leaned over the balustrade to peer all the way down to the bottom floor. They’d just climbed up to the third floor and Remy was the last to step off.

“Unless it’s not a basement,” said Salem.

The four paused. Charmaine said, reluctantly, “What else would be below the house? A burial ground?”

“Maybe it’s a portal to the Abyss itself,” Remy joked, wagging his fingers.

“Enough, Remy,” scolded Riza. She pulled away from the balustrade and continued down the third floor landing, inspecting the decor. Unlit oil lamps hung from the oak-paneled walls. Whoever or whatever thought to spook them with the lights on the first floor refused to extend the courtesy above.

As Riza passed an old suit of plate armor, it let out an ear-splitting creak and lurched forward. Before Riza could even react, it shoved its bulk against her and sent them both toppling over the side of the balustrade.

“Whoa, slow down,” Remy called, leaning over the railing. His eyes flashed with magic as he said it. By the time Charmaine and Salem could check on their fourth companion, Riza had floated gently down to the second floor landing. Below her, all the way on the first floor, laid the armor set, shattered into pieces. “The Abyss isn’t that interesting.”

She glared up at him and climbed back up to the third floor. “Thanks, jerk,” she grumbled.

“You’re welcome,” he replied with a grin.

A set of grand doors on the eastern side of the landing caught Salem’s attention. The dark wood frames enclosed a pair of dusty stained-glassed windows, each etched with intricate designs. A flash of amber lighting somewhere in the room illuminated a humanoid silhouette, utterly still, staring through the window towards them.

His next breath produced fog from his mouth. For a moment, the background ambiance of the house faded into silence.

“Salem!” called Charmaine, hands hovering over his shoulders. He blinked in her direction, taken aback by the shout.

“What?”

“You…” She faltered, biting her lip. “I’ve said your name five times.”

Even Remy and Riza looked at him curiously. Evidently, the tieflings had continued down the landing in the opposite direction. One of Riza’s hands rested on knob of the westernmost door.

“Sorry,” he said, glancing back to the double doors. Yet he could see no silhouette, or even any hint of amber lighting. “Let’s go.”

They entered into an old but well-furnished bedroom. The threadbare, dusty blankets on the bed lifted slightly away from the mattress, as if something were lying there. As they silently watched, the coverings rose and fell with a slow rhythm.

Remy rolled his eyes and strolled forward. Riza reached forward to stop him, but he threw the blankets off the mattress. Nothing lay beneath them. He put his hands on his hips and scoffed.

“Typical ghost trick,” he explained.

“But why is there so much blood?” Charmaine whispered, gesturing to the stained mattress. Indeed, a deep crimson splotch ruined the otherwise thick feather mattress. Additionally, hand and foot restraints had been nailed to the four posts of the bed frame.

Remy surveyed the scene. “Well, it’s either torture, pregnancy restrains…” He picked up one of the restrains, made from threaded barbed wire. “Or someone had a very interesting sex life.”

“Pregnancy restraints?” Riza snapped, knocking the wire out of his hands. “Dumb ass.”

Salem threw open the double doors on the far wall. “Shit,” he muttered. Beyond the doors was a balcony, strung with cobwebs and otherwise empty of decoration. Yet the balcony did not concern him.

“What in the Hells is that?” Charmaine whispered, moving next to him.

Thick, fleshy tendrils, each stained a different shade of black, surrounded the entirety of the house. They wound so tightly together that not a hint of the outside world, neither the land nor the sky, could be seen. Salem cautiously ventured out onto the balcony’s deck, peering over the railings. The tendrils extended all the way to the ground, completely blocking any possible exits.

“I suspect that we may be facing more than a few ghosts,” Salem said, returning to the room. “This is a deeply elaborate trap. We haven’t seen a sign of any of the victims lured into this house, only the ghosts of the people who lived here. We’re missing something.”

“What time is it?” Riza asked.

“Close to ten. We need to keep moving.”

“Hold on,” said Remy, opening a side door. It creaked open, grinding on its hinges. He winced, then added, “I thought I heard music. That song I played earlier. It… Oh. Well.”

The side room had only one piece of furniture in it: a crib. Blood-red runes splattered the walls, arranged in concentric circles. Lumpy, putrid flesh-like tumors grew around the floor in clusters. Each pulsated with an unnatural rhythm. For a long moment, none of them dared step through or even say anything.

Salem brought out his journal and checked for any signs of remaining magic in the room. He found none, although the runes continued to disturb him. He took the first step through the threshold, taking care to avoid the lumps of flesh.

He summoned one of his magical balls of light, raising it to better inspect the symbols. “Necromancy,” he told the rest of them. “And not the healing kind.”

“Look. The crib says ‘Walter.’” Riza pointed. “Do you think that was the infant’s name?”

“Is its name important?” Remy asked, kicking the lumps of flesh with his boot. “I’m a little more worried about what happened to this kid, if its room looks like this.”

“Are those things alive?” Charmaine whispered, horrified. She turned to Salem, suddenly quite concerned. “Do you think it’s demons? This reminds me of what we saw in the Underdark.”

Salem shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“So,” started Remy, turning around several times to take in all of the details of the nursery and the adjacent bedroom. “Mr. Durst has an affair with the nanny, Klara. She gets pregnant. And then… something really bad happened to the kid.”

“Who drew these runes?” asked Riza. “We haven’t seen any signs that any of the Dursts or Klara knew any magic.”

“This kind of magic tends to be well-hidden,” Salem explained. He ushered them out of the nursery, knowing nothing else could be gleaned from its horrors. When Charmaine refused to look away, he gently shut the door. “Most practitioners of the dark arts don’t do so in public. Especially if the Dursts were an otherwise respected family. Remember, we still don’t know what happened here. Those markings could have been put there before or after they all died.”

“With ghosts, it’s usually the ‘before’ option,” Remy said dryly.

Salem shot the tiefling a glare. He knew that, of course, but he didn’t want Charmaine or Riza jumping to conclusions that would upset them.

“We still haven’t found any obvious ‘gift’ for the beast in the basement,” Riza pointed out. “Should we comb through the floors again? Perhaps we missed it.”

“We haven’t finished exploring this floor,” Salem said.

“What else is there? The bathroom?” Remy scoffed. “A strange beast indeed if it wants something from there.”

Salem led them back out onto the landing and gestured, with some exasperation, to the double doors on the eastern wall—the same doors where he’d spotted the strange silhouette. Yet the other three regarded it as if they’d never seen it before.

“Was that always there?” asked Riza.

Charmaine was the first to reach the doors, but Salem stepped forward and stopped her. “Wait,” he said. “Something’s off about this.”

“Something’s off about this entire house,” Remy deadpanned. “I’m afraid you’ll have to specify.”

“Let me go in first,” he insisted.

Charmaine hesitated. “Are you sure? If you think it’s dangerous…”

“Not dangerous, just…” Yet he didn’t have the words to explain it. He needed to go in first, before everyone else. There was a reason the house pointed this door out to him, why it caught his attention and no one else’s. “Trust me?”

The three shared uneasy glances, before ultimately agreeing.

Salem tugged the door open and slipped into the darkness. A thick layer of dust coated every inch of the abandoned master suite, as if undisturbed for centuries. Burgundy drapes hung over each window. A four-poster bed with embroidered curtains and tattered gossamer veils rested against the center wall. A web-filled parlor in the southwest corner of the room contained two chairs and a table, atop which sat a silver jewelry box. Matching wardrobes flanked the bed. One door led out to a balcony and another led to a small but empty closet.

Nothing caught his attention immediately. There was, dramatically enough, a bloodstained knife lodged into one of the pillows on the bed. Another portrait of the Dursts, faded with age, hung above the fireplace. For good measure, Salem peered out the balcony door and saw the same fleshy tendrils encasing this side of the building—although he expected that.

When he turned around, the jewelry box on the table glowed. Dim amber light leaked through the crack in the lid.

It opened easily. Inside, buried amidst a small mound of grain, sat two objects. The first was a small amber crystal, about the size of Salem’s palm—the source of the light. Even without magically analyzing it, he could sense a strong power emanating from the object. He turned his attention to the second item of interest in the box: a roll of parchment.

He unfurled it and began to read.

“Salem?” called Charmaine. She stuck her head into the room, glancing around for him, before finally spotting him in the parlor. “Is everything alright? Can we come in now?”

Without turning his attention from the parchment, he beckoned them over his shoulder.

While Charmaine and Riza inspected the wardrobes for any valuables or possible gifts, Remy opened the closet door. Then he closed it, then opened it again. He peered at the darkness quizzically, as if expecting something to happen.

“Elisabeth was the name of Mrs. Durst, correct?” Salem asked.

“Yes,” said Riza, glancing over at him. “Why? What did you find?”

Salem lifted the crystal out of the box. The smooth surface felt warm to the touch, vibrating with a subtle energy. He showed it off to the others.

“What is that?” Charmaine asked, leaning closer. “Is it magical?”

“Yes,” said Salem. “I believe this may be the ‘gift’ we were looking for.”

“How do you know?”

He showed them the letter. As each of them finished reading, looks of understanding and resignation crossed their features.

“That lines up with the poem we saw,” Charmaine admitted. “I suppose you must be right.”

“And another thing,” he continued, lifting the amber up horizontally. “Does this remind you of anything?”

Remy squinted at it, then gasped. “The hole in the wall! In the study!”

Salem nodded. “Come on. Let’s see what else the Dursts have been hiding.”