The Gathering Dark

01

Hell no, there's no way I'm taking another step for this crazy project!

I silently cursed my publisher as I gazed at the old mansion, looming like a sinister ghost, its dark windows staring back at me.

Built in the early nineteenth century, the Elburke mansion's Victorian towers cast long shadows on the sprawling grounds, dominating this deserted section of town on the outskirts of Osaka City.

'Look, this is the perfect opportunity of a lifetime for you. You can't let this pass!'  I cynically recalled Sam's words, my esteemed publisher. 

Granted, I'm a paranormal writer with a very weird specialty—but seriously, this house gives me the creeps!

"You mean, Sam, that you can't let this pass," I said aloud with a grimace.

The mansion seemed to whisper and groan as the cold, autumn wind circled under its eaves, tossing and swirling dead leaves and brush in mid-air with an invisible hand.

"That's it, I'm out of here!"

I turned around, tracing my steps on the cobbled path back to the wrought iron gates, where I had parked my car.

A loud creeeeekkk! of a door opening behind froze me on my tracks.

"Miss Jessica Jennings?"

I spun around to the source of the voice.

At the top of the stone steps, dwarfed by the oversized double doors, stood an elderly man in a black and white butler's uniform.

"Oh! Hello!" I wave uncertainly, feeling embarrassed to be caught sneaking out of the grounds. 

"My apologies, young miss."  The old man gave a slight bow. "I did not see you right away. Please, do come in."

With an inward sigh of resignation, I trudged back towards the wide stone stairs, resolving to finish this task as soon as possible.

The assignment involved an interview with Claude Elburke, a renowned piano composer notorious for his extremely reclusive nature.

The catch: Claude has been dead for well over a hundred years.

* * * * * * * *

Ever since I can remember, I have this gift—or curse--to see the souls of those who have yet to cross to the other side. Most of these souls lose their conscious thought and self-awareness as time passes. Pretty harmless, these wraiths flit by silently, hovering just around the corner of my eye.

However, there are a select few that retain their human characteristics, even their memories of when they were alive. There are a variety of reasons why the unliving—which I call these special souls—choose to linger in the mortal world.

Claude Elburke was one of these souls.

If not for the mysterious benefactor that had paid a jaw-dropping price to my publishing company for Claude's interview, along with Sam's endless pestering, I would've said no straightaway.

Why, you ask?

Several curious psychics and paranormal investigators have visited the house since the turn of the twentieth century, claiming to have seen the elusive Claude. But there's more. They claimed the place was teeming with wraiths and the sinister dead. Not even the very bravest were able to stay for more than an hour.

"You've interviewed several of these ghosts before. Some of them even moved on after telling their story. Why is this any different?"  Sam argued.

"Yes they've moved on, while I've become the clown of the paranormal world." I retorted dryly. "Who wants to read their mundane stories except their families?"

"This is different.  I can feel it in my bones."

I rolled my eyes at him. The only consolation I have being that he never gave up on me, his ever-so-unique protégé. At twenty-three and barely out of college, who would take a young journalist seriously?  But Sam did and I was grateful for that.

As I reach the top of the steps, the old man inclined his head. "Please call me Arthur."

I shook his offered hand. "Nice to meet you, Arthur."

"Pardon the dim lights, Miss Jennings." The butler said apologetically as he led me into the mansion's entrance hall. "The master isn't particularly fond of bright lights."

The master—does he mean--Claude?  I looked sideways at him. Did this place along with its ghosts unhinged the poor man?

From my research on the mansion's history, Mr. Arthur James was the sole occupant and caretaker of the estate, his wife having passed some twenty years ago. The James family had served the Elburkes faithfully since the early eighteen hundreds. Sadly, the Elburke line ended with Alastair, Claude's younger brother, who died without an heir, and the mansion was bequeathed to Arthur's grandfather.

Long shadows dominated the large receiving hall. I could make out an enormous crystal chandelier hanging from the high vaulted ceiling above, floor rugs faded with age, and furnitures covered in white linen. A pair of winding staircases led to the second floor.

Arthur guided me along a hallway lit with bronze sconces. Aside from the few, harmless wraiths I passed, everything seemed normal in my eyes.

At last he stopped in front of tall double doors, its panels carved with fleur-de-lis patterns, and knocked twice on the mahogany wood.

Is he expecting someone to answer?  I glanced at the butler quizzically.

"Enter!"

I jumped at the man's muffled voice from within, stifling a squeak of surprise!

Arthur opened the door and waved me in.  Heart pounding, I looked around the dark, spacious room, bathed in moonlight.

A black, grand piano stood before the tall bay windows. The walls of the room were painted in a burnished red color with gold-embossed lilies. Paneled bookshelves flanked the opposite wall behind crimson couches and lounge chairs.

But the owner of the voice was nowhere to be found.

This is the infamous Red Drawing Room, where Claude Elburke was said to have died from unknown causes, at the age of twenty-five.

The butler bowed at a shadowy corner by the bookshelves, directing my attention there. 

"Master, you have a guest. May I present Miss Jessica Jennings."

The shadows seemed to shift, gathering together until a dark form materializes before my sight. Not daring to breathe, the moonlight spilling from the windows fall on the figure and I gasp!

Holding a book as if he had just pulled it out from the shelf, Claude stood there not ten feet away, looking more real than the faded photographs in the city's history books.