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Posted by PostMortemCreamPi on: 07:31 PM, 03/22/20
20, April, 1869
     I returned to the manor today, late in the evening hours. To the place my parent had been caretakers for most of my childhood. Up until the estate ran dry, they took care of the empty and disheveled manor the best they could. Despite my father alcoholism, and my mothers “sickness”. Although I buried them decades ago, I never buried the feelings of guilt and animosity towards them.
     But that was about to change, I was going to spend one last night among the damned. I knew that if I simply spent a night there then all my feelings would come to a close, and I could continue my own life. So I went alone, only a small oil lamp to guide me through those decrepit halls. But I knew I had to go late, and leave before the morning hours as best not to worry the villagers.
    Since as long as I could remember they had always feared and dreaded the manor. As it looked above the small village, enshadowing it with its own silent sense of dread. It didn’t help that my father the last person to care for it, had let it fall into a state of disrepair as he drowned in ever bottle of booze he could gather.
   When I had entered the estate, memories flooded back, lingering in the cobwebs that gathered. A layer of filth that could not be seen by the human eye, but could be felt by those who witnessed the countless beatings, that had taken place in its halls. It seemed at times the echoes of those beatings could still be heard.
    The light of the oil lantern seemed to warm those cold halls. The only warmth they had seen in many, many years. The amber glow let shadows dance and the mind wonder, as bottles and stains lingered. The only reminders of my parents besides their graves in the small graveyard behind the manor. Where many of it’s previous residents now resided.
  As I wondered through the old servants quarters the echoes of my past seemed to grow louder. The sounds of hard flesh hitting against soft flesh. The breaking of bottles tossed against the wall. The drunken grunts of my father as he did what he pleased.
   It wasn’t until I had turned into the hall where my parents room had been did I notice. The sounds I thought mearly an echo, had been all to real. The source being the room my parents had shared, that is when my father had not been passed out at the table.
   The door had been left ajar and there was the faint glow of a candle from the other end. So I crept quietly to the door frame, to peer inside. I was aghast when I saw the lumbering figure. It stood hunched near the bed, opening itself and slotting in bones and organs. Mashing flesh into places flesh was never meant to go. Sewing itself back together. The figure was that of a man and a woman fused together at the hips.
   It crawled with six limbs as the woman figure was bent in an unnatural way. Back broken and crooked to allow its hands to form the front appendages, while it’s legs had been popped from their sockets. Dangling while splayed out and no longer working.
    I ran from that house, I ran and never looked back. I could only see the figure as what it had once been. The husks of my parents.