Chapter Text
The Burgess’ Blackwood Manor, Sussex.
24th September 1968
5:42 pm
Rain battered against the grimy bedroom window, the silvery autumn light streaming in softly and illuminating the damp plaster. The smell of cooling Earl Grey and flickering lavender candles swept around the room as if in an embrace. There was the faint noise of creaking floorboards, a distant roll of thunder.
You sat at your desk with your hair pulled back, slotting fresh paper into the rusty typewriter. You set the margins and pulled the carriage to the right, taking great care not to knock over the assemblages of half-empty teacups or stacks of musty books. As careful as you were, the edge of your sleeve trailed through a crumbling stalk of willow charcoal, leaving a black smudge. Grimacing, you scrubbed it impatiently against your pants before turning back to your papers.
You were close to something good – you could feel it.
It seemed like you’d been writing since before you could walk and reading since before you could even breathe. You had fond memories of growing up snuggled on your father’s lap as he read you Tolkien, Hemingway, and Bradbury. Even fonder so were the memories of visiting the library at your Uncle Paul and his husband Alex Burgess’s manor. You’d stared up at the imposing mahogany shelves for hours, trailing your fingers along thousands of cracked spines, and getting lost within the infinite folds of humanity’s dreams.
Of course, the sudden death of your parents last month had been devastating – you barely ate or slept for weeks. But it was made the slightest bit easier when Uncle Paul offered to take you in one week ago.
After spending the first five days tangled in bedsheets and tearstains, you’d finally ventured out into the library. It was not entirely as you remembered. Though the Turkish rugs, claw-foot armchairs, and ornate bookshelves were certainly luxurious, they were now coated in dirt and dust, decomposing under the thick mire of neglect.
You mourned the beauty you’d witnessed during your childhood, but it was of little concern really. Grabbing the first book you saw – ‘Metamorphosis of the Gods: An Occult History of Anthropomorphic Entities’, you’d been swept away by the hot sands of Osiris, the rolling thunderclouds of Zeus, and the suffocating darkness of Kali. You’d felt truly at peace in those pages for the first time since your parents passed.
It had been difficult, but today you finally felt ‘okay’ enough to write again and bring your vivid daydreams to life. Smiling softly, you placed your fingers on the delicate keys and began to type. You weren’t sure if it was your parent's death, the lingering ghosts of the Second Great War, or something else, but lately, your head had been filled with the strangest dreams.
As a child, you had written solely about exciting adventures to distant lands filled with wild mountains and ancient castles. Recently though, your writing had grown darker, twisting into disturbing, macabre parodies of what they once were.
Flashes of images flitted through your mind: men snapping their ribcages open and unfolding them like the petals of an iris, a couple making love with angry pustules erupting all over their skin, the preserved specimen of an aborted foetus grinning from within its jar. They were wildly unsettling; it was almost as if you had forgotten how to dream up beautiful stories. And yet, something about them excited you beyond reason.
However, when you were only a few sentences in, a sudden knock at the door resounded through the room.
“Dear? Are you in there?” Uncle Paul’s tentative voice was muffled by the thick wood.
“Uncle Paul!” The affection in your voice was unmistakable. Scrambling out of the chair, you almost tripped over your socks in your haste to open the door, where Uncle Paul leant against the ornate frame.
Recently turned sixty-two, his hair was now heavily peppered with silver, and his face was beginning to sag and crease with slight wrinkles. However, age had not yet marred his compassion and gentle demeanour.
Since your arrival, Uncle Paul had given you the space you’d needed to grieve and settle in. Not once had he pushed you to leave your room and eat with him and Alex, or take a turn in the gardens, or help around the manor. He’d been so patient, and you couldn’t be more thankful.
“How are you feeling dear?” He asked, his voice as warm and sweet as melted taffy.
“Honestly,” you began, tugging on the stained ends of your sweater as a small smile crept onto your face, “I feel better than I have in weeks.” You looked up at his shining eyes. “I think that… Would it be okay if I sat with you and Alex for dinner?”
Uncle Paul pulled you in for a gentle hug and stroked your soft hair with a calloused hand. You could feel the tension leave his body as he sighed quietly. “We would like nothing more.” He released you and took a single step back. “I’m sure Alex would love to see you properly.”
You followed him down the halls to the dining room, eyes finally catching on all the oddities you had been too young to understand in your childhood and too morose to notice in the last week. Stone gargoyles with faces twisted into scowls perched on columns, framed sketches of faerie dissections gathered dust on cabinets, and star charts marking out multiple universes grew faded on the walls.
Of course, you’d always known that Alex’s father Roderick Burgess had been an eccentric – after one too many drinks, your father had often yelled loudly at Uncle Paul about ‘those bloody Burgesses – damn Satanists is what they are!’. But you weren’t prepared for just how strange the manor truly was. Passing by a huge iron cauldron painted in strange symbols (was that a Monas Heiroglyphica sigil you saw?) you bit your lip and tried to contain the curiosity bubbling up within you. The entire house was like something out of one of your stories.
‘I’ll just explore after dinner,’ you decided resolutely. The whole manor was an inspiration in and of itself. And that was fine - until you passed a heavy, ornate door hidden in the back corner of a hallway.
Something about it made you stop in your tracks as Uncle Paul wandered on, mindlessly chatting about which of his plants should be flowering soon. The door itself was largely unremarkable, save for the strange, heavy steel reinforcements lining the frame. “Must be something special in there if it needs all that to keep people out,” you muttered and stepped closer almost mindlessly. Then you felt it, and it just about knocked the breath out of you.
It was an intense throbbing, a vibration that swamped your entire being and alighted inside your very bones like a cancer. It was consuming, incinerating, overwhelming; it was something primal, it was power. You gasped and stumbled back, startled, but the drone continued to resonate through you.
Something old and deep inside of you screamed at you to run - your hands shook like withered leaves in an autumn gale, and your heart pounded frantically within your ribs – but your feet felt rooted to the dusty carpet. Something was holding you in front of that door, coaxing and pulling you towards it. ‘Yes,’ it seemed to hiss, ‘Come closer, closer, closer…’
A strong hand grabbed your shoulder, yanking you roughly away from the door. You spun around to meet Uncle Paul, your mouth dangling open stupidly as you gasped for breath. His calloused fingers dug sharply into your shoulders as he gripped you tightly. A darkness settled over his face as he pulled you towards him, terror flittering across his features.
“That door… Dear, you must promise me you will never go in there.” Uncle Paul’s voice was like London smog as it wrapped around you, thick and suffocating with its fear.
You struggled to reply, still reeling from the overwhelming sensation and Uncle Paul’s seriousness. ‘What was that?’ you thought desperately, ‘What is behind that door?!’ You suddenly remembered the rumours you had heard back in the city - that crazy old Roderick Burgess was a sorcerer who had locked the devil up in his basement. You’d always written them off as silly gossip, but that feeling… that power… ‘Is the bloody devil really underneath this house?!’ You wanted to vomit all over the mouldering carpet.
Uncle Paul pulled you out of your reverie, gripping you like an iron manacle and shaking your shoulders wildly to punctuate his words. “Promise me!”
‘What the bloody hell is happening?!’ You thought. ‘What could he possibly be so scared about, if not the devil himself?’ Rattled to your very core, your thoughts flew wildly around your head. You looked back at the steel panels lining the edges of the door, and one particularly terrifying thought came unbidden into your mind. What if that door wasn’t to keep people out; what if it was to keep something – or someone – in…?
“Uncle Paul, what on earth…?!” You started frantically, but Uncle Paul’s eyes bored into you, pleading you to just agree and drop it forever.
“I… I promise I won’t go in there,” you choked out weakly.
Your uncle’s features softened. He released your shoulders before lovingly smoothing down the bunched fabric of your sweater and ushering you back down the hallway.
“I’m sorry dear, I don’t mean to frighten you,” he began, wearily running a trembling hand down his face. “It’s just this house… some things are better left alone.”
You nodded dumbly and walked in a viscous silence for the remainder of the journey to the dining room. Sneaking a look at Uncle Paul out the corner of your eye, you felt a twinge of regret. He was obviously frightened and seemed to simply want to keep you safe. You wanted to reassure him that you weren’t going to spare a second thought about the door and that you understood it was off-limits. But you couldn’t lie to him.
Whatever that was – science, magic, or the devil himself - it was like nothing you had ever felt before. And as you remembered that thrum of power a shiver passed over you, but it was not in fear. No, you realised. It was a shiver of anticipation – a promise that you would find out exactly what was behind that door, no matter the cost.
“Darling!” Uncle Paul’s gentle voice rang through the dining room as you walked in. Alex Burgess looked up from the ebony dining table and did his best to give you a tired smile.
Time had not been as kind to him as it had been to Uncle Paul. A walker rested against the table, dark circles marred the spotted, thin skin under his eyes, and his hands had not stopped shaking since you walked in. It seemed as if he had some invisible weight perpetually pushing him down into the very floorboards.
Of course, you knew that after Roderick Burgess died Alex became the master of the estate. It had not been easy on him. His reputation had been scarred by rumours that he and his family were insane madmen, and their finances had come crumbling down soon after. All that was left now were stories of a crazed old man, an overgrown garden, and the echoes of luxury.
‘And a secret in their basement,’ you reminded yourself eagerly. You had to know what was in that room and soon, otherwise, you were sure the curiosity would kill you.
Uncle Paul crossed the room and took his lover gently into his arms, cradling his head to his chest. “My dear niece has decided she’d like to have dinner with us tonight if that’s alright?” His hands swept over Alex’s frail body tenderly, checking to see if he was well enough for company. Alex reached up and grabbed Uncle Paul’s hands, intertwining his fingers with his own.
“Of course!” He turned his weary smile on you and reached out with his other hand. Smiling, you took it in your own and gave it one gentle squeeze. You could tell now that he truly was not in the best health – he was trembling slightly, and the skin of his palm felt as thin as the quivering wings of a butterfly. You eyed the walker resting against the table; it certainly would not be long until he was wheelchair-bound.
“Uncle Alex, thank you so much for allowing me to stay with you. I’m sorry I’ve been so reclusive this past week…” You squirmed uncomfortably and looked away in embarrassment. The man had opened his house to you when you had nothing, and your manners really hadn’t been that great.
But Alex just tutted, cutting you off with a wave of his hand. “Please do not apologise, dear, you take all the time you need to grieve. And in terms of allowing you to stay, you’re actually doing Paul and I a favour!” He chortled warmly. “This bloody house has been dark and dreary for decades; it will be so nice to have someone with your youthful joy and energy around!”
‘Why is it so dark in this house? What have you got hidden behind that door?’ you ached to ask the old man, but instead, you just laughed along with him. “Alright Uncle Alex, if it makes you happy, I’ll do my very best to liven this place up!”
‘Although I wouldn’t place too much faith in me,’ you thought. Your mind turned back to the half-started piece sitting in your typewriter – rotting pomegranates and corvids and roadkill – before you shook the images out of your head and sat down for tea.
After a somewhat-mediocre meal of mashed potatoes, steamed greens, and boiled chicken followed by a chocolate pudding for dessert, Alex began to yawn sleepily, slouching low in his chair. Noticing, Uncle Paul reached over and grabbed Alex’s walker.
“I think it’s time we head to bed, dear,” he said and helped his husband into the contraption. Your heart leapt at that – finally, a chance to explore by yourself! “Thank you for tonight sweetheart; we’re both glad you’re feeling better.” Leaning over, he gave you a quick squeeze with one sinewy arm and placed a scratchy kiss on your cheek. “We’ll see you tomorrow; don’t stay up too late.”
You smiled at your uncle, biting the inside of your cheek, praying that your curious excitement wasn’t palpable. “Good night, Uncle Paul. Thank you for dinner!”
As they turned and disappeared down the hallway, a mischievous grin slowly crawled onto your face. You waited, buzzing in the limp light of the dining room for a few minutes until you heard the soft ‘click’ of your uncles’ bedroom door closing. Perfect.
You crept back down the hallway with slow, deliberate movements, your heart beating violently in a strange mix of dread, apprehension, and exhilaration. “Uncle Paul and Alex Burgess are sound asleep in bed,” you whispered to yourself, exhaling slowly in a bid to calm your nerves. “There’s no way they’d ever know!” Though you walked ever so carefully, trying not to wake any creaking floorboards, you were still breathless when you finally reached that hall.
You felt it seconds later.
That slow thrum reverberated through your every atom. It reached into your heart, your corneas, your teeth; at the same time tearing you apart and putting you back together in the most delicious, frightening way. The rest of the world slipped away like dandelions on the wind until the door was the only thing left, drawing you unrelentingly into its orbit like a black hole.
Suddenly, you tasted the tang of iron and salt on your tongue – you had bitten straight through the plump flesh of your lip - and the sting of pain forced you from your reverie.
“Jesus, get a grip on yourself,” you muttered. Frustrated, you smacked your cold hands against your cheeks and steeled yourself with a shaky breath. “It’s just a door, what could possibly be behind it?” You tried to ignore the images that flashed behind your eyes - sizzling, burning flesh, a goat with bat-like wings and curling black horns, and screams upon screams.
"Roderick Burgess has the devil locked up in his basement," a small voice whispered chilling.
‘Devil or not,’ you decided, ‘some things just need answers.’ You turned the brass doorknob and pushed.
As the door swung open, the feeling grew stronger – was that even possible?! - and you prayed to God that you wouldn’t pass out. The room was unbelievably dark but as your eyes adjusted to the lack of light, you realised that it wasn’t a room. Instead, a long, stone staircase greeted you, winding down into the shadowy belly of the manor.
Despite the fear, you practically vibrated with excitement and exhilaration. A forbidden door, a secret staircase, whispers of the devil – it was already better than one of your stories! As you descended into the depths, the cold of the stones seeped through your socks and sent a chill through your bloodstream.
You were so caught up in the fun and illicitness of it all that you almost didn’t hear the soft sounds of muffled chatter drifting up from below. Strange - you had thought that all the cooks, maids and gardeners had been let go years ago, so who could possibly be chatting down here?
You strained to hear their voices and were able to make out snatches of their conservation, torn like the remaining fragments of a dream.
“… freaky, really, the way he just…”
“… don’t even know why we’re here… doesn’t do anything anyway…”
‘Who on earth are these people?’ you wondered. ‘What could they possibly be talking about?’. Was it about Alex Burgess? He certainly had a very strange air about him, and you had to admit that the rumours were spine-chilling, but to call him ‘freaky’ didn’t seem quite right. It had to be about something else.
Roderick Burgess has the devil locked up in his basement.
Deciding that you had come too far to turn back now, you continued creeping slowly down the stairs. Soon, they wound around the wall and the flight opened up into a large, cavernous room. Of course, you’d find something like this in the Burgess manor.
Flickering candles lined the stone walls, casting shadows that seemed to take on lives of their own - ominous and dreadful. Ebony wood altars gathered dust along the edges, and the stone walls were marred by deep gouges - a few were flecked with a liquid that was suspiciously dark and congealed - and in the centre was the strangest thing.
A huge glass globe hung suspended from the ceiling. Ornate metal fixtures snaked around the panels and what you knew to be a summoning circle was carefully laid out underneath it. Inside, there was a… You frowned and squinted. There was a lump of something. Contorted and pale, your best guess was that it was some kind of sculpture? You couldn’t quite tell, but the entire structure was like nothing you had ever experienced.
You gulped and peered further around the corner. It was then that you finally saw who had been talking. At a table tucked away in the corner, two people wearing some type of guard uniform lounged around on metal chairs and snacked on sandwiches and sunflower seeds.
Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. ‘Why would Alex need guards down here? It’s just an empty room save for a huge fishbowl?’
Roderick Burgess has the devil locked up in his basement.
Craning your neck, you watched as one of the guards popped a seed into his mouth before turning to his buddy. “Wish it’d do something,” he sighed. “It’s like watching fucking paint dry, sitting here.”
The second guard chuckled, though it was edged with anxiety. “I get a feeling we’re better off when it's not doing anything, Brian. Thing’s creepy enough as it is.”
Were they talking about whatever was in that globe? You slowly lowered yourself down a few more stairs and squinted, trying to make out what was in there, but you still couldn’t quite comprehend it.
Roderick Burgess has the devil locked up in his basement.
Brian the guard scoffed. “You’re kidding mate? We get paid jack shit to sit here all night and stare at a statue! It’s fucking boring and bloody ridiculous!” Rising to his feet, Brian sauntered over to the globe with a sandwich dangling from his hand. “Hey!” He called in a deep, mean voice.
“Brian! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” The second guard hissed, though he made no attempt to chase after his friend. You watched a muscle in his jaw jumped repeatedly and his knuckles turn white as he gripped the arms of the chair. His fear was palpable, and it began to dawn on you that there was no way whatever was in the globe was merely a sculpture.
Roderick Burgess has the devil locked up in his basement.
Brian just scoffed and sauntered over to the globe, his gun dangling from his holster. “Hey!” He called. “Hey, you! Bet you wish you could take a bite of this, huh?” The guard then took a nauseating bite of his sandwich, shovelling almost the entire thing into his maw and chewing obscenely. “Can’t imagine not being able to eat for 50 years -”
50 years?! What?! Your breath caught in your oesophagus.
“- much less going 50 years without a fucking wank!” Brian’s guffawing laugh echoed around the chamber, chewed bits of his sandwich splattering all over the glass. “Or does the plumbing not work down there, mate? Wouldn’t be surprised, twenty years I’ve been watching your scrawny ass and I’ve never seen you with a woody! Bet the ladies fucking love that, and the lads too!” He continued, spewing indecencies like vomit.
So caught up in his tirade, Brian didn’t notice as what you had originally thought to be a strange sculpture began to unfold from its curled position on the floor of the globe. He didn’t notice as it stood to its full height, its body a lithe, alabaster mass humming with strength and power. He didn't notice as two ice blue eyes, piercing and powerful, glared at him from beneath a shock of raven hair.
And he certainly didn't notice you, still hiding on the staircase, clasp a hand over your mouth to stifle a scream.
Oh my god. Roderick Burgess has the devil locked up in his basement.