Gothos (Dark Season VI)

  Dark Season VI: Gothos

  by Amy Cross

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright Amy Cross, All Rights Reserved

  Published by Dark Season Books

  This edition first published: January 2012

  http://amycrossbooks.wordpress.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you enjoy it and wish to share it with others, please consider buying them their own copy. Feedback is always welcome. The author reserves all rights in respect of this work.

  Also by Amy Cross

  Dark Season: The Last Vampire

  Dark Season II: Sentinel

  Dark Season III: Army of Wolves

  Dark Season IV: The Civil Dead

  Dark Season V: The Life, Death, Life, Life and Death of Martin Keller

  Love Stories? Erotic Short Stories for Women

  Love Stories? Volume II – Explicit Erotic Short Stories

  At War With the Hamptons

  The Dead and the Dying

  Prologue 1

  I look up just as the night sky breathes fire straight down at me. There's a massive explosion nearby, rocking everything around me and knocking me off my feet. Scrambling about in the mud, I'm almost deafened by the sound of machine guns and further explosions. All around me, men are shouting and screaming, most of them standing by ladders preparing to go over the top. They're going to die. All of them, they're going to die.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” shouts a British soldier, wide-eyed as he helps me get to my feet.

  I open my mouth, but I don't know what to say.

  He grabs me and pulls me over to one side. “Are you a nurse?” he yells over the sound of more explosions. The whole trench shakes again as another explosion lights up the sky. “What's your name?”

  “Sophie!” I shout back. “Sophie Hart! You've got to help me, I shouldn't be here!”

  “Join the club”. He looks puzzled. “Are you American?”

  “Yes!” I shout.

  “What're you doing in France?” he shouts, just as a whistle sounds. He looks over his shoulder for a moment, then back at me. “That's the one-minute signal,” he says. “We're going over the top now. You can't come, but... you can't stay 'ere, they'll destroy you”.

  There's another loud explosion, showering the trench with mud. There's nowhere for us to take cover, so we just hide our faces until the debris has stopped raining down on us. Nearby, there's another whistle.

  “Thirty seconds,” says the soldier.

  “What year is it?” I shout.

  “What?”

  “What year is it?” I shout, louder than before.

  He pauses. “1917,” he says. “Why, are -”

  “Damn!” I shout, interrupting him. 1917. That means there's still another year before the First World War ends. I look along the trench at the soldiers – most of them so young – about to go over the top and meet almost certain death. I look at the soldier I'm standing with. “Don't go!” I shout at him. “You'll die!”

  He gives me a strange look and turns away, but I grab him and pull him back towards me.

  “Help!” I shout. “You've got to get me out of here!”

  The whistle sounds again, and this time it doesn't stop. The other men start climbing up the ladders, shouting as they go, and the sound of gunfire intensifies. The soldier with me turns and runs over to a ladder, turning back for a moment to shout: “You never know!” He climbs the ladder, but before he's even over the top he's cut down by a storm of machine gun fire, his body falling back into the trench. I run over and look at him, but he's clearly dead, with several bullet wounds on his face and down his torso.

  I run along the trench, deafened by the sound of explosions and gunfire. I have to find a way back out of here. There's no way I can stay, I have to get back to save Patrick. I can't die here, ninety years before I was even born. But as I search desperately for the door, I hear a high-pitched whining sound coming closer and closer. Turning, I look up to see something metal and dark flying through the sky, coming straight towards me. A bomb.

  This is it, then. This is how I'm going to die: a bomb in the face. As it reaches me, I turn away and close my eyes tight. There's a flash of light.

  12 hours earlier

  (or 95 years later)

  1.

  Something rustles in the bushes behind me, and I turn quickly. But there's nothing there. I swear, I'm getting more and more paranoid these days. Standing in a forest clearing, with probably not another living creature for miles, I keep thinking I hear something nearby. It's an odd sensation, as if something is walking around close to me, pacing backwards and forwards. There's nothing there, of course, but I've learnt recently not to take things at face value. Although I think I'm alone here in the forest, there's a good chance I'm not.

  I'm waiting by a small door built into an earth-bank. I've been stood here for almost an hour, ever since Patrick indicated that I should follow him and then, equally mysteriously, indicated that I should wait outside while he went through the door. I've no idea what he's doing down there, but I do at least know what used to be behind that door. The one time I went through it, I found myself in an underground dungeon, with an old man chained to the wall. He seemed to know Patrick, though they didn't seem to be very fond of one another.

  What's Patrick doing down there? Damn it, things were easier when Vincent was alive. I could ask him, and he'd – usually – fill me in. But now it's just me and Patrick and, since he never speaks, I'm just having to trust him.

  I hear footsteps from behind the door, and finally Patrick emerges, with an old man next to him. The old man hides his eyes from the sunlight, so I guess he's been down there a while. Patrick just stands there the same as always, not saying anything and with no real expression on his face.

  “What are we doing?” I ask.

  Patrick turns to look at the old man, who's wearing nothing but rags.

  “Told you,” says the old man. “Told you we'd meet again”.

  “You're The Lock,” I say slowly. I've met him before. He was held underground, chained to the wall and kept in total isolation. So why has Patrick seemingly brought him up from the dungeon now? Why does he seem to have decided to free him?

  “You're The Key,” says The Lock, smiling at me and finally adjusting to the daylight. He smiles. “Don't worry,” he says. “I'm half-joking. What's your real name?”

  “Sophie,” I say. “Sophie Hart”.

  He looks around the clearing. “Where's the other one?”

  Patrick looks at me, and I look at him before turning to The Lock. “Vincent?” I ask. “He... he's not here. He's dead”.

  The Lock looks genuinely shocked, but not particularly upset. In fact, the faintest of smiles seems to be creeping across his face. “Dead?” he asks. He turns to Patrick. “You didn't tell me your little boy was dead. You should try talking once in a while. It's only polite”.

  Patrick, not looking particularly amused, starts walking away.

  “I think we're supposed to follow him,” says The Lock, looking at me. “But I don't feel any particular desire to go where he's going, so why don't we go into town? I haven't been to town for so many years. Has it changed much?”

  Patrick stops, turns and walks back to The Lock, staring him down.

  “Just say please,” says The Lock, “and I'll consider coming with you”.

  Patrick reaches out, grabs The Lock by the neck, pulls him closer and bares his teeth, showing his two large vampire fangs. He lets out a little hiss, and The Lock recoils before Patrick lets go of his neck, turns and starts walking again.

  “Come on,” says The Lock. “I don't think we have much choice”. He starts walking after Patr
ick, so I follow them too.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Hasn't he told you?” asks The Lock, grinning. “I suppose not. Old Patrick isn't very talkative, is he? Not any more”.

  “Patrick, where are we going?” I call out to Patrick, who's already a few paces in front of us. At this rate, both The Lock and I are going to struggle to keep up.

  “How rude,” says The Lock. “Pretty young girl like you, and he ignores you”.

  “He doesn't ignore me,” I say, a little annoyed. Then I soften my tone. “Where are we going?” I ask for the third time.

  “Did Vincent ever tell you about Gothos?” asks The Lock.

  “He mentioned it,” I say. “But only in passing. It's a place, isn't it?”

  “You'll see,” says The Lock as we arrive at another door.

  “Where did all these doors come from?” I ask.

  Patrick turns the handle and pulls the door open, revealing stone steps leading down into the darkness.

  “Are we going down there?” I turn to Patrick, then to The Lock.

  “She's a human, Patrick,” says The Lock sternly. “You know what it means if you take a human to Gothos”.

  Patrick glance at me, then heads through the door and starts walking down the steps.

  “Are you sure about this?” asks The Lock.

  I shake my head.

  “Come on,” he says, almost seeming friendly for a moment. “They're waiting for us”.

  “Who?” I wait for him to answer. “Who's waiting for us? Why are we going to this place?”

  “We've been invited for dinner,” says The Lock. “I'm sure they're waiting for us”.

  I think about this for a moment. “They know we're coming?”

  The Lock smiles. “They have spies everywhere,” he says. “And scouts, watching over us. Haven't you ever felt like there was someone behind you in the forest?”

  We walk on. I glance over my shoulder. Behind us, I can see only the green expanse of forest. But to be honest, I've often felt like I'm being watched out here, and in town too, as if there are ghosts on all the roads. I used to dismiss the feeling as paranoia. But now I'm not so sure.

  2.

  According to mother, I'm an ungrateful, obnoxious, foul-mouthed, idiotic little bastard who has no understanding of the world in which I live. Shows what she knows. After all, mother is hardly a paragon of virtue. She spends all day misshavershambling from room to room in that pathetic old gown like some kind of demented toad, slinking to the windows to look out over the gardens, a gin and tonic clasped delicately in her wiry old hands. There's nothing in her demeanour or gait that implies she is a person who is even remotely qualified to pass judgement upon others. Quite where she gets her ideas from, I have no idea.

  So: no, to answer your question, I do not plan on spending eternity trapped in this monstrous decaying old mansion with my old goat of a mother. No, I plan to explore the world, to sail to Manchuria and then perhaps head to India to help defend the empire. These are the things that a man should be doing in this day and age, not skulking about Gothos like some kind of ghost. And yet, sometimes I sit at this huge dining table when there's no-one else about, and I wonder quite what the rest of the world must be like. I would so dearly like to meet someone from outside, but they never seem to arrive. There is talk, of course, and the servants are perpetually ready for visitors. Yet here we are, alone again.

  I would have gone completely mad without the help of Diana. She keeps the house in order, calms mother's moods and generally makes sure that the place is civil. It is astonishing to think of how long Diana has been the head housekeeper at Gothos: certainly longer than I can comprehend. Yet she maintains the utmost level of style and grace, as if she understands perfectly that Gothos requires her service, now more than ever. Without Diana I think this entire house would fall apart.

  “They are coming,” Diana said to me the other night. As usual, she was loitering by the back door, watching the lights in the garden. She knows more about the lights than she admits, even if I don't think she really understands them fully.

  “You say that,” I replied. “But night after night, they are supposedly coming yet they don't arrive. We seem to be stuck in perpetual preparation for a party, yet the party never starts”.

  “It will,” Diana said, keeping her eyes fixed on the lights. “When they get here”.

  “And who are they, exactly?” I asked, becoming somewhat impatient. “Why are they so special?”

  “You will see,” Diana replied, in her usual enigmatic way.

  I stared at the lights: three of them, floating at the bottom of the garden.

  “They're getting bigger again,” I said after a while. “Have they eaten any more servants recently?”

  “Not recently,” said Diana. “But I expect they will be getting hungry again soon”.

  “Are you going to feed them?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said. “It is my job”. She turned to me and gave me a smile, or at least her best attempt at a smile. “Are you volunteering?”

  “To feed them?” I asked. “Or to be eaten by them?”

  Diana said nothing, and merely returned to watching the lights.

  Now I'm at the window alone, and the lights are still there. What do they want? And why does Diana seem to want to help them? I have seen servant girl after servant girl go down to feed them, never to return. They are all ghosts, of course, but there is still something ghoulish about the whole situation. I dread the day when we run out of servant girls and Diana has to start finding someone else to send to the bottom of the garden. She fears the lights, and she doesn't even know what they are. I know their nature, and the thought of them coming into the house terrifies me. At least, it terrifies me until I decide that the time is right.

  Something feels different tonight, though. The servants are working with an extra pace that I haven't seen in a long time, not since... Well, not since the last time we had actual visitors who actually turned up. So is the time finally upon us? Mother and Diana have spoken for so long about the night when 'he' will return to Gothos, and about the people he will bring with him. It almost seemed to become a myth or a fairytale, but I can't help wondering if it might be about to come true. If it is, then God help us all, because it is hard to imagine a more dangerous endeavour than to be part of a fairytale at Gothos.

  3.

  Gothos is everything I'd expected and more. A crumbling old mansion that looks as thought it was abandoned in a hurry many years ago, its many windows reflect the low evening light as we walk up the stone steps leading to the main entrance. All around us, grass lawns stretch into the distance, eventually meeting thick green forests that line the horizon in every direction. It's as if we're a million miles from Dedston, in a far-off country, or in a dream. I almost have to pinch myself to make sure that this is real.

  When we reach the door, Patrick pushes it and finds that it's locked. Without hesitating, he steps back and shoulder-barges it open, and the three of us – Patrick, The Lock and I – step into the huge entry hallway, which is dominated by a large winding staircase coming down from the upper floor.

  “Amazing,” says The Lock, looking around the room. “It hasn't changed at all, not since the -” He makes eye contact with me. “Not since the last time we were here”. He smiles. “It's as if the whole place has been frozen in time”.

  As we step forwards, I realise we're walking on broken glass, shards of which are covering the marble floor. In fact, looking closer, it's clear that the whole place seems to have suffered some heavy damage. The bannisters on the stairs, for example, have been hacked away in place, and when I look back at the windows I realise that many of them are broken. There's soil and bits of broken wood on the floor and, looking up, I see a hole has been smashed in the roof high above the entrance hallway.

  “What happened here?” I ask.

  The Lock laughs. “You've got to expect a bit of damage,” he says, “if you
have a whole war in a house”.

  I want to ask what he means, but I'm not sure where to start so instead I walk over to a doorway and look into the next room, which turns out to be a banquet hall. There's a long table, parts of which appear to have been smashed to pieces, and a chandelier has crashed down at the far end of the room. It looks like there has been a huge battle in here, with cracks and damage evident all over the walls. It's as if there has been some terrible act of violence in this place.

  “Come on,” says The Lock.

  I turn to see that he and Patrick have started to walk up the stairs. Slowly, I turn and follow them, and soon we're up on the first floor and we're walking along a corridor. There are doors off to either side, all of them closed. Again, it looks as if there has been some serious damage done here, with plaster having been knocked off parts of the building's interior. There's even what looks like blood smeared on one part of the wall.

  We stop at a door.

  “I suppose this is your room,” says The Lock, looking at me.

  “I have a room?”

  The Lock nods. “You'll need to get ready for dinner,” he says. “There should be some clothes in the wardrobe”. He looks me up and down, apparently not too impressed by my jeans and shirt. “It might be best to make a little effort tonight, try to fit in”.

  “Fit in?” I ask. “Fit in with what?” I look at Patrick. “What's happening here? I thought...” I look back along the empty corridor. “I thought there'd be someone here”.

  “Go into your room,” says The Lock. “Get ready for dinner. At sundown, everything will be ready”.

  There's a click. I look over to see Patrick disappearing into another room, pushing the door shut behind him. I turn to The Lock, who smiles and goes to another door, pushing it open, going inside and closing it. Now I'm standing in the corridor outside 'my room', and I'm alone. I have half a mind to go exploring, but something tells me I'm at a disadvantage here. There must be something in this house, or why did we bother coming here?