The Dark Somnium - There Is Something in The Secret Room in My House

Episode Date: September 9, 2024

This story was written by Rene Rehn Learn more at www.rehnwriter.com Check out Rehn's book: https://www.amazon.co.uk/New-Haven-Ren%C3%83%C2%A9-Rehn-ebook/dp/B0CT42G2TV?ref_=ast_author_dp Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

I first heard of the hidden portrait of Sir Isaac Whitmore during my earlier years. At the time, I was living at our ancestral family home in Dustwall Manor, located in the tender Welsh countryside. It was my grandfather, my only living relative who related the story to me. Not much is known about our family's fame progenitor, but, supposedly, deep within Dustwall manner, a room exists, the study of Sir Isaac Whitmore, and in it hangs the sole existing portrait of the man. I never learned of the authenticity of this story, this rumor, for I was never allowed to roam the seamlessly endless halls of Dustwall Manor unsupervised.

Too big was the chance for a young child to get lost in its winding, labyrinthian hallways. My grandfather was a studious man, a scholar, but also a hermit. who chose to spend his remaining years at Dustwall Manor. After my mother's death and childbirth, he'd taken my upbringing and early education upon himself. He instructed me on such subjects as history, mythology, and philosophy, but also hinted at other, more secretive studies he partook in. Yet he had also shared many a tale relating to our family, and of course the story of Sir Isaac's portrait.

Once I was of suitable age, he sent me off to the Grand City of London, where I first attended a prestigious boarding school and eventually the King's College London, all paid for by our family's lavish fortune. My first field of choice was that of history, an interest brought forth by my grandfather's many tales. After only a few semesters, however, I moved on to the study of contemporary politics, driven by an ever-growing, almost unconscious need to understand the workings of our most. modern world. While I analyzed the workings of the world at large, I grew more and more interested

in the smaller picture of my very own family line. As a pastime, a hobby, really, I set out to complete a family tree of the Whitmore line, something no one had ever attempted, at least if I were to trust my grandfather's words. This endeavor of mine, however, seemed to be doomed from its outset, and even after I'd consulted the vast archives of London, I was only able to put together a rough patchwork of unrelated names and lost relatives. As I'd learned from my grandfather, the Whitmore family was a secluded one, always has been, and many of its members had preferred to hide away from the world and spend their entire existence deep within the secure walls of Dustwall Manor. Even those who'd ventured forth into the world, driven by their own ambition

or in search of adventure, would ultimately, and without fail, return to the manner. It should be the same for me. Upon graduation, I took up a position as a teaching assistant, but my heart never belonged to the Grand Capital. Instead, I longed to return to the ancient walls of Dustwall Manor. With each passing year, I felt less at home in London. It was a loud, dirty, and crowded city, one teeming with people, a city that never slept, an ever-changing beast of the mundane, social merriment and overindulgence. The longer I suffered through its wakefulness, its wastefulness, the more I longed for the stillness and comfortable melancholia I'd so felt from the steadfast walls of my home.

I felt, frankly, different from the other people, like a different breed. And so, in the third decade of my life, I decided to leave the Grand Capital behind and return home. I had not visited the manor since my grandfather had sent me off to boarding school, not even upon his death, honoring his last wish to focus on my studies and not a secluded old man. Yet I remembered the way without fail. I knew exactly which of the small, winding country roads to take, treating the car's navigation system as nothing more than a voice of whispered reinforcements. Eventually, I could make out the towering gothic spires that formed the heart of Dustwall Manor on the distant horizon.

When I laid eyes upon them, the strangest of feelings washed over me, a feeling that was more than simple nostalgia, for it felt almost like a presence was calling out to me, as if the manor itself was alive, and had, for all those years, waited for me to return. Dustwell Manor was a place of architectural madness. And I only now realized how truly monstrous its dimensions were. It was a gigantic construction that had been ever extended, compromising dozens of buildings, wings and endless rooms all interconnected, an amalgamation of centuries' worth of mortar and brick.

Its heart was a magnificent example of Gothic architecture, giving the entire building a feeling of excessive antiquity and making entry into the grand vestibule feel like you'd set foot in an ancient cathedral. Its wings, which had been added over the course of centuries, were a tour-de-force of Europe's architectural greatness. The Gothic gave way to the pillars, domes, and columns of the Renaissance, reminiscent of classic antiquity, before those were overtaken by the grander, more excessive style of the Baroque, which was replaced in turn by the purity and authenticity of the neoclassical. Only the newest additions to the manor were held in the more modern and contemporary styles of the current day.

While many of the manors' distant and forgotten wings were covered in fungi and long vines, none of the manor's walls showed signs of damage. None of the many distant and half-forgotten wings had collapsed. No, there was no sign of dilapidation, of decay amongst the entirety of the manor. How this was possible was yet another mystery amongst a sheer endless number surrounding it, as well as my family. As I stared at these bleak, century-old walls at the giant, watchful, eye-like windows, had its almost unnerving patchwork architecture. I was flooded with a feeling of deep nostalgia. I'd so longed for this place, and now I knew I was finally, and forever, home.

When I set foot in the building's grand vestibule, I felt small, almost like I was a child, again, pushed back to my early years, when the proportions of the manor had seemed unreal and scary. Its many long hallways reminiscent of gaping maws ready to swallow me up, even now it felt as if the manor's interior dimensions, as reticulous as it sounds, dwarfed even its gigantic exterior. From the grand vestibule, a wide hallway stretched on and led deeper into the manor, connecting it to its gothic heart, but also the various wings.

and other hallways snaking their way through the building. As I followed this hallway, my eyes wandered over its excessive design and the many lavish decorations. I remember now that this hallway was not merely an entryway, but so much more. My footsteps echoed on the polished marble floor. My hands glided gently over the many tapestries adorning the mighty walls. They depicted iconic scenes from the Bible, showcased creatures from mythology, and even famous historical events. Their composition and make as different as the manor's architecture.

Some were centuries old, their fibers stiff and hardened, their colors faded, while others were in almost pristine condition. They all painted a histogram of colors, threads, and stitches of various kinds. The upper parts of the walls were adorned with costly hardwood paneling, coated with gold leaf and other similarly costly materials. materials. And finally, above it all, loomed the hallways high, intricately carved ceiling, forming a net of the most complicated art, full of hidden details, their meaning lost through the passage of time. Here and there, I found alcoves presenting trophies and artifacts brought back by those

members of the Whitmore family line who'd ventured out into the world. Venetian masks were propped up next to knightly armor, statues and figures created by a talism. sculptors were accompanied by delicate German woodcuttings. Yet there were many other, more exotic items to behold. African stone carvings, tribal masks, clay tablets, Mesopotamium vases, and Asian weaponry. It was a showcasing, a testament to the lives lived in Dustwall Manor, of people's occupations and ambitions. This all added to the building's general atmosphere. Dustwall Manor was an old place, a month, Musty and antique one, but most of all, a lonely one, for it seemed I was the only person

who'd set foot into these ancient walls ever since my grandfather's passing. All these decorations, these trophies and artifacts, however, gave it a strange sort of vitality. I'd only ever set foot in this hallway a few select times and always accompanied by my grandfather. Now, for the first time, I was able to truly experience it, to truly absorb. absorb at all, and was utterly overwhelmed. After what felt like hours, and after I'd satisfied my curiosity, my nostalgia drove me back to my grandfather's former living quarters in the manor's most eastern wings. It was one of the newest additions to the building, commissioned by no other than my grandfather himself at his return to the manor. My grandfather's lodgings were sparsely

furnished and an expression of his hermit lifestyle. No tapestries hung against the walls, no carpets covered the cold marble floor. Instead, there was a stark functionality to it all. Every item had its function and was meticulously placed. It didn't matter if it was his reading chair next to the fireplace, the workbenchers, which hinted at the hidden art of alchemy, a special interest of his, or the books in his small but dedicated library. While I could have chosen to be a little bit of the workbenchers, in any other part of the manor, rooms much more lavishly furnished, it was here I felt most at home. It wasn't merely feelings of nostalgia, though, for I, too, had grown weary of the outside world, of interacting with people, and over the years, had taken on similar characteristics

to those that had so marked my grandfather. After I'd settled in, I decided to continue my work on the Whitmore family tree. During my years in London, when this newest interest was born, I'd never found much time to truly indulge in it, but out here in Dustwall Manor, it felt eyed all the time in the world. I plan to record not merely who made up our family line, but also add my ancestors' various travels, works, and achievements, and all the fields in which the Whitmore name had left its mark, however minuscule they might be. I spent days sifting through my grandfather's personal library, while I found many an old

to marvel at, there was scarcely a mention of the Whitmore name in any of them. Only a handful of books written by members of the family were cramped between other, more important works, almost as if placed as an afterthought. One was written by an Isabella Whitmore and comprised roughly two dozen melancholic poems, authored by the woman herself. Another had the title Defeito Animalium, but was nothing but a long-winded thesis on the breeding of domesticated animals. The rest were similarly uninteresting and ultimately meaningless in the grander scope of my project. Before long, I ventured forth into the depths of Dustwall Manor, for my grandfather had spoken to me of other quarters similar to his, which had been left undisturbed for years.

Whenever he'd talked of them, it was with a certain reservedness of character. The Manor was too big, had become a beast too sprawling to ever take stock of, and there seemed to be an almost unspoken rule to leave those lodgings as they were to serve as memorials of their former inhabitants' existence on earth. Many of them, however, had gathered knowledge and books of their own, and my grandfather had often partaken in those small enclaves of knowledge, and on special occasions, even stolen away with a book or two. Whenever I set out on those long, solitary walks through the manor's seemingly endless, winding guts, I was filled with an unredeemed dreariness of thought. All these hallways, all these rooms, they were covered in dust and cobwebs,

filled with nothing but memories of people long gone, people who'd once lived here and were now entirely forgotten. All this filled me with what I can only refer to as a melancholic loneliness. For these old gigantic walls that made up Dustwall Manor were filled with an oppressive stillness, an almost constricting emptiness, an emptiness you could almost feel. I couldn't help but wonder if my grandfather and those before him had felt the same thing as they wandered the manor. From the books I found and consulted during these walks, I slowly learned more about Sir Isaac Whitmore.

The man was born in the middle of the 15th century, supposedly in the county of Herodfordshire. He was a man of many talents and even more ventures, an explorer, treasure hunter, and scholar. He amassed a massive fortune over his life and eventually construed. the heart of what should one day become known as Dustwall Manor. The stories of the man's life were many, and as colorful and different as the number of books I consulted. Some were diaries, written by distant ancestors of mine. Others were books entirely unrelated to the man's life, but mentioned his influence and deeds and footnotes, written on yellowed pages and scribbled between the lines. It was said that in his younger years, Sir

Isaac Whitmore became involved in the War of the Roses and was a secret confidante of the House of York. During the final years of the conflict, however, he set out on long travels, following in the footsteps of such legendary figures as Marco Polo and Ibn Batuta, partaking in vast journeys along the Silk Road, joining explorations into the heart of Africa and supposedly even accompanying Christopher Columbus on his final voyage to the new world. It was these travels that eventually allowed him to take control of certain sectors of British trade and come to vast riches. How many of these stories are true, and how many are nothing but fables and exaggerations,

I wasn't able to ascertain. But they were enough to paint a rough picture of the man and our family line's origin. In all those books, however, I never found a description, much less a portrait of the man. The only thing mentioned was the same rumor my grandfather had shared with me. Somewhere deep within Dustwall Manor lays Sir Isaac Whitmore's old study, and in it the sole existing portrait of his likeness. In the weeks to come, I made substantial progress in my endeavor and steadfastly filled out the Whitmore family tree.

What was originally nothing but a patchwork of a few select names finally took shape. As the work neared completion, however, I felt more and more drawn to the secrets of the manner itself, and I began to take exhaustive walks through its endless hallways. What had been nothing but mild curiosity and had served the purpose of learning more about the many members of my family, soon became a sort of meditative obsession. Many times, without knowing why, I found I'd left my notes and quarters behind, and half in thought had begun on yet another excursion through a certain distant wing. My head filled with thoughts about Sir Isaac's life and his mysterious study.

Along, these walks grew not only frequently, but also in length. On certain days, I found myself spending almost all my waking hours wandering and in deep thought. And slowly, ever so slowly, my obsession grew, became a hot, almost burning desire. Wherever I went, however much I walked, I found no hint of the fabled study. Deep inside, I'd half hoped, half expected, to eventually traverse the manner in its entirety and stumble upon it by the way. accident. But the manor proved much larger than I'd ever imagined. With each walk, with each day, I found more hallways, more rooms, found myself in entirely new areas, apartments and wings, places hidden away, which I'd never known existed. Eventually, out of desperation, I decided to consult

the manor's floor plans. It became evident that I wasn't the first who'd attempted to make sense of the the labyrinthian monstrosity that was Dustwall Manor. An almost innumerable amount of floor plans of varying degree and make existed. Some were delicate, the work of studied man, others shoddy and hand-drawn, and some resembled ever-growing patchworks, as if they were the effort of multiple people, continued throughout the generation. The works of fevered insanity. They differed wildly, at times made no sense, at others included hidden rooms, and and secret wings that didn't exist. It was nothing but purest madness, and yet I was driven by the singular purpose of making

sense of it all. Even amongst those floor plans, however, I soon realized there was no hint of Sir Isaac's study, and I began to wonder if it truly existed. Yet my obsession never waned. The burning desire never left me, and, if anything, seemed to grow ever stronger, and soon affected me not only during the day, but also a very important. night, for I became haunted by dreams of the strangest sort. In them I was walking through a grand structure, a hall wider than any I'd encountered

in the manor. Its ceiling was high and arched, its walls covered in innumerable doorways, giving them the appearance of a crazed honeycomb. Whenever I turned to look into these doorways, I bore witness to strange, ungodly things. Some led into dark, looming corridors, others into rooms in which I saw perform. of forbidden rituals, the work of sorcerers and magic, of alchemy, and other disciplines of the occult. I even saw what I assumed to be chambers of torture, filled with flesh and blood, in which creatures not entirely human were born.

These twisted creatures roamed the most distant of the dark corridors, beings forever twisted and ruined, perpetually broken, and the only echo of their miserable cries evidence of their existence. Nonetheless, it was a place of wonder, and its results, as ghastly and abominable as they were, they were magnificent and awe-inspiring. The end of the dreams were always the same, however. After traversing the Great Hall for what felt like in eternity, I found myself in front of a giant arched entryway.

This arch, I knew, led into a single room, a mad construction and amalgamation of all things wrong on this earth. A room grander than even this hall, the study of no other than Sir Isaac Whitmore. Yet, I was never able to set foot inside. For the moment I laid eyes upon the structure, I always awoke, shivering and covered in cold sweat. These dreams unsettled me more than anything, for I wondered why my mind conjured up these ghastly visions, and how they came to haunt me every night without fail. Their effect on me was a noticeable one, for I began to suffer from an in.

increased superstition of the old walls and what lay beyond them, of what lay hidden in the unexplored depths of dust-wall manner. And with each week, with each day, the feelings seemed to increase and spread over my consciousness like a shroud of purest darkness. Even worse, with each night, the dreams grew more vivid, more detailed, and my knowledge of the abominable hall and its many adjacent rooms and dark corridors grew ever deeper. In one dream, I heard prayers in a language older than any known to man. Partook in a strange scrying, and even hours after waking up, I shuddered at the outlandish

and otherworldly things revealed there. In another one, I bore witness to the creation of what I came to call flesh constructs. They were meticulously formed from the meat of different animals, combined and brought to life by arcane incantations, or created from human beings. Their bodies first torn apart, then fused together in ways too different from what they once were. I even caught glimpses of the secret art of alchemy used to turn metal into gold, of the growing of mandragoros and concoctions so weird their effects defied my understanding. Sometimes when I awoke from those dreams, I felt something that differed from the usual terror,

for it was replaced by the strangest feeling of familiarity as if I walked those halls before, my waking hours. I'd long considered those dreams nothing but twisted interpretations of my long walks through Dustwall Manor, warped and skewed by my innermost fears and worries, a byproduct of my ever-growing obsession. These feelings of familiarity, however, even as the dreams grew worse, I never gave up on my work, continued consulting floor plans, continued traversing Dustwall Manor, and slowly my knowledge of my old ancestral family home expanded.

First, only in the most minute ways, but before long, bit by bit, the manner's complicated layouts became clear to me. With it, more and more details of what my grandfather had told me returned to me. It felt as if I was leafing through a hidden tome, and with each day I was able to turn a new page and read yet another paragraph. I remembered my grandfather telling me that Sir Isaac's study was. It isn't merely a random location within Dustwall Manor, but supposedly its very center, its foundation, and only reachable if one walked in the footsteps of the man himself and made

their way to these very first rooms. As I slaved away, I realized that while many of the floor plans differed wildly, certain rooms and corridors were always there, always the same. By slowly combining them, stacking all their mad details on top of one another, I knew. I somehow knew a way through this mad labyrinth would reveal itself, and with it, a path that would lead me to Sir Isaac's study. It was trial and error, sheer insanity. I only took breaks to eat and rest. I drew endlessly, created my very own floor plans, only to reject them again for an abundance of errors.

Eventually, after how many weeks or months I cannot say, I succeeded in what I'd set out to do. What I started as a shoddy, hand-drawn creation of my very own, covered in notes and ramblings and filling almost the entirety of the floors of my meager quarters. But just as I'd thought, as I'd known, I'd found a singular path that snaked through itself through the manner and reached what I could only assume to be its center. I sat out almost immediately, driven half mad, and wanting to prove that the study was just that. A room, a study.

one that couldn't be more different from the ghastly dreams that so haunted me, and dispel these strange nocturnal illusions once and for all. As I set out, flashlight in hand, I soon left the well-known hallways behind, and instead followed constricted corridors, went up and down staircases, entered hidden rooms, and opened secret doors. It felt like I was traveling back in time as everything surrounding me grew older the further I progressed. At first, the path led me through rooms of contemporary and modern design, but I soon entered those of an older kind, of neoclassical and Baroque furnishings, before finally ones that reminded me of the interior of Gothic castles.

All the while, normal lamps and light bulbs were slowly replaced by oil lamps, candles, and even old fireplaces covered in the dust of centuries. After what felt like days, or indeed centuries, traveled back in time, I finally made it to a room that appeared older than even the oldest parts of the manor itself. It was entirely unimpressive, nothing but a small crowded chamber, but its back wall comprised nothing but a giant and heavily ornate hardwood door. It was covered in a variety of delicate carvings. Creatures of mythology held sway over one side, while the other was coated in biblical

scenes. Yet behind them, I spied creatures much different, twisted, abominable beings hidden in the background, a mockery to the otherwise grand design, as if something older and darker was lurking behind the oh so common iconography. When I tried to open the door, I first thought it securely locked before I realized just how heavy this age-old gate truly was. With all the force I can muster, grunting, panting, and cursing, I finally cracked it open, and was instantly assaulted by stale, moist air, thicker than any I'd encountered before. It wafted from the doorway as thick as fog, and, like pestilent vapors, spread sluggishly over the room's floor.

It was an air full of the smell of old age, the passage of centuries, but also pregnant with indescribable, otherworldly vileness. I pushed myself past the door's heavy wood, ready to set foot into Sir Isaac's study, and to finally lay eyes on the man's fabled portrait. What I found instead, however, were the first steps of an old spiral staircase that led down into the depths of the earth. For a moment, I stared at these stairs in the looming darkness that lay beyond, but then, driven by an almost unnatural sense of curiosity, I began on my descent.

The stairs were old, ancient even, carved from stone and were covered in thick moss and heavy perspiration. As I followed them round and round and round, I began to wonder just how far below the earth they led. Once more the memory of those terrible dreams assaulted me, but I told myself there were nothing but nonsense, a flight of the imagination. Those stairs here, all they did was lead me to yet another hidden chamber, a base of the same. study or something akin to it. Yet they continued on endlessly, and as minutes turned to what felt like hours, my fear slowly returned. I felt like I wasn't merely descending to the hidden depths of Dustwell Manor, but to hell itself. Before long, however, all those fears, all those worries,

were pushed aside by a rising feeling of euphoria. This is what I'd been looking for. This was what all these fevered months of study had been for, and what held the answer I so desperately craved. This obsession of mine, when had it truly started? I thought back to my arrival at Dustwall Manor, to my time in London, my education at the boarding school, and I realized that in one way or another, it had always lurked in the back of my mind, lying dormant and hidden. Ever since I had heard those tales from my grandfather, I'd longed to learn about my family line, our ancestral home, and of course, the study of Sir Isaac Whitmore. This longing was the true reason I'd returned home.

It wasn't my descent from modern society, and neither wasn't nostalgia. Goose bumps appeared all over my arms, and I couldn't help but shudder at this newest revelation. It felt almost as if I'd been destined to come here, had always been destined to find this place, and be here at this very moment. Eventually, after what felt like in eternity, a dim light reached me from what was, without a doubt, the bottom of the stairs. Once I descended these final stairs, I found yet another hardwood door, but one that was slightly

cracked, and from this very crack, the dim light reached me. Stepping up to it, I reached out for the heavy wood, slowly caressing it, making sure it truly existed before I pushed it open. My eyes grew wide when I saw what was revealed in front of me. It was a grand hall, just like the one I'd seen in those ghastly dreams, one grander than any I'd seen before, be it at Dustwell Manor or even in the Grand City of London. It was a monumental construction, as if carved from the guts of the earth itself. The first thing I noticed was an abundance of light sources of all kinds.

I saw modern electrical lights, but also oil lamps and candles. A strange mixture of the modern and the old, as if new kinds of technology had simply been added or layered over what was already there, an amalgamation of things past and present. I began to wonder, however, why there was light down here, who'd turned it on, and who'd lit all those oil lamps and candles. It could only mean that someone else was down here. I shivered. Who might call this ancient, hidden hall there home?

My eyes wandered around in search, but I saw no one. The thought of going back, to flee, to forget whatever I'd found here appeared in my mind. That this was too strange, but was almost instantly pushed aside by the same fevered obsession that had so driven me these past months. All thoughts of danger were forgotten, and I set out to find what I'd come for, the study of Sir Isaac Whitmore. With each step, the same feeling of familiarity of recognition came over. me, one the only grew in intensity. These walls, the floor, the doorways that line the walls,

the corridors they led into. I'd seen it all before, but not just in those terrible dreams. I stared at the impossibility in front of me, no, all around me, staring at what I still believed, hoped to be a flight of fancy, a demon of the imagination. And if I had only wait, It would be replaced by reality and show me where I'd really found my way to. However much I waited, though, nothing changed. The Grand Hall stayed as it was, and I finally had to admit that this place was real. That this place was the same one I'd seen in all those ghastly dreams. Yet, what actually was this place?

Why was it? I was torn from my thoughts when I noticed movement to my left, a figure, its features hidden under a heavy shroud, had appeared at a doorway to my right and came rushing toward me. I reeled back in terror, raised my arms, ready to defend myself from whoever, whatever this was, yet the figure paid me no heed, hurried past me, and entered another doorway, where it vanished in the looming darkness that lay ahead. For a moment I was too stunned to do anything, and all I was able to do was stare after it, waiting for it to return, yet the figure was simply gone.

Then I began to wonder about something else. If the dreams were indeed true, then what about all those abominable horrors and deeds I'd witnessed? Did it mean that those two were real? Once more, the impossible situation I found myself in came crashing down on me, and what little remained of the man who'd once lived in London screamed at me to abandon this crazed need for answers. Yet those were the words of a sane man, and I... I wasn't truly sane anymore.

Hadn't been in weeks, months, maybe even years. It felt like I was barely in control of my body as I set out again and ventured deeper into the hall. My footsteps echoed endlessly on the cold, hard stone floor. Their echoes traveling ahead of me and intruding deep into the distant, dark corridors all around me. Every once in a while, however, other, more distant sounds reached me. They originated from deep inside those looming dark corridors, sounding like moans and groans.

I shuddered when I saw shuffling shadows and couldn't help but imagine them to be the flesh constructs I'd bore witness to in my dreams. Twisted beings created down here, things made of wet flesh and torn skin, doomed for all eternity, and left alone in nothing but their misery, suffrage, and pain. Before long, I saw more of the shrouded figures. But they too ignored me and hurried past me, undeterred. Dozens, if not hundreds of them were down here, feverishly working on something. In a trance, my eyes trailed after them, and I noticed just how much their forms differed.

Some seemed normal enough, their proportions human, their movement bipedal. Others, however, were hunched over, much smaller or taller than me, moving on all fours, or slithering over the ground like reptiles, their motions jerky and animalistic. Rooms like the ones I'd spied and those ghastly dreams had taken the place of dark, looming corridors. Some seemed to be studies, workstations, and reading quarters, but others. Others were just as horrible as those the dreams had shown me. They were drenched in disgusting liquids, filled with twisted altars and abominable horrors. Yet none of them mattered, for I eventually.

found what I was looking for, the study of Sir Isaac Whitmore. Just like in the dreams, I stood in front of a giant arched entryway, but for the first time I was able to lay eyes upon it, could step through it, and now saw just how huge, but how magnificent the study truly was. The words, room, or study didn't fit this impossibility at all. It was a work of architectural insanity, a design so grand it made my head hurt. It comprised what had to be dozens of open layers, all stacked upon one another, connected by a mad network of bridges and stairs, rising further and further upwards, but also down, even deeper into the guts of the earth.

Here too, shrouded figures were everywhere, but their numbers were uncountable. They were standing in front of lecterns and desks, studying ancient tombs, vellums, papyrus, and even stone tablets. working on complicated machinery and contraptions or burying here and there, carrying items as strange as they were outlandish. All this made it seem like I'd intruded on an entire hidden society, a society of the shrouded and shunned. Finally, though, I found what I'd been looking for for so long.

Against the study's back wall, opposite the giant arched entryway, and not hidden behind stairs or bridges, lay the portrait of Sir Isaac Whitmore. The hidden portrait of my family's fabled progenitor, the portrait's size too defied all reason. It was tremendous, larger than any portrait or work of art I'd ever laid eyes upon. A grand display. No. A monument.

It was a portrait of a finely clad, elderly gentleman, but one that looked almost too mundane, too ordinary to be the basis of so many legends and rumors. As I stared at it, however, it slowly began to change. Colors began running into one another, and the man seemed to move as if alive. Note was warping himself. What was human, slowly, ever so slowly, became something entirely different. Arms and legs began to atrophy and were replaced by twisted appendages. The neck seemed to extend, and the head was pushed further and further from its body, before

it opened up like the bulb of a flower, revealing something horrible within. Even the lower body was transforming, changing state from solid to liquid, and finally gaseous, only to become solid again, perpetually shifting. The thing I saw in front of me was physically impossible, something that shouldn't exist, couldn't spawn from any earthly imagination. It was a twisted abomination so alien it made my head hurt. The longer I stared, the more horrible and surreal details I noticed. More parts of a grand hole, parts impossible to fathom.

I saw mouths, eyes, hair, appendages, entire bodies fused together but eternally apart, things liquid and gaseous, all forming a creature, an entity, not of this world. Yet as I stared at it, I felt drawn forward, felt an almost obsessive need to bask in its presence. To prostrate myself in front of this ghastly horror, to touch it, to bind my existence to it and to... I see you arrived after all, Daniel. I suddenly heard a voice from behind me. I jerked up in shock, but wasn't able to tear my eyes from the ever-shifting paintings in front of me. Instead, I could only stand there, stare ahead, unable to do anything but listen to the voice from behind me.

Yet somehow this voice, it sounded almost familiar. It's remarkable, isn't it? Finally, and with tremendous effort, I was able to open my mouth, able to form words, but could only utter a single question while my eyes were still glued to the impossibility in front of me. What is this? It's what you set out to find. The hidden portrait of Sir Isaac Whitmore.

this thing. Sir Isaac Whitmore was more than a man. Much, much more. He was a being from a different realm. A visitor who took on the guise of man and walked our world. Yet his true form was too powerful and could not be constrained. Eventually, he had to. to retreat. But the being that was Sir Isaac Whitmore knew there were ways, even if they

were difficult to return in all its glory. And so he created all this here and made plans that would eventually allow him, it, to stay in this round, perpetually to conquer this world and make it his. How? I felt a hand landing on my shoulder, and finally I was able to tear my eyes from the gigantic portrait, and as I turned around, I found one of the shrouded figures in front of me. Its entire body was covered by heavy fabric, and even its face was nothing but a shadow, hidden by the shroud's folds.

Come. I'll show you. Now that my attention was fully focused on the mysterious figure, now that I truly listened, I realized why its voice had sounded so familiar. Grandpa, is that you? But how are you? A sound that might very well have been laughter came from between the folds before the figure began walking, and I, not knowing what else to do, and in need of answers, simply set in after

it. We traversed the entire width of the study, and eventually ascended one of the many stairs pushing past other feverishly working shrouded figures. My eyes wandered around, trying to take in, to understand what was happening here, but there was too much going on. Madness, I thought, like an ant-hilled taken over by fevered insanity. He created servants. These servants are the ones who will eventually create the right conditions for him to return in all his terrifying glory and without being restricted to the body of man. Before he left, he gave instructions, taught them on how to continue the work, and the steps on how to create other similar beings. Those servants are they our lineage? The Whitmore family? But what do you mean by created? By now, my grandfather had stopped

in front of a metal door, embedded into the study's wall. Instead of answering, or even humoring my question, he pushed it open and bowed me to follow him. What I saw in front of me was a sort of laboratory, but it too seemed to be a mixture of the old and the new. In a distant corner, I saw medieval experimenting tables, stacks of minerals, mud, and clay covered them, and in front stood shrouded figures, forming them into approximations of the human body. In another, I saw lumps of raw flesh sewn together into abominable forms, twisted beings resembling neither man nor animal, things comprising nothing but arms, or bodies snake-like and slithering, beings created with a singular purpose in mind.

At first I thought they were nothing but models, but then I saw them twitch and steer, showing they were alive. My eyes, however, focused on the most modern part of this mad place, something akin to a genetic laboratory. It comprised modern equipment, test tubes, tanks, and vats in which things were growing, things close to the human form. Embryos, I realized. What? What is this place?

What's happening here? Have you ever read Thomas Brown? His Regio Medici? Ralegeomede. What does it matter if I... What about Johann Wolfgang von Goet's Faust? Omerichelly's Frankenstein? I just stared at the figure that had once been my grandfather, still not understanding what

But these books, these names had to do with the madness I was witnessing here. Have you ever heard the word homunculus? I opened my mouth, but instead of answering, I watched the twisted work that continued all around us, watched as bodies were formed from clay and mud, as lumps of flesh were being stacked on top of one another, and once more, I stared at the human-shaped things growing in the vats and tanks. I... No, it can't be.

This makes no sense. Something like this. I stammered, overwhelmed by the revelation that it just hit me. As I explained before, he created servants, beings not entirely human. Approximations, fakes, homunculi, if you will. But in time, the process was being involved. Proved, perfected even, and was'd was once crude amalgamations of flesh eventually became. But why are you showing me all this? Why'd you bring me to this godforsaken place?

As if to answer, his hand fell on my shoulder, and for a moment he gave me a caressing squeeze. It was all that was necessary to answer my question, to confirm the terrible truth of our lineage. We were created for a single purpose, Daniel. No, how can any of this? How can... I grew up at Dustwall Manor. You told me about my mother. What happened to her and... You were created in this very room, Daniel, just like I was before you.

And all those others you see here. Let me ask you, doesn't this place feel... Familiar? Haven't you seen it before? It's because of the dreams. I saw it in my dreams. They haunted me for weeks, for months, so... What exactly our dreams, Daniel? Are they nothing but our brains sorting through our memories and interpreting them? Didn't you feel the familiarity of the place the moment you stepped inside? I couldn't go on. He was right.

The familiarity I'd felt from those dreams. It was because I'd felt like I was retracing my very own steps. But then why send me to London? Why urge me on the way you did? Why did you tell me never to return to Dustwall Manor? A sigh of the deepest regret sounded from my grandfather's ancient throat before he spoke again. Because I cared for you. I didn't want you to return.

Didn't want you to become part of all this. I wanted you to be free. To get away, but... But... But what? I failed. You're here now. But I guess it was always meant to happen this way.

All I tried. All I did. It was all predestined. predestined in this very room before you, before I were even formed. Your life, just like mine and that of any other member of the Whitmore family, was lined out long before. No, that's not true. Sure, you took care of me, and sure you chose that boarding school for me, but after that, I decided things on my own. My field of study, my...

And why did you do you? choose those specific fields? Why history? Why contemporary politics? Why did you decide to bother trying to understand the workings of the modern world? Once more, I couldn't go on. I began to think, to really think. Hadn't all of this happened because of my upbringing? Because of my obsession with all the stories I'd heard about my family? Hadn't it been my wish to understand how my family came to be and thus been driven to also make sense of the world. And yet, why, why exactly?

The more I thought about it, the more I felt like I'd been pushed, goaded in this direction by an invisible power, as if it had been whispered to me by something else. And all I'd ever done had been chosen for me. But then, why? Why'd I even be allowed to go out into the world? Why bother with this entire charade? If this is our work, if this is what we're destined to do, why allow anyone else? to travel, to explore, and...

The world is ever-changing, Daniel. It's always turning, and there's always new knowledge to be added to our vast archives. Whenever we succeed and are able to create a perfect specimen, those creatures become the members of the Whitmore family,

and are sent out into the world to gather the knowledge we need before they eventually return to join the rest of, of us on our eternal mission. Eternal mission? Suddenly, I remembered who I was even talking to. My grandfather. How was he even alive?

How are you even here, Grandpa? I mean, those letters, the death certificate, how can you possibly be? I didn't die, Daniel. It was merely the end of my tutelage and my role as your guardian. One of us ever truly die. What does that even mean? I got a hold of him and in my frustration, my confusion, I began to shake him. And suddenly the shroud covering his face was thrown aside.

The face I saw was one that shouldn't be alive. It was nothing but taut skin stretched over brittle bone. Where his eyes should have been, eyes that were once a piercing blue, were now only two deep, gorging holes. His nose was nothing but a twisted mess of darkened cartilage. What remained of his lips was curled back, revealing part of the jaw and a few lonely, blackened teeth. I screamed and reeled back in terror, and my grandfather, with a trembling hand, comprising

nothing but bone, quickly covered his features again, as if to hide his wretched appearance from not only me, but the rest of the world as well. That's our lineage, Daniel. It's our curse. They're made to serve and serve we shall for eternity. We've gotten better at creating these bodies, but they will still age, still break, and yet... But how can you even... How is that...

There are ways, Daniel. Knowledge, and in time we learned many things. And so will you. For a moment, I was baffled by his last. words, but then I understood what they meant, understood why I'd been led here. Terror washed over me, and my entire body began trembling. Oh, God, I was meant to become one of those things, those shrouded figures. I was meant to be enslaved down here for all eternity, just like they were, meant to join this ghastly work and bring back this awe-inspiring, magnificent,

terrible entity. And just like my grandfather and all those countless others, I'd turn into a rotting corpse, another broken thing cursed to serve forever. In a panic, I dashed past the shrivelled corpse that had once been my grandfather and dashed away. He didn't reach out for me. He didn't come after me. And only his words followed me. How futile it is, was all he said. But those four words were filled with such endless misery, sadness, and pain, they made me stumble as if struck. As I ran, I pushed myself through the mass of shrouded figures, pushed them aside and into one another, revealing what lay below their heavy shrouds. Many of them were as feeble as grandpa, comprising nothing but skin and bone, nothing but walking corpses. Others were twisted heaps of

flesh that made me reel back and disgust, amalgamations just like those I'd seen being created in that laboratory. Some were even stranger, however, nothing but clay and stone, golems, I realized. I even saw mixtures of the organic and inorganic, constructs of living tissue and various minerals. There were even some my hands passed right through, found nothing to hold onto, gaseous entities comprising nothing but glowing orbs, as if only their souls remained, yet still bound, still conscripted. It was the horror of existence in all its magnificent glory, driven to its sheer impossible limits and then beyond.

I eventually reached the stairs and continued my dash upwards. On and on I went. When my legs failed, I continued to crawl, clawing at the stairs ahead of me. Further and further I dragged myself, pulling myself onward. over moist moss-covered steps before, after what felt like an eternity, I escaped from the staircase. I expected someone or something to come after me, to drag me back down, but I was strangely left to my own devices. Upon returning to my quarters, I set out to end it all, to burn it all to the ground, Dustwall Manor, the legacy of what I'd thought to be the Whitmore family line,

and to close off that abominable staircase and what lay below forever. And yet, I couldn't do it. Countless times. I lit the match countless times. Countless times I held the blazing embers in my hand but did nothing. The few times I managed to set fire to a tapestry or a tomb in my grandfather's library, I doused them as quickly as they were born. Something's reaching out to me, into my mind, telling me, compelling me, commanding me

to stop all this nonsensical struggle and to follow my birthright. I told myself I wouldn't. I screamed at myself to run, to flee from Dustwall Manor, but whenever I tried, I found myself lost in the labyrinthian mess of hallways. Every day, every night, every single minute, it becomes harder to resist the voices that tell me to return, to serve, and to become part of its eternal mission. I know. I can't last.

I won't last. That's why I was left, why I wasn't bothered upon my return. turn from that terrible place. All I can do is share these mad, incoherent ramblings. This warning that most will discard as the words of a madman. I don't know what this thing is. I don't know how or when, but I know. One day, the terrible entity that was once known as Sir Isaac Whitmore will return. And when it does, all will be lost.