Desirs Mortels

You hurry along a corridor lit only by the lightning outside, startled by the storm's sudden appearance and then spooked by… something else. Low rumbles of thunder shake the windows and drown out all other sound. The paintings lining the corridor seem to watch you, their stern faces judging you, when illuminated by the lightning. You barrel through a door, skidding to a sudden halt at the top of a grand staircase. The storm is quieter here, you can hear the creaks of an old house as it is buffeted, and scattered flickering electric candles only just manage to banish the gloom.

A loud crack of lightning shatters the relative quiet of the staircase, you nearly jump out of your skin. You cautiously descend the stairs, testing the weight of each step, and then sag against the banister post once at the bottom. At the feeling of being watched you whirl round, seeing only more paintings of oversized lords and ladies. Three directions are open to you but something draws you to the left, through a plain archway, and down rough stone slabs that make a staircase. I think this leads to the way out.

What would have been the servants' quarters has partially collapsed, the pouring rain collecting into great puddles. You think you see movement through the spray thrown up, squinting, but nothing's there. I'm imagining things, surely no-one'd be out in this storm. You hear a second loud crack but this time it's from wood, not a bolt of lightning. A roof beam splinters and you dive forward to avoid it, grunting in pain as you land on hard flagstone. After glaring at the broken wood you turn to face the ruined cells the servants had slept in, moving between pieces of inadequate shelter.

You discover another staircase that winds around a strong column, leading back into the house, and climb it, starting to shiver as you get drenched. The doorway at the top of the spiral staircase has long rotted but you step through the doorway anyway. You never really register the slight pressure of the tripwire against your ankle though, definitely don't see the weapon that kills you. You only feel a savage hammer blow to your stomach, doubling you over, and then the sensation of falling, of being battered as you tumble back down the staircase.

You end up lying in a tangled heap at the foot of the spiral staircase, gasping for breath like a fish out of water. You can feel blood trickling from cuts and scrapes all over your body, taste iron in the back of your mouth. You told no-one you were coming here tonight, deliberately left your mobile behind at the hotel. Salty tears start falling as you realize you'll be just a statistic, just someone else who disappeared one night.

Just one more ghost hanging around, becoming part of the legend that lured you to the Désirs Mortels stately home in the first place.