2026-10-26 Hell Came to Happenstance

The sallow glow of the full moon cast a pall of sickliness upon the world. The corpse-trees of the forest were wreathed in witchlight that night, foretelling a coming sacrament of unseen demons in the night skies. They danced widdershins, in murmurations of ecstatic anticipation. All men of good heart would shut themselves away in their homes and await daybreak. But no men called that dark forest their home.

At the center of the forest lay an abandoned estate. Every inch of it etched with untold tragedies. Tall wrought iron fencing surrounded the property. No lonely path wound its way through the corpse-tree forest to this estate, yet its rusted gate stood open still as an invitation. Above the gate in sharp lettering was the estate's sign. Its name. Happenstance. But the estate stood forgotten and alone. A desolate island in a placid sea. Any evidence the estate once had been part of the world had long ago been digested by the forest, drowned in rank waves.

The roiling gloom of the estate's nettle-soaked lawn gave way to further miseries. The once-chaste bricks aligned in proud rows, now lay in heaps and mounds on the loam of the muddy ground. Ivy and mold pock-marking what had been the Eastern wall of that imperial manse. Its ochre-wood innards now exposed to the seeping air's chill bite, ribs and meat to be picked at.

A breeze blew into the collapsed wall, the house breathing in the demonic whispers on the wind. Tales of infernal bacchanals, to be related to the motes of dust that hung in the air and the creeping insects that had burrowed into the darkest recesses of the manse. Within the collapsed wall were the ruins of the Eastern wing's cabinet of curiosities. Ornate ivory baubles, numerous pieces of art, and strange artifacts from the Kerguelen Plateau once stood post here, bewildering and delighting onlookers in equal measure. Past the scattered detritus, where ripped canvas and the remains of that final banquet had rotted together into a noxious refuse, was the large red stain on the floor where it had happened. Her. Happenstance. The stain that would not come out.

Further into the dim interior was a short hallway that led towards the heart of the house, its foyer. Veils of dust hung like curtains here, billowing in the wind. Musty shadows clung to the worn walls, desperately clawing away from the cabinet, leaving peeled heather paint and torn wallpaper in their wake. Beseeching banishment from the premises by the coming of rosy-fingered dawn, if ever it came.

There was even now a sort of grandeur to this mausoleum. The foyer was a held breath and a stopped heart. The air here was sedate, this demesne of silence; no errant breeze could stand the grim journey further into the estate. That stillness choked down old fervent echoes, desperate to reverberate from the room. Guests and servants eagerly cavorting and discussing the unveiling of the painter's masterpiece. Their voices now imprisoned in the opulent vestibule; locked in the timbre of the walls.

"Have you seen it?"

"..."

"The textures are magnificent, I never thought..."

"It rivals the old masters, certainly. He's outdone himself. Her eyes, though. There's something..."

"I couldn't stop the shivering. Minutes passing in what I thought were seconds. It's perfect."

On the far side of the foyer was the double-sided grand staircase that led up to the mouldering residential wing, host only to wraiths now. Where she was now interred. Along each wall was a series of portraits. Each capturing the tight queer grin of its prisoner, their skin a strange oiled sheen. A small gold placard adorned each, announcing their title like an obituary. The Artist's Mother. The Conqueror of the South. The Lord of the Estate. And on. Between each portrait, enquiring waxen fingers grasped down towards the floor like stalactites, the flame atop each long since sputtered out.

Atop the staircase, the grim silence of the foyer broke with a soft rasping. Insubstantial vortices marched these halls along their haunts in spirals. Down, down, down...fathoms deep and chained beneath. The barest visible perturbations in the air were all that revealed their cursed presence.

"..."

In their wake, the wraiths left burn marks in the residential wing's sumptuous wine-red carpets. Unknown looping calligraphies, like something from the Lesser Key, their held meaning lost on desiccated phantasmal tongues. Yet eddies of familiarity passed. The smell of ginger, a warmth. Achingly solvent in the surrounding air. There was a desperation that gestured towards convergence. Atoms that had scattered and could never again be whole. "I-"

At the end of the hall, she stood in somber repose. Happenstance. The gold placard beneath her corpse read: Noblesse de la Désolation. Her skin had been rendered a pale fossil gray, almost translucent. Rivulets of bright white crisscrossing beneath its surface like spider-web. Her hair streamed about her in the tide of the strange background. It could not be said to be anything but utter black. An abyss, truly. But there was a movement. An uncertain and bent shape, darker even than the background. Something that lurked in the depths that appeared for all the world to spiral behind her head. Yet it was her eyes. Oh yes, her eyes that transfixed. Emerald green halos that could pierce adamant. The blood, the black blood, ran down in sheets from her gaze. Nimbus-green cords stretching back through the frayed nerve and down into the gulch of black ichor she commanded. The root of it, or its carrier.

The moon's light drifted down from the open ceiling. Its arcs moved smoothly across the floor like searchlights. Her eyes, her eyes, only her eyes. No, no...Not tonight. Not again. The endless halls of the estate passed by now in a flurry of turns. Left, right, left again. Stairs leading down, away from the wraiths and their miserable marks upon the floor. Even spiders fled from the fury of the escape. The decrepit rot of the estate followed in pursuit with unfurled tendrils. Cold and reaching, grasping and clawing. Tearing and gnawing, closer closer, closer! Her eyes, and the awful shape behind them!

But there after countless passages, blessed safety. The door of the artist's studio slammed shut behind, a comparative gunshot in the heretofore silent cemetery. A bulwark from the growing dark tide outside; the studio lay untouched.

Its walls were a fine purple-hued heartwood. A lush couch and casks of wine invited guests of the artist to while away the hours. Family, lovers, those who would consent to sit for a painting. Lit candles warmed the space with their yellow glow. Reams of paper covered the various lacquered tables, each adorned with the artist's work ranging from partial studies to sketches of sweeping landscapes and rocky islands. Flower vases full of fresh yellow wirilda placed throughout the room covered the slight astringent smell of linseed oil. Banging and scratching could be heard from the large window that looked out upon the estate grounds and the dark forest beyond. The demons of the night having heard their master's call, ravenous for what was within. Yet the glass of the studio window held firm.

The easel that sat in the middle of the room had an oil painting on it, covered by a thick canvas cloth. The cloth fell away, revealing what hid beneath. This was a smaller portrait, one that might befit a bedroom wall. Though no less detailed than the others. It showed a man and woman, familiar faces. Both depicted in the nude and seated together on the couch. Their bodies meeting together along their sides.

The woman sat with a quiet bemusement. Her elegant half-smile seemed to just hold back laughter. Bright green eyes glanced over at her partner inquisitively. Awaiting the answer to some question. Her hand closest to him lazily trailing the soft skin of his upper thigh, stroking the hair there. Delighting in the heat her touch brought. Pleasantly intimate, yet serene. Her posture was the picture of comfort and beauty. She leaned into the man's embrace openly.

The man looked straight forward, seeming to meet the eyes of the viewer, of the artist. He was handsome, certainly. Though his expression was curious and far more revealing. His smile was broader than the woman's, yet he also seemed shy. A blush crept up the man's cheeks, showing just above his beard. His eyebrows knitted together. Not embarrassment surely, not after everything. But he leaned forward slightly, protective of something. Caught somewhere between a boyish confidence and a demure bashfulness. One arm curled around the woman's back, holding her close to him by her stomach. His index finger finding its usual position, stroking the skin just at the bottom of her ribs beneath her chest. Teasing at a ticklish spot. His other arm rested on the edge of the couch, reaching out. The hand turned with palm facing up. To receive something? Or a gesture of invitation?

The warm embrace of the portrait's occupants chased at the cold of the dark and abandoned estate. The candles of the studio had gone out, but they were no longer needed. A tinge of fiery orange had appeared on the horizon. Finally, with the passing of the night there came a soft knock at the door.