Ethereal Chronicles

The porter halted at the threshold of the front door, setting my belongings down beside him with suspicion clouding his eyes. “I’ll go no farther.” He insisted tightly.

I nodded. “Don’t worry. I can take it from here.”

The porter shook his head, a grimace tugging his weathered face, “You are mad.”

“Perhaps I am.” I murmured, my gaze drifting out to the dusty hall behind me. “But I don’t believe in ghosts.”

The porter let out a dry chuckle. “You’ll see.” He ran his eyes over the tall silhouette of the manor. Then he left me, turning abruptly to walk back to the horse which he had tied to the ruined gate.

I watched as he mounted swiftly, casting one final, judging glance over his shoulder before spurring the horse forwards. Hooves churned the muddy marsh, flinging dark flecks of earth behind him as he disappeared into the mist, retreating towards the dim, flickering lights of the distant town.

In his retreat, the silence swallowed me.

Night had fallen, draping the manor in darkness, so I hastily stepped inside and shut the door behind me.

The manor was in a sorry state. Peeling paint curled from the walls, the wood slowly rotting, and the floor beneath me sagged spongily around my footsteps. Damp and mould lingered in the air, clinging to it.

The bedroom I chose offered little comfort. The furniture was aged and dust covered, the bed draped in moth eaten sheets. Still, once I had unpacked my things and coaxed a fire to life in the hearth opposite my bed, the flickering glow brought warmth and light to the room.

I wanted to start writing right away, but I was shattered with exhaustion, and it didn’t take me long to fall into a strange, fractured sleep. The dreams I had were disturbed and shifting, and I woke more than once. Then again. Three times, perhaps four, each time with a vague sense of unease curling in my chest. Eventually, I sat up. If sleep would not come, perhaps a walk around the old house might clear my mind. There was nothing to fear, after all.

By now the hour was late. The halls, though unchanged in size, seemed to press in on me uncomfortably, the walls tightening, suffocating. The air too had thickened, making room for whispers that mingled with that same old, dusty smell.

By the time I reached the end of the corridor, a paralysing dread had possessed me. My breath came shallow as I turned back, retreating to the warmth and safety of my room.

I lay awake for a while, my eyes fixed blankly ahead, yet sleep would not return. And in the old mirror standing in the corner of the room, something watched me, its red eyes glinting out through the glass.

I couldn’t move. I just sat and glared back at it, trapped in some unseen force as I tried to convince myself that there was some logical reason, that the stories circulating around town weren’t true. But the thing remained in place, staring at me, waiting.

A deep, bone-weary weakness crept over me. And before I even realized I had spoken, words slipped from my lips.

“Who are you?”

The moment I spoke, the mirror convulsed, rippling as though it was the surface of a murky sea, and one withered hand pushed its way through it. Another followed, its skeletal fingers curling, grasping. And then, the figure stepped through, emerging to float before me.

If I hadn’t been frozen with terror, I would have screamed and fled. As it was, I remained rooted in place, my sweaty palms gripping the sheets.

The figure was draped in black, tattered robes caught in a breeze I could not feel, and burning eyes glowed out from beneath the hood. As it tilted forwards to lean closer and let a ragged breath rasp from its unseen lips, the putrid stench of death blew into my face, and I recoiled.

In a woman’s voice broken by sorrow, it spoke.

“He murdered me.” The words came out in a sob – deep, racking moans that shuddered through its body and echoed through the rotting walls of the house, and I almost felt sorry for it.

When I did not reply, the thing wailed even louder. It began to reach for me, extending the brittle, yellowed hands onto the bed. Slowly, it dragged itself closer, gasping with the effort.

When it finally reached my face, it lowered its weight onto me, crushing me. The stench of rot surrounded me as it pressed into my skin, still moaning and crying.

The dead woman clung to me until morning, running her jagged fingers over my face and body, leaving marks and scratches that I had no strength to fight.

I might have slept, though if I did then my dreams were poisoned with her nightmarish touch. In waking I still felt her presence, despite the emptiness of the room.

Since that night, I have not been able to write. I cannot dream without seeing her. I cannot sleep without feeling her cold, clawing hands. Every mirror in my home has been taken out and smashed to pieces, but it hasn’t made a difference. She is still with me, waiting for the right time to take me once and for all, and so I will live out the remainder of my days as a ruined, miserable man.

The legends of Wraiths go back to 18th century Scotland. Spirits come in many forms, each with their own nature and purpose, but the Wraith is one that truly resembles pure, relentless evil.

APPEARANCE AND ATTRIBUTES

Wraiths are commonly “born” from torment – spirits twisted by pain and suffering. Humans who died a violent, unjust death are prone to the transformation. Equally cursed are those who dabble with witchcraft in their lifetime. Doomed to be rejected from both Heaven and Hell, Wraiths are forced to linger between worlds, wreaking havoc and misery wherever they roam.

A Wraith is easily distinguishable from the Grim Reaper-like appearance it holds. Decayed, skeletal forms hide beneath black and tattered robes. A sickening, fetid odour emanates from them.

Wraiths have the power to trap and control the very souls of their victims. Their methods are as varied as they are cruel. Some need nothing more than a single touch to steal a man’s soul while others choose to act in silence, following humans from birth until death.

The most malicious of these creatures are parasitic in nature. They latch onto a human, possessing them completely to drain their life force. Once finished, the Wraith will move onto a new host. For those who find themselves in the grasp of a Wraith, their soul too is eternally damned to wander the earth.

PROTECTION

Wraiths are notoriously difficult to destroy. A well known defence mechanism is any form of holiness, since they exist to spread evil. Silver weapons, too, may offer some promise. That is, if you get close enough to the creature without getting killed yourself.