Chapter Text
Everyone knew about the mansion in the woods. Everyone also knew that you didn’t go there unless you didn’t care for your life or were simply a fool.
Zoisite didn't fancy himself in either of those categories, and yet he found himself wandering the path that led into the depths of the forest, to where the mansion loomed between the trees.
He was bored, and Zoisite being bored was a dangerous thing. (The number of “incidents” attributed to him as a child attested to that, as well as his mother’s despair at him ever making something decent of himself.) He was bored, and he was curious, which was perhaps even worse. So, given the prospect of figuring out the truth behind this local myth once and for all, on a lazy summer afternoon when he’d managed to skive off working at the shop, he decided to investigate.
Yes, he’d heard the stories of people entering the manor’s doors to never be seen again, and the ones where someone wandered too close and their corpse was found weeks later, mangled nearly beyond recognition. But he’d also noticed that not one person could actually name a single one of the supposed dozens who’d died in that mansion, not even one in all the centuries the legend had been told.
The woods looked inviting in the afternoon sun, not at all the lair of monsters like the stories said. Sundappled leaves crunched underfoot as he walked down the overgrown trail. It was warm, beautiful, and quiet but for the birdsong and the rustling of leaves in the light breeze. It was hot enough he had to pause to dig his water out of his bag—he hadn’t come entirely unprepared, even though this had been a sudden whim. He had faults, sure (not that he’d admit it aloud), including what some would say was a surfeit of confidence, but even he knew that wandering off the trail in the woods wasn’t the best of ideas. As such, his bag held water, food that would keep for a couple of days, a jacket in case of a chill, and a small knife, safely hidden in the side pocket. Not that he expected to need it, but better safe than sorry.
As he walked, he mused that he might be needing that knife sooner rather than later, as the plants grew more thickly over the path by the minute. A few plants weren’t enough to send him back though, and so he kept going.
The trees grew taller too, and the woods darker in turn. Birdsong seemed to be hushed, and for a moment he wondered if some of the more fantastical stories were true. But only for a moment, before he regained his sense. The stories were just that—stories. They had been made up to keep curious children out of the rotting ruins and the depths of the woods, and at some point, the stories had just gotten out of hand.
But he was not one to be scared of stories, especially not ones with no proof at all, so he continued on. Soon enough, the dense trees gave way to the start of a wider path, and he could see the faint outline of fallen walls, stone and metal overgrown by moss and vines. He was close. Had this path been paved, once? If so, the stone was covered by dirt and the debris of a forest floor, but the wideness of the path made him wonder. Who had been the last to walk this way?
The manor began to loom large as he approached, seemingly untouched by the passage of time—until one looked closer. Then, one could see the vines creeping up the walls, cracks in the stone and paint. A high stone wall surrounded it, but at one point a tree had fallen over onto it, providing a handy entrance for someone nimble enough to climb it.
Might as well try the gate first, though.
That line of thought proved to be fruitless. It was chained shut, and moreover, the locking mechanism appeared to have rusted over. So, he slung his bag back over his shoulder, picked his way through the plants and the fallen stones, and made his way to the gap.
Bushes clung to his clothes as he pushed his way through them, but he brushed them aside. There was no need for hesitance now, now when he was so close to finding the source of the mystery. Getting a leg up onto the fallen tree was harder than he expected, for even in the strong sunlight, it was slick with moss and lichen. But, perseverance won out, and after a few struggling attempts, he found a foothold. For all his internal bravado, he had to admit that perhaps there was some logic to the stories—for he could easily see a child slipping and breaking their neck trying to climb over the fence.
“But I—oof—am not a child,” he said with a grunt of effort as he jumped off the end of the tree and landed in the mansion’s garden.
Dusting off his pants, he straightened up to look around. This had clearly been well maintained, he could even make out the outlines of the beds where flowers had grown. Roses, tangled in thorns, flowed out from their beds, spilling out across what had once been clear paths. Tree roots pulled up stones, grass and weeds filled the cracks.
Who had abandoned this place, and why? The reluctance in the town to even acknowledge this place must have spilled over to him, for he’d never thought to question that before, even with all his curiosity. The mansion had always just, well, been there. It was one of those stories that you heard as a child and didn’t question. It must have been built for a reason, though. Why could no one remember?
The longer he stood there, looking, the more certain he was that something wasn’t right. What is it about this place? There’s something off here…
And there was. Behind the ruins of opulence, behind the idyllic facade of an abandoned arcadia, there was a foreboding air. Maybe it was just the way the ruin and rot looked, or maybe it was something else. He looked back at the gate, and wondered from which side it had been locked.
But there was no turning back now. Or, well, there was, but he’d forever think himself a coward if he didn’t at least try the door.
“Into the unknown, is it?” he murmured to himself.
The main double doors were covered in thorny vines, and he knew there would be no getting through those with his bare hands, soft and delicate as he took pains to keep them. He drew the knife from his bag, but trying to saw at them only showed him they were too thick to cut through. Left to their own devices for so long, they had built an impenetrable wall. He could just about reach through a gap in the thorns to touch the door behind them, run his hand over the carved wood, but that was it.
There had to be other doors.
He climbed down and continued to walk around the building. Maybe he could climb through a window? What windows he could see had shattered panes, and he was half sure he could squeeze himself through if needed, his stature coming in handy for once.
Turning the corner however, it seemed that that would be unnecessary. A much smaller door was set into the wall, and the only thing blocking it was some overgrown grass. Tamping that down was an easy task, and soon enough he found himself with his hand on the knob. “Now, let’s just hope it isn’t locked or I’ll have to find a window.”
The handle turned freely, but the door didn’t budge. Stuck? That would make sense, there had been decades, centuries even, for the wood to be warped by water and tine. Who knew how long it had been since it last opened.
He leaned his weight on it. Nothing. Shoved once, and he got a creak from the hinge. Twice, and it opened a finger’s width. Three times, and he was falling through it as the door swung open.
The sound of his crash to the floor felt like it echoed in the stillness of the house, like he was the only thing that moved within. Well, he probably was. The silence was oppressive, and he found it hard to even breathe too loudly. Something instinctual in him was reluctant to disturb it, like the silence of a tomb.
Zoisite pushed himself off the floor, taking a moment to get his bearings. He’d found himself in a kitchen, judging by the layout and the pots and pans stacked about the place. That once again begged the question of why this place had been abandoned, for everything seemed set out for use, as if the household had simply stepped out for a moment. And, hadn’t this place been abandoned for centuries? There was no way that everything here should have been in as good shape as it was! Sure, things were dusty and faded, but time should have rusted the metal and rotted the fabric and wood to dust.
Zoisite walked through the kitchen, intent on exploring further. If he could find the main part of the house, maybe there would be some clue as to what had happened here, for something was very, very strange about this house. Sure, everything seemed normal enough, but the unnatural stillness unsettled him.
That same sense that everyone would be back in just a moment only grew as he made his way through the dark hallways. Everything was in its place, ready to be used. Nothing had been taken when the place was abandoned, from what he could tell, just laid there all this time. The only confusing thing was how tidy everything was beneath the layers of dust, like someone had organized it all in preparation for a visit.
Zoisite was covered in said dust by the time he made it to what he thought might be an entrance hall, though it was hard to tell, what with the lack of light. A thin beam illuminated the floor beneath a curtain-covered window, but otherwise, the room was almost entirely dark. He went to pull back the heavy curtains, but in doing so, sent up a cloud of dust, making him sneeze.
The sound echoed in the empty room, and he froze, before shaking it off. What am I afraid of? Someone finding me? Yeah, right, he thought. This place is long dead.
Fully pulling open the curtains illuminating the room, allowing sunlight and fresh air to spill in through the broken glass of the window. With this light, meager though it was in comparison to the rest of the room, he could now see that this was indeed some grand hall, opulently furnished and decorated. Gold leaf covered the carvings on the wall, and Zoisite marveled at the fact that no one had dared to take them from the mansion in all these years. Perhaps the stories were a deterrent for more than just children.
One oddity stuck out to him, however: an off-white sheet that had clearly seen better days covering something hanging on the far wall. Maybe a painting? A family portrait, perhaps of those who had owned this place? Well, only one way to find out, Zoisite thought, crossing the room to get a closer look.
Whatever it was, the thing was hung high on the wall, but he could just about reach a corner of the sheet to try and tug it away.
“Don’t touch that,” a voice said—no, growled—from behind him, and Zoisite whirled around to face whoever it was, finding—no one?
He looked around, heart pounding in his chest, but the darkness of the shadows (had they been that dark a moment ago?) hid whoever had spoken.
“I’m… sorry?” Zoisite said tentatively, his thoughts racing. Had the stories been right after all? Was he about to be torn limb from limb and left to rot in the woods? He could just see the shaking heads when the town got the news, could just hear what everyone would say. “Always knew that boy would come to mischief someday,” that would be it. He wanted to laugh hysterically, but somehow managed to take a breath to speak calmly. “I didn’t think anyone lived here, otherwise I’d have asked first.”
From the depths of the shadows, silver eyes reflected the sunlight, like those of a cat. “This place is cursed. You should leave,” said the voice.
Any sensible person would have run screaming at that, but if there was one thing Zoisite had never been called, it was sensible. As always, his curiosity got the better of him, and he just had to ask: “Cursed how, exactly?”
The eyes blinked. Or seemed to, anyway, as the silver shine disappeared for a moment. “I told you to leave.” The sound of the voice was rough, as if from disuse, but also calm and even, not at all the voice of a slavering monster about to rip Zoisite to shreds.
Alright, so I’m probably not about to die here. Well, I have to ask…
“So you’re the monster in those stories, then? You don’t actually eat people, do you?” Zoisite asked, completely ignoring the command to leave.
“...What?” The shadows peeled away from the corner the voice had come from, creeping down the walls and slinking across the floor to pool at the figure’s feet. It was like they were alive, almost.
The figure who had been hidden stared at Zoisite for a moment, giving him a chance to take in who exactly he had been talking to. It was tall, extremely so, and long white hair flowed down over its shoulders, not at all matching the face that seemed to be that of a man in his twenties or thirties. And yet, that face… The room was too dim to make out details, but there was something strange about it—the lines were too sharp to be human, and oh, those eyes. Their sharp silver was not the strangest thing about the creature though, that had to be the scales he could see, revealed in pale patches that stuck out against the dark skin, and the horns that grew from its head.
Perhaps that should have been the first thing he noted, but this was a lot to take in.
“What stories?” It repeated, staring Zoisite down.
He swallowed, wondering for a moment if maybe he should have left when it had said to. “The ones people tell about this place. They say the mansion is cursed, a monster lurks here, and if anyone wanders in, they won’t leave alive.” Should he be giving it ideas?
“Cursed is right,” the creature muttered, looking behind Zoisite for a moment, before focusing that silver gaze on him once more. “If those are the stories they tell, why are you here?”
Zoisite mustered up what he knew to his most winning smile. “Curiosity.”
It stepped forward, but Zoisite refused to back away, even though his heart was still beating out a rapid rhythm. “Were you never taught of the dangers that excessive curiosity brings?”
“Oh, I was, but the lessons didn’t stick.” That was accompanied by a tilt of his head and a grin, an expression sweet enough to have made his father sigh and give up on lecturing him once again about the dangers of playing with fire, or whatever else he’d gotten into that week.
“Hmph.” It stared at him a moment longer, crossing its arms. The position emphasized the musculature he could see beneath the once-lavish but now threadbare clothes. “No, I won’t eat you. I am not in the habit of killing trespassers, despite what the stories may say.”
“Wonderful! Then, can I ask you a few questions?”
“No. Leave.” It turned on its heel, cape swinging behind it and the shadows dogging at its feet. “And don’t touch anything on your way out.”
“At least your name?” Zoisite called after it.
The creature turned back to look at him, capturing him with those hypnotizing eyes once again. “Monsters have no need of names.”
With that, it vanished into the shadows, leaving Zoisite to stand there alone.
Silence filled the vacuum the creature—man?—had left upon vanishing, making the room feel even more desolate and empty than when Zoisite had entered. But, even with the fact he’d been told in no uncertain terms to leave, he couldn’t bring himself to do so immediately, not when he’d been presented with such a tantalizing mystery.
That tone… What to make of it? Where the rest of what had been said to him had been angry or sharp, something had softened on that last reply. It had been quiet, if no less intense than the rest of what had been said, especially when paired with those piercing silver eyes. Wistful? No, that wasn’t it. There had still been a bitter tinge to it, mixed into those few strange words. What was it?
A cold breeze through the open window made him shiver, snapping him out of his reverie, and a quick glance outside reminded him that it was now well into late afternoon. If he didn’t want to be wandering through the woods in the dark, he shouldn’t overstay his welcome. And, despite that he’d been told he had no need to fear for his life in this house, Zoisite still felt more than a touch reluctant to spend the night here. He had no guarantee that the creature wouldn’t change its mind, after all.
His mind was still on those last words as he left the manor, tracing his steps in reverse. He might not be able to figure them out just yet, but he wouldn’t give up.
Monsters have no need of names, huh? We’ll see about that.
A smile played across his lips as he made his way back out through the garden, taking one last look at those thorn-covered doors. No way in hell was he not coming back. This was the most interesting thing to happen to him in years!