Where There Is Nothing

Chapter 5

In the distance, beyond the wild ferns and dying trees, the looming fence that encircled and guarded Grey Towers from would-be intruders revealed itself.

The corroded railings, which had been battered by relentless rain, extended in all directions, much like the branches of the invasive maple tree that had quickly grown into the crevices of the comely oak like an infestation. Mr. Dolling peered around, in hope of encountering someone to open the gate and let him in, yet no one appeared, and as night was beginning to fall, there was no time to turn back to town. He wandered back and forth, as he was inclined to do so when deep in contemplation, and it quickly became evident that there was no more time to waste. He thus determined to find his own way in.

Trudging along the perimeter of the fence, he felt the squelching mud beneath his feet yield to his weight. Each step became a battle, as his boots sank deeper into the mire. The gate had stood as a formidable blockade for centuries, determined to protect Grey Towers from the world's prying eyes. Its incline was too steep to climb, its panels too narrow to accommodate a human form, yet, after a grueling effort, Rev. Dolling's perseverance broke the chains of the gate's resistance, and he erupted into a strained, breathless laughter as he revealed a breach at the fence's rear. With caution, he approached, and, with effort, pried the loose panel, exposing a sizable gap. He gingerly thrust his head through, his contorted body squeezing through the peculiarly shaped aperture. However, his break in did not come without a price; a nearby thorn bush drew blood from his ankle, mixing it with the damp earth beneath.

The battle had been won, or so it seemed, as he found himself within a breathtaking courtyard, with many winding paths, leading to the entrance of the House. Climbing the steps of one such path, he couldn't help but notice the stars, casting streaks across the courtyard. He glanced back at the fence, feeling drained and famished from his ordeal, recalling the townsfolk's dire warnings of his imminent failure. Yet, here he stood, just a few feet away from the House, allowing himself a wan smile. And still, as the building slowly came into focus, the House seemed to swell with size, and imposing beast of a manor that dwarfed everything around it.

Taking a deep breath, he marveled at the structure perched upon the hill. Its exterior, constructed of solid bricks and stones, displayed a blend of white and red hues, each beam adorned with a window looking out at the garden and, more importantly, at the Woods. No curtain obstructed the view, no light spilled from its recesses, it appeared uninhabited, as if wanting for its lost soul to return. Confronted by the grand double doors, he cast one last glance at the Woods that encircled the House, and beheld the splendid scale of the wilderness that encircled them, rendering him insignificant in the vastness.

Rev. Dolling lingered for a moment more before mustering the courage to rap his knuckles upon the door. He waited in silence, the anticipation heavy in the air, for a response, but none came. He pressed his ear closely to the door.

A voice from behind the closed door, called out, "Who goes there?"

"Arthur Dolling," he replied, his voice trembling from the cold.

"Have you any relation to Mr. Svensdotter?"

"No," Mr. Dolling replied.

"Is there something that I can be of assistance with?"

"I think not," Mr. Dolling said, hastily adding, "I've come at the request of your proprietor."

A muffled sound was heard from behind the door, but still it remained shut. "I'm afraid that's impossible!" the voice from within called out.

"Whatever do you mean?" Mr. Dolling asked in confusion.

"The house is empty," the voice replied.

The door slowly creaked open, revealing an empty entryway and dust all around, and despite the darkness, he felt something stirring in the air, as if he had just stepped into something much larger than himself. A long hallway leading to a grand staircase beckoned him to enter. Yet the space was filled with an eerie silence, as if no one has ever been here before.

Confusion and doubt came over him. "Could it be that he had imagined a voice?" he wondered. "Or was there someone hiding in the house? Unthinkable!" Yet he could not help but to consider that, maybe the voice was a figment of his imagination, brought on by his exhaustion, and coupled with the strange atmosphere of the manor it wouldn't be completely irrational that he simply wasn't in his best state of mind.

"Yes," he decided, his imagination had gotten the better of him and there was nothing to fear. He simply needed to rest to regain his composure. He slowly took his first step into the manor and called out, "Is anyone there?" When no response came, he continued to walk further into the hallway. And, turning the corner to his right he entered an open, empty room that overlooked the woods. Cobwebs hung like tinsel from the ceiling and dust blanketed the floor contemptibly asleep, as the window let in soft moonlight to glaze freely up and down. Mr. Dolling stood in the center of the room, taking in the the scene around him. He noticed a large fireplace in one corner of the room, with a mantelpiece adorned with a few framed photographs and a vase with freshly-cut flowers. The furniture was sparse, but the few pieces that were present— a small table and chairs, a couch, and a cabinet—were of the finest craftsmanship.

Not wanting to disturb the scene further, Mr. Dolling made his way to the door and and up the staircase to the second floor. The steps, fashioned from a robust foreign wood, exuded a resilient quality and bore a hue of deep mahogany, that reminded him of the orchards in Vienna. As he continued his ascent, he came upon a fork in the stairway, an impasse that prompted him to veer left. Upon approaching the summit, he espied a glimpse of a portrait, encased in a blue frame, depicting an extravagantly garbed gentleman, one hand clutching a hunting riffle while the other was nestled in his trouser pocket. While behind him, some distance removed, a sunrise cast its mellow light on a verdant patch.

Before him stood the painting, and he found himself rooted to the spot, powerless to move as he beheld the delicate brushstrokes that adorned the canvas. His gaze lingered over the horizon, drawn into the subtle blend of hues that had been so expertly applied. Entranced, he lost himself in the painting, following the gentle flow of texture with his eyes until he once again arrived at the small patch of greenery in the distance. In this moment, he felt as if he had been transported to another realm, one that was both serene and surreal, where time seemed to stand still and the only reality was the painting before him.

As he stood there, spellbound by the painting's ethereal beauty, as if awoken from a trance, Mr. Dolling felt a sudden jolt that shattered the reverie. He realized with a start that his forehead had been pressed against the canvas, leaving him with a throbbing ache that felt as if he had been struck repeatedly. His hand rose to his brow, causing him to flinch, and winced at the sight of his fingertips, stained with dried blood.

Outside, a storm raged on, it's fury echoing loud thunderous sounds through the manor's halls with a ferocity that matched his racing heart. What had happened? Why was he bleeding all of a sudden? He pondered, flinging up his head and slowly turning away with angry determination to conquer the fear that had befallen over his curiosity, he turned his back to the painting, his gaze resolute, as he would not be swayed by unknown terrors that lurked within the shadows.

Along the passage he strode, each step echoing with a purposeful rhythm that reflected the force of his will. Although the fear still clung to him like a shroud, he willed his heart to beat calmly and his mind to clear. And as he reached the door at the end of the hallway, there, he finds a room unlike any he has ever seen. The walls are lined with strange antiques of Middle Eastern descent, each one more ornate and exotic than the last. The air thick with the scent of sandalwood and myrrh, coming from the intricately carved wooden chests with brass fittings, silver candelabras with flickering candles, and gilded mirrors with filigree frames. In the center of the room stands a large, white bed, its satin sheets and full cushions made of soft feathers inviting him to come closer.

For a moment, Mr. Dolling hesitates, his heart beating fast anew with a mix of fear and fascination. But then he steps forward, drawn towards the bed as if by some unknown force. And as he climbs onto the soft mattress, he feels a strange sense of peace wash over him.

Slowly, he drifts off into a dream, the sounds of the storm outside fading away as he sinks deeper into the soft embrace of the bed. In his dreams, he sees visions of far-off lands and exotic adventures, of beautiful princesses and fierce warriors, of love and loss and triumph over adversity. And through it all, the bed remains a constant presence, a haven of comfort and safety in a world that is full of danger and uncertainty.