The ancient House of Balmour stood silent and imposing under a moonlit sky, its weathered stone facade and skeletal turrets dancing under the glow of flickering gaslights. Despite the recent advances in electricity, the Balmour's were an old and proud family, captains of industry yet slow to adapt to the modernity brought by the roaring twenties. The mansion was a relic of a bygone age with its rusted iron gates, leering gargoyles and tangle of gnarled trees. Tonight however, the estate was alive with the clack of heels, the rustle of silk gowns, the clink of fine crystal and the murmur of clandestine whispers. It was an era of intrigue, spectacle and excess and James and Daphne Balmour, the most glittering couple of the season, hosted a Halloween soirée that promised to deliver just that.
As guests arrived in their carefully curated costumes of feathers, pearls and sequins, two figures stood apart from the throngs of excited party-goers; the Aristocrat and his scandalous bride. Wealthy, powerful, and cloaked in rumors of tragic deaths and illicit affairs, the gossip only furthered the public's interest in the couple. James Balmour, son and heir to great fortune and influence, stood tall and silent, his darkly handsome features stern and cold. The only warmth to be found in his demeanor was when he looked upon the woman at his side; Daphne. Warmth was perhaps, too gentle a description. James's hand often tightened about his wife's waist if a gentleman lingered too long in her presence. His dark eyes gleamed cruelly in challenge, his mouth twisting into an approximation of a smile. The message was clear to any who dared approach. Daphne was his and his alone.
A vision of beauty and grace, the new Lady Balmour treated their guests with a dazzling smile and welcoming words, her charm a balm to James's incivility. Alluring in a daring gown of glittering golden sequins and plunging neckline, Daphne presented herself as the epitome of a modern woman, standing in stark contrast to her austere husband. Her only concession was the famous Balmour emerald, securely fastened around her slender neck. Said to have belonged to Kings and conquerors, the priceless emerald had somehow found its way to a girl from Wimbledon. As if in disbelief herself, Daphne's fingers often crept to stroke the facets of the enormous jewel, a look of mesmerized wonder on her face.
The air was thick with the scent of fine whisky, exotic perfumes and anticipation. The opulent splendor of the mansion had undergone a mysterious transformation. The crystal chandeliers were turned low, gilt mirrors draped in gauzy scarlet cloths. Thick rugs blanketed the marble floors and velvet draperies were pulled tight against the evening chill. Dark, macabre paintings with ghastly wraiths and ghouls replaced the lurid, surrealist portraits that were so in vogue. Many a young lady reclined in the newly shadowed corners of the parlor with their smelling salts until they recovered their sensibilities.
Balmour's famed ballroom however, was closed this evening. James and Daphne had lured their guests with the promise of a different sort of spectacle than the glitz and glamor normally boasted by their peers. Tonight, on All Hallow's Eve they would attempt to part the veil between the living and the dead. A whimsical lark to be sure, a new game to amuse the bored elite of London's High Society. Yet the scheduled entertainment seemed to promise something darker. Perhaps it was the rich whisky or the pungent cigar smoke in the air. Maybe it was the cool tendrils of mist that had crept about the house or the ominous rumble of an approaching storm. Perhaps the enthusiastic decorator had overdone herself. Whatever the reason, the assembled guests grew restless, a frenetic energy building, cloying and unbearable.
At the stroke of midnight, the shrouded Solarium doors burst open. The candles guttered in their sconces as a chill wind swept the room. A gasp rushed through the party as the guest of honor finally appeared, cloaked and framed in the doorway, swathed in layers of midnight velvet and crimson silk. A hush descended upon the room as she stepped forward and beckoned to the crowd with a ghostly pale hand, only her arresting green eyes visible above a half veil. "Good evening brave travelers," she crooked a single finger in invitation, "who will venture into the unknown with me?" Still as a portrait she stood, awaiting a reply.
"Ahem," James stepped forward, gesturing to the mysterious woman. "May I introduce the infamous Madame Sura, our Medium for this evening." His eyes traced her veiled features with curiosity but she paid him no mind as her eyes darted about the room, glittering with the promise of a Halloween thrill.
"The Madame Sura? The one who helped the Lennox lad find his lost fortune?" a portly gentleman asked.
"I heard he went mad with grief when his mistress was found with the gold," whispered a young lady who received a sharp poke from her chaperone.
The Madame in question bowed her head graciously. "Many tales have been told during my brief time in London, I will leave you to divine what is true and what is false." A loud crack of thunder rattled the house as she stepped forward, lightning illuminating the woman like a spectre. "I ask again, who will venture with me into the great unknown? Who here does not fear what may wait beyond the veil?" Her voice, a whisper of silk and secrets, nonetheless carried a challenge. She beckoned once again and they followed, like lambs to a slaughter.
The Solarium lights had been extinguished, eschewing the crystal chandeliers for low burning tapers that melted upon every surface save one; a round, smoked glass table inked with a seven pointed star. At its center lay a gilded dagger and an ornate chalice filled with a dark liquid. The guests lined the edges of the Solarium, perched on divans or settees, settled in chairs or huddled in anxious groups giving the mystical tableau a wide berth. Young ladies nervously fidgeted with their necklaces or clung to the arm of a beau while the men shifted about in their black oxfords fiddling with pocketwatches or cigarettes. Lush ferns and fronds, fragrant citrus trees and exotic flora mingled with the bejeweled guests and candles, reflecting in the dome of glass, appearing for all the world like some glittering jungle landscape out of a playwright's fevered dream.
"Welcome seekers of the unseen," Madame Sura gestured expansively to the room, "tonight we dance upon the edges of eternity, when the veil between our world and the next is at its thinnest." Her voice came out in gossamer strands, weaving an inescapable spell.
"Bloody brilliant actress isn't she?" One man elbowed his companion in good natured humor. "Not bad to look at either." His face paled, matching his flaxen hair when the Medium skewered him with her piercing green eyes.
"Perhaps you would care to be our first volunteer," she gestured to one of seven empty seats at the large table.
"Cheers." Clearing his throat he introduced himself as he sat gingerly upon the chair, fingers tangled in his lap. "Ah, Thomas Ashleigh, Viscount of Whitehill." He unbuttoned his dinner jacket, yanking nervously at his bow tie.
Madame Sura drifted through the glittering peerage who shrank from her regard like naughty school children. First a Lady; Eugenia Delafontaine Baroness of Thorp, then an Earl; Harold Smythe, fell under her spell and were seated at the table. Next a Widow; Miriam Leighton, Countess of Harewood and finally the hosts; the Marquess and Marchioness of Lytton, James and Daphne. Was it a coincidence that every seat at the table was filled by a relation of the Balmour's?
Heavy silence enveloped the room as the Medium took the seventh and final chair, each participant positioned at a vertex of the golden star. Slowly and deliberately Madame Sura removed her veil, alabaster skin, raven hair and scarlet lips dancing hypnotically through the shadows. With a flourish that drew a cry from her spectators, the young woman drew the ceremonial knife across her palm, spilling her blood into the chalice.
The volunteers sat stiffly, faces pallid in the candlelight. Daphne's eyes widened, her fingers clenched tightly about the emerald at her neck as Eugenia's lip curled in disgust. Miriam's dark eyes glittered, lips twisting into a cruel smile and Thomas chuckled nervously thinking this Halloween game was turning out to be a bit more gruesome than he had bargained for. Harold leered at the Madame, eyes raking over her generous curves and James remained as stoic as ever, unfazed by the spilled blood.
"Ladies, please remove your gloves, gentlemen remove your rings." A servant came round to collect the items, the mundanity of the activity seeming to calm their ruffled nerves. The young Medium leaned forward, emerald eyes glowing in a flash of lightning. "For this one night I ask you to suspend your disbelief," her long fingers hovered over the chalice, sprinkling a fine powder into the cup, "this is a night to achieve the impossible." Tendrils of fog rose from the chalice, spreading greedy fingers across the smoky glass, tumbling down about their ankles and blanketing the Solarium floor.
"Place your hands upon the table, fingers touching just like so." The Medium demonstrated with her own hands, both little fingers touching those of her neighbors to either side. When the last hands were joined, they gasped in unison as a rush of cold energy raced through them. The smoky topped table pearled with frost, chasing anxious hands.
Daphne's breath hitched, "James what's happening?"
"It's alright Darling, it's part of the show," he assured her, not for a moment believing any of it was real. When Daphne attempted to lift her hands away, not at all feeling reassured, James snarled, "Do not remove your hands!" He felt the force of a hundred pairs of eyes bear down upon him. Leaning forward he softened his tone, "Sweetheart, we don't want to spoil everyone's fun now, do we?" He spoke as if to a child, a smile on his lips that did nothing to dispel the chill in his gaze. "It's merely parlor tricks."
Madame Sura leaned forward, menace in her gaze and steel in her voice, "suspend your disbelief or you will pay a heavy price."
The smile fell from his face, "I can afford the cost without any hardship," he boasted.
"Not every debt can be paid with gold, James Balmour."
He scoffed as if the idea of anything being beyond his wealth was utterly ludicrous.
"What price?" A rancorous voice asked from the other side of the table. Eugenia's watery blue eyes peered at her companions, as if she too believed nothing was beyond the power of her money.
"Everything has a price, does it not?" The Medium's lips curled into a chilling smile, "what use have the dead for riches?" The rime covered the table completely now, biting into their tender fingers. As the pain registered, each attempted to remove their hands only to realize they were well and truly stuck. In horror they gazed upon the Madame as her smile grew wider, "the dead are paid in secrets," the smile turned sinister, "in truth." Her own hands were firmly wreathed in ice, affixed to the table alongside them. "Lie to a spirit, and you will regret it." Madame Sura leaned forward inhaling the billowing fog from the Chalice, sucking in deep, gusty lungfuls. Her raven hair splayed in gossamer waves as she suddenly slumped forward on the table, verglas creeping across her cheek.
"Did she die?" Everyone leaned forward, hands still fused. "Bloody inconvenient time to die, you know?" Harold barked. "Pity too," he eyed the long graceful curve of her neck.
Thomas reeled back with a barely contained shriek as Madame Sura arched back in the chair. Her shoulders trembled, chest heaving and head whipping back and forth in a grotesque display that should have snapped her neck. Screams echoed about the Solarium as the seizure grew more violent, some even daring to rush forward in an attempt to contain her. Two men leaped back as she grew rigid, a deep, resonant voice tumbling from her lips. "Ancient spirits, heed my call! From shadows dark and night's deep thrall, I summon thee!" Head flung back she wailed to the lightning-split sky, "A truth I promise, a secret unbound, from lying tongues who've forsaken the sound!"
Shrieks echoed about the glass room as all went dark and the ground quaked. With a defeating crash, the Solarium doors slammed shut, sealing them in the room. "I don't think this is a ruddy parlor trick, James!" Miriam screamed above the din. Lightning pierced the black, illuminating horrified, wide eyed faces. Suddenly, all fell ominously still.
"The deal is struck," Madame Sura breathed into the oppressive silence as she eased back in her chair, hands still bound. Her six companions tugged frantically, to no avail as the fog thickened and billowed into a plume at the center of the table. The column grew until it touched the lofty ceiling. Searing white light flashed and an orb appeared, slender, ethereal tendrils drifting through the air. "It...it's beautiful," Daphne breathed, transfixed by the angelic light. Her wonder was cut short as the tendrils shot out, clamping around each and every one of their throats.
Terrified tears coursed down Miriam's face, "what's happening?" she choked around the vice on her neck.
A sibilant hiss issued from the orb; "Truth I was promised and truth I shall take, Widow Maker."
Miriam trembled, eyes wide with terror. "No I...no! How could you possibly know?" The fog contorted into a man's wailing face, "Reg? Oh god, is that you?" A bloated tongue appeared, hissing and spitting large black globs onto the table. The widow thrashed and bucked as the dark blots grew eight spindly legs and skittered towards her. "No! I didn't do it!" She wailed, the heavy table rocking with her attempts to escape.
"Tongues that deceive and falsely speak, shall find their doom, a price most steep," Reginald's bloated face spat back at her.
The inky spiders crept onto Miriam's frozen hands and trembling arms, they crawled across her chest and flowed up her neck. "NO!" She screeched, elbows popping loudly under the tremendous strain of her thrashing. A spider crested her bottom lip, "Fine! I did it!, I killed him, I killed them both! Reginald and Peter!" The spider slipped into her mouth, "NO! AHHH, I poisoned them!" She coughed and choked as the spiders streamed into her mouth and down her throat. Her spine cracked ominously as she bucked wildly until her hands released from the table, large swaths of bloody skin left behind. The spiders disappeared in a puff of smoke as Miriam sank to the floor sobbing and retching, her sequined headband skewed and her gray hair matted with cold sweat.
"Murderer..." floated in the air as the guests were torn between morbid fascination and terror.
Madame Sura watched silently, an eager smile stretching her lips. A new face appeared in the smoke, neck bent at an impossible angle, blood dripping in a lurid pool upon the frosted table. Rheumy eyes turned to look at an ashen faced young lord. "Oh god, I'm so sorry," he sobbed. "I didn't mean to, I swear! It was an accident!" A rotting arm pierced the smoke, wrapping tightly about the young man's throat. "Father, please!" He whimpered as the grip grew tighter. "I needed the money! They were going to kill me!" Maggots writhed in open festering wounds upon the arm, falling to the floor and bursting into putrid piles of slime. They wriggled upon the table and spilled upon the Lord's chest, sizzling through the fine silk of his waist coat, searing the skin beneath. Thomas's screams grew hoarse as the sickly stench of burning flesh filled the air. Eyes rolling back in his head, he slumped in his chair in a dead faint.
One by one, the spirit dragged reluctant truths from their mouths; Miriam's cold murders of her husbands, Eugenia's false accusations leading to the death of a servant, Harold's depraved deeds as face after beautiful face appeared in the mist, contorted into wails of agony and betrayal. Thomas's wicked fratricide to pay his gambling debts- all the sins that festered beneath their polished surfaces. The room grew thick with the blood of revelation, secrets spilling like an overturned inkwell, staining the air.
Then, it turned to Daphne. Mouth trembling, her face a mask of grief, rage and despair, she thrashed wildly in her chair as a tendril of the white light she had found so beautiful reached for her. The spirit had no face to torment her with, instead reaching deep into her mind, ripping from her the terrible heartache and truth she had kept hidden; her lost innocence, her secret pregnancy and the miscarriage she had mourned in silence...with Gabriel. The man who had come before. She dissolved into hysterics.
Rather than the expected rage or disgust however, a look of fear broke through James's cold stoicism as the spirit finally turned upon him. His dark eyes darted between his wife and the face appearing in the mist. Strong, handsome features surrounding brilliant blue eyes and golden hair smiled down at her. Daphne rocked back from the table, her mouth stretched in a silent scream. His beautiful bronze skin purpled with bruises, eyes growing rheumy with decay. Blood spewed from his mouth and streamed onto the table, pouring into James's lap. Daphne stared at her husband in dawning horror. "All this time..."
"Daphne, I-I can explain." He wrenched at the table, desperate to free his hands, to touch his wife. "Please I-"
"I thought he left me...YOU SAID HE LEFT ME!" She bucked wildly, spit flying from her mouth. "YOU MURDERING BASTARD, I LOVED HIM!"
"You are mine Daphne! MINE! He couldn't give you the life you deserved. He didn't love you the way I do." His voice trembled as she glared at him. "I saved you, Daphne. You don't know what he was really like. You were always meant to be with me." Daphne closed her eyes, unable to look at him any longer.
James whipped around in his seat with panic in his eyes, confronting the source of all their grief. "Why? WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS?" He bellowed at the Medium.
Slowly, she rose to her feet, leaning forward until she was mere inches from his face. A strange, triumphant smile played upon her lips. "Take a good look at me, James Balmour. Take a look at the life you ruined."
Confusion etched his face as he stared at her in incomprehension. "I don't even know y..." His words fell flat as his face drained of every ounce of color. "Ch...Chantelle..."
"What was it you told me that day when I came to you begging for help?"
"No, I...No! I was just a child!"
"SO WAS I!" She roared. "I was eight years old when I came, begging you to help my mother!"
"I was only twelve...how could I..."
"You wouldn't even ask your father, OUR father! She died James, because of you! We were on the streets because of you!" She screamed in his face. Daphne sat as one dead by his side. "Do you have any idea of the things we had to do to survive?" James stared at her, completely at a loss for words. "Tell me again what you said that day?"
James shook his head vehemently.
"SAY IT!"
Spittle coated his face and still he continued to shake his head, too much of a coward to utter the words aloud. "I- I don't remember." His voice trembled.
"Liar..." the mist hissed as another face appeared, one with raven dark hair and glittering green eyes. The beautiful woman, rotted in place, chunks of flesh falling into Jame's lap.
"Shall I remind you then?"
James trembled in revulsion and terror, twisting in an attempt to dump the rotting flesh from his lap. He shook his head once more.
Chantelle leaned even closer, her lips a breath away from his ear. "Go die in the gutter with your whore of a mother." His dark eyes closed as if unable to face the truth of his own words. "And that's exactly what I did, James. My mother died and so did I. Whatever good and decent part was left died that day."
She sank back into her chair as if every ounce of energy had deserted her. "You said that to your sister."
"Half sis-"
"I am still your flesh and blood!"
Daphne began her frantic tugging once more, throwing all of her weight into the action. James slumped, a look of utter defeat on his face. "You've ruined me." He glanced around at his peers, at the cold judgment on their faces.
"You ruined yourself," Chantelle replied, her hands now free as she had uttered her truth. "You took my family," she gestured around the table, "and in return, I have ruined yours." The mist began to recoil, the light slowly dimming. "My revenge is complete."
"But...mine...is...NOT!" Daphne freed her hands with a cry. Swift as a snake she snatched up the ceremonial knife and buried it in James's throat. Blood spurted in a great arc, splattering the table, the guests, the ceiling...and the Chalice.
Chantelle leaped to her feet, "What have you done!"
James clutched his neck, gurgling at the swell of blood. It cascaded over his fingers and dripped from his mouth. "But- But...I...love...you." His wife's hatred was palpable. Raw fury marred her beautiful face as he tipped forward onto the table, blood gushing from the mortal wound. His face grew slack, cold eyes growing even colder in death.
Daphne yanked the knife out, blood coating her hands and face and gown, a perfect portrait of gore. She gazed about the room with a wild look in her eye. Chantelle was frozen in shock, oblivious to the roiling goblet and swelling plume. "What is your wish, child?" A much deeper voice asked of Daphne this time.
The gored spattered woman looked from Miriam to Thomas, Harold to Eugenia and then finally to her dead husband. She looked and she saw the monsters that had grown from greed and privilege, the monstrous House of Balmour. "Revenge," she whispered. "What is your price?"
Chantelle clutched her chest, unable to utter a word as Daphne made a deal with a devil.
"My price is as it ever was; a truth for a lie and I will harken to thee."
"I accept," Daphne breathed as the goblet exploded in a billow of smoke. Screams rent the air as a gale force wind swept the room. A monstrous face appeared with a forked tongue, two twisted horns and eyes burning with the depths of hell. Guests raced to the Solarium doors, pounding and bettering frantically as they sensed what was about to come.
Daphne gazed at the hellbeast with a strange sense of calm on her face. "Both my truth and my lie are one and the same." She stretched out her forearm, placing the knife against her skin. "I never loved my husband."
"Wait Daphne, what are you doing!" Chantelle reached for the woman but it was too late. With a cry she dragged the knife across her wrist in a savage swipe. Teetering forward she flung her wrist across the Chalice, draining her life into the cup. "Oh god," Chantelle breathed as the demon exploded in size, sparks flying.
Daphne draped herself on the table as if she were merely laying down for a nap. With great effort she turned her head, gazing up at the trembling Medium. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, true remorse shining on her face. "You deserved better than this...sister." Tears streamed down Chantelle's face, as she wiped the blood from Daphne's face with trembling fingers, grieving what could have been. With one last Herculean effort Daphne looked up at the demon, "Burn it down," she whispered.
"The deal is struck!" It roared gleefully as sparks began to fly. Tables were overturned and chairs broken as people stampeded the doors. Several attempted to smash through the glass walls. Chantelle backed away in panic, wondering how everything could have gone so horribly wrong. The drapes caught fire and the plants curled and withered. Gowns and suits sparked and flamed, jewels grew waxy and the glass grew hazy and distorted from the heat. Smoke filled the room and Chantelle dropped to the floor, crawling on her hands and knees. A blast of cool air swept the room as the Solarium doors were finally broken down.
Inch by inch she crawled over the corpses of those who had suffocated. Wooden beams cracked and unearthly screeches polluted the air, a song of torment, of the dead and dying. Making it to the hall she climbed to her feet and stumbled through the front doors of the mansion.
She did not join the crowd on the lawn. She did not stop until the manor was a blaze on the horizon. Chantelle allowed herself one look back. One look at the revenge she had spent a lifetime on. She was never seen again. So ended the Mighty and Wicked House of Balmour.