Here’s a darkly delicious treat for you: four brief fictions that perfectly encapsulate the romantic horror of the Ghastly Affair role-playing game. Consider each as the macabre setup for some further Affair of Gothic role-playing. Or let them be tiny nightmares to briefly thrill your imagination. Each is a reminder that the worst monsters wear human faces. And if you have not yet tasted the the full feast of Gothic terror that is Ghastly Affair, perhaps these decadent hors d’oeuvres of the literary variety will whet your appetite!

 

The Upper Panes

Likely you were invited to the castle of Lord Dobswood on account of your occult knowledge, and reputation for laying ghosts to rest. No other explanation was given in the Viscount’s letter, but such is the usual reason for a Peer of the Realm to open their door to you. You have never actually met the man, but everyone knows about the tragic death of young Lady Dobswood, who died in her sleep five years into the marriage.

The lonely way to the castle wound through shadow-shrouded woods. You were glad that your valet sat armed with his blunderbuss alongside the coachmen, ready to deal with any highwaymen that should suddenly appear.

It was a gray morning, and now it is a gray afternoon. In the fields beyond the woods the wheat was just stubble, through which the October breeze blew. There was not a single smile to be seen as you passed through the village of Dobswood itself, not even on the youngest face.

The castle stands atop a bare crag, as the end of a narrow road that zig-zags back on itself as it gradually ascends. At the end of that path is a monstrous thing of long-ago centuries – a pile of towers and turrets from various eras, compacted together into a single crumbling mass. It stands like an insult of the benighted past toward the this enlightened age, the relic of times when rough knights rode with blood-stained hands. Your carriage pulls slowly up to the courtyard before the castle, where a weary footman in red livery is waiting.

Looking above the imposing front doors of weathered oak bound in rusted iron, you see the pale face of a young woman in a second-story window. She wears an expression of mingled sorrow and anger, and presses a pillow against the panes – anxiously, as if she needs for you to notice it.

“I find myself embarrassed,” you say to the footman as you exit the coach, “for I was unaware that the Viscount had a new wife.”

“There is no need for apologies,” he replies. “Since the untimely death of the Viscountess five summers past His Lordship has not remarried, nor has he even taken a mistress. Though His Lordship was always anxious for children, the Viscountess could not bear him any. Now there shall never be an heir to the estate, nor to His Lordship’s title.”

The Footman points a finger towards the now empty window where you previously saw the woman.

“She,” he says in a lowered voice verging on a whisper, “will not allow it.”

 

In Twain

The soil is wetter than you would like it to be, but the bodies here are not buried deep. For the money that the recently-arrived doctor promises, you would dig until morning. But you know you shall be done long before then.

Usually you are the one who locates the corpses you provide to your clients, who are happy enough just having some kind of flesh to dissect. But this time, the buyer directed you to the fresh grave of some unfortunate young man slain by his own vices. Why the doctor should want this man in particular you were never told. The doctor is, it seems, a foreigner – and could not possibly be personally acquainted with the target of your work. And with no marker on the grave besides a plain wooden cross, you cannot know the unfortunate’s name.

Now by the light of your lantern you can see that your shovel has cut a worm, its two halves wriggling away from each other. Though the soil is already disturbed and loosened, the moisture of this afternoon’s rain weighs it down. But you persevere and strike wood, just three feet below the surface.

You clear what muck and stones you can from the rickety pine box, and pry it open. You have ready the ropes you will need to slip around the body, to lift it from the grave.

The shroud enclosing the body is already torn. You figure it may be better to remove it altogether, and then bind the body directly.

You finish ripping at the shroud until you can see the corpse within. It is not naked, as you would expect. Its clothes are entirely familiar. But you resist screaming, at least until until the eyes open.

Those eyes you know best of all.

Your own eyes.

 

Mercy

All the other servants have been given their half-day off for Sunday, but you have been summoned to your mistress’ bedchamber before Mass. You are still new here, but you know that the Baroness disciplines unsatisfactory maids by her own hand. You tremble and hold back tears as you knock and open the door – even though you can think of no infraction you have committed.

Inside, the Baroness sits on her bed, still dressed in her white chemise. Her hair and makeup remain undone, but her flawless complexion is the envy of every other woman in the chateau. You have been told by the other maids that Madame is kind, and does not use a whip or birch, as she might. You know what to do next. You curtsy, bow your head, hike up your skirt, and approach to place yourself across her knees. She rises and stops you.

“No, mon chou, you have not done anything wrong,” she says softly, affectionately, and familiarly. “You are here because you have never done anything wrong.”

“I don’t understand, Madame,” you say. “What would you have me do?”

“You are going to help me be beautiful.”

It seems now that the Blessed Mother has answered your nightly prayers. “Yes, Madame,” you say excitedly, “I would like very much to become your new femme de chambre!” Dropping to your knees, you kiss the hem of the Baroness’ chemise, saying “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, Madame!”

The Baroness smiles, slightly. She sits back down on the bed, and pats the mattress to indicate you should sit next to her.

“I have heard that the other servants believe you are unhappy here, and may just run away one Sunday. As you know other young women have.”

“No, Madame, I would nev-” But she silences you with a single elegant finger to your lips.

You notice a tripod table by the bed. Atop it is an empty crystal bowl, such as might be used to wash in the morning. But the Baroness’ wash stand and bidet are in a far corner. Projecting from the nearest wall is a two-legged table, on which is a long-barreled pipe with a peculiar smell.

“Perhaps you would like to light and draw from that pipe. It is loaded with Turkish opium, and I find that it helps me accept those misfortunes I cannot avoid. You should be allowed such a mercy, too.”

“I am confused, Madame. What more comfort do I need, when you have made me so happy?”

The Baroness brushes her fingers softly across the side of your face, and says: “How sad for you that you have no family, and at nineteen are yet unmarried. You remain a virgin, I assume.”

“Of course, Madame!” you reply, as you notice the wavy-bladed dagger next to your mistress’s pillow.

“That is good,” says the Baroness. “Necessary, even.”

 

Refrain

Truly, you love Carlo. If it were not so, this horror would not be happening. Your Carlo always been more than a simple amusement to you, more than the ordinary cavaliere servente. The four of you – Carlo, yourself, your husband, and your husband’s Spanish mistress Flora – are the Venetian ideal. It was your husband that found your Carlo for you, and it is your husband’s money that supports him. You, in turn recommended Flora to your husband. Carlo, with his poetry – and beautiful Flora, with her sad, dark eyes. What happiness it has been: the four of you at the opera, gambling at the Ridotto, and then retiring to your bedchamber with Carlo afterward. And in the morning your husband would always inquire about your night with Carlo, as you ask after his with Flora.

As you wipe the blood from your face with the back of your hand, you think: “It should not have come to this.” But neither you, nor your husband, can stand such betrayal. And so you continue to stab your Carlo, as your husband stabs his Flora. From both side of the bed you bring your knives down upon the two below you, who are together guilty of indulging in the one forbidden thing. And when the sheets have turned from white to red, you approach and kiss your husband, like you have not done since your wedding day. Despite the blood now on his cheeks and mouth, you can see again how handsome he truly is. And with that kiss that tastes like metal, you remember why you consented to marry him in the first place.

“Perhaps we shall go to Dalmatia,” he says, as he wipes the tears from your eyes. “It is beautiful this time of year – filled with poets, and girls with sad, dark eyes.”