Chapter 4

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Without waiting for his answer, the butler stepped out, walked to the opposite side of the motorcar, and opened Arthur's door. He reached out a hand and took the boy by the back of his neck.

While this was happening, the youth couldn't twitch so much as a finger. All of a sudden, Mr. Fetcher was giving off the aura of a terrible predator --- the personable, middle-aged butler had vanished to somewhere unknown and a black shadow, in the shape of a man, had taken his place.

Arthur felt his numb legs straightening underneath him as he was picked up and put down --- it was a wonder they didn't immediately fold, like wet cardboard. There was a faint buzz underneath his skin, like countless ants, and he felt lightheaded.

A hand was pressed lightly but firmly against his back, and when he blinked, he found himself standing outside, in the misty drizzle. He looked, glassy eyed, at the cobblestone path that snaked into the fog --- tall, manicured rose-bushes (dotted with white flowers) grew on either side, and he couldn't see over them.

He walked along the path, like someone possessed, until he found himself staring up at the manor; the structure was so large that it faded into the mist, and he had a feeling that what he'd seen was only a glimpse of the entire thing --- it was a multi-storied, gothic structure, with dark-tiled roofs and slanting eaves. Carved figures were perched there, and he could vaguely see their devilish, twisted faces.

A tall pair of wooden doors were half open, but there was no light coming from inside. He felt the attraction of that passage --- it drew him in like a vortex, and he felt his feet moving. It only took a moment for him grasp the doors in his hands; they felt cool and solid in his grip, and there were many thin, spiraling lines under his fingertips. He went in.

The inside was very dim; he could make out some of the portal's interior --- there was a rug under his feet and a table against the wall. On it, a few objects rested --- vases that gleamed with a dull copper hue, and with flowers inside them: they were oxblood roses, so deeply colored that they looked black. Next to the table, a rack stood, with many sharp, hook-like pegs. Arthur took off his cap and blazer and hung them up.

He walked until he came to the atrium --- it was so large that it reminded him of a ballroom he'd once visited (he was attending a function at the time). Many, many things hung from the walls: portraits, landscapes, tapestries, old weapons, regalia and paraphernalia. He couldn't quite make out the details in the gloom, but they gave him an antique impression, like they belonged in a museum.

There was a marble staircase at the far end, following along the wall in a clockwise fashion. It disappeared somewhere above his head, and he couldn't see the end, even if he strained his neck.

His eyes flicked from left to right and he saw two hallways --- the one on the left was completely black, with only a white, gauzey curtain fluttering there. He couldn't see the other side even if he squinted. The other was lit, with a lantern hanging near the middle. He could see the far end ---- it opened into another room, which was lit also. Only a sliver was visible but, judging from the way shadows were cast against the wall, it must've had a fireplace. He took the path on the right without hesitation.

He heard the sound of his footsteps against the carpeted floor. He knew there was wood underneath --- it didn't creak, but he felt a hollowness under his feet. His walking didn't echo; it was muffled in a way that made him feel as if he had cotton stuffed in his ears --- neither was anyone walking behind him. What had become of the butler, he had no idea.

When Arthur had passed the midpoint, and the lantern was behind him, it suddenly went out. The corners of his vision dimmed, and he felt a pit forming in the bottom of his stomach. He hurriedly increased his pace; the sound of his feet landing on the carpet was unbearably loud. He could feel his heart beating in his throat as he made for the end of the hallway.

When he finally stumbled into the room, he realized he'd been holding his breath. He inhaled deeply through his nose, feeling the cold air rushing into his lungs. He immediately stepped to the side --- he didn't want that gaping tunnel at his back.

He looked around. The spacious room had two doors, which were both closed. A large, stone fireplace was embedded into the wall --- inside it, a small flame was flickering, feeding on something that looked like charcoal.

He noted three upholstered couches --- patterned fabric had been drawn over their polished, wooden frames and they had many small, stuffed pillows with shining buttons.

A low table was positioned in the middle of the room and few gilded teacups sat on top of a luxurious tablecloth, which had been draped over the flat, wooden surface; there was a matching teapot, also.

Arthur had a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, like he'd missed something. He looked again, and, out of the corner of his eye, something caught his attention. Near one of the doors, there stood a large grandfather clock. Its pendulum was slowly swaying, and there were spirals drawn on its surface.

The closer he looked, the more complicated the pattern seemed, and the more it drew him in. It was only a sense of wrongness in his chest that prevented his spirit from leaving his body, and being sucked into that infinite spiral, or so he felt.

His eyes slowly moved away from the mechanism, seeing, for the first time, what he'd thought to be a curtain, cascading to the ground ---- but, in fact, it was no curtain, it was a woman in a dress, standing next to the clock! If Arthur's veins hadn't been frozen solid, he'd surely have jumped out of his skin.

His pupils were wide and dark in his skull as he stared, petrified, at her face --- it was impossible to tell her age; she could've been anywhere from fifty to seventy years old. The reason he hadn't noticed her until now was because she seemed completely and utterly lifeless --- it was as if she was an embalmed corpse, a human who had been stuffed and made into a doll to be part of some morbid collection.

When she moved, he felt the vitality draining from his body --- he had become a husk, empty of life, just like the woman. She drifted over the floor until she had a couch behind her, then she descended noiselessly onto it.

"Close the door." She said, in a voice that had a strange thin, unpleasant quality. Her accent was British, but with a foreign undertone.

Arthur stuck out a hand like an automaton and closed off the hallway. 'German.' He noted, in some far-off corner of his mind.

The woman extended a pale, bloodless hand and poured herself a cup of tea. She added milk and sugar before bringing the steaming cup to her face. Her faded, rust-brown eyes stared at Arthur over its rim.

This gesture of 'normalcy' did nothing for the youth's nerves. There was something seriously off about her person; he'd not been convinced that she even was one. She gave him a feeling of emptiness, like she was only a shell of chemically treated human skin and hair.

"Sit." She commanded, when it became clear he wouldn't be moving from his position without input.

Arthur took a seat across from her. He found that he couldn't disobey her, nor could he look away from her eyes. It didn't particularly disturb him --- at some point, his emotions had reached a sort of impassable threshold, like the mercury inside a thermometer.

He heard "Have some tea." so he did. He poured a cup of the strong-smelling, black liquid for himself and added a dash of milk. He took a sip, tasting the bitterness of the brew.

The woman sat there silently, maintaining eye-contact and watching him. He didn't get the impression that she was waiting for him to say something; rather than that, he felt like he was being quietly analysed.

He observed her through his peripheral vision --- she was beautiful, in an artificial sort of way, and without wrinkles. However, her skin seemed very thin and tightly drawn over her bones, like parchment that had been scraped clean too many times --- it simultaneously revealed and masked her age. Her hair was a pale blonde that looked washed out; on the verge of grey.

When he realized he could move his mouth, he greeted her on auto-pilot. "I'm Arthur Webb. It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am." He said softly. His throat was completely dry, despite the tea.

It took a long time for her to reply. By the time she did, Arthur was already halfway done with his tea. "You are Arthur Webb no longer. From now on, you are a Grimm." She said. Something about her accent made it seem as if they were partaking in an ancient ritual, one that'd been passed down through the ages.

Arthur suddenly had the thought of refusing, but he found that it was impossible. "…alright." He said simply, his own voice betraying him.

The woman didn't nod or give any sort of reaction. She continued drinking her tea, staring at him with emotionless eyes that wouldn't have looked out of place in a mortuary or a taxidermy boutique. When they'd both finished their beverages, she spoke at last. "Fetcher." She called, raising her voice by only the slightest amount.

They sat in continued silence, waiting for the butler to show up. It was a minute-and-a-half later when one of the doors opened (the same one Arthur had entered through), and for the figure of Mr. Fetcher to be revealed. He looked the same as when Arthur had last seen him, like a shadow wearing a person's skin --- which, now that he thought about it, couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes ago, but felt to him like a dreadfully long period of time.

"You called, Madam?" The butler asked, inclining his head toward the woman on the couch.

The old ghost put down her cup and rose to her feet. "We have finished with our tea. You may take him to his room." She commanded, not waiting for him to reply before she turned and drifted out of the open door. It only took a moment for her to vanish down the dark hallway.

The scene gave Arthur goosebumps. From beginning to end, she hadn't made so much as a single sound --- he hadn't heard footsteps, nor even the rustling of her dress.

Mr. Fetcher looked to where she'd disappeared before taking a step forward and putting a hand on Arthur's shoulder. Like a step-child who'd suffered abuse for many years, the youth was beyond the point of resistance. He let himself be guided out of the room and into the long hallway, like a puppet under Mr. Fetcher's control.

The serious, but pleasant fellow who'd chatted with his mother at the station and during the car ride was nowhere to be seen --- Arthur wondered if he'd ever existed in the first place. The butler walked a step behind him, so he couldn't see him without turning his head. The only visible part of him was his gloved hand, which laid on his shoulder like a burning shackle.

The only sound that the boy could hear was his own footsteps --- a terrible thought appeared in his mind: 'What if he'd been behind me all the while, but I just hadn't realized it?' He wondered, thinking back to when he'd first entered the manor. He had been under some sort of spell, and hadn't even considered looking over his shoulder. The idea of that devil looming over him the entire time was enough to stop his heart.

When they re-entered the atrium, Arthur felt the pressure on his shoulder change, guiding him toward the marble staircase. He numbly observed the room as he walked --- there were many things he'd missed; the glass cabinets, for one. It really was very dim in here, so it was no wonder there were things he hadn't seen. The cases were full of shadowy shapes, items that were difficult to identify. He imagined seeing something that looked like a broken part of an old machine --- he had no clue what it'd once been or what its purpose was.

A different compartment, made from a dark, opaque type of glass (like a chemist's bottle), contained something more recognizable: it was a sculpted human arm from the elbow down, resting on a pedestal. The surface was dull, like it was made out of clay, but he couldn't be sure. There was something strange about it, though --- it had six fingers; a second thumb, on the opposite side of its palm.

They were at the staircase now, so he couldn't continue his scrutinizing of the room's miscellanea. 'The floor is carpeted, but this isn't.' He thought as he put his foot onto the first step. When his heel made a solid 'click' against its smooth surface, he felt sudden dread pooling in his stomach. However, he couldn't stop --- his body wasn't his to control. His other foot went to the second step --- he started climbing the staircase.

When he came to the fifth step, his hopes were completely and utterly dashed. Without turning his neck, his eyes flicked to the glove that had been resting on his shoulder all the while. If there'd been a second pair of footsteps behind him, then he'd have heard them by now!

A wave of fear struck him, and he felt his consciousness blurring --- his vision turned completely black. For an indeterminate amount of time, he drifted in a state of limbo. When he came to, he found himself halfway up the staircase. 'I blacked out.' He realized. It was all too much for him, yet, somehow, he didn't panic, not outwardly, at least. He couldn't burst into tears, not could he hyperventilate, not even if he tried. The part that was 'him' was under too much pressure, like he'd been submerged at the bottom of the ocean. He had become a tiny, curled up ball, somewhere inside his own body.

When his existential crisis had neared its end, he found himself at the top of the staircase, standing in the middle of another hallway. It was wide enough that two people could walk side-by-side without their shoulders touching. There were long windows on the opposite wall --- they were rectangular, ending in a half-crescent shape toward the top. Gray light filtered through the thin curtains covering them --- it was terribly bleak, but it was enough for him to see by.

When the glove applied pressure, steering him toward the right, he started moving again. He lost count of how many closed doors they passed (not because there were too many to count, but because his mind couldn't manage to keep hold of the number). When he felt five fingertips digging into his shoulder, he halted and turned. In front of him was a door so sinister in appearance that it seemed to have been carved by Mephistopheles himself. There was a seductive aura about it, like it couldn't wait to be opened.

A voice 'spoke' from behind him. "This will be your room. Make yourself at home --- I will return for you, come dinnertime. Until then, you are to remain inside your quarters." It said.

Arthur didn't know what it sounded like, other than that it didn't sound very much at all like Mr. Fetcher. 'He's not even hiding it anymore.' A small, quiet voice said, somewhere in the corner of his mind.

Abruptly, the door swung open on its own, without so much as a single creak. Arthur didn't even wonder how such a thing was possible --- however, during his brief examination, he had detected an anomaly: it was without a doorknob, nor did it have any other visible method of unfastening.

The hand gently detached itself from his shoulder, one finger at a time. The thumb lingered against his collarbone for a long moment, until it too was gone.

Arthur faintly saw something through the crack in the door --- it was a tweed cap and blazer, partially obscured by the darkness inside the room; the very same ones he'd hung in the portal earlier. The door, which had stalled, opened further. It seemed to be inviting him in.

At some point, the vice-like force encasing his body had disappeared, and he realized he was free. He turned his head to where he'd come from, and saw a long hallway stretching behind him. It was empty.

He swallowed. The time had come to make a choice --- he could either face the mansion, or the room.

It only took a second for him to decide. With eyes downcast, he stepped forward --- he didn't want his gaze to linger on the effigy carved on the door.

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