Prologue

A small, hand-held electric lantern breaks the heavy blanket of darkness in the hall, swaying with each footstep of the gentleman carrying it. He wears a fitted dark grey pinstripe suit, adorned with the golden chain of a pocket watch, a small red bowtie, and a pair of fine, well-polished dark red leather shoes. He is not a stereotypically handsome man, several small scars lining his stubbly cheeks, and short dirty blond hair slicked back out of his face with either sweat or some kind of oil; it is hard to tell.

Tattered and mismatching floral wallpaper frame the man as he walks, each step accompanying a muted squelch on the thick moulding carpet. The gentleman’s discerning eyes reflect the light that is illuminating the hall in front, belying their dark blue colour. The hall ends with a door, its light-coloured wood features cracked and dry, slightly ajar and dark as pitch beyond.

“Excuse me, is there anyone in here? I seem to have gotten lost.” His soft and smooth voice, like silk rolling out deceitfully as he pulls out a small ornate knife that seems to have an odd symbol carved onto the hilt. The symbol is reminiscent of a five-pointed star but with curved lines and an eye in the centre. He continues approaching the door, holding his lantern ahead to push it open, and his eyes carefully scanning every new inch of the room that is slowly revealed to him.

The darkness in this room is almost choking, like a fog, stemming the flow of light to barely a few feet from the lantern itself. He halts, as a faint tapping begins to sound from the corner of the room. The hand holding the knife instinctively flexes around the handle. The light from the lantern faintly outlining the silhouette of what appears to be a tall thin man, standing in the corner of the room, closely facing the walls.

“Sir, perchance is this the homestead of Thomas Thackery? I have been requested by the estate of Mayweather to investigate this home for signs of infection?” The gentleman inquires softly, keeping a distance.

The tapping persists. The gentleman quickly realising that it is not coming from the figure in the corner, it is coming from a brass-framed mirror lying on a small wood table in the other corner.

The reflection in the mirror shows a haggard and frightened younger man, staring straight at the gentleman. He is slamming a hand on the inside of the glass frantically, pointing to the figure.

Caught in a momentary confusion, the gentleman retreats a step back toward the doorway, his face paling as the reflection is most certainly not his own. He finds himself pressing his back against a door that has closed without his noticing, his eyes widening in horror as he turns frantically back toward the figure in the corner. It steps backward, a long and careful step; its joints creaking audibly as it approaches the light. Its figure becomes clearer, still facing the wall, revealing tattered and worn clothes, along with its hair. It matches the man in the reflection.