Session 30: M.C. Etcher

Night in Paris fell like a veil of half-lit phantoms, and a restless tension shimmered in the winter air. The group found themselves in a cramped, book-laden room in the Bibliothèque Nationale, the murmur of turning pages punctuating the hush like tiny echoes of their own trepidation. Dust motes swirled in the lamplight, dancing around the uneasy eyes of those who had seen far too much in recent years. They sensed unseen watchers at the edge of every shadow—even if no suspicious presence ever stepped into clear sight.

They were drawn here by rumors and fragmented records of a malevolent figure—Count Fenelik—a name that hovered on the tongue like a dark secret. Indistinct references about “scandalous midnight gatherings” and whispers of aristocratic ruin set everyone on edge. Their only leads were scraps: references to a tall, mismatched manor that defied architectural sense, and an entry in a water-damaged diary written by Mademoiselle de Brienne. Each clue seemed tantalizingly close to revealing something dreadful, yet forever incomplete.

From dawn to dusk, the companions combed through the labyrinth of documents with the help of two local assistants, Remy and Etienne. Piles of musty ledgers, registers of property ownership, and brittle pamphlets spilled across tables. The stillness of the library turned unnerving each time a page fluttered free from its stack. Unspoken dread gathered in the corners of their vision. Even the chiseled Captain—bearing scars from the Great War—sat rigid as though bracing for some invisible threat. More often than not, his gaze trailed the doors and windows, suspicious of every pair of footsteps echoing outside in the corridors.

Anger and uncertainty brewed beneath the surface. Over dinners in small, smoky eateries, conversation often twisted into fervent debates. The Captain, shaped by life-threatening combat, cast a wary eye on anyone who had not experienced the war’s front lines. In the cozy lamp glow, he and the Reverend exchanged charged words regarding duty, faith, and violence. Occasionally, the talk would shift to modern ideas, about societies and governments, and whether the horrors of the past could ever be blamed on individuals or systems alone. Tempers flared then cooled, replaced by uncomfortable laughter. Shadows seemed to lengthen across the table whenever someone mentioned how uncommonly anxious the city’s night streets made them feel.

Despite endless hours of research, the desired answers came only in fragments. At first, no single ledger or reference to Count Fenelik offered tangible insight beyond rumor. Then, in the hush of late afternoon, they stumbled upon certain records describing an odd estate in Poissy. A plan of the structure, folded between pages of old architectural notes, displayed a building whose lines bent reality in subtle yet deeply disturbing ways. At first glance, it was mere ink on paper—an etching of walls, gables, and buttresses. But each investigator who gazed upon it felt a skittering sensation at the base of their spine. The house resembled a patchwork of contradictory architectural styles: Greek columns twisting into Gothic arches, and ancient ruins embedded into what should have been a perfectly ordinary manor.

Light from the stained library windows fell on the etching, sharpening the feeling that the structure itself was alive, as though it shifted imperceptibly when no one was watching. Those scrutinizing it too long felt a dull headache bloom behind their eyes. When one member pressed a trembling fingertip to a particular wall in the illustration, they could swear the artist had drawn it from some unnerving angle that defied the logic of Euclidian space. The group’s collective breath caught more than once, and the tension in their voices grew thick enough to cut.

Deeper still, the diary entry from Mademoiselle de Brienne spoke of lavish, lurid feasts and a sudden royal outrage. Though the words were blurred by water damage, the text hinted at unspeakable acts that ended in a midnight raid on Fenelik’s estate. Whatever transpired in that dread house, it provoked not only the Queen’s anger but seemed to stain the city’s memory with a shadow that persisted centuries later. The companions imagined long corridors lit by guttering candles, half-shrouded chambers filled with revelers whose laughter curdled into screams. The diary’s incomplete lines betrayed a bigger, more terrifying secret that lay beyond the page.

On the following day, an unexpected sense of urgency churned within the group. They made plans to travel to Poissy, determined to set eyes on the estate grounds—if any fragment of the building stood at all. They hoped to leave their hired assistants in the city, continuing to dredge up yet more documents and diaries, a process akin to rummaging in the dark for a venomous serpent. But before setting out on that journey, the group endured another tense evening meal. They found themselves tucked into a crowded wine bar, the rich smell of spiced meat and fresh bread mixing with cheap tobacco. A swirl of cigarette smoke cloaked the table. Beneath the bright chatter of other patrons, anxiety pulsed like a second heartbeat among them. Each private glance across the table asked the same question: Are we truly alone? More than once, they believed eyes were following them—if not on the streets, then in their very minds.

The conversation turned to the chilling etching and the possibility of disturbing relics hidden away in a half-buried cellar. The whisper of those old stones seemed to echo even here in the heart of Paris. Some dreaded that the estate was calling to them through the lines of that drawing, exerting its malignant pull. The house that should not be. The group shared little comfort in each other’s presence, for they all felt the same unspoken foreboding.

When at last they returned to their rooms, sleep came fitfully, plagued by strange half-dreams of impossible angles and dancing shapes glimpsed in candlelit halls. A sense of doom trailed every dreamer, a certainty that somewhere in Poissy, a secret endured—one that thirsted for discovery.

Morning brought renewed purpose and a fading sense of hope. They felt the library’s musty gloom behind them as they prepared for their excursion, yet it clung to their spirits like damp parchment. The diaries, the mysterious references to the count, the glimpses of an impossible manor—each fact pointed to a truth that felt older than the Revolution and far darker than any mortal scandal. The group assembled, steeled themselves, and set their course for Poissy. None voiced what they all sensed: something waited for them on those grounds, watchful, hungry, and beyond any rational understanding.

Yet onward they went, drawn by curiosity, or perhaps by fate, into the grasp of secrets that should have stayed buried.