Session 31: Chez Lorien

A frigid wind swept in over the cobblestones as dusk settled across Paris. Bundled in coats and scarred by both past battles and hidden knowledge, the small band of compatriots silently gathered around their rented automobile. Their gazes lingered a moment too long on the distant outlines of a sprawling city that bristled with possibility and menace in equal measure. At last, they shut the car doors against the biting cold, engines chugged to life, and they were on their way—bound for a quiet town called Poissy, following rumors of a hidden cellar and a name that would not rest easily on their minds: Fenalik.

The road grew increasingly desolate as the hours passed. The winter countryside looked serene at first—fields rimed in frost, forest edges stooped beneath pale skies—but for Arthur, every rut in the dirt recalled the blasted trenches he had once inhabited. Where others saw only half-frozen puddles, he felt the echo of artillery, as though the land itself remembered. Claire, hands deft on the wheel, kept the car steady. She murmured pointed observations about the weather and the suspiciously quiet villages they skirted. In the back seat, Per’s eyes gleamed at the thought of poring over local records and placing one more clue into his careful scrapbook of uncanny events. Meanwhile, Viola—always more youthful than time should allow—observed the muddy lanes with a calm acceptance, as though she had long ago surrendered herself to the world’s many mysteries.

The outskirts of Poissy welcomed them with little more than a train station and a few modest houses, leaning together against the breeze. Immediately, they felt the weight of appraising glances from townsfolk peering through their curtains at these foreign interlopers. Although the group tried to keep their intentions discreet, Arthur suspected the nearest innkeeper would know all by nightfall. The labyrinth of local papers and archives beckoned them within the unassuming Town Hall, where a tired-looking clerk served as the gatekeeper to crumbling ledgers dating back generations.

In the dim glow of a sputtering overhead lamp, Per carefully turned yellowed pages, guided through their archaic French text by Arthur’s muttered translations. For hours, the scratch of turning parchment and the hush of whispered exclamations were the only sounds. At last, they discovered precisely what they needed: fragments of old plans and records referencing a villa once belonging to the elusive Count Fenalik. It had stood on the edge of Poissy long ago—before revolution, before wars—but had been razed, leaving little but scattered rumor in its wake. On that same plot of land now sat a newer home, owned by one Dr. Lorien and his family.

Stepping from the Town Hall into the cold once more, the group shared apprehensive looks. The notion of an ancient estate rearing its monstrous architecture from beneath an innocent modern home stirred up both curiosity and dread. Though the day was fast waning, they pressed on, trudging past the train station and meager local businesses until they reached a restaurant to inquire about lodging for the night. The consensus was that no matter what they uncovered at the doctor’s property, it would be safer to have a room secured for the evening. After arranging accommodations, they ventured onward to find the place that might still harbor Fenalik’s hidden secrets.

The closer they drew, the more the atmosphere seemed to close in. A crumbling brick wall—older than anyone could remember—rose up around the property like a fortress. In place of an iron fence, twisted rose vines clung to the masonry. Devoid of blossoms in midwinter, they formed menacing webs of thorns that bristled, stark and spiny in the waning light. Some primal memory in Arthur flinched at their resemblance to barbed wire. Every step toward that wall felt like a march into an unseen labyrinth, every rustle of dead leaves heralding some quiet doom.

They paused at the gate, the house looming beyond—a cozy structure with warm light shining from windows that looked entirely ordinary, belying the foundation of untold histories beneath. Instead of a grand, decaying ruin, they found a neat, well-tended abode. Something about that banality quickened their unease. Still, they knocked, hearts fluttering with questions and half-formed fears.

Dr. Lorien answered with a polite, if curious, smile. He was a man in his early thirties, dressed in modest yet professional attire, eyes bright with intelligence. No trace of malevolence lurked in his expression, though Arthur’s battle-scarred instincts took note of the faint mark trailing along the doctor’s forearm—jagged, as if scratched by something far more vicious than a hedge. Yet the doctor invited them inside, voice echoing through the entranceway. The warmth of a fireplace welcomed them with a stark contrast to the gloom outside.

When introduced to the idea of a possible “hidden cellar” beneath his home, Dr. Lorien’s brow furrowed in equal measure of fascination and alarm. Yet any further discussion was delayed by domestic obligations. Apologizing softly, he explained that his wife—afflicted with terrible arthritis—required a timely dosage of her medication. While he disappeared up the stairs, a young child peeked around the corner, bright-eyed with innocent wonder. She marched straight up to Per and tugged at his mustache in a burst of curiosity. The gentle whimsy of the moment temporarily dissolved the eerie tension gripping the visitors, though it lingered like a half-heard whisper in the back of their minds.

Upon the doctor’s return, he brought with him not only fresh coffee for his guests but also an old letter. With measured hesitation, Dr. Lorien explained that someone else had recently inquired about the same plot of land. He pressed the letter into Per’s hands, as though relieved to share this strange matter with others equally invested in the estate’s lurking mysteries. The envelope looked worn, the edges smudged, and even in the innocuous parlor light, it radiated an uneasy significance.

A prickling dread took root as they prepared to read. Viola noted how the hush of the house thickened, as though the looming presence of Fenalik’s past hovered just out of sight. Arthur felt a knot in his stomach, reminiscent of those uneasy lulls between battles. Outside, the thorny rose vines scraped softly against the aged bricks, like fingernails along a coffin lid. The stage was set for whatever horrifying truths lay just beneath the foundations.

With the doctor’s household strangely calm around them, the group held their breath. In the small circle of lamplight, they prepared to peer into someone else’s secrets—praying it would not cost them their sanity to discover what truly lay buried under the soil of this unassuming home. For the briefest moment, none of them spoke, the tension too thick to cut. And then, with a steadying breath, one of them opened the letter at last.