The evening shadows stretched long over the small village of Poissy, plunging the Lorien residence into an early, uneasy twilight. Arthur Zorba stood silently at the edge of the dining room, his gaze occasionally flitting to Christian Lorien’s scarred arm—a grotesque testament, he mused darkly, to the subtle corruption already infiltrating this home. Beside him, Claire Corning smiled warmly at the Lorien family, her ease a stark contrast to Arthur’s simmering vigilance. Walter Lake, despite his clerical calm, cast uneasy glances at Veronique’s withered hand, the fingers twisted cruelly into a permanent arthritic claw.
Per Oskarson, thoughtful and measured as ever, took the conversational lead, gently unraveling the unsettling tale of Comte Fenelik. His voice, steady yet weighted with cautious dread, outlined Fenelik’s shadowy past—extravagant decadence, scandalous whispers of royal disgrace, and a punishment severe enough to erase him almost entirely from historical memory. The Loriens listened intently, caught between fascination and a dawning unease as the conversation pivoted to Fenelik’s rumored connection to the Sedefkar Simulacrum, an object whose very mention sent quiet shivers through the gathering.
Before the guests could delve deeper, a sudden shriek fractured the delicate peace. Quiterrie, the Lorien’s young daughter, tore down the stairs in a blind panic, her tiny voice spilling frantic French syllables. Arthur caught fragments—“boogeyman,” “evil eyes,” “all light”—and the description chilled him more than any battle memory ever had. The child’s genuine terror compelled him; he felt duty-bound to investigate, despite the lurking dread coiling tight within him.
Outside, under the bitter January sky, Arthur and Claire searched fruitlessly around the house, the flickering lantern illuminating only the pristine snow disturbed solely by their own hurried footprints. Yet something in Arthur’s bones refused to accept the easy dismissal of Quiterrie’s fears as mere childish fancy. Even as Claire tried gently to reason away the young girl’s vision, Arthur felt the oppressive weight of unseen eyes upon them, though the shadows revealed nothing tangible.
When the group reconvened inside, a heaviness lingered in the air, a spectral guest that none dared acknowledge directly. Per’s careful voice broke the silence again, warning Christian Lorien of the dangerous individuals likely pursuing the Simulacrum—men who would set fire to homes and harm innocents without hesitation. His warning, stark yet tempered with reassurance, elicited only partially concealed concern from Christian, whose earlier hospitality now felt overshadowed by a sense of impending doom.
As dawn broke over Poissy, the clear morning offered little comfort. The investigators, steeled by a night of anxious sleep, gathered once more at the Lorien property. Arthur brought a new shovel, unwilling to disturb Christian’s garden tools—an oddly careful gesture masking his growing sense of urgency. Christian joined them, curiosity mingled with trepidation in his eyes, as together they unearthed the concealed entrance beneath the ancient, gnarled tree whose twisted limbs cast grotesque shadows across the snow-covered lawn.
Their efforts revealed a weathered wooden door framed by crumbling brickwork, buried as if the earth itself sought to hide it. A chill, deeper than the winter air, clawed at Arthur’s spine as he pulled the door free from the grip of decades-old soil, revealing a dark stair descending ominously into the earth. The investigators exchanged wary glances, a silent acknowledgment passing among them: this was the threshold to the unknown they’d long anticipated.
Inside, the stairway’s stone walls exuded a coldness that seeped into their bones. At the bottom stood a metal door, ancient yet sturdy, silently guarding whatever secrets lay beyond. Walter, surprising himself, identified the door as eighteenth-century craftsmanship, raising further questions about what Fenelik had constructed beneath this property, and why such a vault had been deliberately concealed and forgotten.
Arthur, wrestling with the weight of anticipation and dread, pushed the heavy iron door inward. It swung slowly open, protesting against rusted hinges, revealing a dimly lit passage stretching onward into claustrophobic darkness. The narrow corridor was choked with invasive roots emerging from the walls like gnarled fingers, their twisted ends disturbingly hand-like. Claire’s quiet voice trembled slightly as she pointed out the grotesque shapes—left hands all, each eerily reminiscent of the Lorien family’s inexplicable wounds.
Arthur recoiled involuntarily, his mind momentarily thrown back into memories of wartime trenches, where roots and limbs blurred together in nightmares too vivid for comfort. He steadied himself with an effort, unwilling to succumb to fear before his companions, even as the shadows seemed to reach hungrily toward him.
In that oppressive silence, the investigators knew they stood at the precipice of a deeper horror, one that had lingered, patient and malign, beneath the Lorien home for centuries. With lanterns casting feeble, trembling halos of light against encroaching darkness, Arthur took a cautious step forward, bracing himself against an instinctual terror. Behind him, the others gathered their courage, knowing they now ventured willingly into the dark heart of Fenelik’s twisted legacy—each step bringing them closer to an abyss from which there might be no return.
Initial Discussion and Context Observations of the Lorien Family Dinner at the Lorian House Nighttime Disturbance: Quiterrie’s Boogeyman Departing the Lorian House Hotel Stay and Morning Preparations Searching for the Cellar Entering the Underground Passage Session EndSession Notes