Gillian Hall
The massacre at Gillan Hall shocked the town of Biertran, Transylvania. In 1280, an entire family, including Rikiar, Talida, and their relatives, was wiped out in a single, foul swoop. They were considered eccentric and reclusive, and their artistic pursuits were labelled as strange and unnatural. It was whispered that Rikiar experimented with forbidden arts, that Talida communed with spirits through her haunting music. These whispers, fuelled by fear and ignorance, festered in the dark corners of Transylvania until they birthed a terrible malignancy: a team of self-righteous vigilantes.
Led by the pious and narrow-minded Deacon Abel, this group of men convinced themselves they were cleansing Transylvania of a blight. They justified their actions as necessary, a righteous purging of the Gillan family’s supposed corruption. But what they found at Gillan Hall was not a den of sin, but a home filled with art, music, and the echoes of laughter, now stained crimson with the brutality of their actions.
Before their torches touched the large, dark, and fearful mansion, Rikiar and Talida had been dedicated artists, lost in their world. The vigilantes had turned them into something else, something vengeful.
A week after the massacre, whispers of a different kind started creeping through Transylvania. Doors creak open on windless nights, and footsteps echo in empty corridors. A chill, colder than any winter wind, settled over the town. Once puffed with righteous fury, the vigilantes were now pale and drawn, shadows clinging to them like leeches.
Henry Falconer was the first to feel it. He woke in the middle of the night to the sound of ethereal music, a beautiful and unbearably mournful melody. He looked out his window and saw a figure standing in the graveyard across the street. It was a tall and slender woman with long dark hair flowing in the wind. As she turned, Abel recognised Talida Gillan’s hauntingly beautiful face. Once filled with warmth and creativity, her eyes now burned with an ethereal, icy fire.
The following day, Falconer was found in his pulpit, his face frozen in a silent scream. The church organ, untouched, played a discordant, maddening melody that sent shivers down the spines of the townsfolk who dared approach.
The other vigilantes fared no better. Old Man Hemlock, who wielded the axe that ended Rikiar’s life, found himself paralysed in his sleep, unable to move as the scent of oil paints filled his room. When his wife found him, his eyes were wide with terror, staring at a portrait on his wall – a grotesque caricature of himself, painted in sickly yellows and greens. He died a day later, his body twisted into a grotesque imitation of the painting.
The retribution was tailored, each punishment reflecting the vigilantes’ sins against the Gillan family. Young Nicholas, who had silenced the rest of the Gillian family with his own hands, was now deaf, tormented by phantom cries that only he could hear. Alice, who had spread the most vicious rumours, lost her voice, able only to croak out meaningless whispers.
The town cowered in fear, the silence broken only by the chilling music and the tormented cries of the vigilantes. The dark shadow of Gillan Hall seemed to stretch over Biertran, a constant reminder of the brutal act and the horrifying consequences.
One night, the remaining vigilantes, driven to the brink of madness, huddled together at the edge of town, desperately trying to escape the haunting presence. As they huddled, a figure emerged from the darkness. It was Rikiar. But this was not the gentle artist they had murdered. His eyes glowed with a malevolent light, and his voice, once soft and calm, resonated with an unearthly power.
“You took everything from us,” he rasped, his voice echoing with the mournful sigh of the wind. “Now, we will take everything from you.”
Behind him, the shadows deepened, coalescing into the forms of Talida and their family. Their faces were pale, their eyes hollow, but their presence radiated an undeniable power. The air crackled with energy as they advanced.
The vigilantes screamed and scattered, but there was nowhere to run. Rikiar and Talida, along with the spectral figures of their family, moved through the town like vengeful spirits, delivering their justice with chilling precision.
Biertran was left silent, devoid of life, a testament to the devastating consequences of fear, ignorance, and blind hatred. Gillan Hall, still standing proud against the storm-swept sky, was no longer a place of fear but a monument to the price of injustice. The echo of the Gillan family’s suffering lingered in the air, a haunting reminder that some wounds never truly heal and that the dead can indeed return, thirsting for vengeance. The house stood silent now, its broken windows whistling in the wind, a mournful song of loss and retribution forever etched into the heart of the empty town.
Thank You for Reading
Deborah C. Langley
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