𝔄𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔢
𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔠𝔲𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔰
𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥
𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔠𝔥 𝔲𝔰 𝔞𝔴𝔞𝔶?
{ in which a city doctor gets more than he bargained for when he moves to a quaint country village during the latter half of the second wo...
This story begins on a fateful night in July 1823, when the drawing room of Whitemarsh Hall was filled with dozens of elite guests from all around the country. It was an extravagant event held annually and the family who owned Whitemarsh- the Catesbys- were loved and respected for more than just putting on parties.
The master of the house at the time- Samuel Robert Catesby- was an MP and frequented between Pryhollow and the Houses Of Parliament in London. Other than politics, it was his job to make friends in high places. These friends were often other MPs, businessmen, and even nobility. He was a rich man who loved to help the poor more than those with the same social status. Samuel had heavy influence in Parliament and massive support from the working class. He was something of an icon and his peers had no choice but to listen to him and to even pass his laws.
This particular evening was meant to be a celebration of what Samuel had achieved in his fifteen years in government. And it went horribly wrong.
The night began with exactly eighty-seven guests dressed in their most extraordinary clothes. The night ended with only the five Catesbys, alive and terrified.
Every single guest in that house died and no cause of death- murder or otherwise- was discovered. Not even in the post-mortems.
As eerie and as frightening as this was, it is, of course, it's widely acknowledged that this story is but an illogical and incomprehensible myth told by locals to keep prying eyes away from the illusive owners of Whitemarsh.
I was told this tale almost immediately upon my first day of work. An elderly gentleman began to speak of it as if it were small talk. I laughed at how absurd it sounded, but the grim look in his eyes told me that laughing wasn't the best of reactions.
Naturally, I shrugged it off, dismissing the gentleman and his story to go about the rest of my day attending to patients.
However, as I spent more and more time in my new home, I soon realised that not everything was as it seemed.
And Whitemarsh wasn't just a quaint tourist attraction.
It held secrets that weren't to fall upon mortal ears and sane minds.
And I was one of those unfortunate enough to find out what lay behind the walls of Whitemarsh...
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