Corruptable

Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Road Less Traveled

The mortal state is often a pitiable one. A specter of unfathomable power caged within a fragile and corruptible effigy of an animated cadaver. Still, there are some that hope to find some sort of meaning within it. Some spookish spirits even envy the living, lusting for a past bygone, wishing they had made more of their mortal life. Others indeed made something of their mortal life, lived for others, instead of themselves, gave to charity, became honorable and stood for just causes, and peacefully passed with no regrets. Luckily, none such dullards appear in our tale.

Our story begins on a Friday, at dusk, on a quiet Autumn night. On a silent road, a horse drawn carriage was being pulled along a cobblestone path just a few miles west of the nearest residential area. The lamplighters were already turning in for the night, and a cold breeze blew eastward. Fairly soon, the streetlamps were all that remained of the modern world, as the carriage carried on to the more rural areas. It had been a long trip and there was still a mile or so to go.

The carriage driver sat humming a low tune under his breath. His dark brown mutton chops draped down from his bowler hat to his plump cheeks, only to blend with his brown jacket and pants.

The sky had become a golden orange color as the sun slowly crept downward to leave the world behind in darkness. On a night like this, with a deep fog settling in, one might wonder if the sun would ever return.

Young Sarah Slater checked herself in the pocket-sized mirror for the fourth time within the hour, giving yet another scrupulous inspection of her face. Not a hair out of place, not a freckle to appear. Her large blue eyes widened as though to widen her view of her own appearance. She pursed her pink lips before tilting her forehead to straighten out her sharp, thin eyebrows. She then took an invisible, wavering strand of hair and tucked it delicately into place.

Her light brown hair was parted down the center in two thick tendrils, which hung just in front of the rest of her hair. Each tendril arched upward from a central point on her forehead, then proceeding to their respective side downward toward their respective ear. Curving back upward, they seemed to disappear as they met up with the rest of the silky blanket. The whole thing scrambled upwards in the back and met to form a perfect bun. The remaining locks draped down in vertical columns of low hanging loops of hair behind each ear, reaching just above her shoulders. The columns continued toward the back of the head in decreasing height. Two final strands curled down in front of her ears, just about reaching her cheeks. The whole style was a performance that once took hours out of every day to perfect, but had become a second nature to young Slater, and just that morning had only taken mere minutes.

She took a moment to pinch each of her finely sculpted cheeks until they were properly rosy. The contour of her face moved inward until it met somewhat of a pointed chin, just below her lower lip.

She gave one more quick glance at the mirror before placing it deftly into her handbag. As though to make room for the mirror, she took out a few folded papers from within. She closed her eyes revealing her seldom used, magenta eyeshadow. She held the papers to her chest and let out a sigh. She then opened her eyes to the setting sun outside the carriage window. After a moment, she began to open and look through the papers.

One by one, she read through the letters, as she had done countless times before. For the past month or so, she had been receiving letters from a secret admirer, who'd left them in her garden at her riverside estate. She'd received such kind of letters quite often, but this set was most intriguing, as never had the admirer been quite so anonymous. She'd gotten a taste of just who they might be when, in his most recent note, he mentioned a partner of his was throwing a grand party at their large estate, proving he had friends in high places. She was to meet him tonight to accompany him at the party. Sarah agreed, as, if things didn't work out with her mystery man, there was a whole guest list of men to choose from.

A knock came from behind her.

"1313 Shaded Glade, you're sure that's the right address?" A muffled voice called from outside.

"Quite," Sarah called back, with a disgruntled tone.

Robert Thorne had asked the same question nearly every half hour of the trip. He recalled years ago going to the address on a dare, a trip which won him thirty cents. To his recollection, the old manor was abandoned, even by the bank. Rumors swirled about all the gruesome goings on in the mansion, most claiming the place was haunted.

According to legend, nearly anyone who entered the mansion didn't make it out alive. When the last living soul had passed away, the local bank wouldn't touch the property, and the previous owner had willed the manor to his godfather, Paul, who'd gone missing only a month prior to the latest proprietor's death. Ever since, the locals liked to say the house belonged to the immortal spirit of Paul Lynch, should he ever return.

Regardless of whether he really believed the rumors or not, the place made Robert unsettled, and he'd not usually venture there under most circumstances, but when profit was involved, he was glad to take the job. He may have set the price a little high for this particular ride, but to be perfectly honest, he was intrigued; she claimed to be attending a party at the manor, which, as far as he knew, had not hosted a party for years. It became increasingly obvious that she was clueless to the rumors surrounding the house. Someone had to have been yanking the poor dear's chain, and Robert was happy to make a profit in the ploy. Truly, he became interested as to just what her reaction may be when they arrived, yet as the sky grew dark and the eerie fog grew thicker, he began to feel a tad squeamish.

From within the darkness he could swear he could hear another horse trotting his way against the cobblestone path. He held the reins tight as he peered into the murky darkness ahead.

"Sir? good Sir? I say, I implore you to please remain on the right side of the path, Sir, as I have a carriage of my own," he called out in his southern drawl.

In response, he only found the horse's footsteps getting louder, and faster, and he heard a carriage behind it.

"Sir?" he said again, with more urgency.

Sweat began to form just beneath his cap.

The air became deathly still, and the gas lamps along the path suddenly flickered out in a wave. An icy chill took hold of Robert, and he was petrified as the opposing carriage moved toward his own. An unexplained terror overwhelmed him. He held his breath as his muscles tensed. Hearing the dreaded figure only a few feet away, violently tugged the reins to stop his carriage but it was too late.

"Woah!" he cried to his horse.

A deep groan was heard from the darkness followed by the shrieking whine of wheels grinding on the road, toward Robert and his carriage.