The Endowment of the Red-Eyed Demon

Chapter 1

There are many rumours of what happened at Skhizein Hall. Some say ghosts roam its halls. I say it's a demon. I should know. I once roamed those dark halls myself.

Skhizein Hall, that manor, is forever a part of my family's legacy; an inescapable thing.

My family were the ones who ordered that manor's construction. I don't know why. Perhaps they thought it was a safe haven.

No matter: my mother was raised there. She grew up there, free to roam the sprawling fields of green that surrounded the manor. The entire countryside had been hers; there was no other soul in sight. The manor was surrounded by a thick forest so dense that if one was to go into it, they'd likely never find their way out. One could get so easily turned around, and the sunlight barely poked through the branches above. It was difficult to even see past the forest. Even if one were to stand atop the stone lions that adorned the roof, there'd be no sign of life in sight. No neighbours, no villages, no other souls.

That's not to say there was no one near at all. There was a village nearby, Lhanloftus, but it was a two day's walk to find it. If you were lucky enough to find a carriage, it'd be only one day away. The city was even further, four days by foot and two by carriage.

The manor was so tucked away, so secluded, that screaming at the top of your lungs would barely be a ringing in the neighbour's ears.

I suppose, for someone used to conditions such as those, the seclusion of the home had its charms. But even then, anyone could be driven mad in those conditions.

I could recount a story of such an occasion.

My uncle was a good man, that's something I'll always remember. It's been 10 years since I last saw him alive. We were always similar. Not just in our appearance, though we did share the same golden hair and dark eyes, but sometimes it seemed as if we were the same man. I was told so many times that we were.

After my grandfather died, Skhizein Hall had been passed to my uncle. I remember how grateful my mother was when she realized she wouldn't have to take care of that old manor. She was grateful not to return, she had never talked about her childhood with fondness. She had never talked about my uncle with much fondness, either. Although, I'm unsure she had talked about much with fondness.

We visited the manor occasionally. I remember how intimidating it seemed when I was a young boy, with its staff who had feet so light you could never hear them and those long, never-ending hallways. Yet, as a child, it was the most beautiful place I had ever seen; I felt like the heir I was when I was in the manor, it made me feel as though everything that was promised to me was contained in those walls.

But our visits soon became scarcer and scarcer. I missed the manor and even more, I missed listening to my uncle tell me stories in those sprawling fields of green. But my parents felt that the city was the place for my brothers and I to be and no matter how much I begged to be allowed back, they never relented.

Soon, my father became angry every time I would beg. I never did like to make him angry. He was a red-faced man, with searing blue eyes and a wart on one side of his nose. Sometimes he reminded me of one of my uncle's stories, one about a witch he had once met, who had eyes like a goat and a wart on her nose.

In time though, I forgot the stories of my uncle. I stopped asking to go and see him. He wrote me letters occasionally. I stopped writing back. Time passed, and I grew older without giving any more thought to the secluded manor, and it lost any beauty I once thought it to hold. I grew from a foolish boy to a foolish man; someone more educated and with a hand too quick to grab a bottle.