*The Sentry

Intro: I wrote this story early in preparation for being out of town most of the week. I initially thought I would write something more into the horror genre since today is actually Halloween but decided I didn’t want to go that way. Last week’s story was violent enough for me and I didn’t even describe anything. I’ve already written about monsters and vampires. So, all that remained was the eerie setting. Now you have it.

The old château, long vacant, stands in the middle of a sheep paddock. The formerly gray walls are stained black and white from age and green from the moss and ivy taking root. Though the outer walls crumble from persistent rain and biting wind, the interior remains unchanged but for layers of dust. Tapestries drape across the walls, the faded pictures look out with cracked faces and eye whites now mute gray and lifeless. Rugs line the corridors. During fierce wind storms, the woven fabric and fur send up occasional forms of dust as if something stalks the halls.

Cracked and forlorn furniture lurks in the rooms, their red shadows dancing across the walls in the eerie setting sun slicing through the holey walls. A bassinet stirs in a nursery. Faded silky cloth swathes over the edge precariously while the pillow rests against one leg. Other rooms hold large canopy beds, the canopies covered in threads from spiders’ whose posterity are only husks resting in the corners. Faceless toys wait discarded in the middle of the floor.

In the servant’s portion of the building the heart and breath is damp and still. The kitchen houses a large oven used to feed the army deployed which is never to return. Ashes remain in a grate, the coals disintegrated under the heat of a fire eternally cold. The black pot with white deposits from well water evaporated through time, hangs empty over the somber fire.

The few windows which held glass stare at the world with empty eyes. A few shards of the previously striking stained image lay sprinkled across the pews like spilled sugar. Nothing remains of the hymnals but corroded leather and a few wisps of papers not found by the chapel’s new inhabitants. Candles in neat lines consist of burned twine held in place by a frozen pool of wax.

A tile slides of the roof, shattering against the overgrown courtyard. The shards remain in good company amongst all the other broken slats which once shielded the top floor from the elements. Though the tiles remain as reminders of the protection, the stable retains no indication of such guard save for a few faint smudges. Thin stripes and a few clumps tell of thatch falling to the stone which left the only trace possible for moldy plant life; a trace which is only visible where the rain cannot reach to wash clean.

The wind picks ups and yet another tile shatters the silence. Not a silence of reverence but of desertion. The stone stairs leading to the roof are smoothed and coated in slime from the dripping water. Outside, up high, the wind tugs and pulls at the stones, screeching in anger. A tile rattles but remains otherwise fixed in place, supported by those around it.

At the edge of the building crouches a gargoyle, a nest wedged in the crock of its wing. The nearly faceless beast remains impressive, ignoring the years of deposits from the local fowl. Its face is fixed outward, forever a sentry, guarding its empty château, in a field of sheep.