Excerpt from House of Fate

By

Richard Leighland

©2018, 2025 Richard Leighland. All rights reserved. Reproduced with permission from the author.

Epigraph

Places have a life of their own. All kinds of places: forests, rivers, deserts. Houses and buildings have lives of their own as well. They have their own personalities, their own quirks and individual stories to tell, exactly like people do.

Modern places don’t really have that kind of life anymore. In the past, houses seemed to reflect the individuality of their builders and owners. Now, material conformity has drained that personality. Today’s places feel as plain and dull as possible; lifeless and unoffensive. Perhaps a reflection of their modern creators.

You know it when you come across a place with a story. You can feel her spirit. It’s like an old whore, worn out and used up, but oh, the stories she can tell. They’re tales for everyone and no one at the same time.

You’ve heard the adage, if these walls could talk? I’m here to tell you they most certainly can. All you need is to be still and listen.

Chapter 1

I can’t pinpoint the very first moment I was called to Her, nor can I tell how it all started. It could have been subliminal; heard offhand in someone’s conversation, a glimpse of Her in a dream, or whatever. What I can say is I was drawn to Her the first moment I became aware. It wasn’t Her beauty that drew me, no, though you could see a hint of it, somewhere in the long ago.

I’m no architect, or even a carpenter, but I could tell She must have been built sometime in the nineteenth century. Her walls were crumbled with age and rot; windows shattered. Her front door, once heavy and regal, hung off the hinges and served as a buffet for termites. She was big, larger than anything I had seen before, outside of pictures. Even in the ruin, it was obvious someone had loved Her, once. Had taken care in building the gables and walls, now only a dark shadow of Her past. There was a fragility to Her, as if She would crumble into dust and disappear if I merely brushed against Her.

Even in Her present condition, She stood tall and proud amongst the ancient oaks and wildflowers growing around Her and they lent Her some semblance of life. Birds and butterflies were Her only neighbors, and gave Her movement and song, a peaceful co-existence. It was easy to imagine Her in Her previous glory.

My curiosity was piqued and ran wild as I felt Her beckon me to draw near. Her pull was irresistible. I succumbed and pushed aside my fear of confronting the unknown.

Part of me whispered, “You don’t know what’s in there,” but I ignored it and slowly climbed the front steps toward the arched doorway.

At the threshold, I shivered in the autumn air. “Here goes,” I said and took a breath, held it and plunged through, as though I were diving off a cliff into the sea.

A warmth enveloped me as I crossed. It felt like the embrace of a lover. Dust motes danced around me in shafts of fading light as if awakened from a long slumber. Ahead of me stood a wide staircase with carved oak banisters. At its apex was a broken stained glass window, the frame toothed with jagged shards of glass, tipped with red. I wondered what it might have depicted.

I hesitated as I put my foot on the bottom stair. The carpeting was moth eaten and worn through in places. It telegraphed ominous warnings the wooden steps beneath might be weak and rotted. Under normal circumstances, when presented with a staircase, I get an impulse to run up to the top and slide down the rail like an eight-year-old, but not today. This time, the impulse was overcome by a strong sense of self-preservation. I excused it by saying the rooms were probably personal and not places I ought to be nosing around in. It looked like there was plenty to explore downstairs anyway.

The foyer was large and had been built to impress. The air was musty, infused with the strangely pleasant smell of old wood. Around me, heavy doors closed off the other rooms, as if they hid secrets. The floors were made of thick planks which creaked beneath my feet despite the tattered rugs covering them. Along the walls, broken furniture rested between the doors, and thick drapes, faded by sun and time, covered tall windows on either side of the front door while sunlight punched through holes in the fabric. Columns stood on both sides of the staircase like sentinels and supported the floor above. The space on the left was cavernous, inexplicably darker than the rest of the room. And, just as inexplicably, I walked into it.

My foot caught a small object and sent it skittering across the floor until it pinged against a brass umbrella holder. I stopped and glanced toward the sound. An old-fashioned key caught a glint of sunlight, and I bent to pick it up. It bore a polished shine, as if it had just fallen out of someone’s pocket. I stupidly looked around to see who might have dropped it, but of course, I was alone.

I gazed at the key in my hand. It almost felt like an invitation.

I’m not sure I have the words to describe what I felt. Something was calling to me. Not in words, but from deep inside my core. It was almost like a compulsion. Whether it originated within myself, or was planted by someone—something—else, I couldn’t say.

Whatever it was, it was telling me to seek. To seek within this house.

So I did.

Chapter 2

What was I supposed to be looking for? I had no plan, no system, and why should I? I had no idea if finding anything would put me at risk. I realized I was inviting chaos to waltz right in and jerk me around like a puppet. But it didn’t matter. The compulsion to search the house was too strong.

I slipped the key into my pocket and went to the double door near the end of the foyer. The knob turned easily and the door opened without a sound. I entered, and left it open.

The dining room stretched long and narrow. Eight place settings sat atop a lace cloth, yellowed with age. China cabinets lined the walls, alongside a Victorian sideboard topped with crystal decanters and fruit bowls, untouched for untold years. A fireplace was set into a wall, cold and empty. Dusty oil paintings of fruit and gardens hung on peeling, water-stained wallpaper. A chandelier hung over the table, its crystal teardrops, once sparkling, now festooned with cobwebs.

Beneath the layers of dust were the remnants of an elegant life; the moment before dinner would be served.

I walked around and ran my fingers through the dust on the sideboard. Long, clean trails exposed the dark wood beneath. I felt like an intruder in a life I didn’t belong.

I heard a piece of metal clatter onto wood behind the swinging door at the end of the room.

"What the hell?" I said.

Only half-convinced my imagination was running amok, I carefully approached the door and pushed through.

I was in a kitchen. An iron cauldron hung inside a large stone fireplace, above the ashes of a long-dead fire. A pot lay on the wooden floor. It looked heavy. Had it really just fallen?

Through a dusty window, a crumbling smokehouse and icehouse stood before a background of thick woods.

Beneath the window, I saw her. A woman in a threadbare, dirty dress huddled against the sinks. The dress seemed to swallow her. Her dark hair covered her face, so I couldn’t see her expression, but her shoulders trembled in silence.

“Hello?” I asked, hesitant to get closer. Could she even hear me? Was she just a figment of my imagination?

She didn’t respond, so I tried again. I didn’t know who she might be, a servant, or a member of the household, but I couldn’t leave her like that, bent with misery weighing on her.

I approached, knelt down, and laid my hand on her shoulder. The warmth of the kitchen contrasted sharply with her icy skin. I fought the instinct to pull away.

“Are you okay?” I said again.

She raised her head. Impulsively, I brushed her thick hair from her face. I braced myself for something malformed, something ugly. I didn’t know what to expect.

It surprised me she was beautiful, even with sorrow twisting her features. She looked young—seventeen, maybe twenty at most, though grief could have aged her a few years.

She looked at me without fear. Her eyes, large and moist, showed only a deep sadness. Her mouth moved in a silent language I could not hear.

“I...I don’t understand,” I said as she persisted in silence.

She glanced past me, toward the door. A subtle fear crept into her eyes before they met mine with a plea I couldn’t interpret.

“I don’t know what you’re telling me,” I said.

Frustration clouded her face. She didn’t offer any vocalized affirmations, so I remained confused.

“I wish I could understand you,” I said sadly. “I want to help.”

I had no clue what I could do, or what she was trying to tell me, but my words seemed to satisfy her somewhat. Her hair fell back over her eyes as she bowed her head and silently sobbed again.

I stood and watched her. Who was she? What had made her so sad?

“What am I doing here?” I asked as I closed my eyes and grasped the sink. I wished there was someone, or something, to tell me what to do.

I sighed and opened my eyes. With a sharp gasp, I stumbled back and caught myself on the table behind me. I looked at the sink warily, not sure what I had seen. I crept back to the sink and reluctantly looked inside.

I could have sworn I saw the severed head of a gray-bearded man, but it was only the bottom of a pot half-submerged in brown, rancid water. My mind refused to let go of the image—glazed-over eyes, a swollen, lolling tongue.

I searched for the girl, afraid I might have kicked her when I lurched back, but she wasn’t there. Yet I still saw her in my mind, huddled, miserable, alone. My heart twisted at the thought. I had no idea what I could do, only I had to help her. Maybe the house held answers.

I pushed through the door back into the dining room, paused and glanced back.

She was gone.

I sensed something different in the dining room, but couldn’t discern what. I looked around to find the source of my unease.

Then it struck me.

The table was clean. Not a speck of dust or anything. It was just the table, everything else was dingy and dusty, just like before. Maybe it was my mind playing tricks on me, but no. It was definitely there.

Explain that, I thought. Explain a girl who vanished, just like the severed head that appeared for an instant in the sink.

Shit. I might be having the worst flashback of my life, except it wasn’t my life.

I re-entered the foyer. Nothing had changed. The exquisitely carved grandfather clock still stood by the staircase, with a handsome roll-top desk beside it. I inspected the clock and admired the craftsmanship, pleased it was still working. Its mechanism emitted a clear, mesmerizing tick-tock. I checked my watch and found they were synced as the clock struck the hour with a deep, resonant gong.

I ran my fingers over the wood of the dusty desk, over the textured slats. There was a key set in the lock. Curious as always, I turned it and rolled the door back.

The desk looked ready for use with an inkpot and pens resting on a blotter; a stack of paper nearby. The drawers slid open smoothly, as if freshly oiled. There were some ledgers and documents that didn’t hold my interest, so I closed it, and slipped the key in my pocket. Did it make me a thief? Who exactly would miss it?

To my left was a door. “Blast, locked” I muttered as the doorknob refused to yield. I gave it another try, but it just rattled uselessly under my grip. Disappointment washed over me. I was about to give up when I remembered the key I found earlier. I dug it out of my pocket and slid it into the lock. To my relief, it turned and the bolt clicked open.

The room was cloaked in darkness. Heavy velvet drapes blocked all traces of light. I left the door open and, as I waited for my eyes to adjust, searched for a lamp or candle. I was about to give up when a dim blue glow flickered at the corner of my eye.

I turned toward the source. I expected it to vanish, but it lingered, like a ghost, in front of a large bookshelf. I cursed myself for not having a small flashlight clipped to my keychain. However, my old silver Zippo, my constant companion, nestled in my pocket.

I pulled it from my pocket and flicked my thumb across the wheel. The familiar click sounded, and the flame jumped from the wick on the first turn. It had lived up to its promise, a light in the darkness, just as my grandfather had intended when he gifted it to me. Its glow revealed a previously unseen oil lamp on a side table. I removed the glass cover, lighted the wick, and returned the lighter to my pocket, its metal casing still warm against my palm.

The blue light continued to glow, undiminished by the new source of illumination.

A quick survey of the room confirmed it was a study. An imposing mahogany desk stood near the east wall, backed by a pair of bookcases, one of which still held most of its glass panels. Opposite it, a long leather couch stretched along the wall, accompanied by a sturdy chair and a side table with a notebook resting on its surface. A pair of brass gas lamps clung to the walls, their fixtures dulled with age, long unused. Against the north wall, a modest fireplace stood cold, its grate filled with the remnants of long-cooled ash.

The space was masculine, paneled in dark wood, with a worn rug covering the floor. Though dust lay thick on every surface, the room retained an air of quiet dignity—weathered, but not yet surrendered to decay.

I approached the desk, set the lamp down, and eased into the squeaky chair. The leather blotter was worn, its edges curled with age. Two notebooks rested atop it. One lay open, its pages spattered with thick ink, the writing long lost beneath the stains.

A pipe rack sat in the corner. It held half a dozen well-crafted pipes beside a tobacco container. I lifted the lid and caught the sharp scent of molded tobacco, stale and untouched for ages.

Among the pipes, one stood out. A large-bowled meerschaum carved into the horned visage of Pan. Temptation struck. I enjoyed a fine pipe packed with good tobacco, and I had a fondness for the fun-loving satyr. But I resisted. There was no telling where these things had come from, or what fate awaited anyone foolish enough to disturb them.

Especially someone who had already stolen a couple of keys.

I took the unopened notebook from beneath the ink-stained one and flipped it open at random. The handwriting was large and slanted. Methodical, but uneven. In the lamplight, the words stood out clearly. The passage I landed on was undated, but didn’t stop me from reading.

I closed the notebook and frowned. Who was James? Who was Richard? The passage wasn’t offering any answers, only questions. The way it was written was deliberate, as if searching. It made me wonder if the author had been a psychologist, someone trying to make sense of things. But of what, exactly?

I didn’t dwell on it. There were already too many unanswered questions in this house.

I turned my attention to the desk drawers. The top one held pens and various odds and ends. There was nothing of interest, except another key. I slipped it into my pocket without hesitation.

The bottom drawers contained papers, a few more journals, and a crystal decanter tucked toward the back. The amber liquid inside sat just a quarter full, dark and undisturbed. If it was scotch, it had been sitting there for years. I didn’t bother opening it to find out. Instead, I picked up some of the papers and journals and leaned back in the chair and skimmed the pages.

The writer was named Henry Pierce. He was a medical doctor, though his writings suggested a deep fascination with psychology, which he practiced on the side. He was particularly interested in how disease, medication, and drugs affected the mind, along with thought processes and the impact of events on a person. He mentioned a wife and children, but never named them.

Compared to the kitchen incident and the eerie blue light, the journals felt almost dull. I set them on the desk and turned my attention to the shelves. More journals, but also an eclectic mix—medical texts, philosophical treatises, and novels.

A couple of Dickens volumes caught my eye, along with a first edition of Sister Carrie—worth a small fortune if I were to sell it. Tempting, but I wasn’t ballsy enough to try it.

On the bottom shelf, a book lay flat. I picked it up. Principles of Psychology, by William James.

Maybe it was the James mentioned in the journal.

I brushed my fingers over the book spines in hopes I might find something useful, something to tell me more about this place and maybe a clue as to what I was doing here. I started to pull out a volume when a rat skittered over my foot. The book dropped out of my hand as I jumped.

I considered staying longer, but the rat was a dealbreaker. I'm not fond of the dark, but with the light, minimal as it was, I could handle it. But rats? I'm less fond of those.

I told myself I could return later to explore some more. Perhaps the light would be a bit friendlier, and the rat would have found another place to hang out.

I took a deep breath, extinguished the lamp, and shut the study door behind me.

Back in the foyer, I stood at the foot of the stairs, my gaze drawn to the remnants of the stained-glass window above. Through the fractured glass, I could see the restless movement outside. The clouds raced past in the darkness and obscured the stars beyond. Night had settled while I was in Dr. Pierce’s study, though it felt like only minutes had passed. My knees ached, and the scent of rain thickened in the air. A storm was closing in.

I didn’t know where I was, how I’d ended up here, or even which way home might be. I knew I didn’t want to figure it out in the rain. And yet, something about this place made me pause. It wasn’t exactly welcoming, but I wasn’t sure it was hostile, either. The silence pressed in, neither threatening nor comforting, just…waiting.

I had the uneasy sense that if I stayed, I might uncover something I wasn’t ready for, something I would regret knowing.

An eerie tingle ran through me. The thought slipped into my mind, carried by the heavy air. She wanted me to stay.

I could almost hear it in the creak of Her joints, "stay..."

My free will felt under siege. Something—someone—held me back. There were dark secrets hidden in the recesses of the house, and I felt compelled to uncover them all.

I needed to know who the girl was. I needed to understand how to help her. And maybe help myself.

The answers were here. Somewhere.

I looked around the foyer. It felt odd. Every room was closed off with a tightly-shut door and nothing welcomed a visitor. Yet, there was a lure, a haunted, lived-in feeling which emanated from them. Perhaps there weren’t supposed to be any surprises. Just ordinary wood and fabrics that had nothing to hide. But it didn’t feel like it.

I closed my eyes, hoping to picture the house as it had been—fresh paint, laughter. Life in the rooms.

Nothing came.

I squeezed my eyes tighter and listened. I heard distant thunder with a piano's soulful melody beneath it as it drifted through the air. So faint, it might have been imagined.

With the darkened sky, the bluish tint from the study had grown brighter, imparting a confused feeling of both warmth and detachment. I turned to the wall behind me, where two old portraits hung, veiled with dust. One was of a woman, more handsome than glamorous. Her clothing was dated, and she stood rigidly straight, her hands folded on top of an ornately carved and empty high-backed chair. Her unsmiling eyes drilled into me. It was hard to tell if she was angry, unhappy, or perhaps only jaded. I shivered with an uncomfortable sense the woman was alive inside the painting and disapproved of my presence in her home. Even with the discomfort I felt, I found it hard to break my gaze.

The other portrait depicted two young children, a boy and a girl, no more than a year or two apart in age. It was my impression the children may have belonged to the woman in the other portrait, for they seemed to share similar features. The biggest difference was the children’s eyes laughed and danced in innocent abandon; quite a contrast from the woman’s cold stare. I wondered if the woman was their mother and if so, why they weren’t painted together. Was the father’s likeness hanging somewhere else? Perhaps this was the wife and children Dr. Pierce mentioned in the journals.

Throughout my exploration of the downstairs, it never occurred to me to wonder why the house had allowed me to enter, or by what means I had arrived there. Perhaps it was all just a dream. A strange, interesting dream, but a dream nonetheless.

Perhaps it was not.

I had a sudden, pressing desire to escape; to run away as fast as I could without looking back. It wasn’t the approaching storm, tinged with the odor of ozone. No, there was another, unknown reason. I moved quickly toward the front door. I stopped at the threshold and wondered if I would ever be able to find Her again. If this were truly a dream, maybe my unconscious could bring me back, and She would speak to me still. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know how to return. Mostly I wondered about the crying girl, the cause of her sadness, and what I could do to relieve her suffering. I assured myself, dream or no, I would help her.

As thunder rolled above the surrounding woodland and wind began to blow a deluge of rain onto the porch where I stood, I remembered I had no idea where I was or how to get home.

"James argues psychologists must concern themselves with the functions of thought. I wonder—how does guilt function? Guilt over what, I am unsure. Perhaps Richard’s death has stirred it, but that explains only a fraction of the puzzle. There is more, I am certain. The theory warrants exploration. More than one is affected."