Impostor Syndrome - Prologue, Chapters 1 & 2

“We Make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.”

– Stephen King

“The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls.”

– Edgar Allen Poe

Synopsis

Dragon’s Ridge Hall, an 18th-century gothic mansion, stands atop a blustery hill, surveying the Clywedog valley below, like an ancient, deranged Wyvern eyeing the carrion of an ailing civilisation.

Gwynedd Wyn Jones, the celebrated modern horror writer, resides alone in his ancestral home. A house filled with unsightly paintings of his forebears' past lives, unused rooms, and dust-filled clefts. A place that not only traps him but is a haven from an ungodly world and a plague of epic proportions.

A germophobe with social anxiety, Gwynedd’s battle to retain his sense of autonomy begins as COVID-19 closes in, ravaging the country and seeping through the landscape until it reaches his door, leaving Gwynedd with no choice but to face the thing he fears the most.

Prologue

His very cells screamed at him to run, but somehow his feet felt like they had sprouted roots, wrapping themselves around the lithic stone slabs below, embedding him to the cellar floor. He couldn’t tell if fear or lack of breath kept him rooted. All he knew was this man, this warped nemesis, wanted him gone.

Raising his hands to cup both sides of his skull, he heard scuttling behind him, slithering and chattering. A cornucopia of vermin caused his brain to fill with the sound of flat frequency.

The man in the tacky, sequined blazer rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck and rocked his head from side to side.

He gave a sinister chuckle and a tap dance on the spot, the Blakey’s on his highly polished designer shoes pattering out a grim rhythm. Spittle flew from his mouth, prompting Gwynedd to close his eyes tightly.

“Get away from me!” Gwynedd cried, retreating, crablike in his endeavours.

“I’m here now, don’t you understand that? I will always be here,” the man retorted, his eyes ablaze with cold blue fire.

“You’re a psycho, and people need to be protected from you.” Gwynedd shrieked.

The man removed prismatic, snakeskin leather gloves from his hands and placed them inside his blazer pocket. Gwynedd half expected to see him dart out a forked tongue, and it would have been of no surprise to him. The emerald jacket on the man’s back shimmered, kinking and spiralling, the dim light rolling over its spangles like an undulating wave.

Gwynedd blinked; his stomach twisted in torment at the reminder of tiny, dead, iridescent bugs he’d once seen in a National Geographic magazine. He could hardly bear the memory of how he squirmed at the thought if he were to reach out and touch them—of their decaying shells, shedding and assaulting his skin.

His uninvited guest threw a pair of green, horn-rimmed glasses at his feet. One of the lenses cracked and bloody. Gwynedd was certain he could see a few frizzy red hairs attached to the hinges.

“Do you think I haven’t covered all my bases?” the man said, chuckling.

Gwynedd fought to retain control, his gasping breath loud and apparent. He stumbled back into a filth-ridden corner, slapping his palm over his mouth to restrain a whimper.

The man’s cruelty knew no bounds. He had taken her, the only one who had stood beside him all these years, his one true friend. He wiped his clammy fingers over his plaid wool trousers, feeling the throbbing pulse of his heartbeat in his chest, willing the knowledge of her death to be untrue.

A knife sliced the air perilously close to his ear, and Gwynedd now knew the stakes were raised. He didn’t feel the slight nick to the helix at the outer rim of his ear nor sense the steady stream of blood soaking his pristine shirt collar. Somehow, he knew this was only the first attack.

Time seemed to decelerate, and he sensed the cogs of his watch cantering sluggishly as he tried to make sense of it all. He must wait until the large hand met with twelve once more. He raised his arms defensively to shield his face from his aggressor, one eye barely on his watch face.

Gwynedd had known this moment would come. It was no longer a fight for autonomy but a battle against his erasure. He mentally mapped the layout of the house and the placement of his father's old Enfield revolver in the attic. He would flee into the house and hope to lose the depraved son of a bitch.

Pitiful though his life might be, he would not die here.

Chapter 1

They say that darkness is an ally, and in the beginning, it was. A comforting old friend who curled around him like a serpent in quiescence, deadly but dormant. Silent but ever-present.

He relished the safety of the gloom surrounding him. It held him close, coddling him like the feathered bedding he had slept on as a child. The only light in his study came from a vintage emerald bankers’ lamp, its chartreuse glow giving way to a sallow yellow that enveloped his sacred Underwood typewriter.

From within the sanctuary could be heard the continuous ticking and rattling of keys of a wordsmith at work. That would be, of course, had there been anyone to listen.

Gwynedd tried to cover his eyes, squinting as he repeatedly pulled on a gold beaded lamp switch and muttering to himself as he realised the generator in the cellar had died. As he moved, his shadow emanated across the rib vaulted ceiling as sharp flashes of lightning illustrated the stone beams with penetrating light.

Harsh droplets of rain lambasted the dimly lit, mullioned window. Inside, a lamp sparked and faded. A gauzy luminosity seeped through the opening of pristine midnight blue drapes that depicted a rainforest scene overflowing with dense foliage and birds of paradise. Each curtain was richly interwoven with striking green threads and trimmed in gold.

He enclosed his hand around a sizeable, heavy paperweight, which contained an image of the hall locked within and smoothed his fingers over the cool glass to pacify his troubled mind. Finger smudges decorated the glaze, indicating its frequent use to exorcise stress.

Easing his creaking bones, stiffened by hours of inactivity, he gave his hips a generous rub, stretching and opening his mouth to release a cavernous yawn. At forty, he felt the sharp pinch of arthritic hips and wrists caused by sitting so long in one position. His posture had become so atrocious that his mother would be disappointed that all the years of training in etiquette she’d directed him in were lost by him hunching over his work.

He pulled open the drawer to his 16th Century carved oak desk and took out a battered stainless-steel torch, clicking its switch while tapping it on his palm. It flashed a few times before blazing cold, pure light. He just hoped the damn thing would hold out as he couldn’t be sure when he had last replaced the batteries.

He glanced at his watch. The brown leather strap of his Omega Seamaster slightly frayed and cracked along the buckle. It was a much-loved gift from his mother on his eighteenth birthday and an item he never removed. With a furrowed brow, he brushed back a shock of dirty blonde and silver hair away from his face. Removing rimless glasses and massaging the bridge of his curved, roman nose, inquisitive sapphire-coloured eyes watched the timepiece twice more. He waited for the tiny sweeping second hand to reach twelve before moving.

He then remembered he should take the much-detested safeguard, his mobile phone. Inhaling a deep, impatient breath, he searched his drawer once again. God forbid he fell down the stairs and broke a bone. Rescue would be slow to arrive, and the dirty, unclean, germ-carrying life down there would soon envelop him, smothering him with their faeces and lice. His mind began to run riot with possibilities, and he clenched his fists stiffly to ward off the unpleasant shudder that scurried through his body.

Mrs Finn, the portly woman from the village, would arrive soon. He could tolerate the middle-aged housekeeper as she kept out of his way. She didn’t speak unless wholly necessary whilst cooking his meals and keeping his living quarters clean. Deciding not to wait until she arrived, he headed towards his destination.

He had never liked to enter the cellar. It was like a portal to another realm, with rats and other vermin residing in its depths, peering at him from apertures and small hollows within the moulding stone. These days it was rare he had to do so, though there were times when a trip down ageing and footworn flagstone steps was a necessary evil. Lifting the smartphone, he tapped the screen. It was out of power.

“Damn,” he muttered, frustratingly throwing the phone back into the drawer. It had been months since he had last charged it or even bothered to check if the Wi-Fi was working. Somehow these links to the outside world created anxiety within him. He mistrusted anything that was not tangible and had decided technology was better left out of sight and only used when absolutely necessary. This time though, it seemed it was. Nails bitten to the quick, his thumbs swirled compulsively around his forefingers several times before his legs would move.

Striding to the antique globe drinks cabinet and flipping the lid back, he peered at the powdery bottles his father had left when he died. Gwynedd had been five apparently, though he couldn’t be sure, as his mother would never tell him more. It was like it had been a surreptitious mystery, of which only she was allowed to know the secret.

The only sign his father had resided on the estate was an ornate mausoleum in the family cemetery. Decorated with pointed turrets and crucifixes, two winged angels stood on either side of its green door. Likely copper at one time, until oxidation had claimed its glossy hue, it was intricately decorated with a bramble motif and heralded the family crest. Visiting occasionally, he would try to peer inside, but there was no light by which to see his father interred in the liquid murkiness.

He peered at the alcohol, itching for just a tiny dram for courage. It would be easy to remove a waxen cork, but thick dust on the labels caused him to close his eyes and slam the cabinet shut. The globe protected and projected filth, and he gathered it couldn’t always remain inside if it were opened.

Minuscule particles floated around him, coating his skin. Rubbing his eyes and cheeks with a pristine handkerchief, he rid himself of the itchy matter. Alcohol did not mix with his medication, and if he had taken one finger's worth, he knew he would have finished the bottle.

A gilt and glass frame hung lopsided on the wall above the globe, looking out of place amongst the Elizabethan furniture, an award for his last trilogy of books— Black and White Web, Arachnid Chains and The Spider Empire. It was an odd choice of genre for someone terrified of creepy crawlies. Regardless, Gwynedd felt it was more a case that writing horror helped to ensure he didn’t decline further into his entomophobia, and it helped him cope with his internal horrors.

Pushing at the frame with the immaculately manicured nail of his middle finger, he corrected it. He felt little for the award. The outside world had sent it to inform him of his record-breaking sales, and though writing books was the most important part of his life, he couldn’t care less if he sold a handful or a million.

Taking several deep breaths, he set off along the flagstone corridor and through a gallery that depicted hundreds of years of ancestry. He passed a bank of arched windows containing grisaille glass, executed entirely in shades of grey with the family crest in the centre—a minuscule hint of vibrant colour within the monochrome. He paused and lightly touched the coat of arms. Something about the act made him feel connected to his family and to the house.

Outside, a racket of thunder created tumultuous uproar in the distance as the Clywedog valley embraced the storm. Its sweeping archways and flying buttresses finding themselves battered by the sudden onset of rain. Welsh lithic stone masonry became dampened and sodden from cinereal and mottled russets to a dingy bronze-like, weak coffee.

The house had endured centuries of ravage from similar assaults. It stood like a vigilant watchman, peering over the rolling countryside with sharp, arched eyes, surrounded by an army of bloodthirsty gargoyles ready to leap to the ground at any sign of danger.

Long, black, threadbare curtains encompassed the inner window frames, swaying softly through tiny fractures in the aged glass. The sound of the soft leather of worn brown oxfords creaked as he strode purposefully through the passage. He shivered a little, glad for his fawn corduroys and heavy Aran jumper. The hall had not been adequately heated in years, and the frigid air was callous, attacking any small fissure of skin exposed to the atmosphere.

The Wyn-Jones entire family decorated the walls in their various framed incarnations, dating back to William the Conqueror. Their dark blue, overtly hooded eyes stared haughtily as he passed. “Good afternoon.” He muttered absently in greeting. He wondered how many of them would turn in their graves to know their portraits gazed over the last of their bloodline. He had never married, and now, he was so afraid of anyone coming into his personal space that he doubted he ever would.

Coming to a halt at the cellar door, he unclipped a large set of iron keys from his belt and tentatively fingered the raised panelling. To calm his nerves, he had begun whistling a broken tune, sounding vaguely like Mozart's Marriage of Figaro.

He heard his mother's voice: -

“Gwynedd? What have I told you about coming to this part of the house? It’s filthy and filled with creepy crawlies, and goodness knows what! You are forbidden to come here, do you understand?”

She had taken his chubby hand and shaken him severely before dragging him along the corridor towards his red-faced nursemaid.

“Make sure he is scrubbed clean,” she had commanded to the maid.

It was one of the only times he had ever known his mother to be so strict, and he had to admit that she had him shaking in his tiny shoes that day.

The daily scrubbings continued until he was old enough to bathe alone. By then, it had become so routine for him that he had gone on to scrub daily his whole life.

As he was led away, he heard his mother say to Keats, the butler,

“Things happen down there. You know they do.”

Her voice echoed in his mind every time he stood before this door. Sometimes it was as though she had never left the hall, still serving as a small voice in his psyche. She was, in fact, in town at St Agnes’ care home. He’d hated to send her there, but her mind had degenerated to the point she no longer knew what she was doing. She often caused mess and malodours.

The more she had lost her mind, the more people had to come to the house. The further her condition then worsened, the more her night terrors became rooted in his father's death. Even now, as he slept, he could still hear her calling for him while constantly pulling on the servant's bell at 3 am.

“Help me! Help me! He’s here, Gwynedd!”

He would hear the bell echo from his study, like a Carillion from the kitchens. He would cover his ears, returning to his writing and seeking peace in his work that would not come until dawn, or at least until the nurses calmed her with a sedative.

Carers and doctors invited themselves in at all hours of the day and night. He clenched his fists at the thought, his stomach lurching with anxiety at the conscience-stricken knowledge that he’d sent her away. He knew he wouldn’t be allowed to visit her, and most importantly, he wouldn’t need to leave the hall.

The fear of going outside outweighed the feeling that he might be perceived as a self-centred brute. Let them think what they wanted. He cared little for the company or chit chat of others. They were of no consequence to his writings. People talked too much, and they brought unsavoury diseases when traipsing in and out of his home. There would be no escape from the virus recently reported in the news if it garnered a grip on his land with its taloned hands.

Easing the key into the lock, he felt resistance. There was a crackle, eventually giving way as he persevered. Probably a build-up of rust, he told himself.

He covered his mouth as an unpleasant breeze coursed through the entrance, undoubtedly from an open window below or the stale, fusty air trapped within. He wondered if this might be what it was like to open a mummy’s tomb, obnoxious, trapped, whispering air erupting and encapsulating one’s face like a mask of deadly dust.

Swinging the torch into the stairwell, he felt hundreds of years of footfall impressions on the depressed stone steps as he trod slowly down. Without a handrail, he kept his body flush with the dank concave stone, gulping down his disgust as his nostrils filled with the scent of mildew.

Below were racks of ancient wine, dispersed with a powdery layer, untouched for countless years and likely worth more than the house itself. The room was clear, apart from the odd piece of antique furniture covered with greying dust sheets.

His feet met the flagstone floor as the clammy atmosphere enveloped him. The gas generator let out wafts of acrid smoke as he trained his torch on it. It had replaced the wrought iron steam system installed in the 1800s around 20 years ago.

Irritated, he spied an old wrench and, ignoring the dangers of gas, thumped the equipment with a solid crack that resonated through the tool into his hand. He felt a painful vibration along his arm that caused him to yelp. Flinching, he dropped the tool to the floor.

Feeling around the pipe that fed the irksome apparatus, he touched nothing apart from the rough brick the unit stood upon. He patted its cold motor, finding only ashy soot and knocking off a lump of old dirt that landed on his forearm. “Mmmf!” he expressed with a yelp as he began to withdraw his hand. “Dirt! Filthy dirt!” he cried.

His fingers brushed the iron of the old condenser behind, and residue lingered on the tips. He closed his eyes tightly and pursed his lips, his lower incisors pressing sharply against the tender skin inside his mouth. Shrinking back into himself, he pulled his arm back, fraught and breathing deeply.

Out of nowhere, he felt something grasp his hand. A hand! It was someone’s icy, cold hand. In his mind, he screeched. Was it him? Was it his imagination?

“What? W-what? No!” He shrieked inanely as he felt frigid fingers clasp his wrist, its grip unrelenting. He grabbed the edge of the motor with his free hand, feeling pain shoot up his arm as he clutched the rough stone, digging his nails in to hold himself steady. His heart almost stopped in fear as he battled to escape. There was a sharp tug. Once, then again, as whatever was inside the old condenser attempted to pull him in. Terrified, he heard voices whispering and babbling incoherently.

There was no way to hear what they were saying, but they spoke urgently as he struggled. In a moment of clarity, he picked up the wrench, lifting it high above his head and smashing it down onto the grate, stabbing with everything he had, yelling and crying until he was released before falling onto his backside.

A low, chilling chuckle echoed in the murky blackness, scuttling to his right. He couldn’t be sure of anything and recounted his steps, using the CBT therapy he’d been taught as a younger man. He broke the situation down into small parts, attempting to remain practical and pushing the boundary of fear back to relieve his symptoms. He told himself that it was only him there. It was only anxiety. He imagined a small boy's forehead against his brow, his inner child, the boy who was afraid, not the adult.

Prattling, terrifying voices whispered, continually circling, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying. A rush of air fanned his skin, causing goosebumps to cover every part of his body and the urge to scream for his mother. He fumbled out, “You are not here. I have what I need to get through this. I’m stronger than I think.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited, mentally comforting the boy and controlling his breathing, “I control what I think; feel; how I behave.”

Unsure of whether his legs would support him, he struggled up, placing one hand to centre himself on the cold lithic stone, before rising.

Once his foot hit the top step, on trembling legs, he paused, peering back into the gloom, only lit by the torch he had left cantering on the floor, one hand on the doorknob behind him.

The same feeling rushed over him as when he had opened the green door, but with ragged and hardened air caressing his ears. Shut it out; keep it out; just leave; he told himself. I am me.

The voices became louder from the cellar. He could sense them, tune into them. They laughed and howled and cried out like inharmonious, stringed instruments. He caught a whisper as it wafted along.

“We cannot trust the interloper.”

“Is somebody there?” reverberated back to him, sounding like it was mocking him. Then they were silent. So silent, he wondered if he had become hard of hearing.

The air blasted as though something invisible to the naked eye was heading towards him inside a vortex. He felt the pressure of something halting right before him as he fumbled for the handle to the door against his back.

“It’s coming,” a gentle voice breathed. He felt a caress and could no longer tell whether the voice was corporeal or inside his head.

He wanted to scream, but the sound became trapped in his chest, as his throat chose that moment to close and not allow his voice through. This didn’t last long as he felt freezing fingers brush his cheek, causing him to inch lower to cover his heart. He almost let out a shriek that could’ve woken the dead had a fist not wrapped his upper arm and dragged him into the gallery outside.

Chapter 2

A gleaming, black limousine pulled through the foreboding, rusted, wrought iron gates that led to the long drive, the ironwork arch like a pair of eyes screening the entrance. Its dirty gravel had seen better days, as had the overgrown garden at the front of the house. Yellowing, weed grass grew a few feet high, meandering through the lawn in irregular patches. The only smattering of colour was from berries on holly bushes, dense and overrun between emaciated hazel and hawthorn trees.

The valley rose behind the old house, alternating multitudinous hues of green mingled with lilacs, plums, and the scattered golds of wild heather, crossing large expanses as craggy rocks met the stormy, steel grey skyline.

A smart chauffeur opened the door, and a man stepped out, shielding himself from the rain with a glossy magazine. While fussing over his designer suit, a black look adorned his attractive features. He could not help but eye the impressive hall, though its dilapidated state left much to be desired.

Broken foliage and autumn leaves danced through a slate grey and ash coloured sky, tugging this way and that and coming to rest in brambles and the decaying remains of once pristine white iron terrace furniture. Unkempt lawns stretched out towards woodland areas on either side.

Dragons Ridge Hall sat atop the plateau, like an ancient, deranged Wyvern, eyeing an ailing civilisation's carrion. A Goshawk hovered above, inertia holding it steady as it sailed on a gust of air, diving to snatch a robin from mid-flight, its tiny feathers littering the slate of the arched roof.

“It’s like we’ve arrived at the gates of hell, Fidelma. Who will greet us at the door? Barnabas Collins?” He complained cynically as his companion opened a large green golfing umbrella.

“Darling, please, let’s just get inside before my thousand-dollar Louboutin’s are destroyed,” she replied dramatically, her vowels elongated like a typical New Yorker.

Without knocking, they entered through a heavy oak glazed front door, with impressive and beautifully ornate carved tracery, into an echoing hallway, barely lit by a bronze Chinoiserie style lamp.

The man attempted to ignore the peculiar feeling of oppression. A slight, reproachful shudder wormed its way down his spine. He detested old things, usually opting for luxurious, contemporary real estate in his home city of Los Angeles.

Fidelma spied Mrs Finn sailing with ease down the coiling dark wood staircase, a bronze bucket in her hand.

“Hi, Finn. Gwyn around?”

“Miss Caster, hello. I’m afraid I haven’t seen him yet.” Mrs Finn said in her lilting Welsh accent, “He’s around somewhere.”

“No matter, honey, I’ll find him.”

Walking into the study, she raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at her associate as he poked at the face grill of an ancient suit of armour, causing it to rattle.

“If you would just wait here, sugar, I’m sure I won’t be long.” She requested of him.

Peeking into the gallery off Gwynedd’s study, she was about to look elsewhere when she heard a shriek and resounding bang in the distance. Her heels caught in the flagstones as she rushed down the corridor.

“Dammit.” She swore as she limped along, attempting to save her expensive boots.

Reaching the door, she shouldered it open, wincing, her ageing bones distressed at the sudden pressure.

Dragging Gwynedd into the passageway, she watched, alarmed as he fell to the floor.

Peering down at him, she remarked, “Gwyn, I don’t want to get all up in your grill, baby, but you look like a dead-ass new yorker who ate their bagel without any schmear.”

“Fidelma! Oh, thank God.”

His body shook as she clutched his arm. He barely avoided the urge to curl up into a foetal position from her touch on his skin alone.

“Finn let us in, and we couldn’t find you.” She said in concern as she helped him to his feet with a small, though wary, chuckle. “Why were you yelling? You sounded like you’d come across something with a crusty beef and tried to punch it out.”

His agent amused him usually, but this time he couldn’t bring himself to laugh.

“T-the generator.” He stuttered.

Brushing him down, she looked him over, slamming the door behind them with the tip of her boot. “Ah, I see. Come now, kid, I’ll have Finn make us tea and something sweet.”

She helped him to his feet, only to find the man she had asked to remain in the study loitering behind her. She looked askance at him. He shrugged.

“I didn’t realise we were to have company today, Fidelma,” Gwynedd said with the barest hint of a stutter, ignoring the tall, brunette man hovering near a priceless framed print. He watched the man poised over the painting and wanted to shout for him to stop immediately but kept himself in check.

“We discussed PR last week. Though I guess, then you were not hollering in the basement.” She smiled indulgently, patting his shoulder.

“Indeed,” Gwynedd replied, projecting disinterest and recoiling away.

“Gwyn,” Fidelma said gently, “this is Cai Laurel. He is going to be the one who impersonates you.”

Cai grinned, smoothly holding out his hand to shake Gwynedd’s. His smile faltered when his attempt at politeness was not reciprocated, and a tiny flicker of annoyance flashed in his eyes. Without breaking Gwynedd’s gaze, he let out the slightest sigh and placed his hands in his pockets.

“Jeeze, do you Brits have an aversion to sunlight, man? It’s as dark as Salem’s past here.” His teeth glinted like they’d been moulded in plastic and shoved in his mouth, a stark contrast between his brassy tan and the cut of his Indigo blue suit. He had the appearance of a Ken doll.

Gwynedd had no intention of touching the man. With Covid-19 so close to home, he just wanted him out of his house before he spread infection. Surveying the man's attempt at a friendly smile, he felt something lacking. There was no warmth behind the man’s cerulean blue eyes, no compassion, just a hint of bemusement. He couldn’t quite pinpoint why, but something felt wrong about him. He put it down to the fight or flight response symptoms he had just experienced.

“I’m Welsh. This is Wales,” Gwynedd eventually answered hoarsely, irritated by the man's attempted wit.

Fidelma interjected, sensing some tension. “As I said before, Gwyn, darling, we need to raise your profile, and if you won’t reveal yourself to the world, then we need someone who will do it for you. It’s all about PR these days.”

Regarding the other man suspiciously, Gwynedd pushed away feelings of jealousy. He had no desire to be this man, an overgrown, varnished doll who said all the right things. His presence alone angered him

He pondered vaguely; he will be me; she had said, not play me or portray me. He grumbled at Fidelma’s turn of phrase as they both hobbled away. He felt dizzy and queasy. Something didn’t feel right— didn’t feel right at all.

Cai hung back momentarily to peer at the paintings in the gallery, scoffing, rubbing his hands together and rolling his eyes at the hysteria before he followed suit.