33. The Chateau of Nightmares
The Chateau of Nightmares
Onyx
We approached the chateau with careful steps with our weapons up.
It was eerily quiet; even the usual sounds of nature seemed muted.
Once again, the whole island was holding its breath and watching us.
It was hard to simply walk by the garden and not grab something to eat. There were rows of onions with their green stalks rising tall, radishes peeking out like little red and white bulbs, and even a few potato plants. And it didn’t stop there, earlier, I’d missed all the fruit trees on the side with pears, peaches, and apples hanging heavy on their leafy arms.
But we had a task at hand.
Our eating would have to wait.
As we moved closer to the chateau, the sense of unease grew, like a dark cloud hovering above us.
Havoc led the way.
We approached the door hesitantly, as though fearing that it might vanish any moment like a mirage.
Fear gnawed at my insides, but with Havoc by my side, I knew we could face whatever lay ahead.
We approached the huge gold door, and I exchanged a final glance with Havoc.
He held that knife up, appearing deadlier than ever before and then gave me a small nod, reassuring me without words.
I knocked, pretty much pounding my fist against the surface.
And then we waited.
The seconds seemed to stretch into eternity, each tick of the clock an eerie echo in the silence.
After a minute, I loudly knocked again.
Havoc lifted his nose in the air and sniffed. “No new smell. If someone were coming, there would have been a shift in scents.”
“Okay. I have the boots so I’ll open the door.”
Havoc winked. “My thoughts exactly.”
We both stepped back.
And with all my force, I raised my foot in the air and then slammed it hard against the door. The hinges squeaked in protest.
I slammed my foot into the door again and again until the hinges finally gave way and the door fell back with a loud crash.
We took a breath, allowed dust to settle, and then stepped over the threshold.
The entryway was grand, with a staircase spiraling up towards what I assumed were living quarters, and on either side of us, there were doors leading into other parts of the chateau.
Everything one would expect when looking at the outside of the chateau.
But there was one thing that we did not expect.
One thing that kept us right in our place.
Hanging from the massive chandelier in the middle of the foyer was a body, swaying slightly in the still air.
I whispered, “Bloody hell.”
“And that’s the scent I’d been smelling from far away.”
My breath caught in my throat, and my heart pounded in my chest as the grotesque sight registered.
The man was suspended by a thick, twisted rope. His neck was bent at an unnatural angle. His body dangled lifelessly, toes barely grazing the floor, as if the person had tried to reach solid ground in their last seconds of life to save themselves.
But that couldn’t have been the case.
The body had been much higher before, and due to the weight and time, the chandelier had been sagging and slowly leaving the ceiling lowering itself and the body.
Shit.
I took in more of the space.
A ladder lay on its side beneath the body, kicked over in what must have been a final, desperate act.
The scene was horrific—a snapshot of utter despair frozen in time.
My stomach twisted.
The body had been there for some time. While I didn’t have Havoc’s nose, the stench of death was clear and very old.
I covered my nose.
Flies buzzed around the corpse, landing on his grey skin and dark, matted blonde hair.
A few small, scavenging animals had bitten at his toes and face.
Rats, maybe.
The man’s face was beyond bloated and discolored. The skin stretched tight across his features, making them almost unrecognizable.
His eyes were closed, but his mouth was slightly open, frozen in a final, silent scream.
He’d worn a designer white suit that was now filthy and stained with the bodily fluids that came from decomposition.
My stomach churned, and I had to force myself to breathe, to look away from the gruesome sight.
But the horror of it all kept drawing my eyes back, as if some part of me couldn’t fully comprehend that this was what I was seeing after taking that nice island stroll.
I looked Havoc’s way to anchor me back to reality.
Clearly, he was equally disturbed, though his expression was more controlled. His eyes flicked between the body and the room around us, analyzing the scene with a grim determination. “Four days. Maybe five.”
I swallowed hard. “The decomposition. The way the skin is bloated and starting to break down. The smell—it’s strong, but not overpowering. If it had been longer, we wouldn’t be able to stand being this close.”
Havoc bobbed his head. “And the animals. . .the bugs. They’re just starting to get at it. Scavengers are bold, but they’re cautious too. If it had been more recent, we wouldn’t see as many of them—they wouldn’t risk getting caught. But after a few days, they start moving in.”
I forced myself to take a step closer, and to really look at the scene despite every instinct screaming at me to turn away. “The ladder. . .he was alone when he did this. No one to stop him.”
“Perhaps, because everyone was dead.” Havoc’s gaze followed mine to the ladder, lying on its side beneath the hanging body. “He climbed up, put the rope around his neck, and. . .then kicked it over.”
A shiver ran down my spine as I imagined those final moments—the despair, the hopelessness that must have driven him to this.
I couldn’t help but wonder who this person had been, what had led them to take their own life in such a desperate, lonely way.
Hopefully, he was the person that put the children in the graves outside.
Havoc pointed to his shoes. “Not boot prints, but definitely the same size of foot.”
I couldn’t disagree because when I’d saw those prints that night, I’d been too busy running from Havoc. “So. . .this is our mystery man?”
“I’m sure of it. The smell of the print. . .although very faint. . .it matches.”
“Damn it.”
Sadness hit me.
But there was no time to dwell on it. The reality was right in front of us, and we had to figure out what this meant for us, for our survival on this island.
My hands tightened around the gun at my side, as if the cold metal could somehow ward off the horror that threatened to overwhelm me.
Havoc moved his view from the dead body. “We should check this place, but I doubt anyone is in here.”
I nodded. “No sane person is leaving this dead body up for 4-5 days and just living in the house.”
“And. . .more death is outside and in the back of the house.”
I let out a long breath. “There’s that too.”
Typically, I worked on my own, but I had to admire his ability to remain level-headed amidst the chaos, even as my own mind ran wild with fear and a multitude of unanswered questions.
This island was supposed to be desolate, abandoned.
Now it was a tomb for dead people.
I just hoped we wouldn’t wind up dead next.
Havoc made the first move, heading towards one of the doors on our left. He paused momentarily, his hand hovering above the doorknob, seeming to steel himself before pushing it open and disappearing inside.
I followed, finding myself in what appeared to be some sort of study. It was just as grand as the foyer, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the walls and a mahogany desk sitting proudly in its center.
It was all strangely untouched, as if it had been sealed off from time itself.
No signs of struggle or disarray.
But the stillness felt eerie, wrong in contrast with the frenzied horror we'd just left behind.
I had an uncontrollable urge to upset this serenity—to knock over a chair or throw a book to bring some semblance of reality back.
Havoc went over to the desk and picked up a sheet of expensive paper. “Well. . .this is a big clue.”
“Yeah?”
“Suicide letter.” He handed it to me.
“Well, that was nice of him.” I took the letter from Havoc’s hands, noting the careful scrawl of handwriting.
To my disappointment, there were only three lines.
I read it out loud, “If you find this island, do not tell my wife and children. Burn it all to the ground.”
Havoc went over to the shelves of books and gazed at them. “Not much of a talker. Was he?”
“Not at all.” I let the paper fall from my hands, watching as it softly landed on the polished mahogany.
The man's last wish, now left to us—a couple of accidental islanders—to fulfill or discard.
“There must be something more.” I brushed my fingertips over the smooth desk surface, feeling for any hidden compartments or secret cubbies.
Havoc continued to scour through the room. “Are you hoping to find more letters. Perhaps, some in a handful of crisp envelopes tied with black ribbons. And in them are all his tormented words penned down with an elegant hand.”
I went through the drawers.
All of them were empty.
Havoc continued, “And the letters would all be about his tales of remorse and redemption—of battling inner demons that proved harder to overcome.”
“Well. . .at least a fucking passport or something.”
“The man was evil, and he did evil things here. And. . .he was probably filthy rich which means that he wants all of his sins to die with him.” Havoc picked up one book and then set it back down. “The worst thing that could happen to a rich man besides becoming poor, is losing the purity of his reputation.”
I grimaced, thinking of the children’s graves outside. “A reputation can't be much if you've got a body count.”
“All the more reason to keep it hushed. If it’s one thing that letter did say. . .his family has no idea that this island even exists. Which means only a few people would.”
“Like who?”
“Estate manager or private lawyer. This man would keep a tight-knit circle that is bound by secrecy, either through legal means, financial incentives, or fear of repercussions, ensuring that the existence of this property and its dark history remains hidden.”
“And would that person come looking here?”
Havoc thought about it for a second and then smiled. “Eventually.”
That gave me a bit of hope.
“However. . .” Havoc shrugged. “We don’t know how long it would be, and if this guy was a true bastard. . .the lawyer or estate person may not even care enough to check. Just wait the required time to declare a missing person dead, which is like. . .I don’t know five to seven years.”
All that hope disappeared.
Havoc watched my reaction. “But. . .”
“What?”
“He had to get on the island. So. . .how did he get here?”
That was enough to keep me ready to push forward. “Okay. Good point.”
“And,” Havoc gestured to the lamps and light switches. “Before we went inside, I spotted solar panels on the roof so we will have electricity no matter what.”
We spent the next hour searching the rest of the chateau.
The whole place was just as grandiose as the outside.
We found a chef’s kitchen, complete with industrial-grade appliances and a pantry still stocked with canned goods and dried provisions. The dining room was dominated by a long table made from rich mahogany wood, a dozen high-backed chairs standing sentinel around it.
Unable to stop ourselves, we made something quick to eat. Sandwiches made from an untouched roasted lamb that had been in the fridge that Havoc inspected with his nose and cleared.
I found bread, mayo, lettuce, and tomatoes.
It was the fastest I’d ever made a sandwich in my life. Mayo dripped onto my fingers and I lapped it up, starving for the fat.
Once we devoured the sandwiches, we drank at least three to four glasses of water each, and we were back to our search.
We found a wine cellar stocked with bottles that had aged well.
A library filled with leather-bound books was next, its shelves reaching up to a domed ceiling painted to resembled the night sky. In one corner of the library stood a striking portrait of a man. We were certain it wasn’t the person who had hung himself, but perhaps. . .his father.
Either way, the man’s doomful gray eyes seeming to follow us around the room as we looked through it.
But right next to that huge painting, Havoc picked up an odd scent. “There’s. . .something behind here.”
“Yeah?” I went over and touched the wall.
He gently knocked on the wall and listened intently after each knock.
I watched him, fully intrigued and impressed.
He did this for a while and moved to the left and then the right.
After several minutes, he found what he was looking for, some odd placement of a wood square at the bottom of the wall that appeared out of place with the whole chateau.
He tapped it with his foot.
The square fell, revealing a black button.
I blinked.
He tapped the button with the point of his toe.
The wall slid open.
“Shit.”
A massive gray room appeared, looking like a jail cell. Five small cots stood against the walls. There were chains and locks to the floor.
No one was in there, but I could feel the sad whispers and whimpers that had filled this space.
Havoc sniffed. “This is where they kept the kids hidden.”
My eyes watered, and I turned away. “I wished he had not hung himself. I would have loved to do the job for him.”
“Naw.” Havoc’s voice held an edge. “He wanted a quick death, and we would have dragged it out for days.”
“Weeks even.” I left the library and headed upstairs.
Havoc followed.
We discovered seven rooms. Each had their own private bathroom. Havoc sniffed and declared that at least four of the bedrooms had never been used.
Which was good because I didn’t want to sleep wherever that sick bastard had been.
And we were definitely staying in this place if we couldn’t find a way off this island.
The chateau was much better than Havoc’s shelter.
There was a lot of Victorian elegance in all of the bedrooms that could truly be defined as suites. Lots of velvet drapes and antique furniture. Chandeliers and gilded mirrors. Silk sheets and tall windows.
We carefully poked through every room, searching for clues, perhaps another letter, a sign of others living there, or something that could be of use to get us off the island.
It was there in the master bedroom that I found something useful—a locked wooden box tucked away in one of the closets.
With some effort, I managed to pry it open with the butt of my gun.
Inside was a map of the island, a notebook, and at least eighty photographs of dead children.
Most were faded, but around twenty had been taken in recent years.
The photographs were small, no bigger than playing cards, but each one held a haunting image of a lifeless child splayed out on forest soil or beach sand.
Some clothed.
Some naked.
Haunting images.
Toddlers to adolescent teens.
Their faces held expressions of fear, pain, and confusion, permanently etched onto the glossy paper.
Havoc glared at the items. “He couldn’t bear to destroy this bit of evidence.”
More sadness washed over me. “They’ve been doing shit to kids on this island for a very long time.”
“Probably passed down from grandfather to father to son.”
“Disgusting.” I set the box down, picked up the map of the island, and slowly unfolded it.
The paper was old, yellowed with time, and covered in markings that made my stomach turn. It was divided into sections, each one marked with symbols and notes in a neat, precise handwriting that made the horrors it described all the more chilling.
There were areas circled in red, some labeled with dates, others with cryptic symbols that only hinted at the true nature of what had happened there.
A small, dark part of me already knew what the map was showing before I even began to piece it together.
It all left me feeling hollow and sick.
“This. . .isn’t just a map,” I whispered, more to myself than to Havoc. “It’s the layout for their hunting ground.”
Havoc’s expression darkened as he leaned over to examine it with me. “The kids didn’t know the layout, but they did and used the island as their playground.”
I pointed to one of the marked areas near the center of the island, where several dates were scribbled in alongside a number of Xs. “This must have been where they started. . .where they released the children.” My voice cracked. “And then. . .they hunted them down.”
The thought of children—scared, alone, running through the island’s forest, desperate to escape—sent a shudder through me.
I could almost hear their terrified cries, their little feet pounding against the ground as they tried to flee from their tormentors.
I forced myself to turn away from the map, knowing that the images it conjured up would linger in my mind like a nightmare that would forever refuse to fade.
With a heavy heart, I returned to the wooden box, lifting out the notebook that had been lying beneath the map.
The cover was worn, the edges frayed from many years of use.
I opened it to the first page, and my breath hitched at what I saw.
Neatly written, in the same precise handwriting as the map, was a list of dates, each followed by a name, an age, and a method of death.
The ink was just as dark as the person who wrote it.
Havoc whispered, “Twisted trophies.”
June 12, 1965 - Emma, age 7 – raped, beaten, and strangled.
July 23, 1967 - Jonathan, age 9 - Raped and drowned.
August 18, 1969 - Tamara and Tina, ages 12 - Raped and stabbed.
And so it went, page after page, year after year, each one more horrifying than the last. They all shared horrific fates and tragic ends at the hands of monsters who saw them as nothing more than prey to use, abuse, and kill.
Tears welled in my eyes as I turned the pages.
Every new entry was a fresh wound in my heart, and it was all unspeakable cruelty.
And even more, I got the feeling that this was just one hunters notebook. I bet everything that there were other hunters who kept track in their own way.
I wish I could fucking kill them all.
The notebook felt like it was burning in my hands, the weight of all those lost lives almost too much to bear. I could see the kids’ faces in my mind—innocent, trusting, filled with hope—and then the terror that must have overtaken them as they realized what was happening.
“Monsters.” I dropped the notebook. “Fucking piece of shit monsters. How could they write it down like it was just. . .a game?”
Havoc’s hand rested on my shoulder, comforting me a little bit. “Evil people take pleasure in wicked things. This was their legacy—probably passing down this sickness from one generation to the next.”
I swallowed hard, trying to push down the bile that rose in my throat.
Havoc picked up the notebook and checked the end of it. “The last entry was dated two weeks ago. Sarah. Age 13. Raped and burned alive.”
My vision blurred as tears filled my eyes. “I. . .”
Havoc closed the notebook and placed it on the bed as if the children were inside of it.
“I never thought I would be a good mother so. . .” I wiped the tears from my face. “I got my tubes tied about four years ago. The doctor hadn’t wanted to do it. She kept saying that I might regret it one day.”
“And did you regret it?”
“No. But. . .I just feel like. . .even though that part of me was taken away. . .there’s still this mothering. . .sensation inside of me. . .that hurts for these children.”
Havoc gathered me into his arms. “You can cry for them right now, but do not cry anymore after this moment.”
More tears left my eyes.
“Because we are here, so no other children will ever come to this island and be harmed.”
I closed my eyes and leaned into him.
“And that bastard is dead, and if any other ones come here to fucking hunt, we will kill them.”
“I hope more come. I pray they show up.”
“But even more, Onyx, just like the plastic surgeon said. . .I believe it. . .”
“What?”
“I think we start anew with different lives. And now all of these children’s souls are somewhere else in this world, happy, smiling, and growing.”
I trembled against him. “Promise?”
“I promise.”