Not your Average House

Oliver Fairchild had always felt a magnetic pull towards the obscure and the unexplained. Growing up, he had been the kid who stayed up late devouring ghost stories from the local library, the one who begged his parents for books on cryptids and legends instead of bedtime tales and any sort of mysterious artifact they found on their travels. Even now, as a freelance journalist, that fascination lingered. He’d built a reputation for himself uncovering hidden histories and exploring forgotten places, but the truth was, it wasn’t really about the thrill of the story.

For Oliver, it was about the allure of the past, of the stories left behind and the lives once lived. Maybe it was strange, but he’d always felt more alive when he was surrounded by things that had long since faded to obscurity. Old trinkets, books with names written inside the cover that had long faded from legibility. There was something invigorating about it, something that made him feel connected to a world he’d never known. Oliver made sure to visit ever museum he could find in his travels whether they be small or large.

When he heard about the Creakwood Estate from the bartender at the rundown pub two towns over, he knew immediately he had to see it for himself. Oliver only been passing through, looking for leads about a serial killer that used to operate in the area in the 1950s, but the way the bartender had told him of the hauntings, it had piqued his interest. The bartender had described how the mansion had been abandoned for decades and that unnatural things were said to happen within its walls. There was more but the words had become background noises to his own daydreams.

I can take a quick look; he had thought to himself. It was only ten miles off of where he had to go next. Oliver did not wait but drove directly there, found a Bed and Breakfast that still had a slot open and then spent the next few hours researching before sleep would overcome him.

Creakwood Estate had been built in the 800s by some reclusive shipping tycoon whose name did not survive the march of time. It had been passed down through generations, but none of the heirs stayed long. They either died young or vanished without a trace. Oliver could not help but chuckle at this. Of course, the official heritage entry just listed dates and owners, but it was the blogs and the mom-and-pop websites that told all the legends.

It was hard to get to sleep but Oliver finally did. He woke with a start and the voices of the other guests downstairs, quickly smoothed out his red hair, changed quickly, grabbed breakfast and was in the car on his way to the mansion.

Five minutes later, he stood in front of the mansion, his breath visible in the cold morning air. The sun had not fully risen yet casting the estate in deep shadow which emphasized every broken window and sagging balcony. The structure itself was a hulking skeleton, draped in ivy and cloaked in its own neglect. Oliver took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of damp leaves, old wood, and the crisp chill of the October air.

God, it’s perfect! he thought. If anyone saw him, Oliver would have looked like an idiot with the big grin on his face. Exploring abandoned places was the best adventure he had. This place was exactly what he’d been hoping to find, the kind of place that could still have secrets that no one else had yet found. Taking a few photos with his phone, Oliver slipped it into his pocket and brought out his mag flashlight, the bright beam cutting through the shadow that was slowly creeping back from the onslaught of the sun. The young writer took one last steadying breath, and stepped forward, his footsteps muffled by the carpet of wet leaves.

The first thing he did was peer through a few of the dirty windows but did not see much but a few worm-eaten furniture that had collapse under their own weight and the remnants of drop clothes destroyed by moths. Gently stepping on to the porch, he tried to the doorknob, found it unlocked and still solid within it’s frame. It creaked loudly as he forced the old hinges to work once again.

Inside, the air was even colder, with a dampness that coated his lungs. The flashlight beam cut through the darkness, illuminating swirling dust motes in the stagnant air. As Oliver walked, his footsteps echoed hollowly through the grand, empty foyer, and he stifled a cough, the smell of mold and decay filling his nose.

“Damn. The family had money.” The young man said aloud, his voice startling in the silence. He moved through the foyer, his gaze drawn to a cracked painting above the fireplace, depicting a grim-faced man in Victorian attire. It was so faded he could barely make out the features. Oliver found himself smirking, half-expecting the portrait to start speaking, issuing some dire warning about intruding where he didn’t belong.

“Nice try, buddy,” he murmured, giving the portrait a mock salute then giggled to himself like the idiot he was.

Oliver continued to explore, noting the peeling wallpaper and the old furniture draped in white sheets. It felt as though he were walking through someone else’s memories, fragments of lives lived and abandoned, all left behind to gather dust.

Old houses like this… they’re like tombs, he thought to himself.

He moved forward, listening to the soft creak of the floor beneath his feet, wondering what he would find in the rooms beyond.

“If only these walls could talk,” he sighed out loud, casting his flashlight around. Oliver took out his phone with his other hand and started taking pictures. Who knew? He could probably sell them with another story in the future.

Was it the shifting of his weight? Oliver did not have a chance to think about it. A loud crack broke the silence, snapping him from his thoughts. He froze, the sound reverberating through the empty halls, his pulse quickening. He turned his flashlight towards the noise, squinting into the darkness, but before he could locate the source, the floor beneath him gave way. There was no time to react, only a sickening lurch in his stomach and the sensation of falling as the world dropped out from under him.

“Ah, hell—” he managed, before crashing down into darkness. His flashlight slipped from his grasp, and he barely managed to stifle a yelp as he plummeted down into darkness, the air whooshing past him. He landed on something soft but surprisingly firm, and the flashlight clattered to a halt somewhere nearby, the beam illuminating only part of the small chamber. Oliver laid there, the adrenaline coursing through him. He took a moment to breath and to let his body feel again. Had he broken something? Something cushioned his fall and all he felt was the ache of his back from the impact. He was alive.

This is why you shouldn’t go in old places without a friend, he chided himself. Who was he kidding. He would do it again.

Oliver opened his eyes, blinking to adjust to the dimness. He found himself lying atop a velvety cushion—a chaise lounge, he realized, and it was in excellent condition. It showed no wear or tear from the years within the mansion. Oliver also realized that he was not alone. A pair of violet eyes stared back at him, wide with surprise and something else he couldn’t quite identify. The figure sat on the opposite of the chaise lounge, clutching a book to her looking at him with abject shock. The face that belonged to those eyes was inhumanly beautiful, with smooth lavender skin and short black hair that framed delicate, almost doll-like features. Small, curved horns protruded from just above her temples, and her lips, painted a deep shade of crimson, were parted slightly in shock. As Oliver’s vision cleared, he realized he was sprawled across her lap.

“Oh!” he blurted, scrambling to sit up, only to find himself even more entangled in her space.

The girl’s expression quickly shifted from surprise to an attempt at coyness, her eyes narrowing with a mischievous gleam. She adjusted her posture, trying to angle herself in a way that suggested confidence, though it only served to make her look more flustered. “W-welcome, human,” she said, her voice smooth but slightly shaky. “You’ve… stumbled into my domain.”

Oliver blinked, trying to get his bearings. Domain? The room was small and lavishly decorated, in stark contrast to the decayed mansion above. Silken drapes adorned the walls, candles cast a warm, flickering glow, and the air was filled with the sweet scent of something he couldn’t quite place—like roses and something darker, something almost intoxicating.

“Um… I’m sorry?” he managed, trying to piece together what had just happened.

The girl gave a haughty toss of her head, crossing her legs in a way she clearly intended to be alluring, though she almost lost her balance in the process. Her wings, small and bat-like, fluttered slightly, adding to her air of haughty indignation. “Well,” she said, her voice taking on an exaggerated tone of seduction, “perhaps this was fate, leading you here to me.”

Wait. Wings? Horns? Okay. He had hit his head and was unconscious. Oliver’s brain had decided to fill his mind with youthful fantasy until he came to. I hope I come to.

The woman leaned forward, propping her chin on one hand, while her other hand trailed along the arm of the chaise lounge in what was obviously meant to be a sultry gesture. “It’s not every day I receive a visitor, especially one that dares crash into my lair. Maybe you should consider yourself lucky.”

Oliver stifled a chuckle, the surreal absurdity of the situation too much to take seriously. How could his brain be so melodramatic? You’re an idiot, Oliver. He said to himself.

His addled brain and conjured up some girl from trashy novels he snuck from the library and was not flirting with him. Oliver shook his head. How desperate was he?

“Well, uh… thank you?” he replied, scratching the back of his head. “I’ll, um, try to make the most of it?”

The succubus narrowed her eyes slightly. She straightened up, a hint of pink coloring her cheeks. “You’re… not reacting the way most humans do,” she noted, almost to herself. “Usually, they’re much more… captivated.”

“Well, you’re a hallucination. What can I say?”

“Hallucination?”

She pushed herself up on the lounge, attempting to arch her back in a way that was probably supposed to be alluring, but in the process, the loose neckline of her blouse slipped lower, revealing a little more than she’d likely intended. Oliver’s eyes widened as she accidentally gave him an even lovelier sight than she intended. Oliver quickly averted his gaze, then chided himself for being so prudish in his own dream. She seemed to notice the shift in his demeanor and glanced down, realizing her own wardrobe malfunction.

“Oh—!” she gasped, her hands flying to adjust her blouse. For a brief moment, her composed act shattered, and she looked more like an ordinary girl caught in an awkward situation than a creature of darkness. Her blush deepened, and she mumbled something under her breath, refusing to meet his eyes.

Oliver cleared his throat, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. “So, when do I wake up?”

The woman glared at him, reached across the lounge and gave him a firm swat on the cheek. It hurt! He could feel her hand leave a mark as it burned, snapping his head to the side.

“Ouch!”

“It’s not a dream, you idiot. I’m real.”

“No way. Horn girls don’t exist in the real world.”

“I am a succubus, thank you very much.”

The succubus straightened herself, smoothing out her blouse with exaggerated dignity. “And you have chosen to be my prey. I was getting hungry,” she replied, regaining her earlier tone of haughty sophistication, though the color in her cheeks lingered. She crossed her arms, leaning back on the chaise lounge and trying to regain her poise. “But since you’re here, maybe you could prove useful. Surely, you can see how alluring I am, right?”

She attempted another sultry pose, stretching her legs and arching her back slightly. But this time, her wings caught on the back of the lounge, causing her to flail awkwardly before she managed to steady herself. The effect was more comical than enticing, and Oliver found himself biting back another smile.

The succubus glared at him, narrowing her eyes. “You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?” she accused, crossing her arms over her chest in a pout.

“Laughing? Me?” Oliver managed, raising his hands in mock innocence. “I wouldn’t dare.”

She gave him a skeptical look, as if trying to decide whether he was serious. “You’re mocking me,” she said after a pause, lifting her chin. “I am Lilith, and you’ve stumbled upon my… private quarters. Consider yourself lucky that I’m allowing you to remain here unharmed.”

“Thanks, I guess?” Oliver replied, looking up at the giant hole in her ceiling. “You’re going to need to get that fixed.”

Lilith shrugged, attempting to look nonchalant. “You say that, but who’s to say you weren’t drawn here by my charm? Humans have been known to do stranger things in pursuit of someone as… captivating as me.”

“Like falling through your ceiling?”

“Uh…” her voice softened, and Oliver found himself momentarily entranced. There was an odd sincerity to her eyes, even if her words were over-the-top. But before he could reply, she broke eye contact, her face coloring again as if she realized just how serious she’d sounded.

She cleared her throat, then stood up from the lounge, smoothing her skirt. “Regardless,” she continued, attempting to regain her composure, “it’s customary for those who find themselves in my presence to… pay tribute.”

“Tribute?” Oliver echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, tribute,” she said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “You could start by… bringing me chocolates. Yes, dark chocolates, preferably. Or perhaps some fresh flowers?”

“And where do I find things like that?”

“The store,” she huffed. “Do I have to think of everything?”

“So…I go to the store and get you flowers and candy.”

“Yes!” That word came out quick and he could see the spark of excitement…or was that greed in her eyes. “Go! Fetch it at once, servant! Then return and I may reward you with more of my gorgeous body.”

“Thanks, would be enough.”

The pout Lilith gave was adorable.