He had done it. He had completed his book. The last page posed amateur challenges like the slip of the pen at the end of it to delay it just the time it would take to rewrite it, but the author was not so nervous. He was not so amateur, either. In the winter of life, his only concerns or worries stemmed from nostalgia, and that he would soon be done with the last book he'd ever write, detailing the history of his country as he'd seen it grow and change with him. No errors flowed forth from his pen, though the page itself could not take long enough. When he finished the last line and last letter stroke, he was surprised, surprised so little feeling was there at the end of his long career. He read his name on the flame-lit page, Arthur Adam Petiver, and lowered his head in torment of being forgotten.

His sons had expanded the family name to broader talents and professions, which was wonderful for new generations, but not so wonderful for past ones. It couldn't be helped, he decided. He arose with more than a few grunts that foretold the small number of times he'd still have the ability to get up from that writing desk. It was discouraging, and that was one more thing trying to kill him right along with old age. Using his stack of books as a passing crutch, he pinched the wick of his with his fingers, removed his glasses and moved to the bed.

In a long and slow procedure, he stripped to his long underwear and peeled back the sheets of his bed before climbing in. On his back and gazing at his ceiling with old eyes, he recalled the moments in life when he was happiest, experiencing the events that changed his life and the life of his countrymen forever that he would go on to document as his life's work. There were no regrets. The future wasn't his to decide; it belonged to the children now. He closed his eyes, at peace for this being his death bed, and it would have been had not a shroud of mist gathered at his window.

Silently, it opened and spilled the mist outside down the wall and throughout the bedroom floor. Because the mist was thick and full of life, almost squirming as it stretched to the farthest reaches of the room, his bed became a raft floating alone in a bog without even a lantern to guide it. When Arthur opened his eyes in response to a presence and an ominous chill that he felt, he saw the shrouded figure of Death hunched over him.

?I'm ready,? he said quietly and without hesitance.

?What are you on about, Arthur? You look ill. You've fallen into a depression, haven't you? I thought you might last time I saw you,? the robed figure of the ferryman said as his hood opening observed his elderly form. This wasn't something Death would say, which perplexed Arthur, but this couldn't have been a visit from someone living in the mortal world. Still, he was unafraid, sitting up in his bed now and turning to strike a match and stick it into the cage of his creaky bedside lantern. When the room illuminated, so did the hood of his visitor, confirming that he had not known who it was.

?I am Basil Belgarde, lord of Belgarde Manor. You and your long life have been observed in careful consideration of a new employment opportunity that has just now opened. Now that you've caught up on your work here, we've called upon you to come work for us,? he said, removing his hood that was such a travesty on long raven-colored hair.

?What is this all? Who are you? What... purpose could an old man on his death bed serve save to just die elsewhere?? Arthur replied without a tremble in his voice. He heard rumors of the vampiric lurkers that listened to the flow of blood from the darkness, and he assumed that this pale man was among their nobility. He was well-dressed, almost royally, and no doubt had to be of high standing to his family name. Basil frowned.

?Yes, you would die elsewhere... but perhaps happier than this embarrassment of a death.? Basil did not insult him intentionally. It was difficult to explain, but he had observed him much of his life, however much his youthful appearance disagreed. He didn't want to see a man of his documenting prestige curl up alone on a cold night and die without regrets, and this was an extraordinary state of affairs for Basil Belgarde, a skeptic of all mortals.

?A happier life...? Arthur scoffed, looking at him to gauge his seriousness. When the vampire didn't waver to his threatening stare, Arthur receded some into timidness. ?I've done enough in life... Let this old man die how he's supposed to.?

?If that's your choice...? Basil replied after a long period of silence. Motionlessly, he retreated and turned back to the window and exited the same way he came in, though the mist remained lurking and the window remained open.

Arthur was glad that he had been gone. What business did a dying man have running off to a dark and mysterious new world. He sat over on the side of his bed and put his feet in the temperature-less mist, going over to close his window before looking out of it with his lantern.

He returned to his writing desk, lantern in hand, and used those same books he'd filled with dates and records and things that weren't particularly cared about but nevertheless important. It was that fact that he mulled over. He'd done enough in life, he told the Belgarde. Had he? If this small library of albums with broken spines and filthy pages and splotchy ink penned by a name only a handful of people even knew anymore, and those that did only thought to ask if he was still alive when they heard it. Was that his fortunate legacy?

The window called to him with the pressure of wind blowing against it. His eyes were open and full of life, staring painfully at a missed opportunity as it was fleeing before him. He dashed to his bedside and aggressively worked himself into his night robe, carefully switching hands with the lantern as he did so. With his slippers slid on, he raced to the window and swung it open, and after some preparatory bounces, he heaved up and fell on the other side screaming the whole few-foot drop.

Shattering glass hollered out suddenly with the drop of the lantern and night engulfed hmi. What he landed upon felt enough like his yard, but after squirming from the discomfort of the fall, a look around alerted him that he was not with his house anymore, nor his yard or country; only perpetual darkness and the only source of light being the noticeable grayness of the mist collected at his wrists.

?Not prepared to sit and die like you're supposed to, Arthur?? Basil's voice, now ubiquitous, called out to the surprised-looking old man making his way back up to his feet.

?No, no I'm not!? he admitted with some regret, never one usually to go back on things he'd said before, but his life and its accomplishments were seldom a talked-about subject, and when they were, it was not for very often. He looked around continuously, expecting Basil to appear at any second the longer he went unseen.

?You are sure this is what you want, Arthur? I cannot bring you back if you say yes.?

Deciding with his actions already he'd gone through his bedroom window into another world, but it seemed now he had to decide with his words, a decidedly more difficult task depending how you looked at it. This nothingness he was in, it painted the picture of what he thought it would be like without his children and his grandchildren: black, empty, and alone. And there were so many questions that they might ask and nights they might spend full of worry, wondering where their dearly beloved ? or is it dearly forgotten ? old father had gone to, the operative word in all this being ?might.?

?Yes... Yes, I'll come with you,? he said, bowing his head and closing his eyes with shame at somewhat relinquishing the life he'd lived for over seven decades. When next his eyes opened, he forgot to breathe, for he stood before a monstrous manor beckoning him to it with a mouth-like gate and eye-like window-panes staring filmily.

?Welcome to Castle Belgarde,? the skies rumbled, lighting the imposing and hideous face of the castle before a crack of thunder threatened a sudden heart failure.

For several straight days, Arthur Petiver loomed over manuscripts, scrolls, and tomes with varying brokenness in their bookbindings. The history of Belgarde Castle was so incredible. Such a blend of different time periods and worlds and even plains of existence had met here at one time or another and contributed something to the castle's strange immortality.

As the accounts told, the castle was once and briefly inanimate and like all other castles before its first extraordinary guest was received. Contrary to later documented theories and conspiracies, the castle was not once cursed, but rather bestowed or gifted upon the magicks of a grateful wizard poet who had spent a fortnight there for the medicinal purpose of getting out of his uninspired rut. As a means of thanking the then-human castle lord, he relieved a wealth of souls he had collected from a long-deceased people from his prized soul collection and charged them with inhabiting the castle as they pleased and preserving and protecting the estate. But as the lord found out on the night of his unfortunate assassination some years later, their charge did not entail ?his? protection, and the castle would wait some time to come under new ownership.

Several other mortal men attempted to lord over the castle, one of whom Arthur found with a lengthy account. He was Marcus Von Tate, known in life as simply ?Skinny,? and his documents were notable. His book titled ?A Life Skinny? was a well-documented log of one man's attempts at refurbishing and updating then unnamed Castle Belgarde, and trying to build a good life for himself in general. He spent a great deal of his fortune expanding the property and decorations of gargoyles, tapestries, bedding and lavish carpets. Almost all of the bedrooms were redone in fine linens and trimmings. About halfway through his journal, Von Tate discovered that the castle was magical and that his presence was not unwelcome. He expressed great relief at this fact after learning that he could be easily killed if these spirits so wanted. Shortly after those entries, Von Tate wrote another about turning the castle, with its many unused rooms, into a hotel. This saw great success but poor business with its infrequent tenants. Luckily, before a financial crisis occurred, the castle experienced another fantastical visitor.

Like the wizard before, he was another practitioner of magic; but unlike him, he was far superior in his abilities and beyond any need or want to bother with the souls of others. His predilection had evolved to transcendental tampering and a peculiar sense of duty with his powers. His responsibility was also more inclined to the littler things that most would deem unimportant or insignificant, such as a very beautiful?or very special?old castle's longevity. The magician knew war-ravaged times would soon be upon the country it was located and change would occur, not just to the land but the castle as well. This prompted his decision to drench the castle in a temporal downpour, blurring and warping its image the more it stormed ectoplasmic rain. When the storm would subside, he told Von Tate, the castle would then exist outside of the laws of man. He told him the castle would never linger in any one place, and it now had all the self-preservation it would ever need, now a living thing.

Von Tate's usefulness was then harshly relayed to him as ?ultimately infinitesimal.? He could do as he pleased and it would not bother the castle, but neither would it improve it. He deemed mortal life as too brief to impress upon more ageless entities, but he deduced?and very early on?that the castle itself would. But the one thing that this mortal man could still provide was a relatable perspective in his documentation of the castle, and just because it did not require a caretaker, that did not mean his notes would not prove useful to its future stewards and guests after he'd moved or passed on. As the magician saw it, he had ensured the protection of a place benefiting from protection, and that reason was yet known, as it should be. He bid Von Tate good fortune and a long life and he left. His contribution to the castle's history was complete.

For the next forty years, Von Tate would retain the castle. He explored its vast spaces and experienced its first recorded accounts of producing new rooms, halls and entire wings. Over the years it kept what it liked, changed what it didn't, and developed its own macabre theme, much to Von Tate's disappointment. The beautiful estate that it was seemed inappropriate to discredit and offend the eyes with, but it was not his position to disagree, per se. In his time as retainer, he welcomed many strange and impressive visitors who came to the door. The fee for their stay was anything they saw fit to leave, and though it was optional, many left things of remembrance, betterment and proof?sometimes magical?of their passing. After a long and healthy career as steward, Von Tate completed an extensive collection of works about his findings and observations in the castle, and even an incomplete map that attempted to provide guidance through an ever-changing system of halls. It would never be finished. Von Tate's last entry before his death read as follows:

?My works and projects to the Manor, for their worth, are all done. I would complain for their incompletedness, but my desire for perfection has been the only curse the castle has seen fit to lay upon me. I leave future editations of the castle and its dressings to the future. I would say after I have gone I will have given, with some value, a common man's perspective in my notes.
My map may see finishing in the future if anyone sees fitting to do so. Much work has gone into it. It is a sort of work that is difficult to describe, furthering your progress only through exploration. But I have seen many unforgettable things in many chambers I have been unable to since revisit. This mystery will not be solved in my lifetime, I fear, but I pray one day these rooms can again be accessed and experienced by others, which leads me to my legacy.

Whosoever should come to call this place their home after I've gone should extend invitations to weary travelers and callers found compelled. Such was my fortuitous beginning, and it should not be the last had here. And so, dear friends, may your stay at the Manor be as unforgettable and wondrous as mine has been.

My home is your home.?

? M. Von Tate

Arthur rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses before continuing by lantern light. The last visitors that Von Tate would entertain would be the Belgardes, and it would be in his final years when his haggard condition was most-noticeable. His tour of the castle, one of his most-appreciated offerings by those who had heard by reputation, was slow and lackluster, and even cut short in some more treacherous wings he would have gone through without hesitance when he was younger. Observing this condition of his, Magnus Belgarde would wait, mannerly, until pleasantries and such were out of the way before encouraging discussion of his closeness with death.

It was a depressing subject but an unavoidable one, Von Tate realized and admitted. He brought Magnus and his son, Viszlat Belgarde, up to speed on what he knew of the castle after Magnus had expressed interest in a stay of undetermined length. What else they needed to know, Von Tate ensured they could find in his notes. And so a history of the castle had queerly felt like a handing over of the deed which he never owned in the first place. He realized his efforts and records were appreciated when his guests respectfully bowed their thanks to him. It all seemed worth it now that the immortal, vampiric company the castle had always deserved had at long last found it. Promising Von Tate then that both the castle and his legacy were in good hands, Magnus embraced him, and feasted on his blood. He was laid to rest in the hallowed oratory deep within the manor in a Belgarde Family casket.

Scurrying through subsequent documents after the end of Von Tate's journal, Arthur found a fancily-written codex authored by Magnus Belgarde and titled ?Castle Belgarde: Step foot into the past, step forever into the future...? and its introduction was dedicated to Marcus Von Tate. It read:

?Seldom has a mortal man passed before me and bestowed upon me a memory that was pleasant, but for Marcus Von Tate, it is a cherished one. His adoration and affection for this edifice I now dutifully assume custodianship of is unrivaled, and I suspect in the centuries to come it will remain as such. I can only hope to justify his dream while upholding my own. Belgardes can live in peace here, existing while our kind diminish across realities.

For the love of one man, I will continue to accept company into these historic halls. Any jeopardy therein will be unavoidable, for chance acquaintances to spend a night in an enchanted castle was of the utmost importance to Marcus Von Tate, and I will not deny him his enduring dream. This manor will fall to my son after I've gone, but I will pass on his intention. These halls house rooms that were not meant to keep in darkness forever. What sort of company my family will keep has yet to be defined. I see these next centuries as defining in that. Thus, I bless this book with a wish: may strangers pass through our doorway as friends.?

Magnus Belgarde

At last, Arthur had reached a break in his reading of the castle histories. There were still many more volumes to go, a fact he procrastinated at with a frown and sunken head. As a sort of placeholder to resume the senior-most Belgarde's documents, he placed his glasses on the page he would pick up after his recess. After the pleasant thump of eyeglass rim dropped to the stack of papers, a braying on his bedroom door caused Arthur to jump in his seat and stare with surprise and horror for moments until his heart could again calm. He had yet to discern his welcomeness here, but he was not so afraid as he had been when he first arrived. He pushed from his chair and went to answer the door. Opening it and peering from that small space of door and doorway he allowed, he saw an eerily youthful young woman with dark raven-colored hair and piercing eyes contrary to the inviting tray of soup in her hands. She would speak first while Arthur continued to deliberate on her threat level.

?I've brought grilled cheese. Where would you like it?? she asked.

?You're... Max, yes?? Arthur asked. ?Basil told me about you... he said you're... you're...?

? ? The on again, off again servant of the Belgarde estate, Mr. Petiver. I will be grateful when these discoveries stop startling you so profoundly. I will leave this on your desk.? Max forced herself in past him with a sigh of aggravation. Her time was precious, though doing what, no one knew. But it was evident she did not want to linger here even the time that was necessary, so Arthur's panicking at her placing a sandwich and a bowl of red soup upon his elderly documents would distract him long enough to nearly escape back out where she had entered.

?Hey, is that all? When will someone come back? When am I allowed to leave here?? Arthur demanded, as he thought was owed to him for his so many hours of confinement.

A dumbfounded look was paid to him by the black-haired beauty, and if you were lucky enough to earn a look from her at all most times, it would be this one.

?I would strongly advise getting some fresh air outside of this room as soon as you've finished eating. For both our sakes, I don't foresee my mood improving if I have to bring you your next meal.?

Leaving Arthur to slump with a sort of cowardice in his desk chair on the cusp of her threat-in-good-advice's clothing, Max quietly closed the door almost courteously, and Arthur would not have the stomach to take the first bite of his sandwich for many minutes with the great weight of his inevitable exploration outside his room pending.