Where’s My Winchester?

The first crack of thunder broke over Llanada Villa, in a middle of a dream, as it often did, just as I would enter deep sleep. I opened my eyes. A flash of lightning shone through the skylight. A cloud of bats shuttered to life and flew carelessly into the night. My heart raced from excitement and fear. The demon spirit had awakened, had come back from its long dormancy. It brings them into its fold, tribe by tribe, race by race, growing as the night grows when the sun touches the western horizon. Streaming blood as army after army had joined in tragic battle. It was so full of anger and greed, so delighting in murder and war. This is a house wrapped in magical stasis built by spirits who live through all eternity. A house that contains condemned souls—the demons of the Winchester Rifle. As one crosses its thresholds, there is a vague feeling of passing through the shredded clouds of war. I could always feel its blood, hot blood coursing through the walls and floors. The demon spirit felt deep withing itself, summing its powers. The cunning war like black magic. At night, Llanda Villa looked dark and ominous. The immense, nine-story mansion looming up from the middle of nowhere. I rose from my palatable bed and drew a bath, sat motionless for hours before dressing by candlelight. My headdress was adorned with pearls and gemstones. I descended into the darkness, silently. So great was the chamber’s size. In the flickering flame-light, sorrow washed over me. I walked through my palace, passing by tapestries, frizzes and tiles, and rich furnishings that had given me my little pleasures. #RandolphHarris 1 of 5

Wolves bayed malevolently in the darkness of the night. The hallway was suffused with a dense fog. Not a ray of light came in the high, black windows. I heard heavy steps approaching: clump, clump, clump. There was a rattling of chains and a clanking of bolts. Then very slowly, a door creaked open. I could not even begin to guess; and never before had I seen anything which struck me as so strangely and unmistakably alien to this World. The Devil appeared. It made me shiver to recognise him. His face was obscured by a long, brown beard, and a large black hat. However, nothing could obscure the fact that his eyes flashed red in the blackness of night. The most blood-curdling and blasphemous whispers of things reverberated in a kind of mad half-existence before the Earth and the other inner Worlds of the solar system were made. He rose from the ground and began to float high in the air toward the tower. Like some monstrous bird he rose, and hovered fluttering in space awhile. His body whirled and turned in the air and the walls were bespattered with black gouts of blood. The door-to-nowhere flew open of its own accord, trembling on its hinges. And when the devil flew out, the door slammed shut behind him so hard that the noise echoed across the mansion, like nails being banged into a coffin. The most blood-curdling and blasphemous whispers of things reverberated in a kind of mad half-existence before the Earth and the other inner Worlds of the solar system were made and drawn back through nameless aeons and inconceivable dimensions. These streams of life had trickled down and become entangled with the destinies of our own Earth. #RandolphHarris 2 of 5

I knew no one would be able to understand the fears that had come from the curse of the Winchester Rifle and I was ready to do anything in my power to keep people away from these wild spirits by continuing to be to appease them. Even after time has dulled the impression and made my half question my own experience and horrible doubts, as I walked out into this passage, facing me is another room, then the stairhead, then two more rooms, one looking out to the back, the other to the south. At the south end of the passage is a widow, to which I went, considering with myself that it was rather a shame to waste this moment of solitude. I thought I would take just five minutes to looking at other rooms in the passage, which I had never seen. So I explored. The room facing the Daisy Bedroom was undisturbed; the two next to me on the side of the passage were gay and clean, both with several windows. Remained the south-west room, opposite to the last which I had entered. This was locked; but I was in a mood of quite indefensible curiosity, and feeling confident that there could be no dark secrets in a place so easily got, I proceeded to fetch the key of my own room, and when that did not answer, to collect the eyes of the other three. One of them fitted, and I opened the door. The room had two windows looking south and west. Here there were bare boards; no pictures, no washing-stand, only a bed, in the farther corner: an iron bed, with mattress and bolster, covered with a bluish check counterpane. #RandolphHarris 3 of 5

As featureless a room as you can well imagine, and yet there was something that made me close the door very quickly and yet quietly behind me and lean against the window-sill in the passage, actually quivering all over. It was this, that under the counterpane someone lay, and not only lay, but stirred. That it was some one and not some thing was certain because the shape of the head was unmistakable on the bolster; and yet was covered, and no one lies with covered head but a dead person; and this was not dead, not truly dead, for it heaved and shivered. What was to be done? First, lock the door at all costs. Very gingerly I approached it and bending down listened, holding my breath; perhaps there might be a sound of heavy breathing, and a prosaic explanation. There was absolute silence. However, as with a rather tremulous hand, I put the key into its hold and turned it, it rattled, and on the instant a stumbling padding tread was heard coming towards the door. I fled like a rabbit to my room and locked myself in: futile enough, I knew it was; would doors and locks be any obstacle to what I suspected? but it was all I could think of at the moment, and in fact nothing happened; only there was a time of acute suspense—followed by a misery of doubt as to what to do. These morbidities were an incarnated nightmare. My home was in possession of secrets deeper and more dizzying than any formerly known to man. There was always something loafing arounds corners, practising insidious deeds. A cultivated male voice then said, “Et cum exspirasset puer, deposuerunt corpus de cruce, et nescitur qua ratione, euiscerarunt corpusculum; dicitur autem, quod ad magicas artes exercendas.” #RandolphHarris 4 of 5

It was with a trace of genuine dread and reluctance that I listened to these words. The morbid echo winging its way across unimaginable abysses from unimaginable demonic dimensions. It stunned me as I listened in a sort of abstracted daze. It seemed plain that there were ancient and elaborate alliances between my home and hidden forces from other Worlds. This led to a lot of horrified speculation. In the way it happened, a boy named Dobber, who was the son of one of the farmers disappeared from the estate in the late summer and was not reported missing; nor was any trace ever found of him in the hose or on the grounds; through we all found ourselves looking for him. I wandered through distant corridors and rooms in the house discovering part of it I had never seen before; ascending narrow, creaking staircases, poking into closets, peering into attics. Outside I found myself drawn to the barns, the grape vines, wisteria arbors with their look of romance, the plush green lawns that extended for acres like an inland sea. Yet Dobber’s features were beginning to fade in my memory. At times I thought I could hear a faint, reproachful voice calling out Mrs. Winchester! and when I would pause, it would fade into the incessant wind. I wondered if that had been him in the room I was too afraid to enter? The floor boards were creaking, and there was an eerie atmosphere about it. #RandolphHarris 5 of 5

The Winchester Mystery House

A series of remarkable occurrences, which have caused great excitement in The Winchester Mystery House, have taken place over the years. While a gust was chatting with a caretaker downstairs, a young girl walked up the stairs by herself. In one of the upstairs parlours, she saw a man sitting in a chair in the corner. She assumed he was another caretaker. When she turned around to ask him a question about the room, he was gone. Since she had not heard him leave, that seemed odd to her, especially as the floorboards would creak with every step. However, being young, she did not pay too much attention to this peculiarity. A moment later; however, he reappeared. As soon as she saw him, she asked the question she had on her mind. This time he did not disappear but answered her in a slow, painstaking voice that seem to come from far away. When he had satisfied her curiosity about the room, he asked her some questions about herself, and finally asked the one which stuck in her mind for many years afterward—“Is Mrs. Winchester building the Observational Tower?” The young lady was taken aback at this question. She was young, but she knew that Mrs. Winchester passed away in 1922. Tactfully, she told him this, and added that tower had been removed after the 1906 Earthquake. At this information, the man looked stunned and sat down again in the chair. As the young lady watched him in fascinated horror, he faded away.

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