Chapter Three: Inside These Walls.
Mr Felsen heaved open the immense iron hinged doors, the petulant groan ran through the courtyard and ebbed into the sinister corners. The courtyard was small and dreadfully grey, the overwhelming sensation of being trapped began to slither towards the unsuspecting group. Mr Felsen strode into the center of the walled courtyard as best his frame would permit; he spun round with such momentum that the brothers were caught by surprise. “Welcome to Chillingham Castle.” He bellowed; the castle seems to shy away from his raucous outburst as he theatrically flung his arms into the air. “Place of torture, of murder and intrigue. A place, of the dead!” He slowly dropped his arms and stood as if waiting for some muted answer.
“Many people have endeavoured to stay in the castle.” Miss Lydon dissolved into the scene from apparently nowhere. “But none have ever made it through the night.” She twirled her long impenetrable cloak around her feeble frame. “Shall we enter?” There was a bit of apprehension before everyone followed Miss Lydon to the inner recesses of the structure.
Another large door was urged to move from its strong surround, the door complained vociferously as it relented to the guide’s force. Somehow they had been catapulted back through the centuries, halting in Medieval England. From the robustly beamed ceiling swayed enormous chandeliers festooned with simple candles that guttered with every oscillation. Tapestries clung to the otherwise bare stonewalls. The walls seemed to glisten in the dull light of the candle flames. The flagstone floor was worn smooth by thousands of unseen footsteps, small puddles of damp collected in the most travelled spots. Large items of furniture stood guard around the room; trying to trick anyone into believing this was a place of residence. The room did not welcome its guests, but in some way despised their presence. “Kind of makes you home sick.” Raphael pushed past the frozen group and made his way further into the room. The only evidence that they were still, in some small way connected to the 21st century lay on the far end of the grand wood table. Equipment ranging from digital cameras to infrasound detectors huddled together in a tangled mass of plastic facades and matted wiring. Donatello scanned the table of electronic delights like a staving child in a sweet shop. “I hope you don’t mind, but I have brought along some of my own equipment.” Donatello stated as he heaved his dog-eared army pack onto the table.
“Of course not.” Mr Felsen answered mopping his brow with a small greying handkerchief. Michaelangelo caught himself wondering how such an overweight man could possibly sweat in such a bitter room. “Now, we must advance with the tour. If you are all ready.” Mr Felsen motioned towards the center of the room. After setting down their packs in the few dry spots about the room, everyone accumulated near to Mr Felsen. “A chill will run down your spine, you start to sweat, your heart begins to pound. That is when you know, you are no longer alone.” Mr Felsen was certainly creative when it came to setting the mood. Leo could already feel a sense of dread at the impending events. “In Medieval Britain, around 1100BC this was a place of great fear for the inhabitants of this county.” Mr Felsen continued. “In that time torture was common place, castles became killing machines that squeezed the life, soul and blood out of anyone who dared cross the Barren.” The silence in the room was deafening, not even the soft breathing of the captured audience could break it. “Now if you will follow me, we will proceed to the many dungeons.”