Here there be Ainur

Then again, all nights were cold this close to Araman. Mist lay thick and curling on the ground, and the moon—full, white, and shining—had disappeared behind dark, ragged clouds. To Tyelkormo, it was perfect. To Oromë, it was even more so. Tonight, they were about to head out on a special kind of hunt, but whether that hunt would yield the results they sought, neither of them could say.

Tyelkormo, seated in the front passenger seat of Oromë’s Wrangler, squirmed against the leather upholstery, making it creak in protest. They had been driving for what seemed like hours on end, and the road leading to their destination was empty save for the trees. Pine, fir, and white cedar hemmed them in from both sides, their misshapen roots digging deep into the soil and their branches entwining to form a canopy that swayed and whispered with the wind. It made him extremely uncomfortable. The previous locations they had explored were surrounded by occupied buildings and busy roadways and even people going about their business. This was different. It was as if they were being isolated.

He fished his phone out from his jeans’ pocket and swiped up across the screen. “The girls are almost there,” he said, smiling at the messages that popped up one after another. “They’re both ready for the big night.”

Ghost debunking was fun when it was just Oromë and him, but having company enhanced a video's atmosphere, and viewers enjoyed watching the reactions of guest hunters. It helped drive up engagement and brought in more revenue.

Oromë grinned. It was Írissë’s first time appearing on their channel—her friend’s too. “I can’t wait to get both the girls on video. Everyone is going to just lap it all up!”

“Yeah,” Tyelkormo said, putting his phone away. “Can you believe it, though? One of rich old Mister Ingweron’s own joining us for the night?” He looked at Oromë, his amber eyes glinting as they caught the dim light. “The fans are going to go wild when the teaser goes up.” 

“I know!” Oromë agreed, his voice high with excitement. He turned the jeep down a gravel road to his right. Loose pebbles crunched beneath the wheels. “And the more the merrier, as I always say.”  

“Always, man,” Tyelkormo said. He peered through the windscreen, his eyes widening when a tall, wrought-iron fence surmounted by sharp spikes and glass lanterns glittered black and grey and gold in the oncoming headlights. “Whoa… is this it? Is this Utumno Manor?”

“It looks like it.” Oromë drove on until the gates came into view. His lips curled up at the corners when a sleek white car slowed down to a stop in front of them. “Íri and Nahtanis are here.” He parked the jeep and shut off the engine. “We can get started.”

His voice changed from that of the college student who enjoyed life to the fullest to what Tyelkormo once dubbed “Capital P Professional”. Oromë took V-Tubing and ghost debunking seriously, while Tyelkormo did not. At least, not as seriously as he should have. It often frustrated Oromë to no end. “One day, Tyelko,” Oromë had told him, “you’re going to land yourself in a world of trouble with that mouth of yours, and you’re going to have a hard time digging yourself out of it.”

Tyelkormo had laughed then and brushed off his friend and mentor’s warning.

He shifted, unable to believe what he was seeing, when their guests for the night stepped out and Nahtanis stood straight. “Holy fuck,” he said, watching her tugging at the edges of her violet sweater. “She’s hot.”

Oromë glanced up. Írissë’s friend was short—shorter than all of them, in fact—with the thick blonde hair and alabaster skin many in her family were known for. She was also dressed practically for the night—her blue jeans and heavy brown boots a match for Írissë’s own—and she was giggling at something Írissë said. Oromë got out first and closed the door, his breath hitching when Nahtanis turned to look at him and smiled. Tyelkormo was wrong; Nahtanis was more than just hot—she was stunning.

“Íri!” he cried, pulling Írissë into a tight hug. “It’s so good to see you again. Nahtanis? I’m Oromë Arōmēz.” He let go of his friend and held out a hand.

“Just call me Tannis.” Nahtanis flushed, but shook his hand all the same. “The man and the myth himself. Íri doesn’t stop talking about you.”

“Does she now?” Tyelkormo stuck his head out of the open jeep window. “Íri? I expect to be your bridesman of honour at the wedding.”

“Are you willing to wear a dress?” Írissë tossed back, amused.

“For free food and booze? Fuck yeah, I will!”

“You’re on!” Írissë shouted. But she laughed and turned to face Nahtanis. “It’s never going to happen—me getting involved with Oromë, that is. Now getting my cousin into a dress, on the other hand—that’s very much in the realm of believable possibilities.”

The image of a large and hulking man like Tyelkormo flouncing around in a sparkly dress brought a smile to Nahtanis’s face.

“I’d love to see you pull it off,” she said, flicking her wrist to check her watch. Ten fifteen PM flashed against its black background in bright white numbers. “Shall we get started?”

“Ready to get down to business,” Tyelkormo said. “I like it.” He threw open the passenger door and jumped down with a huff. “You know,” he added, stalking to the back of the vehicle, “I’m looking for a girlfriend, if you’re interested.”

It was worth the attempt, in his opinion. He and Nahtanis would look amazing together, and he hoped—more than hoped—his father would approve despite his dislike for his stepmother Indis, Nahtanis’s aunt. Perhaps his father would. He never stopped Tyelkormo and his brothers from spending time with their half-uncles and cousins—he could be asked to be just as accepting where Nahtanis was concerned.

“Really?” Nahtanis rested her hands on her hips, stunned by Tyelkormo’s boldness. “Are you into tripping over books, being kicked in the middle of the night, and listening to me mumbling some dead lingo in my sleep?” Tyelkormo sucked in a breath. “Ah… no.”

“Then we’re not meant to be,” Nahtanis answered, clapping her hands to her heart. “I’m so sorry, Tyelko.”

Tyelkormo chuckled, a low, flat sound. Yet he did not give up all hope. They were fooling around. Nahtanis could still look his way before the night was over. So he busied himself unloading bags and boxes of equipment from the boot, entertaining the possibilities of his and Nahtanis’s future together, while Oromë took out his phone and keyed in a number. Sharp, high-pitched beeps rang through the air insistently, shattering the silence of the night and Tyelkormo’s daydreaming. On the fourth beep, a gravelly voice drifted through the speaker for all of them to hear.

“Hello?” the man on the other end said. “Is this Mister Arōmēz?”

“Yes,” Oromë said. “We’re all here, Langon. Would you mind coming over to the front and opening the gates for us?”

“Sure,” Langon said. “Give me a few minutes.”

While they waited, Tyelkormo sauntered over, his shoulders weighed down with the gear they would all need. The others rushed forward to help him. They took the bags and boxes he carried into their hands and set them down on the grass. Oromë dropped to his haunches and opened them one by one. He handed out clip-on mics, handheld camcorders, and EMF meters.

“Keep these on at all times,” he said, rising. “Never turn them off, no matter what.” He shouldered the bag containing the REM pod and the spirit box. They would be saved for later.

Nahtanis struggled with her mic. “Could you help me with this, please?”

“Sure.” Oromë took the tiny device into his hand. “You turn it on like so,” he explained, his hand close to the curve of her throat, “and clip it like this.”

Nahtanis trembled and leaned in, her fingers brushing against his thick, calloused ones while she held her collar in place. She could not help but look up at him. His towering frame blocked out the sputtering lantern light, and his shadow swallowed everything in front of him.

So big, she thought, but so gentle.

“Thanks,” she said, her flush spreading when his pale green eyes caught hers for a second before they looked away.

“No problem,” Oromë said hoarsely.

Tyelkormo clenched his hand into a tight fist but quickly schooled his expression to one of calmness. He was not going to give up. The night was still young, and Nahtanis could still change her mind. Once he had mastered himself and each of the others had kitted themselves out, he called them into a circle.

“Gather around, kids,” he said. “Remember the plan. Spend as much time as we can here, document, debunk, and return tomorrow night to pick up where we left off.” He looked up when he heard shoes crunching down on stone behind them. Langon had found them. “Nobody hams it up for the camera; viewers won't like it if they think we’re trying to fool them.”

“If either of you wants to leave at any time,” Oromë said, “tell us. No one is going to be mad if you do.” 

“We’re all in,” Írissë said.

“Brave words,” Langon said. “I wonder if you’d think the same a couple of hours in.”

The keeper unfastened a massive bunch of keys at his belt and took his time unlocking the gates. He was tall and gaunt, with a pinched face and wisps of greying brown hair. A flat, small torch was strapped onto his faded blue cap.

“Is it that bad, Mister Langon?” Nahtanis asked.

“Mister Langon,” the old man said, more to himself than the others. “This one has nice manners.” He threw open the gates, grimacing as he struggled with their weight. “That’s a very good thing. The others don’t like poor manners. Makes them very angry.”

“Them?” Oromë probed. “The ghosts, you mean?”

“The ghosts, and the one who rules them.” Langon stepped to the side, allowing them entry. “Oh, yes. There’s one who rules them. He doesn’t show himself often, but if he does, watch out.”

“Would you be willing to talk about your experiences about it?” Oromë asked.

“I might,” Langon said, “if the trustees agree to it, that is.”

“Do these ghosts leave you alone?” Tyelkormo asked.

“I keep to myself,” Langon said. “And they keep to themselves, for the most part. But with fresh meat walking through the halls at this time of night, riling them all up? They won’t.” He gestured to the women. “Watch over them. Don’t let either of them out of your sight.”

“We won’t,” Oromë swore.

“So you say,” Langon said. He turned around and walked down a wide pebbled drive. “Shall we go inside?”

The group followed him, their camcorders capturing vivid glimpses of the shrubbery they passed. Nahtanis stopped and looked around. The gardens—what was clear to the camcorder light, at least—were quiet, but vast and beautifully kept. Not a twig was out of place, nor a flower bloomed where it should not. Nahtanis scratched her head, unable to believe anyone even came out this far for maintenance. Langon appeared to be the only living soul on the grounds.

“Do the gardeners come in from the city, Mister Langon?” asked Nahtanis.

“They do,” Langon said, “but they don’t stay long. None of them do. They just finish their jobs and leave.”

“That’s not very comforting,” Nahtanis said softly. She resumed walking, unwilling to stay by herself.

“Don’t wander off,” Langon told her, though not ungently. He waited until they all caught up with him before drawing their attention to the shadowy structure rising into the darkness. “Utumno Manor,” he continued. “Your home away from home for the next few hours.”

Utumno Manor stood three storeys high, its pale limestone brick walls and steep, flat-top roofs weathered and pockmarked by time. Glass gleamed in all of its windows, and delicate, lacy curtains were drawn shut from within. Nahtanis traced her fingers down the indents of a stout column, marveling at the scrollwork carved along the edges. Buildings like Utumno Manor were rare now in a world of glass and steel and concrete, and she was grateful to be blessed with the opportunity to learn about its history from within the confines of its rooms.

“Are the curtains always drawn shut?” Írissë asked, shivering.

“That depends,” Langon said, opening the tall oaken doors leading into the receiving hall. “The contractors and the cleaners want them open when they’re inside. The gardeners want them closed while they work outside.” He made a face. “I have to walk with them and stay with them until they finish and leave. It’s a bother, really. But the trustees insist. They don’t want the manor to fall apart.” 

“What do the trustees want to do with this place?” Tyelkormo asked.

“The plan is to turn it into a hotel,” Langon said, ushering them into a large, airy parlour shrouded in shadows and full of furniture covered with crisp, white sheets. “I think it’s foolish.” He gave the group a pointed look. “Very foolish.”

“So you say,” Oromë countered. “But if we succeed—and I know we will—plans for the hotel can still go ahead.”

Langon sighed. “Eru save me from the stupidity of the young. Well, better you do this than me.” He fiddled with an old fob watch clipped to his jacket pocket. “Right. This is where I’ll leave you. I’ll switch off the breakers, just like you want me to. You still want me to do it, yes?” 

Oromë nodded. “We do. Good night, Langon.”

“Good night,” Langon murmured. “And good luck.”

He left them seated in the parlour, but very reluctantly. Contrary to his complaints, leaving anyone from the outside without him nearby, watching over them, never truly sat right with him. Still, it was what he agreed to do after the trustees pressured him. And, Eru save him, the money offered was too much for even him to refuse. So he stepped outside and skirted to the side where the garage was, his skin prickling the entire time.

Only when he walked inside did he feel safe. The garage was untainted, unlike many of the other places on the estate, and its loft apartment was his home. It was also where the circuit breaker was installed. Langon found it, and after taking a moment to pray, he yanked it open and snapped the breakers down, one by one, killing the power to the manor proper. The world outside stilled—eerily, suffocatingly so. Langon trembled. The hammer was about to fall. 

“Good luck,” he repeated, and ascended the steps to his bed. He knew he would get no sleep tonight. 

Sleep did not just evade him; it evaded the others as well. Tyelkormo gave his companions time to fuss with their paraphernalia before he turned his camera to himself, anticipation surging thick through his veins.

“Right!” he said. “Let’s get this show on the road!” After clearing his throat, he beamed and said, “What’s up, guys! This is Tyelko—”

“And this is Oromë!” his friend said when Tyelkormo swung the camera around to him. “And tonight we have a special treat for you all!”

“The place, some say, is one of the most haunted house in Valinor. Utumno Manor itself!” Tyelkormo announced. He pointed his camcorder at the women. “And we have not come by ourselves! Here are our guests! Say hi, ladies!”

“I’m Íri Nolofinwëniel!” Írissë piped in.

“And I’m Tannis Ingweron!” Nahtanis added.

“Tannis is the brains,” Írissë supplied. “While I’m the sass.” She clutched at her friend and pulled her close, resting her chin against her hair. “I’d be lost without you.”

“Aww,” Nahtanis said, smiling. 

“Get a room,” Tyelkormo said, sinking deeper into his chair.

“We will,” Írissë said. “Yours.”

“And this is why”—Oromë held his camera to himself—“I always have to be the dad of the bunch. Behave. All of you.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Tyelkormo replied. “I kid! I kid!” he sputtered when Oromë tsked. “I’ll behave.”

“Thank you.” Oromë picked up where Tyelkormo left off. “Shall we now give our viewers a run-down of this place?”

“We should,” Tyelkormo said. He turned to face his camcorder again. “Utumno Manor was built in the late nineteen-twenties by Melkor Bauglir, son of a wealthy mine baron.” 

“Melkor wanted it all,” Oromë chimed in. “So he left his home in Almaren for even richer pastures.”

“What we know is what the police discovered at the time,” Tyelkormo explained. “Melkor gathered like-minded people around him, and the crimes they committed shocked the nation—abductions of young women, murders, and far, far worse.”

“Oromë?” Nahtanis interjected, holding up her EMF meter. “What colour is this supposed to be if something is here?”

Oromë studied it with a critical eye. The meter flashed a pale blue. “It should be orange or red—maybe yellow. That colour is normal. Just ignore it.” 

On his instructions, Írissë took out the REM pod and set it down on the coffee table between them. It beeped shrilly when she turned it on, its little lights flickering a bright red and then green, blue and then yellow, before it finally sparked a deep purple and dimmed when it slipped into standby mode. Oromë stretched out his long legs, mumbling an apology when he accidentally kicked Nahtanis on the foot. Nahtanis waved the apology away, but did not shift out of the way, much to Tyelkormo’s annoyance. Oromë stooped to retrieve the spirit box. It crackled with static when he switched it on.

“I think we should move on to a spirit box session,” he began. “We’re here to speak with the spirits who call this manor their home,” he called. “If you want to talk to us or pass on a message, please speak through this black box. Or you can go up to the REM pod. That’s the red circular box on the table. It’ll flicker in different colours if you come near it or touch it.”

The spirit box crackled and popped, but no voice came through.

“We come in peace,” Oromë said. “We only want to hear what you have to say and reveal it to the world. Would you like that?”

No voice addressed them from the ether, and the REM pod remained silent and dark. Oromë was satisfied. This was exactly what he and Tyelkormo were looking for.

Suddenly, the sound of wood groaning and squeaking startled them. Oromë scanned his surroundings, the sceptic in him seeking an answer rooted in reality. The floors throughout the building, he recalled, were polished marble, buried beneath heavy carpets stretched across most of them from wall to wall. Then there were the doors. They were thick and made of rare, expensive wood—and pivoted on hinges that looked well-oiled. But the manor itself was still old—four years short of a century since its completion, in fact. It was only natural for it to make such sounds when settling down for the night. Oromë dropped his shoulders, his mind filling with ease. He had found his explanation.

Tyelkormo thought otherwise.

“Looks like someone is making use of the beds upstairs,” he said without thinking. “Maybe Melkor brought a lady over for some good times. He liked them barely legal—and unwilling.” He snorted. “Maybe that was the only way he was able to feel like a big man.”

Tyelkormo smirked, expecting grins and laughter from the others. Instead, the only response he received was the sheet Írissë grabbed off a nearby occasional table and flung in a bundle at his head with all her might.

“That was not funny, Tyelko,” she said.

Tyelkormo cackled and plucked the rumpled square white cloth off his ruffled hair.

“He meant no disrespect,” Nahtanis said, looking around her. “We apologise on his behalf.”

“Who are you apologising to?” Tyelkormo demanded. “There’s no one besides us here.”

“What if there’s someone else?” Nahtanis suggested, glaring hard at him. “Someone we can’t see? And remember what Mister Langon said? The ghosts don’t like poor manners. Your jokes might make them angry.”

“She’s right,” Írissë said. “Dial it down, Tyelko. Please.”  

Tyelkormo looked at Oromë, hoping his friend would defend him.

“Knock it off, man,” Oromë said. “This is neither the time nor place for it.” Tyelkormo had always been crass with his jokes, but this was going too far.

“Don’t tell me you believe there’s something here,” Tyelkormo scoffed.

“I don’t,” Oromë said. “But just keep your jokes to yourself until we leave.”

“Fine!” Tyelkormo exclaimed, looking up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry. There. Can we carry on now?”

Oromë narrowed his eyes at his friend for an instant, then looked away. “This room is a bust. Let’s move on to the attic.”

They packed up and trudged two by two out of the parlour and back into the receiving hall, seeking the corner stairs to the upper floors. Nahtanis kept close to Oromë while Írissë and Tyelkormo walked behind them and kept up a lively chatter. Her experience had unnerved her, but she was still determined to persevere.

When Írissë first brought up the topic of visiting Utumno Manor for a weekend of ghost hunting and debunking, Nahtanis had not hesitated to say yes. A lover of history, she had left the comforts of her family’s home in Endorë just so that she could learn more. Valinor had always been the old country, a land of old myths and fables, and she yearned to see as much of it with her own eyes. Now she was here, in Utumno Manor, no less, learning a forgotten part of the country’s past, with her best friend by her side. She was sure to have enough memories to last a lifetime.

Oromë leaned over. “So you study dead languages. How do you manage that?”  

“Sleepless nights fuelled by lots of coffee,” Nahtanis said, “and a professor who’s as crazy about dead languages as I am.”

“Teacher’s pet?” he teased.

“After a fashion,” Nahtanis said. Her spine prickled when he dusted a fleck of debris off her hair. “I hear ghost debunking is not your only interest.” She gulped and climbed up the steps, her every sense coming alive to the shadows fleeing the light. “Hunting and bushcraft on top of everything else? Where do you find the time?”    

“I carve out the time. It’s how I wind down.”

“I always wanted to learn how to hunt, but it keeps slipping my mind. My dad said he’d gladly pay for shooting lessons. He and mom love to hunt. They keep asking me to join them.”

“Your dad doesn’t need to pay for lessons.” Oromë gave her a sidelong glance. A flash of heat crept up his neck when her eyes lit up. “Maybe I could teach you the next time we’re both free.”

“I’d like that very much.”

Tyelkormo watched them, his jaw clenching at how easily Oromë drew Nahtanis into his world and kept her there. His friend was always like this, drawing the attention of everyone who saw him like moths to the light. Oh, Tyelkormo managed well enough when it came to friends and partners, but Oromë occupied another level entirely. It never bothered him—until tonight.

“Are you okay?” Írissë whispered to him.

“I’m fine,” Tyelkormo said.

“You’re not,” Írissë said, inching closer. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Tyelkormo said. “But I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“If you say so,” Írissë said quietly. “Well, I’m always ready to listen if you want someone to vent to.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Írissë took his hand into hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. She let out a sigh of relief when it was reciprocated.

By the time they reached the attic, it was a quarter to eleven, and all that could be heard was the rustle of clothes and the low thump of boots. Írissë peeked over the railing as they reached the top. She jumped back with a start when wood began creaking again.

“How are we hearing that noise?” she hissed to the others. “Everything in this fucking house is stone and marble!”

Oromë crossed to her side and listened. The sound abruptly stopped.

“It’s probably just the doors,” he said. “This house is old.” He shuddered. “Or someone is messing with us. No one goes off on their own. There could be another person in the house with us—someone Langon doesn't even know about.”

He turned around to the open attic door, pausing for a moment before going in. When he stepped over the lip of the entryway into the vast room beyond, he found it uncommonly dark, and colder than the rest of the house. Nevertheless, the professional in him refused to be cowed. He sat down with the others and set out their tools before he brought up the story of the room they were in.

“We’re now in the attic, where Melkor’s followers kept their captives.” He panned the camcorder around, and the others waved at him. They were seated between rusted bedframes, old boxes, and ornaments covered in a thick layer of dust. “Many of them tried to make life here bearable; records from the investigations speak of paper flowers and ash drawings on the walls, and the women who lived long enough to be saved—”

“—told the police Melkor said they were to be offerings,” Tyelkormo chipped in. “But not all of the women were dragged to the altar. A few of them met a different but equally tragic fate. For now, let’s see what we can dig up here.”

He braced himself when Írissë shuffled closer to the spirit box.  

“We come here with respect,” she said. “We wish to learn your stories. Are you here with us? If you are, would you tell us what happened to you?”

The REM pod neither flickered nor beeped. The meters blinked a comforting blue. Still, disembodied voices from a multitude of frequencies carried through the spirit box’s speaker amidst the static, making everyone’s hair stand up. Írissë took it as a sign for them to continue with their questioning.

“Is there anyone here?” she asked. “Would you like to speak to us?”

...VSSSSHHH…

A woman’s slightly breathy voice filled the space around them.

…Yes...VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Scared…

“Scared?” Írissë pressed on. “Scared of what?”

...VSSSSHHH…

…Him...VSSSSHHH…He...VSSSSHHH…Angry…

“Him?” Tyelkormo asked. “Melkor?”

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Yes...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…and...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…other...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…

“Other?” Írissë asked again. “Do you mean there was someone beside Mister Bauglir?”

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Mor...VSSSSHHH… Goth…

“Was he one of Mister Bauglir’s followers?” Írissë asked.

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…No...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Dif...VSSSSHHH…Ferent…

“By the One…” Nahtanis could not keep what she knew to herself. “Morgoth was believed to have been a god,” she revealed, shaken. “He was worshipped by these people living near the Ered Engrin. Their existence is supposed to be pure myth—no evidence of them or Morgoth was ever found.”

“So Melkor may have been trying to summon Morgoth,” Tyelkormo said. He addressed the spirit box. “Was he successful?”

...VSSSSHHH…Yes…

“Did that make him happy?”

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…No...VSSSSHHH…

Oromë tried to swallow in a throat that had gone dry. “Fuck.” He straightened himself, and said, “Is Morgoth still here?”

The spirit box spat out pure static before a different young woman’s voice said, …Here...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Every...VSSSSHHH…Where…

...VSSSSHHH…

…Out...VSSSSHHH…

“What?”

...VSSSSHHH……Out...VSSSSHHH…

A boom carried up to the attic, rattling the glass in the dormer windows. Everyone shot up, their blood chilling to the quick.

“Stay here,” Oromë ordered.

He went out the door to examine the landing. Nothing was toppled over. The table in the corner was unmoved, and the vase on top of it stood beneath a covering, untouched by any hand. When he looked over the railing, he saw nothing. Nothing at all.  

Three faces looked back at him fearfully when he returned. “There’s no one,” he said, his smile overbright. “Let’s clean up here and move on to the next room.”

The other three did not have to be told twice. They gathered up their things and filed out into the corridor, searching for the source of the noise. They could not find it. All the other doors they tried were locked. Not a single object was thrown onto the floor or torn off the walls. Oromë shot a look at Tyelkormo. The attic was not what they expected. They went into it thinking they would hear only static, or little animals scurrying across the roof’s tiles. What they heard was completely different to what they hoped to find. It set each of them on edge.

“We go on, right?” Tyelkormo asked, frightened and eager at the same time. “Even if they want to go back, you and I are still going to continue?”

Oromë considered it. Common sense told him to leave; they could always complete their investigation the next night, or they could come back another weekend and look around during the bright light of day. The investigator in him, however, wanted to carry on. The trustees might not allow any of them into the manor after the agreed-upon two nights ended.

“We are,” he decided, looking back at the women. “We should still ask if they want to stick with us till we finish.” 

“If you guys are up for it,” Tyelkormo said, “we can move on to Melkor’s bedr—”                                                              

Nahtanis let out a scream and batted desperately at her hair. She would have rushed blindly down the stairs had Oromë not grabbed onto her arm.

“What is it?” He looked over her head into the shadows. There was nothing there. “Tannis, what happened?”

“Someone tugged my hair,” Nahtanis panted. She took deep, steadying breaths to try and calm herself. “I’m fine. Really. We can go on.”

“Are you sure?” Oromë asked. “We can leave if you want.”

“I’m positive,” Nahtanis said. She managed a smile. “I want to see this through.”

Oromë loosened his hold, but he did not let go of her completely. “All right,” he said, slipping her arm around his own. “Let’s go on to the master bedroom.”

Tyelkormo pursed his lips into a thin line but led the descent to the second floor without a loud fuss. “Guess dear old Dad has no problem tripping over books and being kicked in the night,” he muttered. “Fuck my life.”

Írissë heard. “So this is why you’re upset,” she said. “Are you jealous? Do you like Tannis?”

“No—” Tyelkormo groused, “—yes.” He turned a deaf ear to his friend and his new acquaintance murmuring to each other. “I fucking hate it.”  

“It isn’t her fault,” Írissë said, glancing back over her shoulder and smiling at the sight of Nahtanis so close to Oromë. “It’s not his fault either.”

“Maybe,” he allowed. “Was she lying about what happened back there?”

“Tannis is a lot of things,” Írissë said. “But she’s not a liar. If she said someone messed with her hair, she meant it.”

“Great,” Tyelkormo said to himself. “Just fucking great.”

Írissë clapped him hard on the back, but kept her opinions where her friend was concerned to herself. Nahtanis would never consider Tyelkormo after his little display in the parlour, but Írissë was not going to point that out. She was all too familiar with her cousin’s moods. Tyelkormo was an utter grouch and unbearable to be around when jealous, and trying to advise him in any way only worsened things. Letting him stew in his feelings for a while until he calmed down and let go was for the best—he was sure to do it once he had a night to sleep it all off. Then she could talk about it the next time she was alone with him.  

She followed him down a long passage lined with paintings. They were portraits of figures who had once commanded both wealth and high society standing, and of scenes of luxury and abundance. One painting in particular caught her attention. It was of a man who stood tall and fierce against a field of black. He had dark hair and dark eyes—and gold rings that shone around each of his tapered fingers. A walking cane carved out of some expensive wood and inlaid with gold was gripped tightly in his right hand. 

Oromë hunched to read the thick yellow card at the base of the frame. “Melkor Bauglir, Unknown Artist, 1933,” he said. “Quite the specimen, wasn’t he?”

“That he was,” Írissë said. “How old was he when he came here?”

“Twenty-four,” Oromë said. “And he died nine years later—only six years after this manor was completed.”

Írissë whistled. “That’s his bedroom over there?” She pointed to the door at the far end.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go in.”

Like the attic, the door to Melkor’s bedroom—the largest in the house—was left open for them. Langon had gone around with his keys before they had arrived, throwing open doors to the rooms the team intended to see. Now the bedroom of one of the richest—and most dangerous—men of his time was exposed for others to see.

Tyelkormo entered the bedroom first and was stunned by how opulent it looked. The drapes were a heavy, creamy velvet—a colour he did not think to associate with such a man—and the fireplace was adorned with mythical beasts and fantastical scenes etched into the stone. Chests of drawers lined one wall, their surfaces polished to a high sheen, and the bed itself was large and inviting. He pondered the horrors that had taken place upon the bed, then pushed them quickly out of his thoughts. Some things, in his opinion, should never be dwelt on.

He waited until the others joined him and sat cross-legged on the floor beside the hearth, their equipment spread out around them.

“In the attic,” he said to his camcorder, “we said some of the women met a different but equally tragic fate. Those whom Melkor liked the most he assaulted on that bed. Not one of them survived her ordeal.” He stopped speaking for a second, and then added, “All of the bodies were buried in the back gardens and the woods. Police dug up two dozen corpses—but there’s supposed to be more out there. Reports say the police could not bring themselves to go on—the victims were treated that brutally before they were disposed of.”

“We need to investigate the back gardens tomorrow night,” Oromë suggested. “I mean, if what we found so far is real, then the gardens are going to be a goldmine.”

“And I want to take a closer look at the etchings around the fireplace,” Nahtanis spoke up. “I haven’t come across anything like them in all of my research.”

In spite of what had already happened, Tyelkormo could not help but see the appeal. Already they had unearthed a trove of potential paranormal activity through the attic spirit box session. Their fans would devour those findings alone. And if they caught even more activity on record? That could lead to bigger and better things for Oromë and him both.

“I’m in!” he said. “Let’s make a plan for tomorrow night after we go back to the hotel."

Írissë, who had been keeping an eye on their devices, pointed toward the EMF meters. “They’re all flashing yellow,” she said. “Is that good?”

“Given what happened in the attic, it could be,” Oromë said, more alert than ever. “Melkor?” he spoke into the spirit box. “Mister Bauglir? Are you here with us?”

Crackles and pops erupted through the speaker, but nothing spoke from the other side. Even the lights on the meters pulsed a ceaseless yellow, then blue and green, then yellow again.

“Is there anyone here?” Oromë questioned. “We would like to speak with you, if you’ll let us.”

...VSSSSHHH…

…Trapped…

It was another woman’s voice—soft and musical. It piqued Nahtanis’s interest.

“You can’t move on?” she asked gently. “Why?”

...Can...VSSSSHHH…not…

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Will...VSSSSHHH…Not ...

… VSSSSHHH…

...Let...VSSSSHHH…Me…

Oromë held up his hand, signalling the other two to keep quiet. He wanted Nahtanis to take the lead during the session. He wanted to see what she would glean for them—and how much she could handle. Her unwillingness to run off after something played with her hair told him that she could—and, truth be told, it made him like her even more.   

“He won’t let you leave?” Nahtanis pressed on. “Why?”

…He…

...VSSSSHHH…

…I...VSSSSHHH…His…

“Who is this his? What’s your name?”

...VSSSSHHH…

…Ari...VSSSSHHH…en

“Arien?” Nahtanis blurted. “As in, Arien Urwendi?”

...VSSSSHHH…Yes…

Tyelkormo sat up straight. “Wasn’t that the heiress who went missing in—”

“—nineteen thirty-one,” Oromë finished for his friend. He spoke clearly into his mic. “For those of you who don’t know, Arien Urwendi was the only child of Mister Súlimo Urwendi, a tycoon with fingers in every conceivable pie,” he explained. “This family was crazy rich; think the one-percent-of-the-one-percent type of rich. Arien was going to inherit everything and men were throwing themselves at her feet, practically begging her to marry one of them. One day, she received a written offer for her hand in marriage from an unknown suitor. She refused. Three weeks after a big party, she disappeared. No one knew what became of her after that.”

“Nineteen thirty-one,” Írissë said, closing her eyes with her hands. “After Mister Bauglir came to Valinor looking for more money.”

“Arien?” Nahtanis asked. “Did Mister Bauglir take you?”

…VSSSSHHH…Yes…

“Did he hurt you?”

…VSSSSHHH…Yes…

…VSSSSHHH…bleed…

Nahtanis blanched. “He made you bleed?”

…VSSSSHHH…too…VSSSSHHH…much…

…VSSSSHHH…die…VSSSSHHH…

“Oh, Eru,” Írissë said, appalled.

“Her mother and father spent a fortune looking for her,” Nahtanis lamented. “I guess Mister Bauglir covered his tracks well.”    

“How old was she when she disappeared?” Írissë asked.

“Eighteen,” Nahtanis told her.

“So young,” Tyelkormo said gravely. He opened his mouth to add more—a joke of his to lighten the mood—then bit his tongue when Oromë slashed the flat of his hand across his own throat.

…VSSSSHHH…

“Arien?” Nahtanis said. “Is that you?”

A man’s voice came through—deep, dark, and menacing.

…She...VSSSSHHH…gone…

“Is this Mister Bauglir?” Oromë said. “Do you want to speak with us?” 

…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH……Angry……VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…

…Him…VSSSSHHH…Me…

“Him,” Nahtanis mused. “Me. Did one of the guys make you angry?”

…VSSSSHHH…Yes…VSSSSHHH…

“Who? Oromë?”

…VSSSSHHH…No…VSSSSHHH…

“He means you, Tyelko,” Nahtanis said, wrapping her arms around herself.

The bed creaked as if a great weight bore down on it. Írissë stared at the mattress, searching for any movement, any shifting in the sheets or the pillows. There was nothing for her to see. The bed was undisturbed, and the bedding itself was neatly arranged and tucked squarely into the corners. 

…VSSSSHHH…Him…VSSSSHHH…

…Sorry…VSSSSHHH…say…

“We’re sorry,” Írissë quickly said into the empty air. “We really are sorry.”

…VSSSSHHH…

…Him…VSSSSHHH…Sorry...VSSSSHHH…

A muffled, insistent thump-thump-thump on the floor made the others jump. No other living person was with them, and none of them were making the noise. 

“That was someone dropping an object over and over again,” Oromë said, his eyes darting wildly to the open door and the corridor of paintings. “Or thumping a heavy cane.” Disturbed, he exchanged a look with the other three. “Should we go on?”

Nahtanis whispered something to Írissë. The other woman replied. “We’ll go on,” Nahtanis said.

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Say...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Sorry…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Him…VSSSSHHH…

 “Just say it,” Oromë urged, though not unkindly, “and mean it. It might make him happy.”

The pounding continued, and Tyelkormo gave in. “I’m sorry, Mister Bauglir,” he said with as much sincerity as he could muster, though each word was a blow to his pride. “It was wrong of me to insult you.”

…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…No… VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Good…

Just then, the pounding ceased. Everyone held their breath, waiting.

A long, jagged shriek cut through the static like thin sheets of metal tearing apart, forcing them to cover their ears. The moment it ended, the lights on the camcorders simply died, plunging the room into darkness. Nahtanis was the first to stand.

“What was that?” she cried. “What the fuck just happened?”

“Everyone stay where you are!” Oromë shouted, trying to bring some calm to the chaos. “Are you guys okay?”

“I’m fine!” Tyelkormo said, his heart pounding in his chest. “I’m fine! Íri? Where are you?”

“I’m here!” Írissë said, rigid and rooted to her spot. “I’m okay!”

She turned to look at the full-length mirror as the sky outside cleared and moonlight poured in through gaps between the curtains. The shadow of a tall person flitted across its glimmering surface.

“I’m not okay!” she gasped. “Something moved across the damn mirror!”

The camcorder lights flashed back to life, illuminating the four terrified companions and revealing an empty bedroom. Oromë took stock of the situation. For a ghost-debunking investigation, he and Tyelkormo had gathered more proof of the paranormal than they ever had before. Even if they called an end to the night now, they had enough material for a V-Tube video unlike any other.

And he admitted to himself that last shriek terrified him—a man who took his chances camping and hunting beasts in the wild.

“Do you guys want to go on to the last room?” Oromë asked, seizing onto his courage before it deserted him. “We can call it a night and go back if you want.”  

“Let’s just head down to the basement tonight,” Tyelkormo said. “Then we can wrap this up and poke around the gardens tomorrow morning.”

Írissë agreed after Nahtanis looked at her and nodded. If Nahtanis could do it, then so could she. When Írissë checked the time, it was half an hour to midnight. The witching hour was almost upon them.

“Do you know what time Mister Bauglir performed his rituals?” Nahtanis asked Oromë.

“The old police reports make no mention of that,” Oromë said, “and the servants refused to cooperate when they asked. They seemed more terrified of upsetting what was in this house than they were of going to jail.” 

“Oh no,” Nahtanis said.

“Don’t worry,” Oromë said. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“Do the two of you need a room?” Írissë quipped, looking up from the bag she was shoving equipment into. “There are plenty here. Can’t say I’d praise the overall atmosphere of the place, but still…”

Oromë did a double take. “Really, Íri?” he finally managed. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”  

“It was either that or dwell on the ghost of Mister Bauglir demanding apologies,” Írissë said. “Don’t blame me for taking my chance when I saw it—and helping the two of you out while I’m at it.”

Oromë lowered his gaze to hide the red patches blooming in his cheeks. “Fuck me,” he said. “No, Íri. Tannis and I will not be getting a room. Let’s go.”

He bolted out of the bedroom, his cheeks still aflame, leaving Tyelkormo behind with the young women.

“He was blushing,” Írissë observed, her lips quirking slyly into a smile. “Mister Nothing-Bothers-Me was actually blushing. Ooh”—she poked Nahtanis playfully in the ribs—“he likes you. He likes you a lot.”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Nahtanis mumbled, picking up the bag of gear her friend had just zipped shut. “I’m going with him.”

“Holy fuck,” Írissë said. “You’re blushing too! Tannis, we need to talk about this when we go back to the hotel.”

“You’ll have to feed me something fancy first!” Nahtanis said from the passageway.  

Írissë ran after her. “Deal!”

Tyelkormo lingered in the darkened room, listening to the women’s voices as they faded into the distance. He looked at the mirror and saw nothing but his own reflection scowling back at him.

“Guess she won’t be changing her mind, after all,” he said bitterly.

He turned and walked out the open door, oblivious to the shadows that rippled and brushed at the soles of his shoes like the tips of bony fingers, latching on for a few seconds before pulling away again.

The march from the second floor to the basement door was long, quiet, and fraught with tension. Oromë brought up the rear, his gaze fixed intently on the viewing screen of his camcorder. There was no one else with them—the way ahead was devoid of all other life.

But the hunter in him could not shake the feeling of being watched. The sensation had stuck with him from the moment they left the bedroom and went in search of the stairs, and it made him look back the way they came, over and over again. Yet there was nothing strange to be discovered—nothing that would explain why they were being watched like prey being stalked by predators.

I will not panic, he told himself. I will not fall apart.  

Oromë took a moment to gather himself when they reached the top of the steps leading into the basement. The time had come to get his game face on.

“Guys,” he said, “the basement is supposed to be the most active part of the house. No one does anything crazy from now on, and if you see, hear, or feel anything, please speak up. If you don’t feel good, please don’t keep it to yourself, okay? We’ll get you help if you need it.”

Írissë was the first to voice her assent. She led the way down, her skin crawling when damp and musty air swept up to greet her. A non-believer, she did not expect the night to go the direction it did, and yet here she was, witnessing with her own eyes beings from another realm—entities who might be trapped in a world not their own and possibly angry about it—interact with the living in dark and troubling ways.

She regretted dragging Nahtanis into this investigation. The woman had been her friend from the moment they first moved into the dorms and found out they were roommates; putting her in any form of danger felt wrong. Yet Nahtanis was not complaining or mad at her, which she took as a good sign. She was talking with Oromë instead, letting him draw her out into the open by answering his questions. At least one good thing was taking shape during the course of their shared night under the manor’s roof. As long as Tyelkormo did not give into his jealousy, then what was blooming between her friend and his could go far.

“And here we are, folks,” Írissë announced with a graceful sweep of her arm. “The basement.”

She stood to the side while Nahtanis entered and crossed to an open space not far from the door. Her friend unpacked their tools and arranged them neatly in a circle, then flicked them on, one at a time.

“Shall we get some background into this room?” Nahtanis asked when Oromë and Tyelkormo joined them and each of them sat down on the polished flagstone floor.

Oromë took a moment for dramatic effect. Then, he said, “We’re now in the basement, where Melkor and his followers sacrificed many of the women they captured. That slab over there”—he waved his hand at a raised stone block at the far end—“was supposed to be the altar. Investigators at the time document it being stained with dried, old blood. They even found knives used only for skinning and dressing animals.”

He let out a faint sigh. “Sadly, their investigations did not yield living culprits. Melkor and his followers had killed themselves in this very room in what looked like a mass-suicide pact. The post-mortem revealed a cocktail of sedatives, arsenic, and cyanide in their systems. The abductions and killings came to an end after that.”

“Wait,” Írissë said. “Did the cops link Arien’s disappearance with the others?”

“That’s the problem; they didn’t,” Tyelkormo said. “Arien’s kidnapping was dismissed as a one-off, and the other women were from poor families living in the slums. Then the father of one of the women went to Mister Urwendi. He became suspicious and got his lawyers involved. They pressured the Police Commissioner—had him open old files and bring in a new detective. It worked—even if their efforts were too late for most of the women in the end.”  

“So it took an angry, grieving rich man to get things moving,” Nahtanis said aloud.

“It’s a tale as old as time itself,” Oromë remarked.

Tyelkormo’s watch chimed the hour. “We’re now at midnight,” he said into his mic, “when spirits are the most active. So far, we’ve caught a lot of activity on camera, which we never expected, and we hope to capture more now.” He looked at the others. “I’m taking a turn with the spirit box.”

“Be my guest,” Oromë said.

Tyelkormo stretched out his arms, then breathed deeply. “Spirits of the house,” he said, speaking into the spirit box. “Melkor. Morgoth. We come seeking answers. Will you give them?”

…VSSSSHHH…

“We’re capturing all that you have to say for other people to hear,” he said. “Would you like to add to what we’ve found?”

…VSSSSHHH…

“Nothing,” he said. “Figures.”

He stole a quick look at Nahtanis. She was seated next to Oromë, her knee brushing his, and the sight made him angry. She should be his instead, seated by his side and clinging to every word he said. She still could, if he impressed her. And so, in a final outburst, he spoke to the spirit box yet again, his promise to watch what he said flying straight out the window. 

“Don't be shy!” he yelled. “We can make you famous!”  

…VSSSSHHH…

“Un-fucking-believable,” Tyelkormo said. “Spirits hiding from mortals. Pitiful."

The REM pod rang out, its colours blinking rapidly in a frenzy. 

"We need more," Tyelkormo challenged, emboldened by the response. "Or is this all you could do? Messing with the lights like some creeper hiding in the corner?"

“Tyelko!” Oromë shouted at his friend. “Can you not?”

“What?” Tyelkormo said. “It's working, isn't it?”

…VSSSSHHH…

The spirit box sputtered, and the camcorder lights dimmed, their bright white light reduced to a dull yellow by an invisible cloak thrown over them. The air within thickened, and the being who at last spoke was unlike anything the friends had heard. His voice reverberated across the room like a thousand overlapping echoes, each one of them a whisper, a cry, a shout that rose and fell like churning waves.

…VSSSSHHH…Lyë…VSSSSHHH…

Nahtanis tilted her head and listened intently. “That’s old Quenya. It means you.”

“Me?” Tyelkormo jerked his head up. “Do you mean me?”

…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Ná…VSSSSHHH…

“That means yes,” Nahtanis said.

"Could this be Melkor?" Tyelkormo asked.

Nahtanis shook her head. "Melkor isn't going to speak to us in the Common Tongue and then switch to a dead language. This is something else."

Goosebumps rose all over Oromë’s arms. More than one being speaking directly to Tyelkormo? He did not like it at all.

“Tyelko?” he said. “We need to stop.”

His friend held up his hand. “A few more minutes,” he said recklessly. “So… Morgoth? Is this you?"

"Tyelko," Oromë protested, "I don't think—"

"Give me a few minutes," Tyelkormo cut him off. He turned to speak to the spirit box. "Am I speaking with Morgoth?"

…VSSSSHHH…Ná…VSSSSHHH…

"Yes," Tyelkormo said. He looked at Nahtanis again, pleased to see he had her attention. "Wonderful. What do you fucking want with me?”

…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Lyë…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Olya…VSSSSHHH…

“You,” Nahtanis translated. “Much. That last word meant much.”

…VSSSSHHH…Ninya…VSSSSHHH…Sí…VSSSSHHH…

“My,” Nahtanis said. “Now.” Her breath caught. “You are very much mine now?”

It was all the confirmation Oromë needed to end the investigations completely. “That’s it,” he said, not waiting for Tyelkormo to voice another refusal. “Íri, grab Tannis. We’re leaving.”

A low, animalistic moan ripped through the speaker, carrying from a great distance. The scent of frankincense filled the basement—and the reek of rotted flesh. Then, the moan ebbed away and a feral snarl filled the void it left behind. Tyelkormo ceased his questions, all warmth draining from his face. 

“Out,” Oromë ordered. “Everyone out. Now!” 

His companions frantically grabbed their equipment and scrambled out of the basement.

Their race up the the steps took only minutes, yet it felt like hours at the same time. Voices from the dark called out to them, beckoning them to return, but no one thought to answer. No one even stopped to look back. Every instinct they possessed warned them against it.

When they finally burst into the parlour, Langon stood in the centre of it, tired and with shadows under his eyes. The keeper gave Oromë a knowing look when he stopped to catch his breath, but he did not say, “I told you so.” He just patted Oromë on the shoulder instead, and said, “Deep breaths, it’s over now,” while the younger man struggled to find his words.

“We’re supposed to come back tomorrow,” Oromë breathed, “but I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think we’ll make do with what we have and finish up with you speaking to us—at our hotel.”

“Smart boy,” Langon said. He studied the others. “Get yourselves over to Silver Hall. The priest there is an old friend of mine. He always keeps the temple doors open. Do whatever he says; it should fix you right up.”  

Tyelkormo did not even think to argue. “We’ll do it.”

“All right,” Langon said. “Come on. I’ll show you back to your vehicles.”

They trailed him out into the gardens, quiet and struggling to comprehend what they had endured. Írissë kept close to Nahtanis, and Nahtanis kept close to Oromë, who sought her out in turn.

Tyelkormo kept to himself. He did not speak to the others of what he had heard during their flight up to the parlour: his name whispered in his ear, and promises of rewards he had only seen in his dreams. Yet he silenced it all as best he could and dismissed the words as figments of his fright. By tomorrow morning, it would all be a nightmare he could put behind him, much like the clawing in the back of his mind.

Then again, all nights were cold this close to Araman. Mist lay thick and curling on the ground, and the moon—full, white, and shining—had disappeared behind dark, ragged clouds. To Tyelkormo, it was perfect. To Oromë, it was even more so. Tonight, they were about to head out on a special kind of hunt, but whether that hunt would yield the results they sought, neither of them could say.

Tyelkormo, seated in the front passenger seat of Oromë’s Wrangler, squirmed against the leather upholstery, making it creak in protest. They had been driving for what seemed like hours on end, and the road leading to their destination was empty save for the trees. Pine, fir, and white cedar hemmed them in from both sides, their misshapen roots digging deep into the soil and their branches entwining to form a canopy that swayed and whispered with the wind. It made him extremely uncomfortable. The previous locations they had explored were surrounded by occupied buildings and busy roadways and even people going about their business. This was different. It was as if they were being isolated.

He fished his phone out from his jeans’ pocket and swiped up across the screen. “The girls are almost there,” he said, smiling at the messages that popped up one after another. “They’re both ready for the big night.”

Ghost debunking was fun when it was just Oromë and him, but having company enhanced a video's atmosphere, and viewers enjoyed watching the reactions of guest hunters. It helped drive up engagement and brought in more revenue.

Oromë grinned. It was Írissë’s first time appearing on their channel—her friend’s too. “I can’t wait to get both the girls on video. Everyone is going to just lap it all up!”

“Yeah,” Tyelkormo said, putting his phone away. “Can you believe it, though? One of rich old Mister Ingweron’s own joining us for the night?” He looked at Oromë, his amber eyes glinting as they caught the dim light. “The fans are going to go wild when the teaser goes up.” 

“I know!” Oromë agreed, his voice high with excitement. He turned the jeep down a gravel road to his right. Loose pebbles crunched beneath the wheels. “And the more the merrier, as I always say.”  

“Always, man,” Tyelkormo said. He peered through the windscreen, his eyes widening when a tall, wrought-iron fence surmounted by sharp spikes and glass lanterns glittered black and grey and gold in the oncoming headlights. “Whoa… is this it? Is this Utumno Manor?”

“It looks like it.” Oromë drove on until the gates came into view. His lips curled up at the corners when a sleek white car slowed down to a stop in front of them. “Íri and Nahtanis are here.” He parked the jeep and shut off the engine. “We can get started.”

His voice changed from that of the college student who enjoyed life to the fullest to what Tyelkormo once dubbed “Capital P Professional”. Oromë took V-Tubing and ghost debunking seriously, while Tyelkormo did not. At least, not as seriously as he should have. It often frustrated Oromë to no end. “One day, Tyelko,” Oromë had told him, “you’re going to land yourself in a world of trouble with that mouth of yours, and you’re going to have a hard time digging yourself out of it.”

Tyelkormo had laughed then and brushed off his friend and mentor’s warning.

He shifted, unable to believe what he was seeing, when their guests for the night stepped out and Nahtanis stood straight. “Holy fuck,” he said, watching her tugging at the edges of her violet sweater. “She’s hot.”

Oromë glanced up. Írissë’s friend was short—shorter than all of them, in fact—with the thick blonde hair and alabaster skin many in her family were known for. She was also dressed practically for the night—her blue jeans and heavy brown boots a match for Írissë’s own—and she was giggling at something Írissë said. Oromë got out first and closed the door, his breath hitching when Nahtanis turned to look at him and smiled. Tyelkormo was wrong; Nahtanis was more than just hot—she was stunning.

“Íri!” he cried, pulling Írissë into a tight hug. “It’s so good to see you again. Nahtanis? I’m Oromë Arōmēz.” He let go of his friend and held out a hand.

“Just call me Tannis.” Nahtanis flushed, but shook his hand all the same. “The man and the myth himself. Íri doesn’t stop talking about you.”

“Does she now?” Tyelkormo stuck his head out of the open jeep window. “Íri? I expect to be your bridesman of honour at the wedding.”

“Are you willing to wear a dress?” Írissë tossed back, amused.

“For free food and booze? Fuck yeah, I will!”

“You’re on!” Írissë shouted. But she laughed and turned to face Nahtanis. “It’s never going to happen—me getting involved with Oromë, that is. Now getting my cousin into a dress, on the other hand—that’s very much in the realm of believable possibilities.”

The image of a large and hulking man like Tyelkormo flouncing around in a sparkly dress brought a smile to Nahtanis’s face.

“I’d love to see you pull it off,” she said, flicking her wrist to check her watch. Ten fifteen PM flashed against its black background in bright white numbers. “Shall we get started?”

“Ready to get down to business,” Tyelkormo said. “I like it.” He threw open the passenger door and jumped down with a huff. “You know,” he added, stalking to the back of the vehicle, “I’m looking for a girlfriend, if you’re interested.”

It was worth the attempt, in his opinion. He and Nahtanis would look amazing together, and he hoped—more than hoped—his father would approve despite his dislike for his stepmother Indis, Nahtanis’s aunt. Perhaps his father would. He never stopped Tyelkormo and his brothers from spending time with their half-uncles and cousins—he could be asked to be just as accepting where Nahtanis was concerned.

“Really?” Nahtanis rested her hands on her hips, stunned by Tyelkormo’s boldness. “Are you into tripping over books, being kicked in the middle of the night, and listening to me mumbling some dead lingo in my sleep?” Tyelkormo sucked in a breath. “Ah… no.”

“Then we’re not meant to be,” Nahtanis answered, clapping her hands to her heart. “I’m so sorry, Tyelko.”

Tyelkormo chuckled, a low, flat sound. Yet he did not give up all hope. They were fooling around. Nahtanis could still look his way before the night was over. So he busied himself unloading bags and boxes of equipment from the boot, entertaining the possibilities of his and Nahtanis’s future together, while Oromë took out his phone and keyed in a number. Sharp, high-pitched beeps rang through the air insistently, shattering the silence of the night and Tyelkormo’s daydreaming. On the fourth beep, a gravelly voice drifted through the speaker for all of them to hear.

“Hello?” the man on the other end said. “Is this Mister Arōmēz?”

“Yes,” Oromë said. “We’re all here, Langon. Would you mind coming over to the front and opening the gates for us?”

“Sure,” Langon said. “Give me a few minutes.”

While they waited, Tyelkormo sauntered over, his shoulders weighed down with the gear they would all need. The others rushed forward to help him. They took the bags and boxes he carried into their hands and set them down on the grass. Oromë dropped to his haunches and opened them one by one. He handed out clip-on mics, handheld camcorders, and EMF meters.

“Keep these on at all times,” he said, rising. “Never turn them off, no matter what.” He shouldered the bag containing the REM pod and the spirit box. They would be saved for later.

Nahtanis struggled with her mic. “Could you help me with this, please?”

“Sure.” Oromë took the tiny device into his hand. “You turn it on like so,” he explained, his hand close to the curve of her throat, “and clip it like this.”

Nahtanis trembled and leaned in, her fingers brushing against his thick, calloused ones while she held her collar in place. She could not help but look up at him. His towering frame blocked out the sputtering lantern light, and his shadow swallowed everything in front of him.

So big, she thought, but so gentle.

“Thanks,” she said, her flush spreading when his pale green eyes caught hers for a second before they looked away.

“No problem,” Oromë said hoarsely.

Tyelkormo clenched his hand into a tight fist but quickly schooled his expression to one of calmness. He was not going to give up. The night was still young, and Nahtanis could still change her mind. Once he had mastered himself and each of the others had kitted themselves out, he called them into a circle.

“Gather around, kids,” he said. “Remember the plan. Spend as much time as we can here, document, debunk, and return tomorrow night to pick up where we left off.” He looked up when he heard shoes crunching down on stone behind them. Langon had found them. “Nobody hams it up for the camera; viewers won't like it if they think we’re trying to fool them.”

“If either of you wants to leave at any time,” Oromë said, “tell us. No one is going to be mad if you do.” 

“We’re all in,” Írissë said.

“Brave words,” Langon said. “I wonder if you’d think the same a couple of hours in.”

The keeper unfastened a massive bunch of keys at his belt and took his time unlocking the gates. He was tall and gaunt, with a pinched face and wisps of greying brown hair. A flat, small torch was strapped onto his faded blue cap.

“Is it that bad, Mister Langon?” Nahtanis asked.

“Mister Langon,” the old man said, more to himself than the others. “This one has nice manners.” He threw open the gates, grimacing as he struggled with their weight. “That’s a very good thing. The others don’t like poor manners. Makes them very angry.”

“Them?” Oromë probed. “The ghosts, you mean?”

“The ghosts, and the one who rules them.” Langon stepped to the side, allowing them entry. “Oh, yes. There’s one who rules them. He doesn’t show himself often, but if he does, watch out.”

“Would you be willing to talk about your experiences about it?” Oromë asked.

“I might,” Langon said, “if the trustees agree to it, that is.”

“Do these ghosts leave you alone?” Tyelkormo asked.

“I keep to myself,” Langon said. “And they keep to themselves, for the most part. But with fresh meat walking through the halls at this time of night, riling them all up? They won’t.” He gestured to the women. “Watch over them. Don’t let either of them out of your sight.”

“We won’t,” Oromë swore.

“So you say,” Langon said. He turned around and walked down a wide pebbled drive. “Shall we go inside?”

The group followed him, their camcorders capturing vivid glimpses of the shrubbery they passed. Nahtanis stopped and looked around. The gardens—what was clear to the camcorder light, at least—were quiet, but vast and beautifully kept. Not a twig was out of place, nor a flower bloomed where it should not. Nahtanis scratched her head, unable to believe anyone even came out this far for maintenance. Langon appeared to be the only living soul on the grounds.

“Do the gardeners come in from the city, Mister Langon?” asked Nahtanis.

“They do,” Langon said, “but they don’t stay long. None of them do. They just finish their jobs and leave.”

“That’s not very comforting,” Nahtanis said softly. She resumed walking, unwilling to stay by herself.

“Don’t wander off,” Langon told her, though not ungently. He waited until they all caught up with him before drawing their attention to the shadowy structure rising into the darkness. “Utumno Manor,” he continued. “Your home away from home for the next few hours.”

Utumno Manor stood three storeys high, its pale limestone brick walls and steep, flat-top roofs weathered and pockmarked by time. Glass gleamed in all of its windows, and delicate, lacy curtains were drawn shut from within. Nahtanis traced her fingers down the indents of a stout column, marveling at the scrollwork carved along the edges. Buildings like Utumno Manor were rare now in a world of glass and steel and concrete, and she was grateful to be blessed with the opportunity to learn about its history from within the confines of its rooms.

“Are the curtains always drawn shut?” Írissë asked, shivering.

“That depends,” Langon said, opening the tall oaken doors leading into the receiving hall. “The contractors and the cleaners want them open when they’re inside. The gardeners want them closed while they work outside.” He made a face. “I have to walk with them and stay with them until they finish and leave. It’s a bother, really. But the trustees insist. They don’t want the manor to fall apart.” 

“What do the trustees want to do with this place?” Tyelkormo asked.

“The plan is to turn it into a hotel,” Langon said, ushering them into a large, airy parlour shrouded in shadows and full of furniture covered with crisp, white sheets. “I think it’s foolish.” He gave the group a pointed look. “Very foolish.”

“So you say,” Oromë countered. “But if we succeed—and I know we will—plans for the hotel can still go ahead.”

Langon sighed. “Eru save me from the stupidity of the young. Well, better you do this than me.” He fiddled with an old fob watch clipped to his jacket pocket. “Right. This is where I’ll leave you. I’ll switch off the breakers, just like you want me to. You still want me to do it, yes?” 

Oromë nodded. “We do. Good night, Langon.”

“Good night,” Langon murmured. “And good luck.”

He left them seated in the parlour, but very reluctantly. Contrary to his complaints, leaving anyone from the outside without him nearby, watching over them, never truly sat right with him. Still, it was what he agreed to do after the trustees pressured him. And, Eru save him, the money offered was too much for even him to refuse. So he stepped outside and skirted to the side where the garage was, his skin prickling the entire time.

Only when he walked inside did he feel safe. The garage was untainted, unlike many of the other places on the estate, and its loft apartment was his home. It was also where the circuit breaker was installed. Langon found it, and after taking a moment to pray, he yanked it open and snapped the breakers down, one by one, killing the power to the manor proper. The world outside stilled—eerily, suffocatingly so. Langon trembled. The hammer was about to fall. 

“Good luck,” he repeated, and ascended the steps to his bed. He knew he would get no sleep tonight. 

Sleep did not just evade him; it evaded the others as well. Tyelkormo gave his companions time to fuss with their paraphernalia before he turned his camera to himself, anticipation surging thick through his veins.

“Right!” he said. “Let’s get this show on the road!” After clearing his throat, he beamed and said, “What’s up, guys! This is Tyelko—”

“And this is Oromë!” his friend said when Tyelkormo swung the camera around to him. “And tonight we have a special treat for you all!”

“The place, some say, is one of the most haunted house in Valinor. Utumno Manor itself!” Tyelkormo announced. He pointed his camcorder at the women. “And we have not come by ourselves! Here are our guests! Say hi, ladies!”

“I’m Íri Nolofinwëniel!” Írissë piped in.

“And I’m Tannis Ingweron!” Nahtanis added.

“Tannis is the brains,” Írissë supplied. “While I’m the sass.” She clutched at her friend and pulled her close, resting her chin against her hair. “I’d be lost without you.”

“Aww,” Nahtanis said, smiling. 

“Get a room,” Tyelkormo said, sinking deeper into his chair.

“We will,” Írissë said. “Yours.”

“And this is why”—Oromë held his camera to himself—“I always have to be the dad of the bunch. Behave. All of you.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Tyelkormo replied. “I kid! I kid!” he sputtered when Oromë tsked. “I’ll behave.”

“Thank you.” Oromë picked up where Tyelkormo left off. “Shall we now give our viewers a run-down of this place?”

“We should,” Tyelkormo said. He turned to face his camcorder again. “Utumno Manor was built in the late nineteen-twenties by Melkor Bauglir, son of a wealthy mine baron.” 

“Melkor wanted it all,” Oromë chimed in. “So he left his home in Almaren for even richer pastures.”

“What we know is what the police discovered at the time,” Tyelkormo explained. “Melkor gathered like-minded people around him, and the crimes they committed shocked the nation—abductions of young women, murders, and far, far worse.”

“Oromë?” Nahtanis interjected, holding up her EMF meter. “What colour is this supposed to be if something is here?”

Oromë studied it with a critical eye. The meter flashed a pale blue. “It should be orange or red—maybe yellow. That colour is normal. Just ignore it.” 

On his instructions, Írissë took out the REM pod and set it down on the coffee table between them. It beeped shrilly when she turned it on, its little lights flickering a bright red and then green, blue and then yellow, before it finally sparked a deep purple and dimmed when it slipped into standby mode. Oromë stretched out his long legs, mumbling an apology when he accidentally kicked Nahtanis on the foot. Nahtanis waved the apology away, but did not shift out of the way, much to Tyelkormo’s annoyance. Oromë stooped to retrieve the spirit box. It crackled with static when he switched it on.

“I think we should move on to a spirit box session,” he began. “We’re here to speak with the spirits who call this manor their home,” he called. “If you want to talk to us or pass on a message, please speak through this black box. Or you can go up to the REM pod. That’s the red circular box on the table. It’ll flicker in different colours if you come near it or touch it.”

The spirit box crackled and popped, but no voice came through.

“We come in peace,” Oromë said. “We only want to hear what you have to say and reveal it to the world. Would you like that?”

No voice addressed them from the ether, and the REM pod remained silent and dark. Oromë was satisfied. This was exactly what he and Tyelkormo were looking for.

Suddenly, the sound of wood groaning and squeaking startled them. Oromë scanned his surroundings, the sceptic in him seeking an answer rooted in reality. The floors throughout the building, he recalled, were polished marble, buried beneath heavy carpets stretched across most of them from wall to wall. Then there were the doors. They were thick and made of rare, expensive wood—and pivoted on hinges that looked well-oiled. But the manor itself was still old—four years short of a century since its completion, in fact. It was only natural for it to make such sounds when settling down for the night. Oromë dropped his shoulders, his mind filling with ease. He had found his explanation.

Tyelkormo thought otherwise.

“Looks like someone is making use of the beds upstairs,” he said without thinking. “Maybe Melkor brought a lady over for some good times. He liked them barely legal—and unwilling.” He snorted. “Maybe that was the only way he was able to feel like a big man.”

Tyelkormo smirked, expecting grins and laughter from the others. Instead, the only response he received was the sheet Írissë grabbed off a nearby occasional table and flung in a bundle at his head with all her might.

“That was not funny, Tyelko,” she said.

Tyelkormo cackled and plucked the rumpled square white cloth off his ruffled hair.

“He meant no disrespect,” Nahtanis said, looking around her. “We apologise on his behalf.”

“Who are you apologising to?” Tyelkormo demanded. “There’s no one besides us here.”

“What if there’s someone else?” Nahtanis suggested, glaring hard at him. “Someone we can’t see? And remember what Mister Langon said? The ghosts don’t like poor manners. Your jokes might make them angry.”

“She’s right,” Írissë said. “Dial it down, Tyelko. Please.”  

Tyelkormo looked at Oromë, hoping his friend would defend him.

“Knock it off, man,” Oromë said. “This is neither the time nor place for it.” Tyelkormo had always been crass with his jokes, but this was going too far.

“Don’t tell me you believe there’s something here,” Tyelkormo scoffed.

“I don’t,” Oromë said. “But just keep your jokes to yourself until we leave.”

“Fine!” Tyelkormo exclaimed, looking up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry. There. Can we carry on now?”

Oromë narrowed his eyes at his friend for an instant, then looked away. “This room is a bust. Let’s move on to the attic.”

They packed up and trudged two by two out of the parlour and back into the receiving hall, seeking the corner stairs to the upper floors. Nahtanis kept close to Oromë while Írissë and Tyelkormo walked behind them and kept up a lively chatter. Her experience had unnerved her, but she was still determined to persevere.

When Írissë first brought up the topic of visiting Utumno Manor for a weekend of ghost hunting and debunking, Nahtanis had not hesitated to say yes. A lover of history, she had left the comforts of her family’s home in Endorë just so that she could learn more. Valinor had always been the old country, a land of old myths and fables, and she yearned to see as much of it with her own eyes. Now she was here, in Utumno Manor, no less, learning a forgotten part of the country’s past, with her best friend by her side. She was sure to have enough memories to last a lifetime.

Oromë leaned over. “So you study dead languages. How do you manage that?”  

“Sleepless nights fuelled by lots of coffee,” Nahtanis said, “and a professor who’s as crazy about dead languages as I am.”

“Teacher’s pet?” he teased.

“After a fashion,” Nahtanis said. Her spine prickled when he dusted a fleck of debris off her hair. “I hear ghost debunking is not your only interest.” She gulped and climbed up the steps, her every sense coming alive to the shadows fleeing the light. “Hunting and bushcraft on top of everything else? Where do you find the time?”    

“I carve out the time. It’s how I wind down.”

“I always wanted to learn how to hunt, but it keeps slipping my mind. My dad said he’d gladly pay for shooting lessons. He and mom love to hunt. They keep asking me to join them.”

“Your dad doesn’t need to pay for lessons.” Oromë gave her a sidelong glance. A flash of heat crept up his neck when her eyes lit up. “Maybe I could teach you the next time we’re both free.”

“I’d like that very much.”

Tyelkormo watched them, his jaw clenching at how easily Oromë drew Nahtanis into his world and kept her there. His friend was always like this, drawing the attention of everyone who saw him like moths to the light. Oh, Tyelkormo managed well enough when it came to friends and partners, but Oromë occupied another level entirely. It never bothered him—until tonight.

“Are you okay?” Írissë whispered to him.

“I’m fine,” Tyelkormo said.

“You’re not,” Írissë said, inching closer. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Tyelkormo said. “But I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“If you say so,” Írissë said quietly. “Well, I’m always ready to listen if you want someone to vent to.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Írissë took his hand into hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. She let out a sigh of relief when it was reciprocated.

By the time they reached the attic, it was a quarter to eleven, and all that could be heard was the rustle of clothes and the low thump of boots. Írissë peeked over the railing as they reached the top. She jumped back with a start when wood began creaking again.

“How are we hearing that noise?” she hissed to the others. “Everything in this fucking house is stone and marble!”

Oromë crossed to her side and listened. The sound abruptly stopped.

“It’s probably just the doors,” he said. “This house is old.” He shuddered. “Or someone is messing with us. No one goes off on their own. There could be another person in the house with us—someone Langon doesn't even know about.”

He turned around to the open attic door, pausing for a moment before going in. When he stepped over the lip of the entryway into the vast room beyond, he found it uncommonly dark, and colder than the rest of the house. Nevertheless, the professional in him refused to be cowed. He sat down with the others and set out their tools before he brought up the story of the room they were in.

“We’re now in the attic, where Melkor’s followers kept their captives.” He panned the camcorder around, and the others waved at him. They were seated between rusted bedframes, old boxes, and ornaments covered in a thick layer of dust. “Many of them tried to make life here bearable; records from the investigations speak of paper flowers and ash drawings on the walls, and the women who lived long enough to be saved—”

“—told the police Melkor said they were to be offerings,” Tyelkormo chipped in. “But not all of the women were dragged to the altar. A few of them met a different but equally tragic fate. For now, let’s see what we can dig up here.”

He braced himself when Írissë shuffled closer to the spirit box.  

“We come here with respect,” she said. “We wish to learn your stories. Are you here with us? If you are, would you tell us what happened to you?”

The REM pod neither flickered nor beeped. The meters blinked a comforting blue. Still, disembodied voices from a multitude of frequencies carried through the spirit box’s speaker amidst the static, making everyone’s hair stand up. Írissë took it as a sign for them to continue with their questioning.

“Is there anyone here?” she asked. “Would you like to speak to us?”

...VSSSSHHH…

A woman’s slightly breathy voice filled the space around them.

…Yes...VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Scared…

“Scared?” Írissë pressed on. “Scared of what?”

...VSSSSHHH…

…Him...VSSSSHHH…He...VSSSSHHH…Angry…

“Him?” Tyelkormo asked. “Melkor?”

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Yes...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…and...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…other...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…

“Other?” Írissë asked again. “Do you mean there was someone beside Mister Bauglir?”

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Mor...VSSSSHHH… Goth…

“Was he one of Mister Bauglir’s followers?” Írissë asked.

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…No...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Dif...VSSSSHHH…Ferent…

“By the One…” Nahtanis could not keep what she knew to herself. “Morgoth was believed to have been a god,” she revealed, shaken. “He was worshipped by these people living near the Ered Engrin. Their existence is supposed to be pure myth—no evidence of them or Morgoth was ever found.”

“So Melkor may have been trying to summon Morgoth,” Tyelkormo said. He addressed the spirit box. “Was he successful?”

...VSSSSHHH…Yes…

“Did that make him happy?”

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…No...VSSSSHHH…

Oromë tried to swallow in a throat that had gone dry. “Fuck.” He straightened himself, and said, “Is Morgoth still here?”

The spirit box spat out pure static before a different young woman’s voice said, …Here...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Every...VSSSSHHH…Where…

...VSSSSHHH…

…Out...VSSSSHHH…

“What?”

...VSSSSHHH……Out...VSSSSHHH…

A boom carried up to the attic, rattling the glass in the dormer windows. Everyone shot up, their blood chilling to the quick.

“Stay here,” Oromë ordered.

He went out the door to examine the landing. Nothing was toppled over. The table in the corner was unmoved, and the vase on top of it stood beneath a covering, untouched by any hand. When he looked over the railing, he saw nothing. Nothing at all.  

Three faces looked back at him fearfully when he returned. “There’s no one,” he said, his smile overbright. “Let’s clean up here and move on to the next room.”

The other three did not have to be told twice. They gathered up their things and filed out into the corridor, searching for the source of the noise. They could not find it. All the other doors they tried were locked. Not a single object was thrown onto the floor or torn off the walls. Oromë shot a look at Tyelkormo. The attic was not what they expected. They went into it thinking they would hear only static, or little animals scurrying across the roof’s tiles. What they heard was completely different to what they hoped to find. It set each of them on edge.

“We go on, right?” Tyelkormo asked, frightened and eager at the same time. “Even if they want to go back, you and I are still going to continue?”

Oromë considered it. Common sense told him to leave; they could always complete their investigation the next night, or they could come back another weekend and look around during the bright light of day. The investigator in him, however, wanted to carry on. The trustees might not allow any of them into the manor after the agreed-upon two nights ended.

“We are,” he decided, looking back at the women. “We should still ask if they want to stick with us till we finish.” 

“If you guys are up for it,” Tyelkormo said, “we can move on to Melkor’s bedr—”                                                              

Nahtanis let out a scream and batted desperately at her hair. She would have rushed blindly down the stairs had Oromë not grabbed onto her arm.

“What is it?” He looked over her head into the shadows. There was nothing there. “Tannis, what happened?”

“Someone tugged my hair,” Nahtanis panted. She took deep, steadying breaths to try and calm herself. “I’m fine. Really. We can go on.”

“Are you sure?” Oromë asked. “We can leave if you want.”

“I’m positive,” Nahtanis said. She managed a smile. “I want to see this through.”

Oromë loosened his hold, but he did not let go of her completely. “All right,” he said, slipping her arm around his own. “Let’s go on to the master bedroom.”

Tyelkormo pursed his lips into a thin line but led the descent to the second floor without a loud fuss. “Guess dear old Dad has no problem tripping over books and being kicked in the night,” he muttered. “Fuck my life.”

Írissë heard. “So this is why you’re upset,” she said. “Are you jealous? Do you like Tannis?”

“No—” Tyelkormo groused, “—yes.” He turned a deaf ear to his friend and his new acquaintance murmuring to each other. “I fucking hate it.”  

“It isn’t her fault,” Írissë said, glancing back over her shoulder and smiling at the sight of Nahtanis so close to Oromë. “It’s not his fault either.”

“Maybe,” he allowed. “Was she lying about what happened back there?”

“Tannis is a lot of things,” Írissë said. “But she’s not a liar. If she said someone messed with her hair, she meant it.”

“Great,” Tyelkormo said to himself. “Just fucking great.”

Írissë clapped him hard on the back, but kept her opinions where her friend was concerned to herself. Nahtanis would never consider Tyelkormo after his little display in the parlour, but Írissë was not going to point that out. She was all too familiar with her cousin’s moods. Tyelkormo was an utter grouch and unbearable to be around when jealous, and trying to advise him in any way only worsened things. Letting him stew in his feelings for a while until he calmed down and let go was for the best—he was sure to do it once he had a night to sleep it all off. Then she could talk about it the next time she was alone with him.  

She followed him down a long passage lined with paintings. They were portraits of figures who had once commanded both wealth and high society standing, and of scenes of luxury and abundance. One painting in particular caught her attention. It was of a man who stood tall and fierce against a field of black. He had dark hair and dark eyes—and gold rings that shone around each of his tapered fingers. A walking cane carved out of some expensive wood and inlaid with gold was gripped tightly in his right hand. 

Oromë hunched to read the thick yellow card at the base of the frame. “Melkor Bauglir, Unknown Artist, 1933,” he said. “Quite the specimen, wasn’t he?”

“That he was,” Írissë said. “How old was he when he came here?”

“Twenty-four,” Oromë said. “And he died nine years later—only six years after this manor was completed.”

Írissë whistled. “That’s his bedroom over there?” She pointed to the door at the far end.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go in.”

Like the attic, the door to Melkor’s bedroom—the largest in the house—was left open for them. Langon had gone around with his keys before they had arrived, throwing open doors to the rooms the team intended to see. Now the bedroom of one of the richest—and most dangerous—men of his time was exposed for others to see.

Tyelkormo entered the bedroom first and was stunned by how opulent it looked. The drapes were a heavy, creamy velvet—a colour he did not think to associate with such a man—and the fireplace was adorned with mythical beasts and fantastical scenes etched into the stone. Chests of drawers lined one wall, their surfaces polished to a high sheen, and the bed itself was large and inviting. He pondered the horrors that had taken place upon the bed, then pushed them quickly out of his thoughts. Some things, in his opinion, should never be dwelt on.

He waited until the others joined him and sat cross-legged on the floor beside the hearth, their equipment spread out around them.

“In the attic,” he said to his camcorder, “we said some of the women met a different but equally tragic fate. Those whom Melkor liked the most he assaulted on that bed. Not one of them survived her ordeal.” He stopped speaking for a second, and then added, “All of the bodies were buried in the back gardens and the woods. Police dug up two dozen corpses—but there’s supposed to be more out there. Reports say the police could not bring themselves to go on—the victims were treated that brutally before they were disposed of.”

“We need to investigate the back gardens tomorrow night,” Oromë suggested. “I mean, if what we found so far is real, then the gardens are going to be a goldmine.”

“And I want to take a closer look at the etchings around the fireplace,” Nahtanis spoke up. “I haven’t come across anything like them in all of my research.”

In spite of what had already happened, Tyelkormo could not help but see the appeal. Already they had unearthed a trove of potential paranormal activity through the attic spirit box session. Their fans would devour those findings alone. And if they caught even more activity on record? That could lead to bigger and better things for Oromë and him both.

“I’m in!” he said. “Let’s make a plan for tomorrow night after we go back to the hotel."

Írissë, who had been keeping an eye on their devices, pointed toward the EMF meters. “They’re all flashing yellow,” she said. “Is that good?”

“Given what happened in the attic, it could be,” Oromë said, more alert than ever. “Melkor?” he spoke into the spirit box. “Mister Bauglir? Are you here with us?”

Crackles and pops erupted through the speaker, but nothing spoke from the other side. Even the lights on the meters pulsed a ceaseless yellow, then blue and green, then yellow again.

“Is there anyone here?” Oromë questioned. “We would like to speak with you, if you’ll let us.”

...VSSSSHHH…

…Trapped…

It was another woman’s voice—soft and musical. It piqued Nahtanis’s interest.

“You can’t move on?” she asked gently. “Why?”

...Can...VSSSSHHH…not…

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Will...VSSSSHHH…Not ...

… VSSSSHHH…

...Let...VSSSSHHH…Me…

Oromë held up his hand, signalling the other two to keep quiet. He wanted Nahtanis to take the lead during the session. He wanted to see what she would glean for them—and how much she could handle. Her unwillingness to run off after something played with her hair told him that she could—and, truth be told, it made him like her even more.   

“He won’t let you leave?” Nahtanis pressed on. “Why?”

…He…

...VSSSSHHH…

…I...VSSSSHHH…His…

“Who is this his? What’s your name?”

...VSSSSHHH…

…Ari...VSSSSHHH…en

“Arien?” Nahtanis blurted. “As in, Arien Urwendi?”

...VSSSSHHH…Yes…

Tyelkormo sat up straight. “Wasn’t that the heiress who went missing in—”

“—nineteen thirty-one,” Oromë finished for his friend. He spoke clearly into his mic. “For those of you who don’t know, Arien Urwendi was the only child of Mister Súlimo Urwendi, a tycoon with fingers in every conceivable pie,” he explained. “This family was crazy rich; think the one-percent-of-the-one-percent type of rich. Arien was going to inherit everything and men were throwing themselves at her feet, practically begging her to marry one of them. One day, she received a written offer for her hand in marriage from an unknown suitor. She refused. Three weeks after a big party, she disappeared. No one knew what became of her after that.”

“Nineteen thirty-one,” Írissë said, closing her eyes with her hands. “After Mister Bauglir came to Valinor looking for more money.”

“Arien?” Nahtanis asked. “Did Mister Bauglir take you?”

…VSSSSHHH…Yes…

“Did he hurt you?”

…VSSSSHHH…Yes…

…VSSSSHHH…bleed…

Nahtanis blanched. “He made you bleed?”

…VSSSSHHH…too…VSSSSHHH…much…

…VSSSSHHH…die…VSSSSHHH…

“Oh, Eru,” Írissë said, appalled.

“Her mother and father spent a fortune looking for her,” Nahtanis lamented. “I guess Mister Bauglir covered his tracks well.”    

“How old was she when she disappeared?” Írissë asked.

“Eighteen,” Nahtanis told her.

“So young,” Tyelkormo said gravely. He opened his mouth to add more—a joke of his to lighten the mood—then bit his tongue when Oromë slashed the flat of his hand across his own throat.

…VSSSSHHH…

“Arien?” Nahtanis said. “Is that you?”

A man’s voice came through—deep, dark, and menacing.

…She...VSSSSHHH…gone…

“Is this Mister Bauglir?” Oromë said. “Do you want to speak with us?” 

…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH……Angry……VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…

…Him…VSSSSHHH…Me…

“Him,” Nahtanis mused. “Me. Did one of the guys make you angry?”

…VSSSSHHH…Yes…VSSSSHHH…

“Who? Oromë?”

…VSSSSHHH…No…VSSSSHHH…

“He means you, Tyelko,” Nahtanis said, wrapping her arms around herself.

The bed creaked as if a great weight bore down on it. Írissë stared at the mattress, searching for any movement, any shifting in the sheets or the pillows. There was nothing for her to see. The bed was undisturbed, and the bedding itself was neatly arranged and tucked squarely into the corners. 

…VSSSSHHH…Him…VSSSSHHH…

…Sorry…VSSSSHHH…say…

“We’re sorry,” Írissë quickly said into the empty air. “We really are sorry.”

…VSSSSHHH…

…Him…VSSSSHHH…Sorry...VSSSSHHH…

A muffled, insistent thump-thump-thump on the floor made the others jump. No other living person was with them, and none of them were making the noise. 

“That was someone dropping an object over and over again,” Oromë said, his eyes darting wildly to the open door and the corridor of paintings. “Or thumping a heavy cane.” Disturbed, he exchanged a look with the other three. “Should we go on?”

Nahtanis whispered something to Írissë. The other woman replied. “We’ll go on,” Nahtanis said.

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Say...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Sorry…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Him…VSSSSHHH…

 “Just say it,” Oromë urged, though not unkindly, “and mean it. It might make him happy.”

The pounding continued, and Tyelkormo gave in. “I’m sorry, Mister Bauglir,” he said with as much sincerity as he could muster, though each word was a blow to his pride. “It was wrong of me to insult you.”

…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…No… VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Good…

Just then, the pounding ceased. Everyone held their breath, waiting.

A long, jagged shriek cut through the static like thin sheets of metal tearing apart, forcing them to cover their ears. The moment it ended, the lights on the camcorders simply died, plunging the room into darkness. Nahtanis was the first to stand.

“What was that?” she cried. “What the fuck just happened?”

“Everyone stay where you are!” Oromë shouted, trying to bring some calm to the chaos. “Are you guys okay?”

“I’m fine!” Tyelkormo said, his heart pounding in his chest. “I’m fine! Íri? Where are you?”

“I’m here!” Írissë said, rigid and rooted to her spot. “I’m okay!”

She turned to look at the full-length mirror as the sky outside cleared and moonlight poured in through gaps between the curtains. The shadow of a tall person flitted across its glimmering surface.

“I’m not okay!” she gasped. “Something moved across the damn mirror!”

The camcorder lights flashed back to life, illuminating the four terrified companions and revealing an empty bedroom. Oromë took stock of the situation. For a ghost-debunking investigation, he and Tyelkormo had gathered more proof of the paranormal than they ever had before. Even if they called an end to the night now, they had enough material for a V-Tube video unlike any other.

And he admitted to himself that last shriek terrified him—a man who took his chances camping and hunting beasts in the wild.

“Do you guys want to go on to the last room?” Oromë asked, seizing onto his courage before it deserted him. “We can call it a night and go back if you want.”  

“Let’s just head down to the basement tonight,” Tyelkormo said. “Then we can wrap this up and poke around the gardens tomorrow morning.”

Írissë agreed after Nahtanis looked at her and nodded. If Nahtanis could do it, then so could she. When Írissë checked the time, it was half an hour to midnight. The witching hour was almost upon them.

“Do you know what time Mister Bauglir performed his rituals?” Nahtanis asked Oromë.

“The old police reports make no mention of that,” Oromë said, “and the servants refused to cooperate when they asked. They seemed more terrified of upsetting what was in this house than they were of going to jail.” 

“Oh no,” Nahtanis said.

“Don’t worry,” Oromë said. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“Do the two of you need a room?” Írissë quipped, looking up from the bag she was shoving equipment into. “There are plenty here. Can’t say I’d praise the overall atmosphere of the place, but still…”

Oromë did a double take. “Really, Íri?” he finally managed. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”  

“It was either that or dwell on the ghost of Mister Bauglir demanding apologies,” Írissë said. “Don’t blame me for taking my chance when I saw it—and helping the two of you out while I’m at it.”

Oromë lowered his gaze to hide the red patches blooming in his cheeks. “Fuck me,” he said. “No, Íri. Tannis and I will not be getting a room. Let’s go.”

He bolted out of the bedroom, his cheeks still aflame, leaving Tyelkormo behind with the young women.

“He was blushing,” Írissë observed, her lips quirking slyly into a smile. “Mister Nothing-Bothers-Me was actually blushing. Ooh”—she poked Nahtanis playfully in the ribs—“he likes you. He likes you a lot.”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Nahtanis mumbled, picking up the bag of gear her friend had just zipped shut. “I’m going with him.”

“Holy fuck,” Írissë said. “You’re blushing too! Tannis, we need to talk about this when we go back to the hotel.”

“You’ll have to feed me something fancy first!” Nahtanis said from the passageway.  

Írissë ran after her. “Deal!”

Tyelkormo lingered in the darkened room, listening to the women’s voices as they faded into the distance. He looked at the mirror and saw nothing but his own reflection scowling back at him.

“Guess she won’t be changing her mind, after all,” he said bitterly.

He turned and walked out the open door, oblivious to the shadows that rippled and brushed at the soles of his shoes like the tips of bony fingers, latching on for a few seconds before pulling away again.

The march from the second floor to the basement door was long, quiet, and fraught with tension. Oromë brought up the rear, his gaze fixed intently on the viewing screen of his camcorder. There was no one else with them—the way ahead was devoid of all other life.

But the hunter in him could not shake the feeling of being watched. The sensation had stuck with him from the moment they left the bedroom and went in search of the stairs, and it made him look back the way they came, over and over again. Yet there was nothing strange to be discovered—nothing that would explain why they were being watched like prey being stalked by predators.

I will not panic, he told himself. I will not fall apart.  

Oromë took a moment to gather himself when they reached the top of the steps leading into the basement. The time had come to get his game face on.

“Guys,” he said, “the basement is supposed to be the most active part of the house. No one does anything crazy from now on, and if you see, hear, or feel anything, please speak up. If you don’t feel good, please don’t keep it to yourself, okay? We’ll get you help if you need it.”

Írissë was the first to voice her assent. She led the way down, her skin crawling when damp and musty air swept up to greet her. A non-believer, she did not expect the night to go the direction it did, and yet here she was, witnessing with her own eyes beings from another realm—entities who might be trapped in a world not their own and possibly angry about it—interact with the living in dark and troubling ways.

She regretted dragging Nahtanis into this investigation. The woman had been her friend from the moment they first moved into the dorms and found out they were roommates; putting her in any form of danger felt wrong. Yet Nahtanis was not complaining or mad at her, which she took as a good sign. She was talking with Oromë instead, letting him draw her out into the open by answering his questions. At least one good thing was taking shape during the course of their shared night under the manor’s roof. As long as Tyelkormo did not give into his jealousy, then what was blooming between her friend and his could go far.

“And here we are, folks,” Írissë announced with a graceful sweep of her arm. “The basement.”

She stood to the side while Nahtanis entered and crossed to an open space not far from the door. Her friend unpacked their tools and arranged them neatly in a circle, then flicked them on, one at a time.

“Shall we get some background into this room?” Nahtanis asked when Oromë and Tyelkormo joined them and each of them sat down on the polished flagstone floor.

Oromë took a moment for dramatic effect. Then, he said, “We’re now in the basement, where Melkor and his followers sacrificed many of the women they captured. That slab over there”—he waved his hand at a raised stone block at the far end—“was supposed to be the altar. Investigators at the time document it being stained with dried, old blood. They even found knives used only for skinning and dressing animals.”

He let out a faint sigh. “Sadly, their investigations did not yield living culprits. Melkor and his followers had killed themselves in this very room in what looked like a mass-suicide pact. The post-mortem revealed a cocktail of sedatives, arsenic, and cyanide in their systems. The abductions and killings came to an end after that.”

“Wait,” Írissë said. “Did the cops link Arien’s disappearance with the others?”

“That’s the problem; they didn’t,” Tyelkormo said. “Arien’s kidnapping was dismissed as a one-off, and the other women were from poor families living in the slums. Then the father of one of the women went to Mister Urwendi. He became suspicious and got his lawyers involved. They pressured the Police Commissioner—had him open old files and bring in a new detective. It worked—even if their efforts were too late for most of the women in the end.”  

“So it took an angry, grieving rich man to get things moving,” Nahtanis said aloud.

“It’s a tale as old as time itself,” Oromë remarked.

Tyelkormo’s watch chimed the hour. “We’re now at midnight,” he said into his mic, “when spirits are the most active. So far, we’ve caught a lot of activity on camera, which we never expected, and we hope to capture more now.” He looked at the others. “I’m taking a turn with the spirit box.”

“Be my guest,” Oromë said.

Tyelkormo stretched out his arms, then breathed deeply. “Spirits of the house,” he said, speaking into the spirit box. “Melkor. Morgoth. We come seeking answers. Will you give them?”

…VSSSSHHH…

“We’re capturing all that you have to say for other people to hear,” he said. “Would you like to add to what we’ve found?”

…VSSSSHHH…

“Nothing,” he said. “Figures.”

He stole a quick look at Nahtanis. She was seated next to Oromë, her knee brushing his, and the sight made him angry. She should be his instead, seated by his side and clinging to every word he said. She still could, if he impressed her. And so, in a final outburst, he spoke to the spirit box yet again, his promise to watch what he said flying straight out the window. 

“Don't be shy!” he yelled. “We can make you famous!”  

…VSSSSHHH…

“Un-fucking-believable,” Tyelkormo said. “Spirits hiding from mortals. Pitiful."

The REM pod rang out, its colours blinking rapidly in a frenzy. 

"We need more," Tyelkormo challenged, emboldened by the response. "Or is this all you could do? Messing with the lights like some creeper hiding in the corner?"

“Tyelko!” Oromë shouted at his friend. “Can you not?”

“What?” Tyelkormo said. “It's working, isn't it?”

…VSSSSHHH…

The spirit box sputtered, and the camcorder lights dimmed, their bright white light reduced to a dull yellow by an invisible cloak thrown over them. The air within thickened, and the being who at last spoke was unlike anything the friends had heard. His voice reverberated across the room like a thousand overlapping echoes, each one of them a whisper, a cry, a shout that rose and fell like churning waves.

…VSSSSHHH…Lyë…VSSSSHHH…

Nahtanis tilted her head and listened intently. “That’s old Quenya. It means you.”

“Me?” Tyelkormo jerked his head up. “Do you mean me?”

…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Ná…VSSSSHHH…

“That means yes,” Nahtanis said.

"Could this be Melkor?" Tyelkormo asked.

Nahtanis shook her head. "Melkor isn't going to speak to us in the Common Tongue and then switch to a dead language. This is something else."

Goosebumps rose all over Oromë’s arms. More than one being speaking directly to Tyelkormo? He did not like it at all.

“Tyelko?” he said. “We need to stop.”

His friend held up his hand. “A few more minutes,” he said recklessly. “So… Morgoth? Is this you?"

"Tyelko," Oromë protested, "I don't think—"

"Give me a few minutes," Tyelkormo cut him off. He turned to speak to the spirit box. "Am I speaking with Morgoth?"

…VSSSSHHH…Ná…VSSSSHHH…

"Yes," Tyelkormo said. He looked at Nahtanis again, pleased to see he had her attention. "Wonderful. What do you fucking want with me?”

…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Lyë…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Olya…VSSSSHHH…

“You,” Nahtanis translated. “Much. That last word meant much.”

…VSSSSHHH…Ninya…VSSSSHHH…Sí…VSSSSHHH…

“My,” Nahtanis said. “Now.” Her breath caught. “You are very much mine now?”

It was all the confirmation Oromë needed to end the investigations completely. “That’s it,” he said, not waiting for Tyelkormo to voice another refusal. “Íri, grab Tannis. We’re leaving.”

A low, animalistic moan ripped through the speaker, carrying from a great distance. The scent of frankincense filled the basement—and the reek of rotted flesh. Then, the moan ebbed away and a feral snarl filled the void it left behind. Tyelkormo ceased his questions, all warmth draining from his face. 

“Out,” Oromë ordered. “Everyone out. Now!” 

His companions frantically grabbed their equipment and scrambled out of the basement.

Their race up the the steps took only minutes, yet it felt like hours at the same time. Voices from the dark called out to them, beckoning them to return, but no one thought to answer. No one even stopped to look back. Every instinct they possessed warned them against it.

When they finally burst into the parlour, Langon stood in the centre of it, tired and with shadows under his eyes. The keeper gave Oromë a knowing look when he stopped to catch his breath, but he did not say, “I told you so.” He just patted Oromë on the shoulder instead, and said, “Deep breaths, it’s over now,” while the younger man struggled to find his words.

“We’re supposed to come back tomorrow,” Oromë breathed, “but I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think we’ll make do with what we have and finish up with you speaking to us—at our hotel.”

“Smart boy,” Langon said. He studied the others. “Get yourselves over to Silver Hall. The priest there is an old friend of mine. He always keeps the temple doors open. Do whatever he says; it should fix you right up.”  

Tyelkormo did not even think to argue. “We’ll do it.”

“All right,” Langon said. “Come on. I’ll show you back to your vehicles.”

They trailed him out into the gardens, quiet and struggling to comprehend what they had endured. Írissë kept close to Nahtanis, and Nahtanis kept close to Oromë, who sought her out in turn.

Tyelkormo kept to himself. He did not speak to the others of what he had heard during their flight up to the parlour: his name whispered in his ear, and promises of rewards he had only seen in his dreams. Yet he silenced it all as best he could and dismissed the words as figments of his fright. By tomorrow morning, it would all be a nightmare he could put behind him, much like the clawing in the back of his mind.

Then again, all nights were cold this close to Araman. Mist lay thick and curling on the ground, and the moon—full, white, and shining—had disappeared behind dark, ragged clouds. To Tyelkormo, it was perfect. To Oromë, it was even more so. Tonight, they were about to head out on a special kind of hunt, but whether that hunt would yield the results they sought, neither of them could say.

Tyelkormo, seated in the front passenger seat of Oromë’s Wrangler, squirmed against the leather upholstery, making it creak in protest. They had been driving for what seemed like hours on end, and the road leading to their destination was empty save for the trees. Pine, fir, and white cedar hemmed them in from both sides, their misshapen roots digging deep into the soil and their branches entwining to form a canopy that swayed and whispered with the wind. It made him extremely uncomfortable. The previous locations they had explored were surrounded by occupied buildings and busy roadways and even people going about their business. This was different. It was as if they were being isolated.

He fished his phone out from his jeans’ pocket and swiped up across the screen. “The girls are almost there,” he said, smiling at the messages that popped up one after another. “They’re both ready for the big night.”

Ghost debunking was fun when it was just Oromë and him, but having company enhanced a video's atmosphere, and viewers enjoyed watching the reactions of guest hunters. It helped drive up engagement and brought in more revenue.

Oromë grinned. It was Írissë’s first time appearing on their channel—her friend’s too. “I can’t wait to get both the girls on video. Everyone is going to just lap it all up!”

“Yeah,” Tyelkormo said, putting his phone away. “Can you believe it, though? One of rich old Mister Ingweron’s own joining us for the night?” He looked at Oromë, his amber eyes glinting as they caught the dim light. “The fans are going to go wild when the teaser goes up.” 

“I know!” Oromë agreed, his voice high with excitement. He turned the jeep down a gravel road to his right. Loose pebbles crunched beneath the wheels. “And the more the merrier, as I always say.”  

“Always, man,” Tyelkormo said. He peered through the windscreen, his eyes widening when a tall, wrought-iron fence surmounted by sharp spikes and glass lanterns glittered black and grey and gold in the oncoming headlights. “Whoa… is this it? Is this Utumno Manor?”

“It looks like it.” Oromë drove on until the gates came into view. His lips curled up at the corners when a sleek white car slowed down to a stop in front of them. “Íri and Nahtanis are here.” He parked the jeep and shut off the engine. “We can get started.”

His voice changed from that of the college student who enjoyed life to the fullest to what Tyelkormo once dubbed “Capital P Professional”. Oromë took V-Tubing and ghost debunking seriously, while Tyelkormo did not. At least, not as seriously as he should have. It often frustrated Oromë to no end. “One day, Tyelko,” Oromë had told him, “you’re going to land yourself in a world of trouble with that mouth of yours, and you’re going to have a hard time digging yourself out of it.”

Tyelkormo had laughed then and brushed off his friend and mentor’s warning.

He shifted, unable to believe what he was seeing, when their guests for the night stepped out and Nahtanis stood straight. “Holy fuck,” he said, watching her tugging at the edges of her violet sweater. “She’s hot.”

Oromë glanced up. Írissë’s friend was short—shorter than all of them, in fact—with the thick blonde hair and alabaster skin many in her family were known for. She was also dressed practically for the night—her blue jeans and heavy brown boots a match for Írissë’s own—and she was giggling at something Írissë said. Oromë got out first and closed the door, his breath hitching when Nahtanis turned to look at him and smiled. Tyelkormo was wrong; Nahtanis was more than just hot—she was stunning.

“Íri!” he cried, pulling Írissë into a tight hug. “It’s so good to see you again. Nahtanis? I’m Oromë Arōmēz.” He let go of his friend and held out a hand.

“Just call me Tannis.” Nahtanis flushed, but shook his hand all the same. “The man and the myth himself. Íri doesn’t stop talking about you.”

“Does she now?” Tyelkormo stuck his head out of the open jeep window. “Íri? I expect to be your bridesman of honour at the wedding.”

“Are you willing to wear a dress?” Írissë tossed back, amused.

“For free food and booze? Fuck yeah, I will!”

“You’re on!” Írissë shouted. But she laughed and turned to face Nahtanis. “It’s never going to happen—me getting involved with Oromë, that is. Now getting my cousin into a dress, on the other hand—that’s very much in the realm of believable possibilities.”

The image of a large and hulking man like Tyelkormo flouncing around in a sparkly dress brought a smile to Nahtanis’s face.

“I’d love to see you pull it off,” she said, flicking her wrist to check her watch. Ten fifteen PM flashed against its black background in bright white numbers. “Shall we get started?”

“Ready to get down to business,” Tyelkormo said. “I like it.” He threw open the passenger door and jumped down with a huff. “You know,” he added, stalking to the back of the vehicle, “I’m looking for a girlfriend, if you’re interested.”

It was worth the attempt, in his opinion. He and Nahtanis would look amazing together, and he hoped—more than hoped—his father would approve despite his dislike for his stepmother Indis, Nahtanis’s aunt. Perhaps his father would. He never stopped Tyelkormo and his brothers from spending time with their half-uncles and cousins—he could be asked to be just as accepting where Nahtanis was concerned.

“Really?” Nahtanis rested her hands on her hips, stunned by Tyelkormo’s boldness. “Are you into tripping over books, being kicked in the middle of the night, and listening to me mumbling some dead lingo in my sleep?” Tyelkormo sucked in a breath. “Ah… no.”

“Then we’re not meant to be,” Nahtanis answered, clapping her hands to her heart. “I’m so sorry, Tyelko.”

Tyelkormo chuckled, a low, flat sound. Yet he did not give up all hope. They were fooling around. Nahtanis could still look his way before the night was over. So he busied himself unloading bags and boxes of equipment from the boot, entertaining the possibilities of his and Nahtanis’s future together, while Oromë took out his phone and keyed in a number. Sharp, high-pitched beeps rang through the air insistently, shattering the silence of the night and Tyelkormo’s daydreaming. On the fourth beep, a gravelly voice drifted through the speaker for all of them to hear.

“Hello?” the man on the other end said. “Is this Mister Arōmēz?”

“Yes,” Oromë said. “We’re all here, Langon. Would you mind coming over to the front and opening the gates for us?”

“Sure,” Langon said. “Give me a few minutes.”

While they waited, Tyelkormo sauntered over, his shoulders weighed down with the gear they would all need. The others rushed forward to help him. They took the bags and boxes he carried into their hands and set them down on the grass. Oromë dropped to his haunches and opened them one by one. He handed out clip-on mics, handheld camcorders, and EMF meters.

“Keep these on at all times,” he said, rising. “Never turn them off, no matter what.” He shouldered the bag containing the REM pod and the spirit box. They would be saved for later.

Nahtanis struggled with her mic. “Could you help me with this, please?”

“Sure.” Oromë took the tiny device into his hand. “You turn it on like so,” he explained, his hand close to the curve of her throat, “and clip it like this.”

Nahtanis trembled and leaned in, her fingers brushing against his thick, calloused ones while she held her collar in place. She could not help but look up at him. His towering frame blocked out the sputtering lantern light, and his shadow swallowed everything in front of him.

So big, she thought, but so gentle.

“Thanks,” she said, her flush spreading when his pale green eyes caught hers for a second before they looked away.

“No problem,” Oromë said hoarsely.

Tyelkormo clenched his hand into a tight fist but quickly schooled his expression to one of calmness. He was not going to give up. The night was still young, and Nahtanis could still change her mind. Once he had mastered himself and each of the others had kitted themselves out, he called them into a circle.

“Gather around, kids,” he said. “Remember the plan. Spend as much time as we can here, document, debunk, and return tomorrow night to pick up where we left off.” He looked up when he heard shoes crunching down on stone behind them. Langon had found them. “Nobody hams it up for the camera; viewers won't like it if they think we’re trying to fool them.”

“If either of you wants to leave at any time,” Oromë said, “tell us. No one is going to be mad if you do.” 

“We’re all in,” Írissë said.

“Brave words,” Langon said. “I wonder if you’d think the same a couple of hours in.”

The keeper unfastened a massive bunch of keys at his belt and took his time unlocking the gates. He was tall and gaunt, with a pinched face and wisps of greying brown hair. A flat, small torch was strapped onto his faded blue cap.

“Is it that bad, Mister Langon?” Nahtanis asked.

“Mister Langon,” the old man said, more to himself than the others. “This one has nice manners.” He threw open the gates, grimacing as he struggled with their weight. “That’s a very good thing. The others don’t like poor manners. Makes them very angry.”

“Them?” Oromë probed. “The ghosts, you mean?”

“The ghosts, and the one who rules them.” Langon stepped to the side, allowing them entry. “Oh, yes. There’s one who rules them. He doesn’t show himself often, but if he does, watch out.”

“Would you be willing to talk about your experiences about it?” Oromë asked.

“I might,” Langon said, “if the trustees agree to it, that is.”

“Do these ghosts leave you alone?” Tyelkormo asked.

“I keep to myself,” Langon said. “And they keep to themselves, for the most part. But with fresh meat walking through the halls at this time of night, riling them all up? They won’t.” He gestured to the women. “Watch over them. Don’t let either of them out of your sight.”

“We won’t,” Oromë swore.

“So you say,” Langon said. He turned around and walked down a wide pebbled drive. “Shall we go inside?”

The group followed him, their camcorders capturing vivid glimpses of the shrubbery they passed. Nahtanis stopped and looked around. The gardens—what was clear to the camcorder light, at least—were quiet, but vast and beautifully kept. Not a twig was out of place, nor a flower bloomed where it should not. Nahtanis scratched her head, unable to believe anyone even came out this far for maintenance. Langon appeared to be the only living soul on the grounds.

“Do the gardeners come in from the city, Mister Langon?” asked Nahtanis.

“They do,” Langon said, “but they don’t stay long. None of them do. They just finish their jobs and leave.”

“That’s not very comforting,” Nahtanis said softly. She resumed walking, unwilling to stay by herself.

“Don’t wander off,” Langon told her, though not ungently. He waited until they all caught up with him before drawing their attention to the shadowy structure rising into the darkness. “Utumno Manor,” he continued. “Your home away from home for the next few hours.”

Utumno Manor stood three storeys high, its pale limestone brick walls and steep, flat-top roofs weathered and pockmarked by time. Glass gleamed in all of its windows, and delicate, lacy curtains were drawn shut from within. Nahtanis traced her fingers down the indents of a stout column, marveling at the scrollwork carved along the edges. Buildings like Utumno Manor were rare now in a world of glass and steel and concrete, and she was grateful to be blessed with the opportunity to learn about its history from within the confines of its rooms.

“Are the curtains always drawn shut?” Írissë asked, shivering.

“That depends,” Langon said, opening the tall oaken doors leading into the receiving hall. “The contractors and the cleaners want them open when they’re inside. The gardeners want them closed while they work outside.” He made a face. “I have to walk with them and stay with them until they finish and leave. It’s a bother, really. But the trustees insist. They don’t want the manor to fall apart.” 

“What do the trustees want to do with this place?” Tyelkormo asked.

“The plan is to turn it into a hotel,” Langon said, ushering them into a large, airy parlour shrouded in shadows and full of furniture covered with crisp, white sheets. “I think it’s foolish.” He gave the group a pointed look. “Very foolish.”

“So you say,” Oromë countered. “But if we succeed—and I know we will—plans for the hotel can still go ahead.”

Langon sighed. “Eru save me from the stupidity of the young. Well, better you do this than me.” He fiddled with an old fob watch clipped to his jacket pocket. “Right. This is where I’ll leave you. I’ll switch off the breakers, just like you want me to. You still want me to do it, yes?” 

Oromë nodded. “We do. Good night, Langon.”

“Good night,” Langon murmured. “And good luck.”

He left them seated in the parlour, but very reluctantly. Contrary to his complaints, leaving anyone from the outside without him nearby, watching over them, never truly sat right with him. Still, it was what he agreed to do after the trustees pressured him. And, Eru save him, the money offered was too much for even him to refuse. So he stepped outside and skirted to the side where the garage was, his skin prickling the entire time.

Only when he walked inside did he feel safe. The garage was untainted, unlike many of the other places on the estate, and its loft apartment was his home. It was also where the circuit breaker was installed. Langon found it, and after taking a moment to pray, he yanked it open and snapped the breakers down, one by one, killing the power to the manor proper. The world outside stilled—eerily, suffocatingly so. Langon trembled. The hammer was about to fall. 

“Good luck,” he repeated, and ascended the steps to his bed. He knew he would get no sleep tonight. 

Sleep did not just evade him; it evaded the others as well. Tyelkormo gave his companions time to fuss with their paraphernalia before he turned his camera to himself, anticipation surging thick through his veins.

“Right!” he said. “Let’s get this show on the road!” After clearing his throat, he beamed and said, “What’s up, guys! This is Tyelko—”

“And this is Oromë!” his friend said when Tyelkormo swung the camera around to him. “And tonight we have a special treat for you all!”

“The place, some say, is one of the most haunted house in Valinor. Utumno Manor itself!” Tyelkormo announced. He pointed his camcorder at the women. “And we have not come by ourselves! Here are our guests! Say hi, ladies!”

“I’m Íri Nolofinwëniel!” Írissë piped in.

“And I’m Tannis Ingweron!” Nahtanis added.

“Tannis is the brains,” Írissë supplied. “While I’m the sass.” She clutched at her friend and pulled her close, resting her chin against her hair. “I’d be lost without you.”

“Aww,” Nahtanis said, smiling. 

“Get a room,” Tyelkormo said, sinking deeper into his chair.

“We will,” Írissë said. “Yours.”

“And this is why”—Oromë held his camera to himself—“I always have to be the dad of the bunch. Behave. All of you.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Tyelkormo replied. “I kid! I kid!” he sputtered when Oromë tsked. “I’ll behave.”

“Thank you.” Oromë picked up where Tyelkormo left off. “Shall we now give our viewers a run-down of this place?”

“We should,” Tyelkormo said. He turned to face his camcorder again. “Utumno Manor was built in the late nineteen-twenties by Melkor Bauglir, son of a wealthy mine baron.” 

“Melkor wanted it all,” Oromë chimed in. “So he left his home in Almaren for even richer pastures.”

“What we know is what the police discovered at the time,” Tyelkormo explained. “Melkor gathered like-minded people around him, and the crimes they committed shocked the nation—abductions of young women, murders, and far, far worse.”

“Oromë?” Nahtanis interjected, holding up her EMF meter. “What colour is this supposed to be if something is here?”

Oromë studied it with a critical eye. The meter flashed a pale blue. “It should be orange or red—maybe yellow. That colour is normal. Just ignore it.” 

On his instructions, Írissë took out the REM pod and set it down on the coffee table between them. It beeped shrilly when she turned it on, its little lights flickering a bright red and then green, blue and then yellow, before it finally sparked a deep purple and dimmed when it slipped into standby mode. Oromë stretched out his long legs, mumbling an apology when he accidentally kicked Nahtanis on the foot. Nahtanis waved the apology away, but did not shift out of the way, much to Tyelkormo’s annoyance. Oromë stooped to retrieve the spirit box. It crackled with static when he switched it on.

“I think we should move on to a spirit box session,” he began. “We’re here to speak with the spirits who call this manor their home,” he called. “If you want to talk to us or pass on a message, please speak through this black box. Or you can go up to the REM pod. That’s the red circular box on the table. It’ll flicker in different colours if you come near it or touch it.”

The spirit box crackled and popped, but no voice came through.

“We come in peace,” Oromë said. “We only want to hear what you have to say and reveal it to the world. Would you like that?”

No voice addressed them from the ether, and the REM pod remained silent and dark. Oromë was satisfied. This was exactly what he and Tyelkormo were looking for.

Suddenly, the sound of wood groaning and squeaking startled them. Oromë scanned his surroundings, the sceptic in him seeking an answer rooted in reality. The floors throughout the building, he recalled, were polished marble, buried beneath heavy carpets stretched across most of them from wall to wall. Then there were the doors. They were thick and made of rare, expensive wood—and pivoted on hinges that looked well-oiled. But the manor itself was still old—four years short of a century since its completion, in fact. It was only natural for it to make such sounds when settling down for the night. Oromë dropped his shoulders, his mind filling with ease. He had found his explanation.

Tyelkormo thought otherwise.

“Looks like someone is making use of the beds upstairs,” he said without thinking. “Maybe Melkor brought a lady over for some good times. He liked them barely legal—and unwilling.” He snorted. “Maybe that was the only way he was able to feel like a big man.”

Tyelkormo smirked, expecting grins and laughter from the others. Instead, the only response he received was the sheet Írissë grabbed off a nearby occasional table and flung in a bundle at his head with all her might.

“That was not funny, Tyelko,” she said.

Tyelkormo cackled and plucked the rumpled square white cloth off his ruffled hair.

“He meant no disrespect,” Nahtanis said, looking around her. “We apologise on his behalf.”

“Who are you apologising to?” Tyelkormo demanded. “There’s no one besides us here.”

“What if there’s someone else?” Nahtanis suggested, glaring hard at him. “Someone we can’t see? And remember what Mister Langon said? The ghosts don’t like poor manners. Your jokes might make them angry.”

“She’s right,” Írissë said. “Dial it down, Tyelko. Please.”  

Tyelkormo looked at Oromë, hoping his friend would defend him.

“Knock it off, man,” Oromë said. “This is neither the time nor place for it.” Tyelkormo had always been crass with his jokes, but this was going too far.

“Don’t tell me you believe there’s something here,” Tyelkormo scoffed.

“I don’t,” Oromë said. “But just keep your jokes to yourself until we leave.”

“Fine!” Tyelkormo exclaimed, looking up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry. There. Can we carry on now?”

Oromë narrowed his eyes at his friend for an instant, then looked away. “This room is a bust. Let’s move on to the attic.”

They packed up and trudged two by two out of the parlour and back into the receiving hall, seeking the corner stairs to the upper floors. Nahtanis kept close to Oromë while Írissë and Tyelkormo walked behind them and kept up a lively chatter. Her experience had unnerved her, but she was still determined to persevere.

When Írissë first brought up the topic of visiting Utumno Manor for a weekend of ghost hunting and debunking, Nahtanis had not hesitated to say yes. A lover of history, she had left the comforts of her family’s home in Endorë just so that she could learn more. Valinor had always been the old country, a land of old myths and fables, and she yearned to see as much of it with her own eyes. Now she was here, in Utumno Manor, no less, learning a forgotten part of the country’s past, with her best friend by her side. She was sure to have enough memories to last a lifetime.

Oromë leaned over. “So you study dead languages. How do you manage that?”  

“Sleepless nights fuelled by lots of coffee,” Nahtanis said, “and a professor who’s as crazy about dead languages as I am.”

“Teacher’s pet?” he teased.

“After a fashion,” Nahtanis said. Her spine prickled when he dusted a fleck of debris off her hair. “I hear ghost debunking is not your only interest.” She gulped and climbed up the steps, her every sense coming alive to the shadows fleeing the light. “Hunting and bushcraft on top of everything else? Where do you find the time?”    

“I carve out the time. It’s how I wind down.”

“I always wanted to learn how to hunt, but it keeps slipping my mind. My dad said he’d gladly pay for shooting lessons. He and mom love to hunt. They keep asking me to join them.”

“Your dad doesn’t need to pay for lessons.” Oromë gave her a sidelong glance. A flash of heat crept up his neck when her eyes lit up. “Maybe I could teach you the next time we’re both free.”

“I’d like that very much.”

Tyelkormo watched them, his jaw clenching at how easily Oromë drew Nahtanis into his world and kept her there. His friend was always like this, drawing the attention of everyone who saw him like moths to the light. Oh, Tyelkormo managed well enough when it came to friends and partners, but Oromë occupied another level entirely. It never bothered him—until tonight.

“Are you okay?” Írissë whispered to him.

“I’m fine,” Tyelkormo said.

“You’re not,” Írissë said, inching closer. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Tyelkormo said. “But I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“If you say so,” Írissë said quietly. “Well, I’m always ready to listen if you want someone to vent to.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Írissë took his hand into hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. She let out a sigh of relief when it was reciprocated.

By the time they reached the attic, it was a quarter to eleven, and all that could be heard was the rustle of clothes and the low thump of boots. Írissë peeked over the railing as they reached the top. She jumped back with a start when wood began creaking again.

“How are we hearing that noise?” she hissed to the others. “Everything in this fucking house is stone and marble!”

Oromë crossed to her side and listened. The sound abruptly stopped.

“It’s probably just the doors,” he said. “This house is old.” He shuddered. “Or someone is messing with us. No one goes off on their own. There could be another person in the house with us—someone Langon doesn't even know about.”

He turned around to the open attic door, pausing for a moment before going in. When he stepped over the lip of the entryway into the vast room beyond, he found it uncommonly dark, and colder than the rest of the house. Nevertheless, the professional in him refused to be cowed. He sat down with the others and set out their tools before he brought up the story of the room they were in.

“We’re now in the attic, where Melkor’s followers kept their captives.” He panned the camcorder around, and the others waved at him. They were seated between rusted bedframes, old boxes, and ornaments covered in a thick layer of dust. “Many of them tried to make life here bearable; records from the investigations speak of paper flowers and ash drawings on the walls, and the women who lived long enough to be saved—”

“—told the police Melkor said they were to be offerings,” Tyelkormo chipped in. “But not all of the women were dragged to the altar. A few of them met a different but equally tragic fate. For now, let’s see what we can dig up here.”

He braced himself when Írissë shuffled closer to the spirit box.  

“We come here with respect,” she said. “We wish to learn your stories. Are you here with us? If you are, would you tell us what happened to you?”

The REM pod neither flickered nor beeped. The meters blinked a comforting blue. Still, disembodied voices from a multitude of frequencies carried through the spirit box’s speaker amidst the static, making everyone’s hair stand up. Írissë took it as a sign for them to continue with their questioning.

“Is there anyone here?” she asked. “Would you like to speak to us?”

...VSSSSHHH…

A woman’s slightly breathy voice filled the space around them.

…Yes...VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Scared…

“Scared?” Írissë pressed on. “Scared of what?”

...VSSSSHHH…

…Him...VSSSSHHH…He...VSSSSHHH…Angry…

“Him?” Tyelkormo asked. “Melkor?”

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Yes...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…and...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…other...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…

“Other?” Írissë asked again. “Do you mean there was someone beside Mister Bauglir?”

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Mor...VSSSSHHH… Goth…

“Was he one of Mister Bauglir’s followers?” Írissë asked.

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…No...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Dif...VSSSSHHH…Ferent…

“By the One…” Nahtanis could not keep what she knew to herself. “Morgoth was believed to have been a god,” she revealed, shaken. “He was worshipped by these people living near the Ered Engrin. Their existence is supposed to be pure myth—no evidence of them or Morgoth was ever found.”

“So Melkor may have been trying to summon Morgoth,” Tyelkormo said. He addressed the spirit box. “Was he successful?”

...VSSSSHHH…Yes…

“Did that make him happy?”

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…No...VSSSSHHH…

Oromë tried to swallow in a throat that had gone dry. “Fuck.” He straightened himself, and said, “Is Morgoth still here?”

The spirit box spat out pure static before a different young woman’s voice said, …Here...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Every...VSSSSHHH…Where…

...VSSSSHHH…

…Out...VSSSSHHH…

“What?”

...VSSSSHHH……Out...VSSSSHHH…

A boom carried up to the attic, rattling the glass in the dormer windows. Everyone shot up, their blood chilling to the quick.

“Stay here,” Oromë ordered.

He went out the door to examine the landing. Nothing was toppled over. The table in the corner was unmoved, and the vase on top of it stood beneath a covering, untouched by any hand. When he looked over the railing, he saw nothing. Nothing at all.  

Three faces looked back at him fearfully when he returned. “There’s no one,” he said, his smile overbright. “Let’s clean up here and move on to the next room.”

The other three did not have to be told twice. They gathered up their things and filed out into the corridor, searching for the source of the noise. They could not find it. All the other doors they tried were locked. Not a single object was thrown onto the floor or torn off the walls. Oromë shot a look at Tyelkormo. The attic was not what they expected. They went into it thinking they would hear only static, or little animals scurrying across the roof’s tiles. What they heard was completely different to what they hoped to find. It set each of them on edge.

“We go on, right?” Tyelkormo asked, frightened and eager at the same time. “Even if they want to go back, you and I are still going to continue?”

Oromë considered it. Common sense told him to leave; they could always complete their investigation the next night, or they could come back another weekend and look around during the bright light of day. The investigator in him, however, wanted to carry on. The trustees might not allow any of them into the manor after the agreed-upon two nights ended.

“We are,” he decided, looking back at the women. “We should still ask if they want to stick with us till we finish.” 

“If you guys are up for it,” Tyelkormo said, “we can move on to Melkor’s bedr—”                                                              

Nahtanis let out a scream and batted desperately at her hair. She would have rushed blindly down the stairs had Oromë not grabbed onto her arm.

“What is it?” He looked over her head into the shadows. There was nothing there. “Tannis, what happened?”

“Someone tugged my hair,” Nahtanis panted. She took deep, steadying breaths to try and calm herself. “I’m fine. Really. We can go on.”

“Are you sure?” Oromë asked. “We can leave if you want.”

“I’m positive,” Nahtanis said. She managed a smile. “I want to see this through.”

Oromë loosened his hold, but he did not let go of her completely. “All right,” he said, slipping her arm around his own. “Let’s go on to the master bedroom.”

Tyelkormo pursed his lips into a thin line but led the descent to the second floor without a loud fuss. “Guess dear old Dad has no problem tripping over books and being kicked in the night,” he muttered. “Fuck my life.”

Írissë heard. “So this is why you’re upset,” she said. “Are you jealous? Do you like Tannis?”

“No—” Tyelkormo groused, “—yes.” He turned a deaf ear to his friend and his new acquaintance murmuring to each other. “I fucking hate it.”  

“It isn’t her fault,” Írissë said, glancing back over her shoulder and smiling at the sight of Nahtanis so close to Oromë. “It’s not his fault either.”

“Maybe,” he allowed. “Was she lying about what happened back there?”

“Tannis is a lot of things,” Írissë said. “But she’s not a liar. If she said someone messed with her hair, she meant it.”

“Great,” Tyelkormo said to himself. “Just fucking great.”

Írissë clapped him hard on the back, but kept her opinions where her friend was concerned to herself. Nahtanis would never consider Tyelkormo after his little display in the parlour, but Írissë was not going to point that out. She was all too familiar with her cousin’s moods. Tyelkormo was an utter grouch and unbearable to be around when jealous, and trying to advise him in any way only worsened things. Letting him stew in his feelings for a while until he calmed down and let go was for the best—he was sure to do it once he had a night to sleep it all off. Then she could talk about it the next time she was alone with him.  

She followed him down a long passage lined with paintings. They were portraits of figures who had once commanded both wealth and high society standing, and of scenes of luxury and abundance. One painting in particular caught her attention. It was of a man who stood tall and fierce against a field of black. He had dark hair and dark eyes—and gold rings that shone around each of his tapered fingers. A walking cane carved out of some expensive wood and inlaid with gold was gripped tightly in his right hand. 

Oromë hunched to read the thick yellow card at the base of the frame. “Melkor Bauglir, Unknown Artist, 1933,” he said. “Quite the specimen, wasn’t he?”

“That he was,” Írissë said. “How old was he when he came here?”

“Twenty-four,” Oromë said. “And he died nine years later—only six years after this manor was completed.”

Írissë whistled. “That’s his bedroom over there?” She pointed to the door at the far end.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go in.”

Like the attic, the door to Melkor’s bedroom—the largest in the house—was left open for them. Langon had gone around with his keys before they had arrived, throwing open doors to the rooms the team intended to see. Now the bedroom of one of the richest—and most dangerous—men of his time was exposed for others to see.

Tyelkormo entered the bedroom first and was stunned by how opulent it looked. The drapes were a heavy, creamy velvet—a colour he did not think to associate with such a man—and the fireplace was adorned with mythical beasts and fantastical scenes etched into the stone. Chests of drawers lined one wall, their surfaces polished to a high sheen, and the bed itself was large and inviting. He pondered the horrors that had taken place upon the bed, then pushed them quickly out of his thoughts. Some things, in his opinion, should never be dwelt on.

He waited until the others joined him and sat cross-legged on the floor beside the hearth, their equipment spread out around them.

“In the attic,” he said to his camcorder, “we said some of the women met a different but equally tragic fate. Those whom Melkor liked the most he assaulted on that bed. Not one of them survived her ordeal.” He stopped speaking for a second, and then added, “All of the bodies were buried in the back gardens and the woods. Police dug up two dozen corpses—but there’s supposed to be more out there. Reports say the police could not bring themselves to go on—the victims were treated that brutally before they were disposed of.”

“We need to investigate the back gardens tomorrow night,” Oromë suggested. “I mean, if what we found so far is real, then the gardens are going to be a goldmine.”

“And I want to take a closer look at the etchings around the fireplace,” Nahtanis spoke up. “I haven’t come across anything like them in all of my research.”

In spite of what had already happened, Tyelkormo could not help but see the appeal. Already they had unearthed a trove of potential paranormal activity through the attic spirit box session. Their fans would devour those findings alone. And if they caught even more activity on record? That could lead to bigger and better things for Oromë and him both.

“I’m in!” he said. “Let’s make a plan for tomorrow night after we go back to the hotel."

Írissë, who had been keeping an eye on their devices, pointed toward the EMF meters. “They’re all flashing yellow,” she said. “Is that good?”

“Given what happened in the attic, it could be,” Oromë said, more alert than ever. “Melkor?” he spoke into the spirit box. “Mister Bauglir? Are you here with us?”

Crackles and pops erupted through the speaker, but nothing spoke from the other side. Even the lights on the meters pulsed a ceaseless yellow, then blue and green, then yellow again.

“Is there anyone here?” Oromë questioned. “We would like to speak with you, if you’ll let us.”

...VSSSSHHH…

…Trapped…

It was another woman’s voice—soft and musical. It piqued Nahtanis’s interest.

“You can’t move on?” she asked gently. “Why?”

...Can...VSSSSHHH…not…

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Will...VSSSSHHH…Not ...

… VSSSSHHH…

...Let...VSSSSHHH…Me…

Oromë held up his hand, signalling the other two to keep quiet. He wanted Nahtanis to take the lead during the session. He wanted to see what she would glean for them—and how much she could handle. Her unwillingness to run off after something played with her hair told him that she could—and, truth be told, it made him like her even more.   

“He won’t let you leave?” Nahtanis pressed on. “Why?”

…He…

...VSSSSHHH…

…I...VSSSSHHH…His…

“Who is this his? What’s your name?”

...VSSSSHHH…

…Ari...VSSSSHHH…en

“Arien?” Nahtanis blurted. “As in, Arien Urwendi?”

...VSSSSHHH…Yes…

Tyelkormo sat up straight. “Wasn’t that the heiress who went missing in—”

“—nineteen thirty-one,” Oromë finished for his friend. He spoke clearly into his mic. “For those of you who don’t know, Arien Urwendi was the only child of Mister Súlimo Urwendi, a tycoon with fingers in every conceivable pie,” he explained. “This family was crazy rich; think the one-percent-of-the-one-percent type of rich. Arien was going to inherit everything and men were throwing themselves at her feet, practically begging her to marry one of them. One day, she received a written offer for her hand in marriage from an unknown suitor. She refused. Three weeks after a big party, she disappeared. No one knew what became of her after that.”

“Nineteen thirty-one,” Írissë said, closing her eyes with her hands. “After Mister Bauglir came to Valinor looking for more money.”

“Arien?” Nahtanis asked. “Did Mister Bauglir take you?”

…VSSSSHHH…Yes…

“Did he hurt you?”

…VSSSSHHH…Yes…

…VSSSSHHH…bleed…

Nahtanis blanched. “He made you bleed?”

…VSSSSHHH…too…VSSSSHHH…much…

…VSSSSHHH…die…VSSSSHHH…

“Oh, Eru,” Írissë said, appalled.

“Her mother and father spent a fortune looking for her,” Nahtanis lamented. “I guess Mister Bauglir covered his tracks well.”    

“How old was she when she disappeared?” Írissë asked.

“Eighteen,” Nahtanis told her.

“So young,” Tyelkormo said gravely. He opened his mouth to add more—a joke of his to lighten the mood—then bit his tongue when Oromë slashed the flat of his hand across his own throat.

…VSSSSHHH…

“Arien?” Nahtanis said. “Is that you?”

A man’s voice came through—deep, dark, and menacing.

…She...VSSSSHHH…gone…

“Is this Mister Bauglir?” Oromë said. “Do you want to speak with us?” 

…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH……Angry……VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…

…Him…VSSSSHHH…Me…

“Him,” Nahtanis mused. “Me. Did one of the guys make you angry?”

…VSSSSHHH…Yes…VSSSSHHH…

“Who? Oromë?”

…VSSSSHHH…No…VSSSSHHH…

“He means you, Tyelko,” Nahtanis said, wrapping her arms around herself.

The bed creaked as if a great weight bore down on it. Írissë stared at the mattress, searching for any movement, any shifting in the sheets or the pillows. There was nothing for her to see. The bed was undisturbed, and the bedding itself was neatly arranged and tucked squarely into the corners. 

…VSSSSHHH…Him…VSSSSHHH…

…Sorry…VSSSSHHH…say…

“We’re sorry,” Írissë quickly said into the empty air. “We really are sorry.”

…VSSSSHHH…

…Him…VSSSSHHH…Sorry...VSSSSHHH…

A muffled, insistent thump-thump-thump on the floor made the others jump. No other living person was with them, and none of them were making the noise. 

“That was someone dropping an object over and over again,” Oromë said, his eyes darting wildly to the open door and the corridor of paintings. “Or thumping a heavy cane.” Disturbed, he exchanged a look with the other three. “Should we go on?”

Nahtanis whispered something to Írissë. The other woman replied. “We’ll go on,” Nahtanis said.

...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Say...VSSSSHHH…

...VSSSSHHH…Sorry…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Him…VSSSSHHH…

 “Just say it,” Oromë urged, though not unkindly, “and mean it. It might make him happy.”

The pounding continued, and Tyelkormo gave in. “I’m sorry, Mister Bauglir,” he said with as much sincerity as he could muster, though each word was a blow to his pride. “It was wrong of me to insult you.”

…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…No… VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Good…

Just then, the pounding ceased. Everyone held their breath, waiting.

A long, jagged shriek cut through the static like thin sheets of metal tearing apart, forcing them to cover their ears. The moment it ended, the lights on the camcorders simply died, plunging the room into darkness. Nahtanis was the first to stand.

“What was that?” she cried. “What the fuck just happened?”

“Everyone stay where you are!” Oromë shouted, trying to bring some calm to the chaos. “Are you guys okay?”

“I’m fine!” Tyelkormo said, his heart pounding in his chest. “I’m fine! Íri? Where are you?”

“I’m here!” Írissë said, rigid and rooted to her spot. “I’m okay!”

She turned to look at the full-length mirror as the sky outside cleared and moonlight poured in through gaps between the curtains. The shadow of a tall person flitted across its glimmering surface.

“I’m not okay!” she gasped. “Something moved across the damn mirror!”

The camcorder lights flashed back to life, illuminating the four terrified companions and revealing an empty bedroom. Oromë took stock of the situation. For a ghost-debunking investigation, he and Tyelkormo had gathered more proof of the paranormal than they ever had before. Even if they called an end to the night now, they had enough material for a V-Tube video unlike any other.

And he admitted to himself that last shriek terrified him—a man who took his chances camping and hunting beasts in the wild.

“Do you guys want to go on to the last room?” Oromë asked, seizing onto his courage before it deserted him. “We can call it a night and go back if you want.”  

“Let’s just head down to the basement tonight,” Tyelkormo said. “Then we can wrap this up and poke around the gardens tomorrow morning.”

Írissë agreed after Nahtanis looked at her and nodded. If Nahtanis could do it, then so could she. When Írissë checked the time, it was half an hour to midnight. The witching hour was almost upon them.

“Do you know what time Mister Bauglir performed his rituals?” Nahtanis asked Oromë.

“The old police reports make no mention of that,” Oromë said, “and the servants refused to cooperate when they asked. They seemed more terrified of upsetting what was in this house than they were of going to jail.” 

“Oh no,” Nahtanis said.

“Don’t worry,” Oromë said. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“Do the two of you need a room?” Írissë quipped, looking up from the bag she was shoving equipment into. “There are plenty here. Can’t say I’d praise the overall atmosphere of the place, but still…”

Oromë did a double take. “Really, Íri?” he finally managed. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”  

“It was either that or dwell on the ghost of Mister Bauglir demanding apologies,” Írissë said. “Don’t blame me for taking my chance when I saw it—and helping the two of you out while I’m at it.”

Oromë lowered his gaze to hide the red patches blooming in his cheeks. “Fuck me,” he said. “No, Íri. Tannis and I will not be getting a room. Let’s go.”

He bolted out of the bedroom, his cheeks still aflame, leaving Tyelkormo behind with the young women.

“He was blushing,” Írissë observed, her lips quirking slyly into a smile. “Mister Nothing-Bothers-Me was actually blushing. Ooh”—she poked Nahtanis playfully in the ribs—“he likes you. He likes you a lot.”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Nahtanis mumbled, picking up the bag of gear her friend had just zipped shut. “I’m going with him.”

“Holy fuck,” Írissë said. “You’re blushing too! Tannis, we need to talk about this when we go back to the hotel.”

“You’ll have to feed me something fancy first!” Nahtanis said from the passageway.  

Írissë ran after her. “Deal!”

Tyelkormo lingered in the darkened room, listening to the women’s voices as they faded into the distance. He looked at the mirror and saw nothing but his own reflection scowling back at him.

“Guess she won’t be changing her mind, after all,” he said bitterly.

He turned and walked out the open door, oblivious to the shadows that rippled and brushed at the soles of his shoes like the tips of bony fingers, latching on for a few seconds before pulling away again.

The march from the second floor to the basement door was long, quiet, and fraught with tension. Oromë brought up the rear, his gaze fixed intently on the viewing screen of his camcorder. There was no one else with them—the way ahead was devoid of all other life.

But the hunter in him could not shake the feeling of being watched. The sensation had stuck with him from the moment they left the bedroom and went in search of the stairs, and it made him look back the way they came, over and over again. Yet there was nothing strange to be discovered—nothing that would explain why they were being watched like prey being stalked by predators.

I will not panic, he told himself. I will not fall apart.  

Oromë took a moment to gather himself when they reached the top of the steps leading into the basement. The time had come to get his game face on.

“Guys,” he said, “the basement is supposed to be the most active part of the house. No one does anything crazy from now on, and if you see, hear, or feel anything, please speak up. If you don’t feel good, please don’t keep it to yourself, okay? We’ll get you help if you need it.”

Írissë was the first to voice her assent. She led the way down, her skin crawling when damp and musty air swept up to greet her. A non-believer, she did not expect the night to go the direction it did, and yet here she was, witnessing with her own eyes beings from another realm—entities who might be trapped in a world not their own and possibly angry about it—interact with the living in dark and troubling ways.

She regretted dragging Nahtanis into this investigation. The woman had been her friend from the moment they first moved into the dorms and found out they were roommates; putting her in any form of danger felt wrong. Yet Nahtanis was not complaining or mad at her, which she took as a good sign. She was talking with Oromë instead, letting him draw her out into the open by answering his questions. At least one good thing was taking shape during the course of their shared night under the manor’s roof. As long as Tyelkormo did not give into his jealousy, then what was blooming between her friend and his could go far.

“And here we are, folks,” Írissë announced with a graceful sweep of her arm. “The basement.”

She stood to the side while Nahtanis entered and crossed to an open space not far from the door. Her friend unpacked their tools and arranged them neatly in a circle, then flicked them on, one at a time.

“Shall we get some background into this room?” Nahtanis asked when Oromë and Tyelkormo joined them and each of them sat down on the polished flagstone floor.

Oromë took a moment for dramatic effect. Then, he said, “We’re now in the basement, where Melkor and his followers sacrificed many of the women they captured. That slab over there”—he waved his hand at a raised stone block at the far end—“was supposed to be the altar. Investigators at the time document it being stained with dried, old blood. They even found knives used only for skinning and dressing animals.”

He let out a faint sigh. “Sadly, their investigations did not yield living culprits. Melkor and his followers had killed themselves in this very room in what looked like a mass-suicide pact. The post-mortem revealed a cocktail of sedatives, arsenic, and cyanide in their systems. The abductions and killings came to an end after that.”

“Wait,” Írissë said. “Did the cops link Arien’s disappearance with the others?”

“That’s the problem; they didn’t,” Tyelkormo said. “Arien’s kidnapping was dismissed as a one-off, and the other women were from poor families living in the slums. Then the father of one of the women went to Mister Urwendi. He became suspicious and got his lawyers involved. They pressured the Police Commissioner—had him open old files and bring in a new detective. It worked—even if their efforts were too late for most of the women in the end.”  

“So it took an angry, grieving rich man to get things moving,” Nahtanis said aloud.

“It’s a tale as old as time itself,” Oromë remarked.

Tyelkormo’s watch chimed the hour. “We’re now at midnight,” he said into his mic, “when spirits are the most active. So far, we’ve caught a lot of activity on camera, which we never expected, and we hope to capture more now.” He looked at the others. “I’m taking a turn with the spirit box.”

“Be my guest,” Oromë said.

Tyelkormo stretched out his arms, then breathed deeply. “Spirits of the house,” he said, speaking into the spirit box. “Melkor. Morgoth. We come seeking answers. Will you give them?”

…VSSSSHHH…

“We’re capturing all that you have to say for other people to hear,” he said. “Would you like to add to what we’ve found?”

…VSSSSHHH…

“Nothing,” he said. “Figures.”

He stole a quick look at Nahtanis. She was seated next to Oromë, her knee brushing his, and the sight made him angry. She should be his instead, seated by his side and clinging to every word he said. She still could, if he impressed her. And so, in a final outburst, he spoke to the spirit box yet again, his promise to watch what he said flying straight out the window. 

“Don't be shy!” he yelled. “We can make you famous!”  

…VSSSSHHH…

“Un-fucking-believable,” Tyelkormo said. “Spirits hiding from mortals. Pitiful."

The REM pod rang out, its colours blinking rapidly in a frenzy. 

"We need more," Tyelkormo challenged, emboldened by the response. "Or is this all you could do? Messing with the lights like some creeper hiding in the corner?"

“Tyelko!” Oromë shouted at his friend. “Can you not?”

“What?” Tyelkormo said. “It's working, isn't it?”

…VSSSSHHH…

The spirit box sputtered, and the camcorder lights dimmed, their bright white light reduced to a dull yellow by an invisible cloak thrown over them. The air within thickened, and the being who at last spoke was unlike anything the friends had heard. His voice reverberated across the room like a thousand overlapping echoes, each one of them a whisper, a cry, a shout that rose and fell like churning waves.

…VSSSSHHH…Lyë…VSSSSHHH…

Nahtanis tilted her head and listened intently. “That’s old Quenya. It means you.”

“Me?” Tyelkormo jerked his head up. “Do you mean me?”

…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Ná…VSSSSHHH…

“That means yes,” Nahtanis said.

"Could this be Melkor?" Tyelkormo asked.

Nahtanis shook her head. "Melkor isn't going to speak to us in the Common Tongue and then switch to a dead language. This is something else."

Goosebumps rose all over Oromë’s arms. More than one being speaking directly to Tyelkormo? He did not like it at all.

“Tyelko?” he said. “We need to stop.”

His friend held up his hand. “A few more minutes,” he said recklessly. “So… Morgoth? Is this you?"

"Tyelko," Oromë protested, "I don't think—"

"Give me a few minutes," Tyelkormo cut him off. He turned to speak to the spirit box. "Am I speaking with Morgoth?"

…VSSSSHHH…Ná…VSSSSHHH…

"Yes," Tyelkormo said. He looked at Nahtanis again, pleased to see he had her attention. "Wonderful. What do you fucking want with me?”

…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Lyë…VSSSSHHH…

…VSSSSHHH…Olya…VSSSSHHH…

“You,” Nahtanis translated. “Much. That last word meant much.”

…VSSSSHHH…Ninya…VSSSSHHH…Sí…VSSSSHHH…

“My,” Nahtanis said. “Now.” Her breath caught. “You are very much mine now?”

It was all the confirmation Oromë needed to end the investigations completely. “That’s it,” he said, not waiting for Tyelkormo to voice another refusal. “Íri, grab Tannis. We’re leaving.”

A low, animalistic moan ripped through the speaker, carrying from a great distance. The scent of frankincense filled the basement—and the reek of rotted flesh. Then, the moan ebbed away and a feral snarl filled the void it left behind. Tyelkormo ceased his questions, all warmth draining from his face. 

“Out,” Oromë ordered. “Everyone out. Now!” 

His companions frantically grabbed their equipment and scrambled out of the basement.

Their race up the the steps took only minutes, yet it felt like hours at the same time. Voices from the dark called out to them, beckoning them to return, but no one thought to answer. No one even stopped to look back. Every instinct they possessed warned them against it.

When they finally burst into the parlour, Langon stood in the centre of it, tired and with shadows under his eyes. The keeper gave Oromë a knowing look when he stopped to catch his breath, but he did not say, “I told you so.” He just patted Oromë on the shoulder instead, and said, “Deep breaths, it’s over now,” while the younger man struggled to find his words.

“We’re supposed to come back tomorrow,” Oromë breathed, “but I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think we’ll make do with what we have and finish up with you speaking to us—at our hotel.”

“Smart boy,” Langon said. He studied the others. “Get yourselves over to Silver Hall. The priest there is an old friend of mine. He always keeps the temple doors open. Do whatever he says; it should fix you right up.”  

Tyelkormo did not even think to argue. “We’ll do it.”

“All right,” Langon said. “Come on. I’ll show you back to your vehicles.”

They trailed him out into the gardens, quiet and struggling to comprehend what they had endured. Írissë kept close to Nahtanis, and Nahtanis kept close to Oromë, who sought her out in turn.

Tyelkormo kept to himself. He did not speak to the others of what he had heard during their flight up to the parlour: his name whispered in his ear, and promises of rewards he had only seen in his dreams. Yet he silenced it all as best he could and dismissed the words as figments of his fright. By tomorrow morning, it would all be a nightmare he could put behind him, much like the clawing in the back of his mind.