Day 432

It was once the home of royalty and homed a hundred staff.
Now, some two hundred eighty years later, it is home to one human.
The last descendant of the Baron to whom the building originally belonged to.
This last descendant, this frail shell of a person roamed the mansion rooms in solitude.

It wasn't that they were fond of the loneliness, far from it even, but the house kept itself alone.
By proxy its' inhabitants were forced away from society and into the maze-like halls.
Records of this phenomenon date back to the first occupant - Baron McKriese.
His journal had been passed down alongside his title as both warning and instruction.

Since his departure the mansion had gradually fallen into ruin and standing through four fires.
It seemed determined to stay and to be, despite its' occupants wishes.
The very air inside was brimming with their frustration, despair and hatred.
It never let anyone leave, not even death could save them.

The present descendant refused to talk to them, to the past ones no matter their crying.
He couldn't help them, he couldn't help himself, he was just as doomed as they were.
The house had claimed him before he was even born and it would cling to him selfishly forever.
Now he spent his days crawling through rooms piled high with an assortment of decay.

It had collected over the years, the Barons became unwilling to subject anyone else to the house.
Well most had, a select few derived glee from the isolation and the victims it brought.
Their bones lay all in one room which the descendant visited weekly to appease their souls.
He'd hunted their bodies down from wherever they'd been stashed, they demanded he did.

They demanded so much from him, they demanded the impossible and refused to hear him speak.
As soon as he opened his mouth they flew away, afraid to hear him utter those words.
I CANNOT HELP YOU, I CANNOT STOP THIS.
The phrase he repeated so often he forgot how to say anything else.