The Uninvited Guest Of The Haunted Mansion (31)

“…What brings you here this far?“

“You’ve been wearing a grave face all morning. I wondered if you returned safely.”

“As you can see. But why didn’t you come up?”

“It feels a bit like a secret tryst, it’s rather pleasant.”

What a remark.

Unlike Serenity’s stunned reaction, Blake’s face wore a composed smile. Someone had faced a life-or-death crisis, yet he showed no sign of alarm, whether he’d anticipated it or simply believed in it was unclear.

In any case, it was undeniable that she had received that man’s help again.

‘He pretended not to know, but in the end he did know.’

Serenity leaned against the windowsill and studied Blake’s smiling face for a long time.
What on earth did that man know, and how far did his knowledge reach? She found herself curious about his very existence. If this were a game rather than a ghost story, she might seriously consider it a bug.

There was no way to know unless she heard it from his own mouth.
They stared into empty air for quite a while. It took several minutes before Serenity straightened the bowed posture she’d held.

“Wait there a moment.”

A pause.

When she went out after gathering her outerwear, Blake was indeed standing exactly where Serenity had asked. Seeing her, he shrugged and even gave a little nod.

“Looking up was rather romantic, but it’s definitely better to see you like this.”

“Where did you learn lines like that?”

“I’m sincere.”

Serenity only nodded dryly instead of answering. Blake studied her closely, then laughed softly as if noting she still didn’t believe him.

“I have a favor to ask.”

“Tell me.”

“I need to go to the cottage behind the manor where the painter stays. If you have time, would you come with me? He’s a painter I’ve met a few times before, but I’m too nervous to go alone.”

“All right.”

He agreed immediately without pretending to consider it, as if he’d expected or even foreseen it.

Serenity asked.

“Aren’t you being a bit too agreeable?”

“Should I have hesitated for form’s sake?”

“I thought you’d at least ask why.”

“If you meet a new painter in the morning and in the afternoon are going to meet the painter from earlier, the purpose is obvious. Isn’t it an instruction from your mother?”

He was so accurate that she lost the will to reply.

“I have a great interest in you, and you need me. I don’t suppose there’s much point in asking for further reasons.”

“…“

“I said I’d help. Much more, and more effectively, than you think.”

“Yes… you did.”

Anomalous being taking an interest in Serenity wasn’t new, but it was the first time the interest wasn’t threatening, and she didn’t know how to react.

In the end she chose to head to the painter’s cottage rather than continue the conversation.

The path leading into the woods behind the manor had been left untended by the gardener, so grass grew thick. Even that, at the start of winter, was dried and withered, giving an eerie air.

Though it wasn’t yet sunset, the area was dim. Birds flew low, making gloomy sounds, like the opening of a horror film.

As if anything in this ghost story could be not frightening.

“It’s over there.”

The cottage sat on a fairly wide clearing, isolated with only a low wooden fence. Stone made up the outer walls topped by a rough roof. It did not at all match the ostentatious the Count’s residence; it was purely the painter’s taste.

‘As gloomy as his paintings, his taste is too.’

Unlike the boy who had painted Serenity’s portrait, the painter in the cottage insisted only on grotesque works in her eyes. His landscapes were full of corpse-colored skies, dry grass, and bizarre structures; still lifes and portraits were no different.

When Serenity climbed the fence, a faint smell rode the breeze, an unpleasant paint odor subtly different from what she’d smelled in the Great Hall.

She managed to ignore her nose and cross the yard, but the next problem was that she couldn’t bring herself to raise her hand to the front door. Her hand hovered in the air, repeatedly rising and falling.

“Scared?”

Blake, standing quietly beside her, asked.

“Having just made it through a crisis, I’m a bit reluctant. It’s been less than half a day since I came back alive from the Great Hall.”

Now who knew what might happen next.

“I see.”

Knock knock.

With that brief reply, Blake knocked on the door first. Seeing Serenity’s baffled face, he shrugged.

“Because I’m full of chivalry.”

Whether to call it considerate or reckless, Serenity paused a moment and then stayed silent.

Strangely, she had never felt her life threatened when with this man. After all, he had saved her life several times.

But there was no answer from inside.

Knock knock*, Blake knocked again.*

“It’s quiet, he’s not…”

Bang*.*

Before Serenity finished, the door was thrown open roughly.

The figure who appeared in the doorway was a man with a shaggy beard and many scars. If
not for the beard covering his entire chin and hanging down almost to his feet, his face would have looked fairly normal. Well, only looking at the face.

Below his neck, between the beard, extended four pairs of arms that could not be called human. They looked like tree roots or were encased in a hard exoskeleton like an insect, with finger joints grotesquely twisted at every knuckle.

‘No matter how many times I see it, it never gets familiar…’

Why were painters the sort who only had normal faces? A professional trait, perhaps. Serenity made a fruitless thought and tried hard not to look down.

“May I come inside? I’m here to deliver your mother’s message.”

At Serenity’s attempt at calm, the painter stepped aside. As she stepped in, an unpleasant smell pricked her nostrils. This time she could be sure: it was the scent of old blood.

‘How much blood did he use?’

Did he use blood instead of red pigment? Blood from the same Anomalous being perhaps?

Judging by the smell, it seemed a reasonable assumption. At the same time, Serenity scolded herself for having thought this painter better than the boy a few hours earlier, both were equally horrific.

Stepping further in, Serenity stood in the middle of the cottage. It felt more like a storage shed than a livable place. Paints were strewn everywhere and canvases stacked against the walls made the interior feel cramped. Moreover, a fishy scent of blood continued to emanate from the canvases and paints.

Meanwhile, Blake crossed the cottage with an untroubled expression.

“Sit for a moment. Is there no seat here?”

The painter’s arms clicked and clacked as they pulled out a chair with a grotesque sound. His face remained expressionless and lifeless.

Having offered them seats, the painter did not sit but stood rooted to the spot.

‘Not exactly a welcoming atmosphere.’

The painter was not unintelligent, so he likely knew why they had come without needing it spelled out. Serenity’s job, then, was to try not to incur his wrath. Watching the eight arms bob grotesquely, she took a long breath.

“So, what I want to say is—”

“Get out?”

A scratching voice cut her off before she finished. The painter’s blue eyes stared at her listlessly.

Before she could reply, he added.

“I’ve spent 200 years in this manor.”

Serenity flinched.

’…200 years? Again?’

It was strange. Though half his face was hidden by the beard, it was clear he didn’t look over forty. Of course, there’s no rule that an Anomalous being’s age corresponds to a human’s, but still, it felt suspicious.

’…Is this the same context as that trainee maid last time? Why exactly 200 years?’

If Anomalous beings experienced time differently from humans, shouldn’t he have spent even longer than the trainee maid?

Serenity tried to recall the mansion’s ‘rules’ in her mind, but nothing came to her.
After frowning at the discomfort for a moment, she quickly shook it off and focused on the situation. There was a bomb in front of her that could explode at any time; she couldn’t just brood comfortably.

“…I think your paintings are valuable enough. It’s a shame to leave them only in the Count’s residence.“

Serenity spoke in as calm a tone as she could manage.

The painter’s expression shifted subtly.

“You think so?”

“Of course, I’m not as steeped in art as my mother, but I can tell a painting that gives a good feeling.”

It was a blatant lie. A painting that gives a good feeling; she had never gone near any closely, afraid something might leap out.