The Architect

It was supposed to be my magnum opus. Ravenswood- my last creation and my forever home. For years I had suffered and degraded myself in firms filled with peons who wouldn’t know architectural integrity if it hit them on the nose, and when I finally finished that last project, it took all of fifteen minutes for me to type up my resignation and slap it on the boss’ desk. I’d gotten the severance I’d worked nearly 31 years for, and had built up the name Drake Astramore to a prominent name in the business. Finally, I was free. Free to create unrestricted by the trivial boundaries set by those beneath me.

Work was slow in the beginning, my modern designs never seemed to convey the right mood or tone which I was seeking. Completely dejected, I resorted to corresponding with a peer of my own caliber who specialized in Eastlake-Tradition Victorian revival: James Lafreniere. The man was perhaps in his late 80’s, far past his prime, but I did value his insight purely to help spur some sort of creative spark. He insisted on a large, rambling estate on a large plot just outside the city. He envisioned towers, stained glass, mahogany… some vacuous opulence that did not speak to my taste whatsoever. I was unconvinced, I saw Victorian architecture as tasteless fluff and ornamentation. Though, as old Mr. Lafreniere pushed, I suppose I did cave in quite a bit. His design was based on some sort of “sacred geometry” he’d studied while in Haiti some time ago. The man was a dog with a bone, frantically trying to persuade me into confirming his “spiritualist” idea for the house. The more he pressed, the less I firmly stood my ground. After all, I was happy with the layout he’d drafted and with my final additions and perfections to his concept, I was satisfied.

Thus, on that foggy winters day, a mere week or two since old Lafreniere was dead and buried, the house was nearing completion after nearly 13 months. I was coming in to do a final inspection, specifically confirming the four crystal chandeliers that were to be placed in the ballroom. Reynolds, the contractor I had hired, went radio silent two days prior, and I was eager to give him a modicum of advice on professionalism. As I pulled up to the antique wrought iron gates, I was perturbed to see them still chained tightly with a large padlock. I had no key, and had no response from Reynolds. Just as I prepared to go to the local hardware store to purchase a pair of bolt cutters, I saw a bulldozer slowly meandering up the gravel driveway through the dense fog. Perhaps Reynolds hadn’t abandoned me as I’d thought. Exiting the car, I stood behind the iron gates as the machine came to a halt just on the other side. The door opened and instead of the middle aged potbelly which I had hired, a young man with a peculiar look in his eye exited the vehicle and sat on the steps of the machine.

“Who are you?” The young man glibly chided from his perch.

“What the hell do you mean who am I? I am the owner of this property. Who are you?” He sat idly staring me up and down, some flippant smirk forming slowly on his face. He hopped down, his massive rubber boots landing in a puddle, splashing muddy water up and down his clothes.

“Mr. Astramore, I was wondering if I’d ever get to meet you in person.” He sauntered over to the gates, unlocking the heavy padlock as the gates creaked open on their own. I hadn’t recalled requesting hydraulic automation on the main gate, but I assumed incorrectly that it was part of the system I’d purchased. “The name is Jimmy. Reynolds proved to be… unreliable on the job. So the company sent me as a replacement. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard.”

“I most certainly have not heard. I should like to have known about staffing changes. He has completely ignored me for days now.” The man looked down, chuckling under his breath.

“Yeah. The guy just up and left one day. Never called the company or anything. Just poof. Vanished.” Contractors. The bane of every architect. Unreliable thieves, the lot of them. This young man certainly mimicked that aura of untrustworthiness, but as the job was nearly complete, I preferred at the time to simply allow him to finish. “The house is ready for you, sir. Take this, please let me know if you need anything from me, I’ll be finishing the landscaping for the raingardens today.” He pulled off a two-way radio from his belt, handing it to me. I could smell the putrid scent of hard labor wafting from him as I snatched the muddy radio from his sweaty hands.

“That will be fine, James.” I huffed as I got back into my car, beginning the two minute trek up the driveway toward the house. As I passed him, I could see the filthy worker smile at me. There was something off about his presence, though at the time I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Again, I believe it was his eyes. So familiar, as if I’d known them myself for a time. As I left him behind in the dust of the gravel, I promised myself I would launch a complaint against these unprofessional ruffians the moment I could.

After weaving past the carefully planned and restored bayous, the white tower proudly peeked from above the tree canopy. The woodlands cleared and before me stood the massive edifice that was Ravenswood. It was primed white, awaiting the final paint job in dark greens and black which I had demanded. Yet another setback I was not looking forward to enduring. The elaborate trim graced the balconies and verandas which were perfectly calculated to receive the ideal amount of sun and shade during the hot Louisiana summers. Each glazed window was placed to maximize natural light in the house’s otherwise dark confines. Perhaps Lafreniere was right- this was my masterpiece.

I put the car in park, and exited the vehicle. I stood and marveled at the house. On paper, it was grand and idyllic. In person, however, it took on a very different aura. Dark clouds and fog seemed to hang around the house, giving it a distinct sense of foreboding which I had not intended. Knowing funds were scarce as is, it was too late to change anything. This was to be my forever home, shortcomings and perfections alike. Pressing against the front doors, I entered the main hall, then aglow from the stained glass window and edison-bulb-illuminated chandelier. Lafreniere assured me that the house would be sufficiently lit, and that no dark corners would find their way into it’s winding halls. I was disappointed beyond words to see that it was not the case.

The house seemed to breathe with a cold draft that whipped around the walls, just strong enough to notice, but not enough to disturb. While it was certainly built to my specifications, Ravenswood took on an identity of it’s own before my eyes as it stood before me. Grumbling under my breath, I began my inspection.

Room by room, I went about with my clipboard and checklist. Bronze lightplates, check. Mahogany waiscotting, check. Brass and crystal chandeliers, check. From the library to the conservatory, the drawing room to the gallery; each room was just as I designed it, yet it seemed inundated with some indescribable weight which I had anticipated from the beginning. My modern, airy, open concept home which I had originally envisioned slowly simmered into flames before my own eyes. It was magnificent, yes. The house dripped character and ethereal essence from every nook and cranny. But was it an Astramore home? Certainly not.

Looking back, I should have left. I should have tossed the clipboard onto the dark herringbone parquet floors and stomped back to my car- back to the safety and comfort of my car. I should have driven away like a bat out of hell from this place and never returned. Yet, in my arrogance, I believed I could salvage it somehow. Thus, it was in that moment, as I was checking the finials on the grand staircase that I heard it. Groaning. Ever so quiet, yet echoing throughout the cavernous halls. I looked above me, my eyes tracking the noise further and further up the staircase onto the third floor. I assumed that it was emanating from the observatory in the main tower, though how I could have possibly known that I still do not know. I ascended the steps, slowly at first, toward the sound. Every creaking floorboard perturbed me, a new construction shouldn’t behave as if it had stood for over a hundred years. This growing rage at the destruction of my vision translated directly into a quickening pace. My body seemingly did the work for me as I climbed faster, eventually skipping steps on my way to the high observatory.

Blinded by anger, I could not see the various shapes and figures which I had blown past on the landings, the dark shadows waiting in the corners and cornices. Every ounce of my being was focused entirely on releasing this pent up aggression, built within myself over decades, on whatever pathetic creature dared to whine within my walls. Arriving on the final landing, I burst through the door with the last of my strength.

The shutters in the observatory were drawn and shut, the unfinished plaster and floorboards were illuminated only by the dull light from the stairwell behind me. There, in the center of the room and crouched like a devious little gremlin was some degenerate young man. Tattoos sprawled across his lean body, and his greasy mop of hair obscured his line of sight. The man shielded his face from the gleaming light, as if burned by it’s glow. His pants and shoes were weathered and well worn; scuffed, torn, and stained from what I can only assume was some ill-begotten lifestyle of antisocial youths.

“Get out!” I shouted at the boy, as he cowered on the sawdust-laden floor. His hand slowly retracted from his face, revealing what he was trying to conceal. Upon his inked face were two fully black eyes, which seemed to suck the remnants of light straight out of the room. They were empty, cold, and devious. This thing was not of this world, it was not of God, it was not of nature. I stood there, frozen in place as he stood up, easily a height of over 6 feet tall. My hairs stood on end, as he smiled down at me. I turned to run, but as I did, I was confronted by the grinning visage of Jimmy.

“Going somewhere, Astramore?” His eyes were black as night, just like the creature behind me. I couldn’t speak, any word I tried to mutter was caught in my throat and merely exited as gasping utterances. Two icy cold hands slowly wrapped around my gut. I could only let out a whimper as I was sharply pulled back into the room as Jimmy leaned against the doorframe, his arms and ankles crossed comfortably as if nothing was out of place.

Tossed down onto the ground, my extremities pulled in every which direction as if bound by invisible leather straps. My clothes were ripped from my body, leaving me vulnerable and cold in the nude. The thing circled me like a predator observing it’s prey. I thrashed against my constraints, spitting insults and threats with the last of my energy. I should have realized the intent of their misdeeds then and there. Blinded yet again, and for the last time by my own rage, I could not see… they were exhausting me. My strength depleted, my nerves shot, I was a mere shell of myself. This was their moment.

The thing stood above me, straddling my bony torso, as he slowly lowered himself atop me. With his cold fingers, nails black and skin dirty, he gripped the bottom of my chin, prying my mouth open. With a momentum far beyond the order of nature, his hand plowed directly into my open maw. It seemed to contract in on itself, as if he were not solid, but rather in a plasmic state of matter. As it squirmed deeper into my throat, the second hand fed itself into the orifice with ease. It felt as if I were drowning, yet could still breathe. It flowed like slime inside of me, pooling into my expanding stomach. I could hear myself gurgling and choking on him as his head squeezed into my mouth, the miasmic odor of unwashed manscent wafting from his acrid form. He slithered his entire form within me, my gut protruding more and more with his writhing shape beneath my stretching skin. As his lower half finally slid past my tongue, I could feel the rough texture of his denim pants scratch against my esophagus, I could taste the sweaty leather of his musky battered sneakers brush on my tongue until the last of the rubber sole slipped into my mouth; disappearing into my body.

Within me, I could feel him breathing. Expanding and contracting from beneath my skin. I could just barely cock my head down enough to see my grotesquely inflated midsection wriggling and pulsating. There was no pain, only tightness and fullness inside. From the doorway, Jimmy had lowered his coveralls down to his boots, pulled his rancid jockstrap to his knees, and was pleasuring himself with manic fervor. Whatever was happening to me was nothing short of pornography for him, he savored every moment with bated breath. Though I had no time to dwell on such displays of vulgarity and immorality. As quickly as the thing had entered me, it began to spread.

I cocked my head toward my arm, as I watched the protruding outline of the thing’s hand slowly snake towards my own from under my skin. I could see it’s added mass inflate my musculature as it slid effortlessly past my elbow and up my forearm. It’s fingers pushed into mine like a hollow latex glove. His stature considerably larger than mine, I could see my entire arm stretch outward, and his own muscles falling into place within mine. In just a few seconds, my arm had grown, large biceps and colorful tattoos seeping up through my dermis until it was unrecognizable. I observed it in horror as I felt my second arm endure the same process, though my gaze was thoroughly cemented at the strong, youthful, virile arm which once was mine.

My legs soon followed suit, my thighs ballooning outward with firm slabs of muscle as the outline of the thing’s massive feet barreled down toward my own. Hairs sprung up like weeds across my inflating calves and quadriceps, until I could feel the slimy pressure of his foot sliding into mine. My body again stretched to accommodate his frame, feeling the soles of my massive sweating feet slide across the hardwood floor until it was finally fully in place. My toes wriggled against my will. A stirring in my groin, and my worn hands pawing at my privates signaled his insertion there as well. Every slick sweaty pump of my member seemed to thrust his into mine further and further. It was quickly engorged, thick and dripping with pre as my balls swelled with his thick, unholy seed. The foreskin tightened around my tip, slick and dripping, and there was then only one part of me left that was untouched.

I could feel him pressing up my throat. It’s head firmly making it’s way up my esophagus, his face protruding from beneath my sweating skin. There was no fight left in me, all I could do was close my eyes and pray that oblivion was not as empty as I had assumed. With the very last of my strength giving way, there was no resistance as it’s head shot up into my skull. Everything went dark almost immediately, there was no light, and an atonal ringing in my ears distorted the squelching and cracking noises I could faintly hear as it adjusted my face atop his. Feeling his plasmic form beneath mine, integrating itself into every possible crevice, nook, and space; it was maddening. I felt myself begin to drift away… disconnected from my corporeal tether. The last thing I could see before I finally wasted away into the unknown was my blurred reflection in the mirror, a face no longer my own, merely a shadow of who I once was. I bitterly accepted this fate. I let him have that sweaty, smelly, vulgar body… it was all his. The lights went out, and all was silent.

—-

New Orleans Tribune, December 20th, 2022:

Local Architect Declared Dead After Week Long Search Efforts

Recent attempts to locate Drake Astramore (69) of Thibodaux have been called off by New Orleans authorities after a week of searching through the architect’s sprawling estate. Neighbors to the gated complex reported faint screams coming from within the mansion, even from a ¼ mile away, which led investigators to deliver a search warrant to the residence.

Upon arrival, authorities were met with the groundskeeper of the premises, James Lafreniere (25), who explained Astramore had disappeared during a routine inspection of the mansion, which was at the time nearing completion:

“He was only in there for a few hours. I wish I knew what could have happened to the guy. But I am so glad that his son has decided to take up the torch on the house. It wasn’t all for nothing, then.”

While Astramore had no family to speak of, the few who knew him personally described him as “difficult” and “degrading,” often going to far lengths to place himself above others. In fact, a number of former coworkers at architecture firm Guillory, Darensbourg, & Combs alluded to mysterious dealings with an unidentified elderly man during the design phase of his home, described as having a “dark energy” about him. While there is no evidence to support foul play at this time, investigators have not ruled out furthering their analysis into these claims.

As for Ravenswood Estate, it has now fallen into the hands of the missing architect’s son, Drake Astramore II (27). A self-proclaimed “spiritualist,” the young man plans to give tours of the sprawling mansion dedicated to the mysterious and unusual process of design of Ravenswood. Joining with his partner in business and in life, James Lafreniere, the duo intend on opening a bed and breakfast type model for the horror inclined.

“I didn’t know my pop all that much, he never really acknowledged me or anything. But I’m happy to show the world what he created. This place is special, it was designed to be special. There’s an magnetism here that gathers together the essences of many, many of the dearly departed. If you don’t believe me, come take a look. I’m happy to show you around. I guarantee you’ll leave a completely changed person.”