For a moment, I stared at these stairs in the looming darkness that lay beyond, but then,

driven by an almost unnatural sense of curiosity.

I began on my descent.

The stairs were old, ancient even, carved from stone and were covered in thick moss and heavy

perspiration. As I followed them round and round and round, I began to wonder just how far below

the earth they led. Once more, the memory of those terrible dreams assaulted me, but I told myself that they

were nothing but nonsense, flight of the imagination.

Those stairs here, all they did was to lead me to yet another hidden chamber, a basement

study or something akin to it.

Yet they continued on endlessly, and as minutes turned to what felt like ours, my fear slowly

returned.

It felt like I wasn't merely descending to the hidden depths of Dustwall Manor, but to hell

itself.

Before long, however, all those fears, all those worries were

pushed aside by a rising feeling of euphoria. This was what I'd been looking for. This was

what all these fevered months of study had been for, and what held the secrets I so desperately

craved. This obsession of mine when, when had it started?

I thought back to my arrival at Dustwall Manor, to my time in London, my education at the

boarding school, and I realized that in one way or another, it had always lurked in the back of my mind, lying dormant and hidden.

Ever since I had heard those tales from my grandfather, I'd long to learn more about my family line,

our ancestral home, and of course, the study of Sir Isaac Whitmore.

This longing was the true reason I'd returned home.

...