Gothic Horror Tale: Vathek
By David Chorlton, age 14

A shadow as dark as death clamoured through every crack and crevice of Abrodian. A blanket of hatred and despair covered the sky. Lightning lashed out of the sky like a cat and nine tails while the sky groaned.

On the very outskirts of Abrodian five fine palaces lay, each one beautiful and perfect in its way. Palaces where food grew faster than grass; a palace of unique rarities and a palace of distinct heady perfumes. Upon the fine throne sat Vathek. Vathek was normally a respectable and fatherly figure. His subjects were loyal and put their faith in him. Though shadowy darkness permeated the kingdom Vathek did his utmost to lift the shroud of gloom and return the kingdom to what it was. To Vathek's right was the young prince named Vathendue. Vathendue was a very handsome prince. He bore hair lush and black much like his father but darker. He was built like a leader with a pale face as soft and young as a carpet of virgin snow.

Many hours passed with only the gentle conversation of Vathek and his son. Their conversation was interrupted by a repetitive knocking. The decayed door crumbling for each blow the knocker made. A thin, somewhat decrepit man slowly edged in. Immediately visible were several tunnelling scars, each an earthquake. His thinly layered skin as pale and green as a limb severed off Frankenstein. His two perfectly spherical eyes like pools of ice.

Moments later he addressed the King in his normal solemn tone, "morning, your majesty."

"I had wondered when I would be next seeing Abbot Deloni," spoke the King. The Abbot appeared to falter and fall silent being dragged into the fantastical world the King lived in. He eyes were transfixed on the ceiling that was as white as Abrodian's finest linen, each corner plated in gold as thick as syrup. Paintings could be seen on all walls of the palaces each of the pictures depicting a tale. One very stunning picture illustrated a huge eye resembling a river of souls. When the Abbot returned his attention to the king he appeared slightly disorientated. When Deloni's face became focussed he spoke clearly in a single tone to the King, "As I am sure you are aware we approach the festival of Pentecost. I wish to invite you to a private ceremony where we shall commemorate this day."

"Of course Abbot. Where better a place than in the house of God," remarked the king. As the Abbot exited through the gates grand enough to be those to heaven a smile appeared to creep across his lips like a midnight black spider.

The Prince seldomly spoke ill of the Abbot but always had a slight tendency to be disbelieving of him. The King tilted his head toward the prince in a thoughtful fashion. "I presume you will attend the service," spoke the King.

"Well as far as I was informed I am not invited and anyway I'm going to the Goblet of Blood for the festive celebrations," related the Prince in a sarcastic tone.

Cold bitter nights passed, each as horrific as the next. Trees and plants were stripped of their jewels. Ice flakes could be seen beginning their journey of descent each cold and as damaging as icicles pulled from an Arctic cave.

The day of Pentecost was a very special day for the people of Abrodian as it was one of the few days when happiness and joy seemed to be released from its cage and spread like a dish of warmed honey. Candles burned powerful distinct rays each piercing the blackness of the night.

As the King and Prince awoke they both steadily yawned and stretched up towards the heavens. The King readied himself quickly while his coach driver attached and harnessed the reigns to the kings immaculate coach. Each part of the framework was embroidered with gold while the rest was a Victorian red. The red was as dark as a sky filled with oozing blood. It's two great supports were fresh slices of lime. The coach could be heard sighing, readying itself to surge to its destination. The King bid his son farewell with a single blessing and boarded his vivid carriage. The horses pulled away with haste, obeying the driver like a father. The further the coach travelled the clearer it became that life beyond the palace gates differed from the world within. A shadowy forest was located to the south where trees hummed their groaning tune. Wolves howled into the night making their presence known. The sky was burned black by the sun.

Hours later the horses threw their mane into the moonlight and halted abruptly. The King's expression fell from his face with suddenness. Freshly dug earth lay adjacent to the chapel where limbs could be seen jutting through the earth as if buried alive. The King trudged through a lake of leaves which lashed at the kings legs. The few gravestones that were unbroken were covered in a green moss making the tomb unreadable. He felt his way to the chapel entrance as best he could although the ground was fresh with wet dew. He stood up and scurried towards the dimly lit entrance. The timber door was nearly decayed and clearly inhabited by generations of wood worm. The ceramic tiles echoed his every movement as a reflection in a sound mirror. The stained glass windows were smashed with shards of glass scattered across the floor; the window only a fraction of its former self. The jagged edges of the coloured glass were like a blood thirsty thorn bush.

The Prince sauntered along observing the familiar surroundings. He stepped carefully as the only light brave enough to face the ebony sky was the blazing fires from the surrounding area. The fires breathed up to the heavens providing some illumination.

Time passed with only the snoring of the tired trees. The Prince went with haste as the black of night was certainly not a favourable time to travel. He identified the pub in the near distance and was certainly relieved to locate the radiating light from within the pub. The pub allegedly earned its name by once being the home an unnerving vampire, Dracula. The building reminded him of his childhood home: the same blaring fire; reassuring armchairs and friendly folk although each had their own strange edge. He approached the landlord and ordered "my usual please." The landlord did as asked and served the prince.

Moments passed while the prince buried himself in thought. This was abruptly interrupted by the landlord, "one beer as requested," he stated with mild satisfaction. The prince slowly slurped the drink of the gods, licking his lips to extract the full flavour. The Prince returned to his previous trail of though and sat silent.

The King remained silent as he was now very aware of other movement around him. It was like he was trapped in an endless cave. Harsh voices of others could be heard echoing. A blanket of wind swept in diminishing what light remained. Dramatically, two hands clamped themselves to the King. He drew his sword like it was a normal reaction. The jewels imbedded in the hilt of the sword gritted their teeth. The sword obeyed its master instinctively slashing into the external darkness. He was sure it had been a clean strike but his last memory was the oozing of ruby red blood.

Days later the King woke to find his eyesight had returned to him. He sobbed silently as he realised he was chained to a wall facing Abbot Deloni. The sight of this informed the King that his fate may not be too dissimilar to that of the men the night before.

News spread like a forest fire. When a group of fully armed soldiers entered The Goblet of Blood the Prince assumed that tonight would not be one of joyous celebrations. The prince acted on impulse after hearing the news and gathered all the stragglers in the pub and bellowed, "follow me and tonight we will revenge what horror is to occur."