Take for example the hideous string of events that took place in the ancestral home of the Marleau family. For more than a century the house sat on the wooded hill overlooking Varennes, and to all outward appearance, the very essence of stately dignity and grace. Every master of that estate was known as a staunchly moral man, and an upright example for the people of the town to emulate in their daily lives. If today however, one was to take a glance into one of its many windows, say that of the master bedroom, the view would be hardly moral in the least, but nonetheless enthralling.

The young man, barely out of his twenties held in his arms a woman of astounding beauty. Her hair, long and luxurious flowed down her shoulders in a velvety cascade that radiated the hue of translucent amber. Her skin was as pale and as delicate as the finest porcelain. The sensuous curves of her body evoked thought of renaissance sculptures. She was to the eye for all intents of purposes, perfect and unspoiled. Her aquiline features and inviting smile were enough to melt the coldest hearts. The luminous green of her eyes sparkled like a tropical lagoon. Both lovers wore nothing but the glory that nature had given them. An intangible energy crackled in the air between them, for they both knew that they were indulging in a most forbidden passion. The young man, Philippe knew that his father, after having given the servants the day off, would be gone all day attending a feast in honor or the Mayor, and then visiting with his brother Anton. The woman, Erika, newly orphaned and come to stay in Philippe’s home, had never been to Varennes, and had unknowingly discovered the love of her life.

Having spent the better part of the day in each other’s arms, the two paramours were oblivious to the rest of the world around them. It would not be an exaggeration to say that even the rest of the house seemed a hundred leagues away. As Erika and Philippe exalted in their passion they were heedless of the sound of someone coming quietly and slowly up the stairs. Nor did they hear the almost imperceptible sound of the knob turning, as they continued to writhe against one another in wanton avarice.

“In my home?! In my bed!” A deep resonant voice bellowed from the doorway. Both lovers froze at the sound for only an instant before springing apart. Philippe knew at once that the enraged voice was that of his father, apparently home early from his brother Anton’s.

“And with your cousin?!” Maurice Marleau stalked menacingly toward his son with a heavy wooden riding crop in his hand. Seeing her uncle barely able to contain his fury, Erika cowered like a scolded puppy behind the far side of the bed. She searched in vain for her clothes but the frightening figure of Maurice stood in her way.

“Say something boy!”, but Philippe had no words that could possibly explain away what his father had seen. All he could muster was a single soft utterance.

“I love her.” The final word had barely escaped the frightened boy’s lips when his father lashed out with the crop and struck Philippe solidly on the jaw. He was thrown violently back, and force of the blow spun him at such an angle that he struck his temple on the corner of the solid mahogany dresser at the far end of the room. Maurice watched his stricken heir crumple in a heap, like so much refuse, and after furiously lashing his son several times across the back, realized that no movement of any sort was forthcoming. Having gotten no further outlet for his rage from Philippe, Maurice turned his attention to his terrified niece. Erika’s eyes widened as she warily watched her uncle’s unhurried approach, like a cougar stalking its prey. She shifted her glance toward Philippe and noticed the sickeningly slow rise and fall of his chest. He was still alive, but barely. He had a chance of survival if a doctor was sent for without delay.

“Your son is still alive.” Erika whispered through lips quivering in mortal terror.

“I have no son!” Maurice bellowed as he struck the girl across the face. “Come, see what fate your corruption has brought him!” With that pronouncement, which to Erika sounded much like a sentence of last judgement, Maurice picked up his panicked niece by her hair and wrapped her in the still soggy bed sheets. They clung to her body with an awful stickiness as one finds in a garment that has been worn quite too long on a summer day. After shoving her into the hallway, Maurice picked up his son and draped him over his shoulder. With his free hand, he gave the girl a mighty shove and sent her tumbling down the stairs. Easily hefting the dead weight of his progeny, Maurice bounded down the stairs, and once again snatched himself a handful of Erika’s amber colored locks.

“Here, in the cellar.” He murmured, as the door slowly opened with a low, groaning, protesting creak. Maurice then marched Erika down the stairs into the dank confines of the vault, where the air held a thick, sickly quality that made the girl’s stomach churn. Maurice lit a torch, and placed it in an iron sconce near the stairwell. From one of the racks that covered the bulk of the far wall, he rolled an empty hogshead barrel into the center of the room. He sat the receptacle upon its closed end, thus letting the open extremity point upwards. It was into this vessel that Maurice, without saying a word, or sparing a moment’s thought deposited the body of his son.

“NO!” Erika shrieked, “He’s still alive!” But Maurice paid her no mind as he busied himself with replacing the lid onto the keg, and hammering it into place. As soon as this task was complete, he hastily dumped the cask on its side, and rolled it until it rested beneath the tap of one of the larger vats in the cellar. It was only at that moment that Erika noticed the cork in the side of Philippe’s puncheon facing the tap. A soft thumping sound instantly sent a frigid chill racing down her spine. Her love was knocking against the inside of the keg, but his oaken prison left no means of escape.

Maurice removed the cork, and was immediately greeted by his son’s voice pleading for mercy. Turning a deaf ear toward the imprisoned youth, Maurice swivelled the spigot on the tap, and watched as the wine slowly began to fill the pipe containing his son. Philippe’s cries took on a desperate tone as he grasped the full extent of what horror his father had planned for him. Erika ran toward the barrel with the hopes of spilling its contents, but with a quick blow from the back of his hand, Maurice sent the girl sprawling to the floor.

With very steady hand, Maurice held the oak cylinder under the tap as the wine kept flowing, drowning his son. The thuds from inside the receptacle were taking on a slow muffled quality, and as the added weight of the wine steadied the already heavy keg, another hideous idea invaded Maurice’s mind. With a final wailing cry, Philippe was silenced, and Maurice hammered the cork back into place. Satisfied with his work, he rolled the barrel so that the cork now faced the floor, thus sealing Philippe’s tomb forever. With a few muffled noises still emanating from within the keg, Maurice grabbed Erika, and tossed away the bedclothes that he had so recently used to cover her. He turned her to face the cask, and forced her head downwards while standing behind her. Being so exposed, and hearing her uncle unbuttoning his trousers, Erika realized with sheer horror that Maurice planned on taking his turn where his son had so recently been.

With the riding crop braced against the back of Erika’s neck, he plunged his manhood into the revolted girl’s quivering privates. He marveled, as he impaled her again and again at how wonderfully tight and slick she was down there despite all that she had seen. She cried out in either pain or anguish, he didn’t care which as he continued to assault his niece. After minutes that to Erika seemed an eternity, Maurice finally completed his heinous violation with an animalistic cry at the moment of climax. In tears now, Erika slumped down in a ball next to the pipe containing the body of her now dead lover. Snickering, her uncle calmly dressed himself.

“And now what shall we do with you?” The girl, staring off into space, with lower jaw trembling seemed not to hear.

“Given your sin, I believe a place of quiet repentance is in order. Perhaps a long stay with the Carmelite sisters will cool your spirit a bit.” Erika’s eyes widened, hearing the mention of the nunnery. She slowly shook her head back and forth which only elicited a soft sinister laugh from her uncle.

“But we also cannot have the good sisters learning what you have seen here today.” With that chilling sentence, Maurice dealt a heavy blow with the handle of his riding crop to the back of his niece’s head.

Consciousness slowly seeped its way back into Erika’s mind. There was a dull throb on the back of her head, an ever-present reminder of the awful torment her uncle had inflicted on her. Eventually her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She was in a tiny, windowless chamber, with nothing to lay upon but a very thin straw mat. The door of course was locked. It seemed strange to her that in a convent cell there would be no crucifix, statue, or symbol of faith anywhere to be seen. Tentatively, she knocked on the solid metal door. Almost immediately a small panel slid back and a large man’s face peered into the room. A man’s face? Here?

“What do you want?” A deep, gravel-laden voice inquired with, what seemed to Erika, very little genuine concern.

“Is this how all the new sisters are treated when they arrive at this convent?” A vile, mirthless laughter boomed out into the room.

“Convent? This ain’t no nunnery. This is Charenton Asylum for the Insane.” Erika’s breath caught in her throat as she realized what her uncle’s last words to her really meant. The sisters, nor anyone else would know what she saw in her uncle’s cellar. All these thoughts ran through her mind as the small sliding hatch in the door was forced back into place, leaving Erika in the thick gloom with only her panicked thoughts and violent shrieks to keep her company.

With his son safely entombed within the rows of kegs in his cellar, and his niece newly deposited at Charenton, Maurice concerned himself with constructing the story that he would offer to the townsfolk to account for both missing relatives. He decided in the end that a dreadful fall off a horse was how his son met his untimely end, and upon hearing the news, his niece, prostrate with grief flung herself out of the third story window. Two weighted coffins were buried, and Maurice played his role as the grieving father figure to the hilt.

After accepting the heartfelt condolences of his friends and neighbors, he settled down in his study for a nice glass of wine. Making certain of course, that this rare vintage came not from the keg containing his late son. That pipe was safely stored in the corner of the cellar, and the servants were given strict instructions never to serve it. And so Maurice spent the next twenty years busying himself not only with the daily operation of his tailoring business, but by making forays into local politics. He was perceived as a moral man of the people by the townsfolk, but always remembered the awful secret that was stored in the cellar.

As the time drew near to celebrate his fiftieth birthday, Maurice decided that he would hold a party for his many friends and relatives. Most, if not all of Varennes were invited to this great fete. There would be food, wine and much gaiety. Extra servants were hired on just for the occasion, as the needs of so many guests were sure to overwhelm the modest staff usually employed at the Marleau home. In addition to these newly engaged servants, there was an impressive array of jugglers, musicians, and other varied entertainers mingling with the guests both in the house and in the property behind it, where the bulk of the merriment was contained by the great stone wall marking the property line of the estate.

Meats of every kind were being slow roasted on iron spits. Coupled with grilled fish, a myriad of vegetables, and different flavored breads the feast promised to live up to the high standard set by the rest of the celebration. As the revelry proceeded, the guests laid a heavy assault on the larders and wine cellar of the house, but the supplies were holding steady. There was some concern about there being enough beverage to go around when the time came for Maurice’s birthday toast, but for now all looked well. As one cask emptied, another was brought to replace its emptied fellow. Even the master’s hounds enjoyed a fine repast, as the multitude of scraps were dutifully given over to the canine diners.

Finally, as the many courses arrived and then departed, it was time for the guest of honor to be toasted in celebration of his half century in the world. Glasses were drained in order that they may be refilled for the culmination of the evening’s festivities. All the servants began running hither and thither to be certain that would be enough spirits for the commemoration. Barrels came and went, until finally, all glasses were filled... all but one. As fate would have it, one cup remained devoid of any beverage. That of the guest of honor stood empty. The attendants gaped at each other in amazement as there was no more wine to be had! In his eagerness, one of the newly hired serving boys rushed into the cellar and spied a lone keg standing like an abandoned sentinel in the corner of the room.

“Bring the master’s goblet! We have not yet run dry!” A mighty cheer erupted from the multitude as Maurice’s silver chalice was brought forth from the head table and passed down to the lad in the cellar, who had by now laid the pipe on its side and tapped it. As the boy opened the spigot, a dark, luxurious vintage slid into the cup.

“Surely this must be an aged port of some kind,” he thought to himself as he present Maurice with the wine. Another cheer rose up as the guest of honor showed his nearly over flowing vessel to his guests. His brother, Anton stood and with a few waves of his hand silenced the gathering. He extolled the virtues of his brother to the revelers; his morality, his forthrightness, his poise in the face of abject tragedy. Murmurs of ascent were heard throughout, and in total the presentation was well received by all. Finally, all guests and Maurice raised their cups, but as Anton was about to conclude his toast, the hounds began wildly barking at one another. Maurice jumped slightly and spilled a few drops of his wine on the table cloth. Amidst the noise, no one, not even Maurice observed how the spilled beverage began to quietly bubble and hiss. Recovering from the interruption, Anton completed his toast, and the revelers as one emptied their glasses. Maurice slowly set his empty chalice down and surveyed his guests. The wine lifted his spirits, and felt quite warm on the stomach. The guests began to ask for a few words from the guest of honor.

With more than a bit of faux modesty, Maurice rose to address his many friends. He paused a moment, and then stopped in sheer amazement as it appeared that time had slowed to a crawl.

“The wine must be a bit stronger than I thought,” he pondered as he collected himself. He shook his head in an effort to ward off this inconvenient effect. As if he were underwater, he heard muffled laughter mixed with the sound of his own heartbeat. His vision blurred, slightly but not enough to cloud the fact that he observed a variety of shocking changes in his guests. Some had taken on grotesque shapes, growing extra limbs, or alarming growth and curvatures in those already present. Others seemed riddled with some heinous rotting disease, and still others seemed newly arrived from the local charnel house. The only feature that they seemed to have in common was the awful mocking grin that spread across every visage.

Maurice suppressed the awful cry that wanted to burst forth from his lips. He could still hear the sound of hellish mirth emanating from the multitude of horrors. He staggered away from the table, and nearly stumbled on his way into the house. The nightmarish menagerie made effort to pursue him, and were not far from his heels when he reached the door leading into the rear of his home. Traveling as quickly as his suddenly heavy legs would allow him, Maurice fled into his study and locked himself in. He stood, breathing heavily with his ear against the door, hearing the tumult of the pursuing multitude grow steadily louder. In the midst of this vile cacophony a single slow sepulchral voice raised te hairs on Maurice’s arms.

“Hello Father.” The deliberate utterance came not from outside, but from within the room! With trembling hands, Maurice slowly turned and beheld the ghostly apparition of his son seated in one of his overstuffed leather chairs. Philippe’s ghost glowed ever so slightly with a sickly, pale green color, like a firefly that has lost some of its brilliance. The pupilless eyes of the specter seemed to look at no one thing in particular, but Maurice was sure that this creature could not only see the whole room, but very much that lay beyond.

“Do sit down, Father.” The spirit beckoned Maurice into the chair opposite his own. With measured and careful step, Maurice made his way toward his son. As he approached, he began to feel a palpable sense of an unearthly cold emanating from the ghost.

“Why are you here?” Maurice asked, watching his breath slowly dissipate in the icy air. The ghost rose to his feet and let loose a hideous, wailing cry that froze Maurice to his very core. Covering his ears to escape the dreadful scream did not avail any relief as the voice of his son seemed to tear at the very fiber of his soul. A fierce pounding came at the door of the study. Different voices could be heard calling out his name.

“Neglecting one’s guests is not the sign of a good host, Father.” Philippe chided in a mocking tone that almost managed to sound human. With quick darting glances to the door and back to his son, Maurice took on the look of a caged animal and slowly began to rise.

“Sit down!” the ghost commanded in a harsh, imperious tone, and like a scolded child Maurice dutifully resumed his former position opposite his son.

“Youâve done this to me.” He barely whispered under his breath.

“No Father,” the specter replied, “You brought this upon yourself. It was you who stuffed me while still breathing into the keg, you who filled it, and it was you who drank from it this evening.” At the phantom’s revelation, Maurice felt the bile rise in his throat, and his bladder turn to ice. Falling to his knees, attempting to cough the vile brew up elicited only a deep resinous laughter from the translucent apparition.

“The wine has had plenty of time to do it’s work Father.” Maurice rose and stared into his son’s lifeless eyes.

“Seeing them all turn into awful things was the wine’s curse then.” To which Philippe mournfully shook his head.

“No Father, that was only the overture. The symphony is yet to come.” More pounding at the door. Cries of “Let us in” and “Maurice, open up” sprinkled the lulls in conversation. As Philippe stared off with his milky eyes his ghostly lips curled back into a toothy, almost feral smile.

“It begins.” He spoke to no one in particular. In a fit of rage Maurice went to throttle the phantom and was thrust back by the violent cold of his son’s non-corporeal form. He cradled his frost bitten hands in his lap when suddenly his entire body was wracked with an undescribable agony. Doubling over in front of the ever watchful specter, Maurice observed a distinct swelling of his skin. Small pockets of skin began to swell and then subside. Tearing his shirt open, he saw the same horrid condition arising on his torso. With each successive rising and falling of these vexations of the skin, the growths became larger and more painful, until each one remained the size of a billiard ball. Within each of these malignant undulations, there could be seen smaller more active bulges running horizontally over the larger. When the spherical growths all ceased their expansion, the narrow lengthwise moving deformities increased their vigor.

Maurice let out a shriek of horror and disgust as one of the cysts on his arm ruptured like an overripe tomato revealing the maggots and worms that had been burrowing under his skin! With the primal cry of a panicked animal, Maurice watched in unutterable terror as one by one, the malignancies slowly burst, spilling forth hordes of the flesh eating creatures.

Frantically he tried brushing the foul things off of himself, but the ghost calmly advised, “There are more on the inside Father.” Maurice suddenly realized that his son was telling the truth as he felt his insides slowly being devoured by thousands of tiny mouths. With an agonized wail, he collapsed on the carpet, and flat on his back, he continued to twitch as the worms continued their grisly meal.

With a sharp cracking sound the study door was forced inwards, and the party guests crowded their way into the room. They were greeted with the image of worms issuing forth from Maurice’s eyes, ears, and mouth. As the more stalwart members of the crowd slowly inched closer, their progress was immediately halted by the intense cold radiated by the ghost. Philippe watched as Maurice, still prone, gave a final worm laden cough and died. With deliberate movement the phantom surveyed the revelers and gently floated his way toward them. As if possessed by a single intelligence the multitude shrank back from the apparition. The spirit now facing Anton with his lifeless gaze put forth a frosty hand and seized his uncle in an icy grip.

“You are now master of this house. My cousin did not die with me. She has been entombed all these years in Charenton. Bring her out from that place, and see to her comfort. This family owes her at least that much. Also, in the cellar, encased in an oaken barrel is my body. Bury it, or I will be forced to visit you as well.” He gestured toward his dead father. “And my visits will not be kind.”

Anton winced in pain as he nodded his agreement of the spirit’s terms. Philippe released his uncle’s shoulder, and floated through the open doorway, cutting a swath through the guests who had lingered without, and disappeared into the night, never to be seen again.