The Deer that was Not a Deer - Gothic prompt

The shadow lying just off the road ahead seemed to be a deer, but not quite. It lay, silent and unmoving as the grave, at an angle as though it had been struck from the path. With the rolling of the cart on the roughshod road, and my own rolling stomach, it was hard to focus on quite clearly; but I thought I could make out the broken branch of a once-mighty antler.

I raised my eyes and looked about, seeking solace from my sickness in the grey horizon. All around the solitary road lay fields of indifferent gorse and heather, rolling on their gentle paths down to distant scrambles of small forest. Behind me lay the gatehouse, growing smaller by the moment as we crested an unseen hill, and beyond that the village I had arrived at only an hour or so before on the early train from Sheffield. This was hunting country, I knew. Treacherous hills and potholes there might be but from my perch atop the cart, I could see only vast space to gallop. But no gangs of roving horses and hounds broke the purple-dashed landscape, and there were no hunting horns to be heard. Just silence, the hiss of light rain, and the wail of the wind.

There was no shelter from the wind here, and I shifted the edges of my bonnet closer to my face to escape its bite. I was pleased that I had thought to put on my extra layers, heeding the warning of my teachers that the Scottish wilds lived winter to winter with little more than a nod to summer between. And yet, I wished we would arrive sooner at my destination, and I could have some time to prepare to meet my new pupils. I hardly wanted my first introduction to be with a reddened nose and chilblains. I was young-faced enough, and winning my wards’ respect would be won or lost in a moment. I knew nothing of them yet, except that they needed a governess, badly.

We drew level with the shadow on the road. I thought I could see a hoof protruding from the slumped shape, but it was curled in on itself, and half hidden by brambles. Its fur was dark with damp, and it did not move, even as we passed. It was not alive, I concluded - it must have been felled by a rifle and come here to serve out its last moments. Or perhaps struck by some passing cart. I wished, rather uncharitably, that my cart might manage such a speed. 

“How much farther is it… sir?” I asked. My driver, the gatesman, had been silent, and what words he had spoken had been in an accent so deep and natural I had struggled to comprehend it. He still did not speak. He instead jerked his head, and I followed his gaze ahead.

The drizzle seemed to ebb as the huge shadow of a house suddenly came into sight. We were almost at the door - thank the Lord the rain had eased else we might have tumbled into the hallway, I thought. Looming pillars of rock held up a sloping roof of dark slates, ringed with the gargoyles carved of dark stone. They seemed to sparkle in the rainfall, and the running of the water from the roof above slid over their odd limbs, making it appear as if they were moving. Curious, I thought, determined not to be unnerved. 

The entrance protruded aggressively towards us, centred with a formidable door of darkened oak. I now could see the east and west wings of the house, stretching out far beyond it; the entire edifice built like a wishbone. The east wing was modern, I saw, and very much in old Roman fashion, though creepers grew unchecked up its pillars and the tall windows were shuttered against the mild sun. Along the west wing, the stone was shadowed grey, fortified, and made even wilder by the remnants of an orchard at its furthest corner, which seemed to have been allowed to encroach as far as the house itself. The nearest trees leaned against the building itself, and its lower lattice windows were completely obscured with hungry foliage. I looked up at the place that was to be my home, and wondered in which strangely ancient wing the nursery would be placed.

The gatesman drew up the cart and disembarked. It was the work of a moment to unload my meagre luggage, and promptly he was back on his cart, driving his small pony away and disappearing into the drizzle. I took time to brush myself down in the entrance alcove, careful to smudge away the dust of my long journey. I pinched my cold cheeks hard, and the rush of blood warmed my face enough that my employer might be able to call me human. I raised my hand to the knocker, seeing that it was made of iron and carved into an elegant stag’s head. The majestic antlers curved in to form a bulging circle, the spikes as sharp as thorns. I placed my hand upon its nose to strike. The fur on the knocker had been etched into the metal skillfully, so fine that it almost felt real. Even the eyes had been carved in detail; bright, intelligent, and watchful. I knocked, twice. The sound echoed deep into the house, and I released the knocker to wait. Footsteps became audible from somewhere within, and they grew closer.

I glanced back, and blinked. The deer that was not quite a deer had disappeared. 

The moors were empty once again.