The story of my terrible discovery begins a few short weeks after the death of my estranged uncle, the last surviving member of my family. 

The Great War—an infernal cataclysm that consumed Europe in its flames—took from me most of my kin, their lives reduced to ash on foreign soil. A terrible plague followed in the wake of this destruction, a strain of influenza so virulent that it swept through the remnants of the world, bringing what little was left of our society to its knees. Yet, in this unrelenting wave of death, I was spared—not through any kindness of fate, but rather by the crippling nature of my own disability. 

This affliction, the consequence of a long-forgotten accident in the fields, had rendered me useless in the eyes of a war machine that had no need for the broken and weak.

My father, who perished long before the war's horrors reached our shores, had been the instrument of my misfortune. It was he who had placed me in the path of that foul creature, our farm's horse—wild-eyed and maddened by some inexplicable terror. 

Perhaps it had seen something beyond mortal comprehension, for it bucked me from the saddle with a ferocity that was unnatural. Then, in a frenzy of furious kicks, the beast struck me down, and I narrowly escaped its onslaught. I now view the horse’s premature death as a peculiar mercy, for at least it was spared the horrific fate that befell so many other horses in that hellish war—a tragedy by all accounts. 

It was in my dim, decrepit terraced room, where I had spent the last years of my woeful solitude, that I first received the letter.

The postmaster, whose face I could scarcely remember from day to day, delivered it with a heavy, deliberate thud—a sound that reverberated unnervingly through my empty, lifeless abode. With a limp in my step, aided by a crudely crafted cane—passed down to me by my grandfather, whose own life was one of untold mysteries—I hobbled to the door to collect the missive. 

The envelope, whose wax seal was imprinted with a symbol I did not recognize, weighed heavily in my hand, as though it bore some dreadful portent. Such is the way of things—of events that seem so mundane yet are, in truth, the harbingers of misfortunes to come.

The contents of the envelope were no less disturbing. The formal letter was from a solicitor, one Mr. Jonathan Kentish, located in the heart of Old London Town. He had come into possession of the deeds to a property in Rothchester, a small, unimpressive terraced house not dis-similar to the one I was currently festering in, located along a cobbled high street that had once borne witness to the march of Roman legions. 

The house, despite its humble appearance, was now mine.

It seemed impossible that I, the last of my line, was now the sole inheritor of such a place, but there it was in black and white—proof that I had inherited not only the house but all that my uncle had left behind.

The letter offered no details regarding my uncle’s death, save that he had passed alone, as had been his nature in life. The solicitor's tone was perfunctory, and his mention of the property was cursory at best. It was as though the man were anxious to get to the end of the business, to be rid of the matter. But my mind—already burdened by the accumulated weight of my own recent memories—lingered on one particular detail: Rothchester, the ancient city upon which my uncle had chosen to settle. A city that, as I would later discover, hid its secrets deep within its very stones.

With great haste, I made preparations for my departure. I abandoned the paltry life I had barely managed to scrape together in my squalid room, driven by a need to escape the oppressive weight of my own solitude. I left the dismal slums of my existence behind and made my way to Rothchester, though I had no clear idea of what awaited me there.

It was during my journey that I encountered a man — a well-dressed gentleman in his Sunday finest, who, despite being in some apparent hurry, took pity on me and offered to carry my briefcase, a heavy laden load despite my paltry belongings. He spoke in a manner that was both cultured and assured, and as we made our way down the narrow, sodden alleyways toward the bus stop, our conversation drifted to Rothchester and its ancient history. He spoke with a strange reverence of the city—of its Roman origins, of its importance as a strategic staging post during the conquest of Britain. He seemed almost obsessed with the city’s past, as though he could sense, in its crumbling streets and ancient buildings, a history too vast for the minds of men to comprehend.

"The Romans," he said, his voice rich with a peculiar awe, "they built much more than roads and forts. Beneath the very streets of Rothchester lies a labyrinth of catacombs and aqueducts, hidden away from the eyes of the living. Some say the water from these aqueducts still flows, carrying with it the essence of the Empire. And the bathhouses—remarkable things. Some of them, still standing to this day, remain marvels of engineering, untouched by the passage of time."

His words were delivered with a strange passion, as though he were not merely recounting history but trying to convey something deeper, something hidden, simmering beneath the surface. A chill crept over me as I listened. What was it about this city that seemed to unsettle my mind so? Thoughts of an ancient infernal machine with gears of stone churning endlessly for thousands of years, its purpose unknown, would be the source of many nightmares in the days to come. 

As the gentleman took my briefcase from my trembling hands, an odd sense of unease settled upon me—a sensation that I had, until that moment, failed to recognize fully. At first, I dismissed it as nothing more than the awkwardness of human interaction, that strange gap in manners and trust that exists when two strangers meet. He was, after all, offering kindness—assisting a crippled man with his heavy load. Yet, the more I looked at him, the more the hairs on the back of my neck prickled, as if some part of my brain had begun to see something in his demeanor that my conscious mind refused to acknowledge.

His suit—neatly pressed, crisp, and immaculately tailored—seemed almost too perfect for someone living in these unkempt streets. His polished shoes clicked sharply against the cobblestones, their rhythm almost too precise. Every movement he made appeared to be rehearsed, measured, as if he were playing a part in a scene where the script had been carefully memorized.

We walked together in silence, the only sound being the faint shuffle of my limp and the rhythmic tapping of his footsteps, like the ticking of some unseen clock counting down the seconds. The streets, once familiar, now felt strange, as though they were unfamiliar to me. The buildings loomed too close, the air too thick with dust and the faint scent of something rotten. It seemed to me then that everything in the world had conspired to make me feel as though I were trapped—locked in a cage made of sound and shadow. Even the grey sky above appeared oppressive, pressing down on me, as if waiting for something unseen to unfold.

When we reached the bus stop, I paused, looking up to find the large clock hanging above the station. Three hours. That’s how long I would have to wait for the next bus. I had no particular need to rush, for there was no urgent matter awaiting me in Rothchester. And yet, as I stood there, watching the man shift from one foot to the other, a gnawing feeling began to rise within me—a slow, insidious unease that refused to be shaken.

The man smiled, a smile that was almost too wide, too practiced, as if it had been forced upon his face in an effort to appear congenial. He made small talk, speaking again of Rothchester's history, my fabled destination.

Could he be planning to steal it from me? Had he some knowledge of what lay within? It was absurd, of course. There was much of value in the briefcase — a key for one, a few papers, the deeds to the house, some useless documents. Yet, as I stared at him, I could not shake the feeling that he knew more than he let on. His gaze lingered on me too long, his words too deliberate. Was it possible that he was not just a kind stranger, but someone sent to follow me? To take what was mine?

The bus stop seemed suddenly too close, too crowded with people I couldn’t see, their shadows lurking at the edges of my vision. The sounds of the city, once a background hum, now felt like an oppressive chorus. A rattle of the distant cart, the chatter of the few passersby, the call of the birds overhead—everything seemed too sharp, too intense.

I suddenly found myself watching his hands. They were thin, long-fingered hands, and they moved with an unsettling grace. He did not seem to notice my growing discomfort, or perhaps he did and relished in it. He had placed the briefcase on the bench between us now, and my eyes darted between it and the man. 

Each second stretched unbearably, and the mere sight of it—the way it sat there, just inches from his grasp—filled me with an icy dread. I had the sudden, overwhelming urge to snatch it back, to clutch it to my chest as though it were a part of me, as though its contents—its trivial contents—were the only thing keeping me anchored in a world that had begun to slip out of my control.

Without another word, I took the briefcase from the bench and clutched it tightly, my knuckles white with the force of my grip. The man, still smiling, said nothing. But I could feel his gaze on me—sharp, calculating—like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

I glanced up at the clock again. Three hours. Three long, endless hours until the next bus would arrive. How had I managed to let that fact escape me? I had become so absorbed in this strange encounter that I had lost all track of time. It was as if the world had slowed, thickened with tension, and I, standing there in the midst of it, could feel my very pulse dragging through each second, each moment longer than the last. 

Time—time was no longer a friendly companion, as it once had been in the simple rhythms of daily life. No, now it was an enemy, a creeping thing that whispered doubt into my ear with each drawn-out second. How much longer could I stand here, waiting, unsure whether this was the world as it should be—or a twisted reflection of it, warped by my growing paranoia?

And then—just as quickly as it had come—the moment passed. The bus was here, the doors were open, and I had to move. 

I never saw the gentleman again. 

When I arrived at the house in Rothchester, it appeared as unimpressive as the letter had suggested. The building was small, weathered by time and neglect, and sat among the other houses on a busy street where the cobblestones seemed worn by the centuries. The house itself was a modest two-story dwelling, its windows dusted with the remnants of years gone by. It seemed as though the very air around it had grown stagnant, as though it had been forgotten by the world.

The solicitor had been kind enough to include the keys, and after a brief survey of the exterior, I ventured inside. 

The stale air within greeted me like an old friend, thick with the smell of damp wood and long-forgotten things. Dust clung to every surface, and the faintest creak of the floorboards beneath my weight sent a shiver as I imagined phantoms in the night. I moved through the rooms methodically, taking in the relics left behind—faded paintings, old furniture covered in white sheets, shelves lined with dusty books. But it was the hidden corners that drew my attention—the closets, the drawers, the forgotten places where things might have been concealed for reasons unknown.

As I ascended to the second floor, I found a door at the end of a narrow hallway, its frame covered in a web of peeling paint. Behind it, I could feel something—a presence, perhaps—lurking in the junk. 

The walls, once painted in some long-forgotten shade of faded green, were now pockmarked and peeling, revealing the rough stone beneath. It was as if the house itself were slowly decaying. 

At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched before me, narrow and dimly lit, the only source of light coming from a single window at the far end, its curtains drawn but allowing a sliver of pale, sickly sunlight to creep through.

The door at the far end of the hallway appeared to be sealed tight, its frame warped and cracked with age. It was smaller than the others, and it stood slightly askew, as though it had not been opened in years. I approached it with a mixture of dread and curiosity, my heart pounding in my chest. My fingers trembled as I touched the handle, feeling the cold brass beneath my skin. I turned it, and the door creaked open with a low, mournful groan, as though the house itself were protesting.

There was a terrible noise in the room, movement snapped my already fraying nerves. 

And so I fled back down the staircase, my mind reeling. But even as I reached the ground floor, I felt a lingering presence, a shadow that followed me—watching, waiting, as if the house itself were alive and it wanted me. 

A sudden noise shattered the silence, the unmistakable sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps, each thud echoing through the house like the beating of a distant drum. They were coming down the stairs, slow and measured, as though the thing, whatever it was, was taking its time, savoring the sound of its own approach. 

My heart leapt in my chest, a cold sweat instantly covering my skin. The footsteps grew louder, closer—no human footfall, no ordinary step, but something far heavier, far more sinister. 

The floorboards creaked and groaned beneath the weight, their protests growing louder with each passing step, as though the house itself was writhing under the strain of whatever was descending.

I was frozen, rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the dread that gnawed at the edges of my mind. The thudding continued, relentless and unyielding, and I felt the world around me close in, as though the very walls were pushing in on me. My breath came in shallow gasps as I turned instinctively toward the kitchen—the only refuge in this forsaken house.

I stumbled toward it, my legs weak beneath me, and pushed through the swinging door, almost falling as I did. Inside, the air was thick with the stench of rot. The room was a grotesque mockery of a kitchen, a place once designed for sustenance now turned into a graveyard of forgotten meals. The counters were piled high with unwashed pots, their surfaces blackened by time and neglect. Flies buzzed in thick clouds above the rancid remnants of what might have once been food, the smell overpowering, suffocating. It was a place that seemed to exist outside of time, its filth and decay trapped in a stasis that would never end.

I pressed myself into the corner, hiding behind a tarnished wooden cabinet that had been left to rot in the damp air. The thuds from above had ceased, but the silence was just as unbearable, with the tension of something unspeakable waiting just beyond the door. I held my breath, straining to hear any movement, any sign that the thing was still near. The kitchen, with its putrid stench and filth, was the only place where I felt hidden, though the very air seemed to press against me like the weight of some terrible, ancient presence. 

And then, in the corner of my eye, something caught my attention. Beneath the cabinet, where the floorboards were slightly warped, I noticed a faint outline—an imperceptible crack in the wood that beckoned me, hidden from view by the clutter that had accumulated over the years. I felt a strange compulsion to investigate. 

Slowly, cautiously, I crawled toward the corner, my fingers trembling as I reached for the dark outline. When I touched it, the floor seemed to shift, as though it had been waiting for me to discover it. A trapdoor, small and inconspicuous, was nestled beneath the grime and the refuse, its edges worn but solid. The moment I lifted it, I felt the air change—the stale, fetid air of the kitchen now mingling with the musty, cold breath of something far below. 

The trapdoor revealed a narrow stone carved staircase that descended into a dark, yawning abyss. I stared down into the blackness, heart pounding, as the echo of the footsteps—still ringing in my ears—began to fade.

I closed the trap-door, the footsteps having dissipated. It was too late in the day to be exploring such abnormal depths. Exploration of this would have to proceed later. 

I emerged from my hiding spot, leaving the safe confines of the kitchen to the hallway, where I glanced up the stairs to a narrow nothingness. 

If there ever had been something there, it was gone now. 

With trembling hands, I found my way back to the drawing room, the dim light from the faded curtains casting long, haunting shadows across the floor. The room was as I had left it: quiet, still, a heavy sense of time weighing it down. The furniture, draped in sheets of dusty linen, stood like the forgotten specters of lives once lived. But it was the desk at the far corner that drew me in, its surface cluttered with papers, forgotten letters, and old newspapers yellowed with age. 

There, scattered amongst the remnants of a long-forgotten past, I began to search.

The stack of old newspapers was the first to catch my attention. The headlines—faded and barely legible—spoke of events long buried in the archives of time. There were articles about the city’s early days, about the Romans who had once walked these streets, their empire sprawling from the cobbled roads of Rothchester to the farthest reaches of the known world. 

But it was not the papers that truly gripped my attention, but the pile of letters, their edges curled and yellowed, some sealed with faded wax. I reached for one with a sense of dread and anticipation, my hands unsteady as I broke the seal. 

The handwriting inside was unmistakable—my uncle’s, though it seemed far more controlled than the frantic scrawls I had found in his earlier notes. This was a letter addressed to me, and my heart skipped a beat as I read the words.

“My dear Jack,” the letter began, “If you are reading this, then I fear that the worst has already come to pass. There are things in this house, things that I have tried to uncover but could not. The property you now own is no ordinary dwelling—it sits above a network of ancient passages, built by the Romans themselves, long before the city was abandoned. Beneath this house lies something far older, something that was meant to remain buried.”

The letter went on to describe the house in greater detail than I had expected. My uncle spoke of the rooms below the floorboards—secret chambers, hidden tunnels, and a “sacred hearth” buried deep in the foundation of the house.

The letter urged me to keep the house safe and undisturbed. 

I sat hunched over the desk, surrounded by the scattered remnants of my uncle’s life—books, papers, strange documents I could barely comprehend. The letter he had left me weighed heavily in my hands, but now, it was the books that demanded my attention. Among the piles of dusty, yellowed pages, one book in particular had caught my eye—a thick, leather-bound tome, its title embossed in faded gold letters: The Sacred Flame: The Roman Cult of Vesta and Its Vestal Virgins. 

It seemed too specific, too relevant to ignore, and though I could hardly bring myself to look further into the morbid details of my uncle’s warnings, something urged me to open the book. If there was to be any understanding of what I had stumbled upon, I would have to know more about these flames, these forgotten rituals.

The book felt heavier than it should have, its spine cracking as I opened it to the first page. The writing inside was clear, though it held an ancient, scholarly quality that made each word feel like a weighty discovery. The ink was dark, but the parchment was brittle, and the smell of the old paper mingled with the stale air of the room, creating an oppressive atmosphere, as though the book itself had absorbed centuries of silence. I read:

“Vesta, the Roman goddess of the hearth, was the keeper of the sacred flame that burned within the temple in her honor. This flame was not merely a source of fire—it was the essence of Rome itself, the lifeblood of the city and the empire. To extinguish the flame was to bring ruin to Rome, to sever its connection to the divine. For this reason, the flame was tended by the Vestal Virgins, priestesses bound by oath to keep the fire burning, never to let it die.”

The words seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy, and I paused, my finger tracing the text. I had heard of the Vestal Virgins, of course—those women of ancient Rome who had sworn vows of chastity and devotion to Vesta, tending the flame that was believed to safeguard the empire. But here, the flame was described as something far more significant, something that transcended mere ritual. The sacred hearth, it seemed, was not just a symbol—it was the literal manifestation of Rome’s connection to the gods.

I turned the page eagerly, my eyes scanning for more. The next section described the sacred duties of the Vestals, their solemn responsibility to guard the flame, to protect it from extinguishment. But what truly captured my attention was the passage about the hearth itself:

“The sacred hearth was not merely a fire; it was a conduit for divine power. The flame that burned within Vesta’s temple was believed to be eternal, a divine spark that could never die. To approach the hearth was to be in the presence of the gods. Yet, it was said that the flame held secrets—dark secrets—that only the Vestals could understand. It is believed that the hearth, in its purest form, could unlock hidden powers, powers that were not meant for mortal hands. Some whispered that the hearth was a gateway to realms beyond this world, a link between the earth and the heavens, a place where the divine could walk among men.”

My breath caught in my throat as I read those words. A gateway to realms beyond this world. A link between the earth and the heavens. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and I could not shake the feeling that the very thing I was reading about was the very thing that lay hidden beneath the house—the sacred hearth, the flame that had been tended by the Vestals, now waiting in the bowels of Rothchester.

I skimmed further, desperately seeking answers. The next pages spoke of the Vestal Virgins’ sacred oaths, their purity, and the consequences of failing in their duties. But what struck me most were the cryptic lines about the hearth’s potential:

“It is said that if the flame is ever extinguished, if the hearth is ever desecrated, the consequences would be catastrophic. The destruction of the flame would not only sever the divine connection to Rome, but could bring about the end of the world itself. The temple, and all its sacred rites, were built to protect this power. And should anyone attempt to steal the flame, to unearth the hearth, they would be met with the wrath of the gods. It is this knowledge—this terrible, divine knowledge—that the Vestals guarded with their very lives.”

I closed the book abruptly, my hands trembling as the weight of what I had read settled upon me. The sacred hearth. My uncle had warned me about it—had begged me not to seek it. Was this what he had feared? Had he known the terrible truth behind this hearth, this flame that could destroy the world?

I sat back in the chair, my mind racing. It was clear now that my uncle had been more than just a scholar—he had been a man who understood the depth of the darkness that lay beneath this house. The strange documents he had left behind, the books I had found—they were not just relics of a forgotten past, but pieces of a puzzle, a map to something far greater, far darker than I had ever imagined.

The book’s words echoed in my mind: If the hearth is desecrated... the end of the world.

I had thought my uncle’s warnings were the ramblings of a madman, a man who had seen too much of the horrors of the war. But now, with the book open before me and the knowledge of what lay beneath the house becoming clearer, I could not deny it any longer. The hearth was real. And it had waited for centuries, hidden beneath the weight of time and stone.

I closed the book with a heavy sigh, the fear and dread pressing upon me like an invisible force. My uncle had known what would happen if the hearth was disturbed. He had seen the signs. But what had he done to try to stop it? And what, in God’s name, was I supposed to do now?

I could feel the house itself shifting, its silent walls pressing closer, as though it were closing in on me. The hearth was calling, and no matter how much I tried to resist, I knew that I would soon have no choice but to face it.

I lay in bed, the dampness of the sheets seeping into my skin, sending shivers down my spine with every restless movement. 

The room was chilly, and the old, creaking house seemed to groan in response to the weight of the night pressing against it. The damp scent of mildew lingered in the air, thick and suffocating, mingling with the stale smell of rotting wood. I had tried to sleep, tried to find some small comfort in the bed that was far too soft, too unfamiliar, but my mind was restless, swirling with thoughts that refused to let me rest.

The labyrinth of ruins beneath the house haunted me. I could not stop thinking about it—those dark, forgotten chambers, those passageways that twisted down into the bowels of the earth, hidden from the world for centuries. What could be down there? What treasures, what secrets, what powers lay buried beneath the house? I had thought only of escape—the thought that something hidden in those ancient Roman ruins might hold the key to a life free from the poverty and solitude that had defined my existence. 

The prospect of riches, of unlocking the history of the house, gnawed at me, but I could not bring myself to go down there. The thought of the sacred hearth, of the warning my uncle had left me, kept me rooted in place, as though some invisible force were holding me back.

Outside the window, the night was alive with horrific shrieks and cries—sounds that echoed through the streets of Rothchester, sharp and primal, like the last screams of someone fighting for their life. The noise was frantic, chaotic, and it set my teeth on edge. I tried to ignore it, to roll over and bury my head beneath the covers, but it was impossible to shut it out.

I could hear the dull thud of feet, the clatter of some kind of scuffle, and then the terrible, guttural silence that followed. It was as though a murder had occurred right outside the house—brutal, swift, and unrelenting. The shrieks faded into nothing, leaving behind an emptiness, an oppressive stillness, as if the city itself had been swallowed whole by the darkness.

I could not escape the feeling of dread that weighed down on me, a constant presence in the room. The house seemed to breathe around me, the walls whispering things I couldn’t understand. I closed my eyes, desperately trying to shut out the world, but sleep refused to come. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the ruins again—the tunnels, the sacred hearth, the face of a woman in tattered white robes. I could feel her watching me, as if the house had become alive, its very walls pulsing with some kind of malignant intent. 

I could hear the thuds again—heavy footsteps, each step measured, deliberate.

My breath caught in my throat. They were coming up the stairs.

The footsteps grew louder, heavy and steady, their rhythm unnervingly slow, as though whoever—or whatever—was walking knew no fear. I could hear them clearly now, the distinct sound of boots or shoes scraping against the old wood of the stairs, the weight of each step leaving an indelible mark on the silence of the house. I held my breath, my eyes fixed on the door, my heart pounding in my chest. 

They were coming closer—closer to the bedroom. The footsteps were now right outside the door, and the room felt colder than ever, as though the very air had frozen.

I could not move. My limbs were frozen, my body unwilling to obey my frantic commands. The door creaked open slowly, the hinges groaning in protest as if to warn me of what was coming. 

And then she appeared.

A woman, dressed in a flowing white gown, her movements graceful and fluid, as though she were not walking at all, but floating above the ground. Her figure was ethereal, almost otherworldly, and she seemed to glide into the room, her face pale and smooth, like a marble statue—a face devoid of emotion, yet strangely beautiful in its perfection. Her hair cascaded down her back in waves of silken white, and her eyes—wide and unblinking—held an eerie emptiness. 

She looked at me, but not as a person would look—no recognition, no warmth, only the cold, dispassionate gaze of something that had transcended the realm of the living.

I could not move. I could not speak.

The woman in white glided toward the bed, her bare feet making no sound as she floated just inches above the floor. She moved closer—closer still—until she was standing beside the bed, her face hovering above me. I felt the chill radiating from her, the icy breath of death itself. The silence between us stretched on, suffocating in its weight, and I could feel my heart thudding against my chest, so loud it seemed to echo through the room.

And then, just as slowly and silently as she had come, the woman in white began to move backward. She did not turn, did not step. She simply glided in reverse, as though time itself had been rewound, the very laws of nature undone.

I could see her fading from my view, her ethereal form retreating back toward the door. She passed through the threshold, and I could hear the soft thuds of her descent down the stairs, each step echoing like the death knell of some long-forgotten memory. 

The sound grew fainter with each passing second, until it was swallowed by the oppressive silence of the house once again.

I lay there, frozen in place, my breath shallow and quick, the pounding of my heart still reverberating in my ears. 

Had I imagined it? Was it the product of my sleep-deprived mind, twisted by the horrors I had encountered beneath the house? But no—there was no denying what I had seen, what I had felt. The woman in white had been real. She had come from the depths of this house, from the very bowels of the ruinous labyrinth that lay below.

As I lay there in the stillness, I felt something else. It was a presence, a presence that had been waiting, watching, from the shadows. The house itself, it seemed, was not merely old—it was alive, alive with something ancient and terrible, something that could not be ignored.

I closed my eyes tightly, trying to shut out the visions of the woman and the footsteps, trying to block the sound of the creaking house, but I knew one thing for certain now—there was something beneath this house. Something that had been waiting for centuries. 

Sleep would not come tonight. 

____

As the first light of morning filtered through the grimy window, I finally rose from the bed, my limbs stiff from the restless night. My body ached, but my mind was sharp with determination. 

The terror of the woman in white, her face as lifeless and perfect as marble, lingered at the edge of my thoughts, but it was the pull of the ruins—the buried history—that gnawed at me. 

There were answers down there, I was certain of it. My uncle had known something, had uncovered something that he couldn’t escape. Perhaps, with the knowledge I could find in the depths of the house, I would finally understand. Perhaps I could find something valuable—something that would free me from this life of misery and isolation.

I moved to the desk, my gaze sweeping over the cluttered surface, the scattered papers and books that seemed to hold so much and so little at the same time. I had to prepare.

I quickly searched the room, my hands trembling, knowing that whatever I needed—whether for light, for protection, or for comfort—I would have to find it now. The thought of descending into the dark without any means of seeing or defending myself was unbearable. I spotted a lighter in the corner, tucked among the mess of old papers and forgotten belongings. It was small, battered, but it would do. I grabbed it, testing the flicker of the flame, watching as it caught and sputtered into life, casting a faint glow in the dim room. It would be enough to guide me through the darkness.

Next, I turned my attention to the fire poker, a heavy, iron rod that rested beside the hearth. Its long, curved shape seemed to promise some small semblance of safety, a weapon of sorts to defend myself if the house itself—if the very ruins—decided to fight back.

I gripped it tightly in my hand, feeling the cold steel beneath my fingers. It was an odd comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

I moved to the larder, the shelves lined with the remnants of whatever my uncle had eaten in his final days. The stale bread tasted like cardboard, dry and crumbling in my mouth. It reminded me of the tales of naval soldiers out at sea fighting for Queen Victoria who feasted on stale bread and biscuits, ridden with maggots. But it was sustenance.

I washed it down with a bottle of ale, the bitter liquid soothing my dry throat, dulling the edge of my fear. It was the closest thing to a meal I could manage, and in that moment, it was enough.

With a final glance around the room, I felt an odd sense of finality settle over me. I was ready—or at least as ready as I would ever be. The house was waiting, its dark heart hidden beneath the floor, calling to me with an ancient hunger. There was no turning back now.

I returned to the trapdoor, the same door that had beckoned me into the depths the night before. My hand hovered over the worn wood for a moment, the faint tremor in my fingers betraying the terror that still clung to me. But the pull was too strong—the urge to uncover the secrets below, to finally lay bare the truth that had eluded me, was overwhelming. 

With a deep breath, I opened the trapdoor, the cold air from below rushing up to meet me, carrying with it the scent of damp stone and earth. 

_____

The staircase spiraled downward into the blackness, the narrow steps slick with damp and debris. 

As I descended, the air grew colder, a biting chill in the air like the touch of the virgins hand.

The faint flicker of the lighter was my only guidance in the suffocating dark, its flame casting an irregular circle of illumination around me, fighting against the oppressive void that swallowed everything beyond its reach. Each step I took seemed to pull me deeper into the earth, into a world that had been abandoned by time. The silence, deafening—an all-encompassing voidial quiet that pressed against my ears, the only sound my own breath, shallow and quick, and the occasional rustle of my clothing.

The steps were old, worn by centuries of use, the weight of the stone beneath me, solid and unyielding, as though it had been carved from the bones of the earth itself. 

The damp walls around me seemed to pulse with a faint, rhythmic vibration, as though the very rock itself was alive, breathing in time with my own anxious heartbeats. The air was thick with the smell of earth and decay, mingled with something far darker—a faint, sulfurous stench, as though the depths below had never known sunlight, had never been touched by the world above. 

The light from the flame wavered, casting the shadows into strange, contorted shapes that danced and flickered against the stone walls. For a brief moment, I swore I saw faces—ghastly visages, twisted and silent—lurking just at the edge of the light, but when I turned, they vanished into the dark.

I descended further down into the madness.

My hand clutched the fire poker tightly, its cold iron reassuring and steady in my grip, though I knew deep down that it would be little protection against whatever ancient thing might lurk in the darkness below. I tried not to think about the ruins, the Roman remnants my uncle had hinted at, of what those ancient people had left behind. 

What had they known? What had they worshiped? And why had my uncle left me a warning, a warning that seemed more like a curse?

I could hear the soft drip of water somewhere in the distance, falling into the dark, its sound echoing off the walls. The flame of the lighter sputtered once, and for a terrible moment, I thought it might die entirely, plunging me into utter darkness. But it caught again, trembling in the still air, and I sighed in relief.

And then, at last, I reached the bottom. 

The stairs ended abruptly, opening up into a wide, cavernous space. The lighter cast a weak glow over the stone floor, but the edges of the room were lost to shadow, an abyss I could not penetrate.

There was no echo, no sound, save for the distant, rhythmic drip of water, and I realized, with a sickening sense of dread, that I was standing in the heart of something much older than the house itself. 

The floor was uneven, cracked in places, and as I stepped forward, my foot hit something hard, something metallic buried in the dust. I knelt to examine it, my fingers brushing against an old, rusted piece of iron, perhaps part of an ancient structure, or maybe a tool left behind by those who had come before. I pushed it aside, and it clattered to the ground with a sound too sharp for the silence that surrounded me

I edged forward cautiously, my hand gripping the fire poker tighter as I moved deeper into the cavern, the light from the flickering lighter casting long, tremulous shadows that twisted and danced around me. Every step I took seemed to echo in the suffocating silence of the space.

Then I spotted it—a glimmer in the dark. 

A wrought-iron sconce, its shape obscured by layers of dust and cobwebs, clung to a crumbling  wall from some forgotten time. The sconce itself was ancient, its design simple yet regal, with curling tendrils of iron that reached out like the arms of a long-dead creature. I hesitated for a moment, my heart racing, before I moved toward it.

With trembling fingers, I held the lighter close to the dry sconce, its flame flickering weakly in the damp air. It caught quickly, the flame casting a bright, unsteady glow.

Then, the scone ignited with a rapturous enthusiasm, sending a small, warm glow rippling outward. For the first time since my descent into the depths, I felt the oppressive weight of the darkness lifting, the shadows retreating slightly, allowing me a glimpse of what lay beyond.

Before me lay a long-forgotten Roman settlement — an entire city buried beneath the earth, hidden from the world for centuries. It stretched out in every direction, the ruins sprawling across the cavern floor like the remains of a once-great civilization.

Columns, grand and crumbled, stood like ancient sentinels, their once-mighty marble forms now covered in a thick layer of dust and grime. Some were shattered, their broken pieces scattered across the ground like fallen giants, while others stood tall, their cracked surfaces still holding the faint echo of their original glory. The flagstones beneath my feet were cracked and worn, their edges curling, but the city was unmistakable.

Tattered flags fluttered weakly from the remains of long-abandoned flagpoles, their faded colors now indistinguishable, but their designs still hinting at the grandeur that had once adorned this place. The windless air carried the faintest rustle, as though the flags were moving of their own accord, pulled by some unseen force. It was as if the settlement, though abandoned, was still alive in some strange, intangible way, waiting to be rediscovered.

I took another step forward, my eyes scanning the surrounding area. Everywhere I looked, there were signs of the city’s former life. Skeletons, some still clad in rusted armor, lay scattered among the ruins. The bones were brittle and worn, some reduced to mere fragments, others still holding some semblance of form. 

Roman shields, spears, and swords, now corroded beyond recognition, lay strewn across the ground, their once-sharp edges dulled by centuries of decay. The armor, tarnished and rusted, hung like ghosts of the past, their shapes barely discernible beneath the thick layers of dust. The air seemed to pulse with the weight of their presence, as though the spirits of those who had once inhabited this place still lingered, bound to the stone and the ruins that had once been their home.

Rats scurried across the floor, their tiny feet clicking on the stone like whispers. The creatures moved in and out of the shadows, darting between the remnants of Roman architecture, their eyes glinting in the dim light.  Their frantic movements and squeaks echoed in the cavern, the only sound that dared to break the deathly silence.

The farther I walked, the more I could see—the remnants of the streets, the outlines of buildings whose walls had long since crumbled into nothing. Some of the buildings were little more than piles of rubble, their stone foundations barely recognizable. 

Others, however, still stood strong, their outer walls intact but scarred by the passage of time. Faint carvings, inscriptions, and faded frescoes adorned the remaining structures, their meanings lost to history. It was as though this place had once been a thriving hub, a testament to the might of the Roman Empire, now reduced to nothing.

In the heart of the settlement, towering over the ruins, stood a temple—its outline sharp and imposing against the cavern’s jagged walls. It was grand in scale, though much of its once-pristine surface was now crumbled and decayed. 

The columns that supported the structure were broken in places, but they still stood firm, reaching up toward the cavern ceiling as if yearning for the light of the sun that had not touched them for centuries. The temple’s entrance was dark, its doors long gone, replaced by the silent, yawning void that led into its shadowed interior.

"That must be where I will find the sacred hearth." I thought to myself.

I walked slowly toward the temple, my eyes scanning the floor with a mixture of reverence and greed. The stone beneath my feet crunched with the weight of centuries—dust and debris scattered across the ruins.

As I moved, my gaze lingered on the ground, searching for anything that might have been left behind, any treasures that might have escaped the ravages of time. My desperation drove me onward.

I came to a small group of skeletons, their preservation much more impressive. I examined them closely, looking for anything of value that could aid my squalor. 

There, half-buried in the dust, a glint of something caught my eye. I knelt and carefully brushed the dirt away, revealing a small bronze coin, its surface worn and aged by centuries of neglect. The image on the coin was indistinct—faded from years of exposure to the elements—but the craftsmanship was unmistakable.

It was Roman, no doubt. I held it up to the light, the dull bronze gleaming faintly in the dim glow of the sconce. I pocketed it quickly, my fingers trembling with the thrill of the find.

As I moved further into the space, I continued to search the floor, each step careful, deliberate. The settlement was eerily quiet, save for the soft scurry of rats in the shadows. My eyes darted from one spot to another, every inch of the floor seeming to hold some small secret, some hidden relic. Then, as I moved past a collapsed column, something else caught my eye.

It was a skeletal hand, half-buried in the dirt, the bones brittle and white, their former flesh long since gone. But there, nestled in the fingers of the hand, was something unmistakable. A glint of gold. 

My breath caught in my throat as I carefully pried the bones apart, revealing a small gold coin, its surface gleaming despite the years of grime and dust. I held it up to the light, the intricately detailed image of a Roman emperor, his face still recognizable.

This was no mere copper or bronze coin. This was gold—pure, solid, precious.

I placed it in my pocket with the others, my hands shaking now, a sense of greed and urgency rising within me. The thrill of discovery was a powerful thing, and the thought of what else might be hidden in this forgotten city—the treasures, the secrets—made my pulse race.

As I moved closer to the temple, I spotted something else—a gleam of gold among the scattered bones. It was a ring, buried beneath the remains of a shattered skeleton. I knelt beside it, brushing aside the dusty remains to reveal a simple gold band, its surface worn and tarnished with age. 

Set into the band were small, dull green jewels, their once-brilliant color now muted and faded by time. The ring was beautiful, despite its wear, and I could tell it had once been valuable—perhaps a symbol of status, perhaps something more. 

Without hesitation, I slipped it into my pocket.

With a final glance around the ruins, I turned my attention to the temple itself.

The stone pillars, though cracked and broken in places, still reached high toward the cavern ceiling, their surfaces weathered by centuries of neglect. The entrance was wide open, its doorway a gaping mouth into the dark. 

I stepped inside, my footfalls muffled by the thick dust that had accumulated on the marble floor. The space inside was vast, an open area with the remnants of what had once been a place of reverence, of worship. Faded mosaics covered the floor, their colors dull and muted but still discernible—scenes of Roman gods and emperors, now forgotten, their stories lost to the ages. 

At the far end of the open area stood a staircase up the a higher level, the stairs lined with wall-mounted sconces on the way up. 

With brevity and no hesitation, I made for the stairs. I bounded up them, lighting a few of the sconces on the way up. 

The temple room before me was unlike anything I had ever imagined—vast, majestic, and haunting in its silent, decaying grandeur.

It was as though time itself had both revered and ravaged this space, leaving behind the remnants of an ancient splendor that now lay buried in the shadows of the cavern. 

The space stretched wide, the ceiling soaring high above, but the faintest traces of old frescoes could still be seen on the vaulted arches, their colors dulled by centuries of neglect but still hinting at the vibrancy they must have once held. 

They depicted scenes of gods and goddesses, of Roman victories and divine triumphs, as if the very heavens themselves had once descended to grace this holy ground.

The walls of the temple were lined with columns—massive marble pillars that rose high into the air, their once-polished surfaces now worn and cracked, but still grand in their stature. The columns were arranged in a circular pattern around the room, framing the sacred space like ancient sentinels.

The floor beneath my feet was covered in faded mosaics, once vibrant with color, now dulled and faded by centuries of exposure. The patterns were intricate—delicate swirls and geometric shapes interspersed with scenes of divine figures and mythical beasts. The fragments of what had once been a beautiful and intricate design were still visible, though much of it had eroded with time. Small, scattered pieces of broken tile lay abandoned where the mosaics had once been whole. 

In the center of the room, the sacred hearth stood, its large stone basin still majestic despite the centuries of neglect.

It was a perfect circle, carved from smooth, cold stone, its surface worn from the touch of countless hands, yet it still held an aura of power, an energy that radiated from the very stone itself. 

The remnants of old offerings—faded and decayed flowers, fragments of pottery, bits of cloth that had once been offerings to the gods surrounded the basin. These offerings, long turned to dust, still clung to the hearth like whispers of the past, echoes of the rituals that had once taken place here.

The sacred flame was unlit. 

And then, in the far corner, near the base of the altar, I saw it—a figure. A skeleton, draped in the tattered remains of a robe, the fabric now little more than dust and shreds, but the robe's original form still discernible. It was the remains of a Vestal Virgin, perhaps, one of the priestesses who had once tended this sacred flame. The skeleton’s bones were brittle, fragile, yet they still held an eerie dignity.

The figure lay slumped beside the hearth, its arms outstretched toward the stone, in a final act of devotion.

This was her.

The figure—the woman in white—I had seen her, or at least something like her, in the house. Her pale face, so perfect and lifeless, like a marble statue. The way she had glided into my bedroom, her white gown flowing behind her like the veil of death itself. The way she had watched me, her eyes cold, empty, as if she were not truly part of this world anymore. It was impossible to ignore the similarities now—the way she had floated, the way her presence had felt ancient, sacred, and yet undeniably terrifying. The way she had moved in reverse, back through the door, down the stairs, as though she had been rewound by some unseen force, retreating into the past from which she had come.

Now, standing in the temple, looking down at the skeletal remains of the Vestal Virgin, the pieces of the puzzle began to click together with a horrifying clarity. The woman in white, the spirit that had haunted the house, had to have been this very priestess, or something of her.

Her essence, her spirit—perhaps even the very remnants of her devotion—had remained trapped here, tied to the hearth, to the sacred flame that had long since gone cold.  

An innocent soul lingering in the dark, trapped within the walls of the house, perhaps waiting for someone to find her and re-light her sacred duty, 

A wave of dread swept over me as I realized the truth: this house was not just haunted by the past, it was a place where the past was alive, where the dead walked alongside the living, tethered to the earth by forces I could barely comprehend. I had been drawn here, into this web of forgotten rituals and ancient power, and the Vestal Virgin—her spirit, her very essence—had been waiting for me. 

I could feel it now, the oppressive weight of her gaze, even in death. It was as though she had been calling to me from the moment I stepped through the door, urging me to uncover her failed duty to the Roman Empire beneath this house.

As I stood there, trembling before the skeletal remains of the Vestal Virgin, my eyes caught sight of something else—a small, delicate envelope tucked beside the decayed bones.

It was addressed to me. 

______

"This house, this place—I have known its dark secrets for far too long, and now, you too have uncovered them. But there is one thing I must ask of you, with every ounce of desperation left in my heart: do not disturb the hearth. Ignore the woman in white, regardless of how desperate her attempts to lure you here are. 

It has waited for centuries, untouched, hidden away beneath the earth, its power dormant but ever-present. It must never be ignited again. If you light the flame, you will bring the glory of a long-fallen empire back to life. 

Rome will return, but not as it once was. This flame, which once protected and illuminated, will now burn in such fury that it will consume all—consumed by the fire of its own hubris, expansionism and corruption, the same fire that brought ruin to the empire in the first place.

I beg of you: do not disturb the sacred hearth. If you do, the world as we know it will unravel. The very foundations of the earth will tremble under the weight of the empire’s return, and the flames of greed will spread unchecked, swallowing all that remains. The ruins we now stand in will become a battleground once more.

You may think this is the rambling of an old man, driven mad by what he has seen. But know this: I have uncovered the truth. 

Keep this place hidden. Do not let anyone else discover it. The world has already suffered enough. The glory of Rome cannot rise again, but if lit, it will rise to consume everything in its path. 

I implore you—leave this place undisturbed, and keep it hidden from those who may come searching. The flame must never be lit again. Not for the sake of curiosity, nor for the promise of wealth, nor for the foolish hope of glory. Leave it all behind. 

With love and regret,

Your Uncle, Harrison." 

I looked at the hearth, the cold stone that had once housed the sacred flame, and a strange impulse began to rise within me—a temptation, a desire to prove something, to take control of the terrible world that had so scarred me.

 I thought of the war—of the horrors humanity had witnessed, the lives lost, the cities destroyed.

I thought of the endless suffering that had consumed the world, the scars that would never heal. 

Could it be possible? Could lighting the hearth, awakening the power that lay dormant beneath the earth, bring about something better? A new world, free from the chains of history, from the mistakes of the past?

The Romans, after-all, were a kind of blessing. They brought civilization, prosperity, hygiene, law and order. They carved a world in their likeness and governed with fair rule, absorbing those conquered into their way of life but allowing them to continue their own religious beliefs. 

Perhaps they deserved a second chance. 

I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing the cold metal of the lighter I had carried down with me.

The flame flickered weakly in my hand, its tiny glow the only thing standing between me and the decision that would change everything. For a moment, I hesitated. 

The warning was clear. My uncle had begged me not to light the hearth, to leave it alone. But as I stood in the silence of the temple, staring at the relics of a long-forgotten empire, something stirred within me. It was a desire, a need to change the world that had been so cruel and unrelenting.

I knelt before it, the lighter in my hand, the flame now steady as I held it close to the long burnt out kindling. 

The flame caught, casting a flickering, golden light across the stone. The hearth responded, its cold surface warming beneath my touch as the fire slowly, cautiously, ignited. 

The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with expectation, as the flame grew brighter, brighter than it had ever been.

I watched as the fire danced, and for a brief moment, everything seemed to still—to pause. 

And then, in an instant, the flame grew, blazing to life, filling the room with a warmth and a power that was ancient and unstoppable. 

The light flooded the temple, spilling out from the hearth, casting long, shifting shadows across the broken ruins.

I had done it. The flame was burning.

I stood frozen, the lighter in my trembling hand, the flame sputtering in the silence of the temple. The weight of my uncle’s words, the warning he had left for me, pressed heavily on my chest. 

My heart raced, my mind a chaotic swirl of fear and fascination. 

The fire flickered, crackling louder with every passing second, and for a moment, I thought I saw something—something shifting in the shadows.

The air seemed to pulse with a sudden, overwhelming energy. The temple itself alive, as though the very walls and stones were shifting and stretching in response to the flame. 

A deep, resonant sound filled the room—a sound unlike any I had ever heard before. Distant, echoing trumpets blared from the skies above the house, shrill and clear even this far below ground like the calls of celestial beings. They echoed from far above, from the heavens themselves, as though the gods were announcing the return of something long lost.

The skeleton of the Vestal Virgin, which had lain slumped beside the hearth, began to stir. Her bones, brittle and cracked with age, shifted as though animated by some unseen force. Slowly, the figure rose, the tattered remains of her robe fluttering like the ghost of a long-dead flame. She stood before the hearth, her once lifeless eyes now glowing with an eerie light.

 She moved toward the fire, her hands reaching out with purpose, and as if drawn by the sacred flame itself, she began to tend to it, her fingers moving with the grace of someone who had once performed this task for the gods themselves. The hearth crackled with life, its warmth filling the temple as if it had never been extinguished.

And then, the ruins began to change.

The world around me trembled as the forgotten city stirred to life. The columns—broken, cracked, and worn—began to straighten, their shattered fragments reforming. The dust that had covered everything for centuries lifted as if swept away by an unseen wind, and the columns gleamed once more, their white marble polished to a brilliant shine. 

Gold trimmings adorned them, intricate patterns of vines and leaves now visible in their once-ornate carvings. 

The flags that had once hung limp from the decayed poles now fluttered in a wind that did not exist, their faded colors restored, dancing in the air. 

Tapestries, once torn and faded, now appeared in the air, unfurling as if conjured by some ancient magic. They hung from the walls, rich with color, depicting scenes of triumph and glory, of gods and emperors, of Rome’s might and majesty. 

The ruined city that had been swallowed by time was being reborn—its streets re-paved with perfect stones, its buildings rising from the rubble, their facades adorned with white pure.

The music began to play, its discordant notes rising from the heavens.

It was a symphony of madness, a cacophony of unheard instruments that twisted the air with their unnatural sound. The melody was both beautiful and horrific, each note striking at my very soul, a sound that tortured my mind and rattled my bones. The instruments played, but I could not see them—only hear their dreadful, alien song. 

I stumbled back, my heart pounding in my chest, my vision blurring with the overwhelming force of the sound and the surrounding spectacle. The sacred flame burned bright, too bright, casting shadows that danced like ghosts across the temple’s mosaic floor. 

The Vestal Virgin moved with precision, her hands delicate as she stoked the fire, tending the flame to the terrible mind shattering music conducted by an unseen orchestra. 

I turned and fled.

My legs moved without thought, carrying me back through the temple, through the ruins, as the sound of the music and the blaring trumpets followed me. I stumbled up the flight of stairs to the house, the weight of the moment crushing down on me with each step.

The house—my uncle’s house—was no longer the crumbling, decaying structure it had once been. It had transformed. The doors, once weathered and broken, were now adorned in gleaming gold gilt, their surfaces smooth and regal, as though they had been forged in a different era. 

The rotten walls had turned into massive blocks of white stone, each one perfectly aligned, as if the house itself had been reborn from the ashes of the past. It stood tall and proud.

I stepped out into the street, my eyes wide with disbelief. The entire town had changed. Every building now gleamed with gold decor, Roman pillars adorned the facades of the homes, standing tall. 

Flags and drapes hung from the windows, their vibrant colors fluttering in the windless air. The city had transformed into something magnificent, something beautiful. Statues of gods and emperors, now gleaming with fresh coats of gilded gold, lined the streets. Their faces were serene but cold, their eyes staring down at the world, watching with eternal judgment. They loomed above me, silent sentinels.

Above me, angels flew high in the sky, their wings glistening in the light of a sun that had not yet risen. The angels looked like those depicted and adorned on religious tapestries with plump rosy cheeks. 

They blew their trumpets, their music joining the dreadful symphony that still echoed from the heavens, as though the very sky itself had opened to herald the return of something biblical. The angels’ trumpets rang out, and I realized, with a sickening jolt, that this was Rome, in all its glory, a celebration of a pact reforged with the re-lighting of this lost hearth. 

As I walked, I noticed the smell that filled the air. It was rich, almost heady—incense, mingled with the faintest traces of flowers and myrrh, rising from the streets, curling in the windless air. The fragrance seemed to emanate from the buildings themselves, as if the very stone and marble of the city had absorbed centuries of offerings to the gods, now spilling out into the world once more.

I looked up again, and as I did, the sky seemed to shift—no longer the grey of a world tainted by war, but a rich, golden hue, as though the heavens themselves had been painted in the colors of Rome’s glory. 

The clouds were no longer soft and drifting; they had become vast banners of rich reds and purples, streaked with gold, billowing across the sky like the flags of a divine procession. The sky itself was alive, alive with the power of the empire that had returned. 

Angels, with their gleaming trumpets, drifted through the golden expanse, their wings catching the light as they moved with grace and purpose.

This was Rome—but it was not the Rome I had read about in history books. This was a new Rome, risen from the ashes, a divine empire that had come back to reclaim its place at the center of the world. And as I stood there, amidst the glory and the terror, I realized that I had done this.

I had ignited the flame. I had called it forth.

It was utterly magnificent.