Welcome to the Castle on Tarrabee Moor
The legend is old, a tale often told.
No keys to the locks on the doors.
But the dead fill the halls
And ghosts walk through walls
In the Castle on Tarrabee Moor.
How many times have you ridden your horse across this barren landscape? The moors are desolate and bleak but the solitude lets you think. Nothing here except bogs and grass and pits of wet peat as deadly as quicksand; it's been that way since long before men came to this land and will be so long after your grandchildren's grandchildren's tombstones are dust.
The sun drifts low against the western horizon and the shadows lengthen, and for no reason your horse decides to bolt. Rearing up as though terrified she throws you and you thud onto the moist soil of the moor. Before you can gather your senses the steed is gone and you are alone.
Calling your now-absent mount creative names you clamber to your feet and begin the long walk back to that village you passed several miles ago. The air is growing chill as the sun's last auric sliver winks out below the horizon and you shudder, as much with the cold as with the thought that you will be stuck on Tarrabee Moors after dark. Legends, old wive's tales, and rumors about this desolate place begin to swirl like dead, dry, windblown leaves in your thoughts. The old men call this place blighted; the old women whisper of curses that rotted the soil and poisoned the waters that eternally feed the bogs. Your rational mind calls these tales hogwash, but another voice deep inside you is not convinced.
Cresting a hill, you see a castle where you know none stood a week ago when you last came this way. The distant windows are dark, staring outwards like the sightless eyes of a dead thing. The walls are shadowed and spattered with mossy lichen; from this distance it looks like mold on a forgotten and neglected gravestone. Did you just hear a voice whisper your name? Or was it an aural illusion caused by the wind muttering among the turrets and towers of the old place?
Whichever it is, you have little choice. The moors are a dangerous place in the dark. Too many wayfarers die of the damp chill or meet a horrifying end in some bottomless peat bog because they walked these fields when it was too dark to see. Even if this weird castle is abandoned you may find shelter for the night and a place to build a fire to keep the chill at bay. Gathering your courage you descend the hillock towards the shadowy ediface -- a few hundred steps and a massive, black, oaken front door become visible. That's where you head.
You grasp the iron handle of the door -- so cold in your fingers! -- but before you can pull on it the door moves. With a soft grinding of old hinges the door opens to reveal a man in the shadows. A smell -- incense, sandalwood, and the mustiness of aged and closed rooms reaches you. The man smiles, but the smile somehow never reaches his gray eyes.
"Welcome, Traveler," he says. "Welcome to Tarrabee Castle. This is a place where things are not always as they appear. A strange and mysterious place it is, a place of laughter and of tears, of great love and...sometimes...blinding terror. Many are the brave souls who have entered here, and none have emerged unchanged.
"Within these walls are things which, I hope, will make you think...and perhaps discover some inner truths about yourself that you never suspected. But beware -- this castle contains things not for the timid, weak, or young. If you proceed beyond this point, you have been warned."
He steps aside, beckoning you to enter. "Do come in, dear Traveler. I'll brew some tea and we will talk. You may call me Stephen. This is my home and world."
WARNING!
Although I've tried to keep this website free of explicit sex it does contain text and imagery that deals with violence and frightening things. If you don't want to read such things then I'd suggest you don't proceed on this site.
The sun drifts low against the western horizon and the shadows lengthen, and for no reason your horse decides to bolt. Rearing up as though terrified she throws you and you thud onto the moist soil of the moor. Before you can gather your senses the steed is gone and you are alone.
Calling your now-absent mount creative names you clamber to your feet and begin the long walk back to that village you passed several miles ago. The air is growing chill as the sun's last auric sliver winks out below the horizon and you shudder, as much with the cold as with the thought that you will be stuck on Tarrabee Moors after dark. Legends, old wive's tales, and rumors about this desolate place begin to swirl like dead, dry, windblown leaves in your thoughts. The old men call this place blighted; the old women whisper of curses that rotted the soil and poisoned the waters that eternally feed the bogs. Your rational mind calls these tales hogwash, but another voice deep inside you is not convinced.
Cresting a hill, you see a castle where you know none stood a week ago when you last came this way. The distant windows are dark, staring outwards like the sightless eyes of a dead thing. The walls are shadowed and spattered with mossy lichen; from this distance it looks like mold on a forgotten and neglected gravestone. Did you just hear a voice whisper your name? Or was it an aural illusion caused by the wind muttering among the turrets and towers of the old place?
Whichever it is, you have little choice. The moors are a dangerous place in the dark. Too many wayfarers die of the damp chill or meet a horrifying end in some bottomless peat bog because they walked these fields when it was too dark to see. Even if this weird castle is abandoned you may find shelter for the night and a place to build a fire to keep the chill at bay. Gathering your courage you descend the hillock towards the shadowy ediface -- a few hundred steps and a massive, black, oaken front door become visible. That's where you head.
You grasp the iron handle of the door -- so cold in your fingers! -- but before you can pull on it the door moves. With a soft grinding of old hinges the door opens to reveal a man in the shadows. A smell -- incense, sandalwood, and the mustiness of aged and closed rooms reaches you. The man smiles, but the smile somehow never reaches his gray eyes.
"Welcome, Traveler," he says. "Welcome to Tarrabee Castle. This is a place where things are not always as they appear. A strange and mysterious place it is, a place of laughter and of tears, of great love and...sometimes...blinding terror. Many are the brave souls who have entered here, and none have emerged unchanged.
"Within these walls are things which, I hope, will make you think...and perhaps discover some inner truths about yourself that you never suspected. But beware -- this castle contains things not for the timid, weak, or young. If you proceed beyond this point, you have been warned."
He steps aside, beckoning you to enter. "Do come in, dear Traveler. I'll brew some tea and we will talk. You may call me Stephen. This is my home and world."
WARNING!
Although I've tried to keep this website free of explicit sex it does contain text and imagery that deals with violence and frightening things. If you don't want to read such things then I'd suggest you don't proceed on this site.