Prologue
Long ago, a century to be exact, there was a town called Kingston Falls. In the heart of Massachusetts.
And in this small town, there was a manor of historical content. The walls were brick, brittle yet painted with meaning. The area was coated in plants, trees hung high as the canopy covered the roof; the leaves shined from the sunshine, and the roots dug far beneath the ground right underneath it. The lilies, daffodils, and posies swayed in the breeze, cool as it kissed your skin and made your hair sway along with it. Yet, the roses never shined brighter, the blood red color glowing a mile a minute.
The manor sat atop the tall hill, showering its magnificence over the town, stalking it with its glass stained windows, as if it had a good eye, watching them like someone was there. The inside was red cherry oak, the walls made of it with rows of themed paintings with ancient history hanging on the walls. Important, memorable people. Family members. The same ones who walked those very same halls.
But there were also ones of creatures. Beasts. And the unknown.
Just like them.
They were known as the Coven. Members of six. Each blessed but also cursed with tremendous prowess.
Each of them had a story. All suffered tragedy. But they shared the same dream. The same goal. The same twisted fantasy. They believed that the human world held secrets; secrets of an unknown place that held tremendous delights beyond their wildest dreams.
The Other Side. The afterlife. The land where gods and higher beings rule our world with wisdom, conscience but power. Where the spirits of the dead roam freely and in peace.
The Coven dedicated this possibility and goal by forging together their group, which felt like a family to them. They all had enough in common, from similar interests of the supernatural to But there were those who sought them out as loony in the head. Crazy. Or what you'd expect . . . freaks. But they ignored the non-believers, known as the local townspeople, and pursued after their goal.
Rose Manor was the name of their sanctum, a gift from Malcolm Kingston, the owner of the manor and their leader. His grandfather had founded the town and named it after their family name, earning them good fortune and good image. However, Malcolm's beliefs of the supernatural power made him to strive for the better, from his family fortune to earning the manor from his late grandfather. His dying wish be that he find his purpose in life. And he did.
Or so he thought.
Each member suffered a grave lost; another thing they had in common, followed by them discovering their gift. Another common thing. Coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not.
Each was blessed with the power of total control over an element. They all believed it was a gift from the Gods, to relieve them from the pain of their losses. Water, fire, earth, and air; you name it. But one had control over telepathy and telekinesis. Moving objects; animals; even people, using their mind.
But Malcolm's gift topped the rest.
His gift wavered from light to shadow; meaning his life force; his soul, was unstable with light and dark energy, allowing him to change life around him. From the state of nature to affecting the weather. The days he looked out the window, when he was happy he was greeted by the shining sun. However, whenever he grew upset or frustrated, the weather quickly changed to a horrendous storm that seemed to go on all night.
He could also see things before they happened. He had cunning instincts and moved swiftly and agile, like a trained gymnast and acrobat put together. One time, while he was reading a book while walking down the hallway to the living room, he sensed something off. And before he knew it, he jumped out of the way just in time before the chandelier collapsed. In the exact same spot where he was just a moment ago.
Malcolm's gift was in many ways unique for him. It was incredible. It was . . . unnatural.
Then one day, their final night together started.
Dressed in sleek blood red robes, covering him down to his feet, Malcolm checked himself out in his tall mirror in his bedroom. Tonight is the night. When everything changes for the better. He repeated it over and over again. Just as he was ready to leave, he looked over to his writing desk to see a journal. His journal. He went over and entered his latest entry. Malcolm writes out his life like a story page for page. Even the bad times. Ever since he discovered his gift, he had been writing down every moment of it.
And that night would be his last chance of writing down his final thoughts. One last time.
That right, a ritual commenced in the heart of their sanctum, deep beneath the manor. Five other red robed figures appeared with their hoods up, waiting in front of the sacred door for their leader. They all descended down to the hidden room; the ceremonial chamber, where the ritual would take place. A ritual that involved using the dark arts. Malcolm saw it as a bad idea to use black magic, but there was one that saw it as a terrific idea; a crazy one at that. They still went with their original plan.
The ritual's purpose was to create a portal. One leading to the Other Side. The reason for it remains unknown. But, by combining their powers together, they would be able to open the door.
But then, the unspeakable happened.
One of them betrayed their own by tampering with the ritual. With forbidden magic.
Screams were heard from inside. The sounds of crashing furniture boomed through the halls. And big sounding explosion erupted, shaking the entire land as if it were an earthquake. It was chaos.
And from that very same explosion, the magic from the ritual backfired, sending a powerful wave of negative energy across the town. Trapping them all as the traitor chanted a curse upon the land. Making sure that there will be no chance of anyone getting in the way of the true mastermind. Ones that spoke of horror, destruction and awakening the worst to come.
Pure evil.
He chanted the words to his prophecy to the blood red sky, mixing with the pitch black clouds as lightning streaked.
One of pure beauty but of sacred power
Will walk this Earth in its darkest hour
The six will merge. The manor will awake.
As the lands will crack, quiver, and shake.
Blood will splatter. Lands caught in flames.
The hour will draw near.
For everything you love will be lost to fear.
That night . . . became their last.
They say that after that night, the town stormed over to the manor, to find nobody in it. They searched the whole area. Not a trace. The place was a wreck, yes, but no signs pointed it to no one else except the so-called Coven. So, they believed that nothing happened.
While there are those that thought that something did happen and someone just hid the evidence. And then there was the rumor that the place was haunted. No one wanted to believe that, but after witnessing the six's strange behavior and sick fantasies of magic and fiction and of hierarchy of higher beings, it could have be a possibility.
After that night, the town stayed clear from the manor. They closed it down. Off limits to everyone, even the town officers. Every minute passed they could still hear the manor creaking like screeches on a chalkboard. Rustling like it will collapse instantly like a pile of twigs. And the moaning, the whispers, and the screams, sounding of those that were last seen in that horrid place.
No one knew what happened to them, especially Malcolm Kingston. His parents were in despair. The family name was tarnished. Nothing was never the same again after they lost their only son, the only heir to the founded town.
A century passed. Five generations of citizens have lived in the small town of Kingston Falls. A ghost town; covered by the fog of the past and blocking what the present will bestow upon them. A curse made for the first generations of the Coven to suffer through blood, loss, and death. Just like the originals. A prophecy that has hung above all their heads; waiting for the one that would fulfill it.
And it would be.
Sooner than any of us think.
The return of the Coven draws near …