Sinjun Einloch had built his house out of blood and mud and war profiteering money. The man had fought, although not bravely, with the 42nd magical auxiliary, and he had been involved with the third charge on the frozen citadel. But when his discharge came through he immediately went to selling overpriced amulets and sandals to the shock troops and he had milked the commendation letter he had received after his service totally dry.
But the man’s wealth had been substantial, and he had constructed a home fit for a general. In the fashion of the time, the walls were heavy brittle glass, suspended by spellwork and tightly wound anger binders He died on his fiftieth birthday, leaving a spinster widow and no tears in the town.
Thirty years later, Miss Delia Einloch received word that she had inherited the estate of her late second uncle, Sinjun Einloch. She took a train out to the estate.
The trees were dead and black. The skeleton of the house looked tormented, the shattered glass panes kept aloft only by the angry magic that no one knew how to undo. There was nothing for her to do, no way to rebuild if she had wanted to and no way to tear down the house. The house was a scar on the land, and through some fault of her bloodlines, it was now hers.
Written on 4/16/16 at Artawake for a man who wanted a gothic story with magic and evil.