Page 3 of Ethereally Tainted

Grimhill Manor doesn’t exist on maps. It is as if it’s wiped out of existence. It’s rumored that it has been expunged from all documents. The system is corrupt. It is designed to protect the people, yet fails miserably, especially as more than hundreds of children have been transported here for many years before I arrived.

You can never truly leave this place; it will stay with you until your last breath, imprinted in your mind.

Grimhill Manor, a place meant for orphaned children, is a cold, stone structure, its walls a warning to anyone who questions its purpose.

I will never forget the overwhelming sadness that filled me when I first got here, and it became clear that I was trapped, a heavy, aching sadness that weighed me down. My determination to care about everything disappeared because I had to distance myself from the grief of becoming unrecognizable, leaving just an outer shell of who I am now.

Grimhill Manor.

I want to burn it to the ground until nothing remains but ashes. Heck, I wouldn’t even care if anyone was in there as long as I managed to escape. As long as this place disappears from the earth forever.

Selfish is not even near what I am. Survival is the only thing I want, but can I live with myself? After everything I have seen and endured, do I still want to live?

Yes, there is an entire world out there to explore before giving up.

But who knew living could hurt so damn much?

I’m living with the scars on my skin etched into my soul from that horrifying moment thirteen years ago, the one thing that destroyed my entire life. Back then, I was so full of life, vibrant and happy, and now I’m none of those things. I’m hanging by a thin thread that will snap when I least expect it.

Pain is the least of my concerns, however. The pain I can survive, but I cannot survivehim–Grimhill’s mastermind of torture. Nothing here is as it seems. It’s not an orphanage. It’s not even a manor that cares for homeless children. Instead, it’s filled with horrors where the master does whatever he pleases with his dolls, where he exploits them to his will and punishes them for disobeying orders.

I learned that important lesson a long time ago; never disobey him. The bruises on my body are proof of that.

No one here is sane, but I’m the only one who sees the true terror of this place. Maybe that’s because I came here in my late teens, and my brain is more developed and less easily manipulated than a small child’s. But that doesn’t mean I’m any less terrified of the master than the children are.

We’re all freaks here, no matter what.

Maybe I’m stupid for trying my hardest to survive in this place, or maybe I’m the smartest for doing so. No one dares defy the master, too afraid of his wrath to go against him. But that leads me to wonder, if everyone went against him, could he really control us all?

The answer to that question is more complicated because he has guards everywhere, and no one is allowed to leave unless a new master has taken you.

Death is the gateway to freedom. A path that will be my last resort if everything goes to shit. I haven’t survived this long to take the easy way out, and I certainly haven’t gone through everything I have just to stop feeling this excruciating pain. Pain is the only thing that keeps me awake, making me realize I am actually alive and have survived this ordeal.

Every child here seems to be more dead than alive. They trudge around, moving like zombies, not daring to utter a word unless permitted by the master. In reality, they are zombies with no brains of their own, who can only move and live if given commands. They are robots who eat when the master tells them, and they do whatever he dictates to them.

This place strips you of everything you are until nothing remains but flesh and bones–an empty shell with a void of hollowness inside.

Hopelessness weighs heavily on me, and I cannot shake the feeling that I may never be free. We can sense the guards outside the yard, their presence as tangible as the fence they stand by.

There’s no chance of escape, ever.

The only way to escape this place is either by being bought or by death. The latter comes as a punishment for losing one of the master’s games. Even though it may come in the most brutal form possible, the latter is more like a reward than a punishment. Despite this, having your body murdered in front of the prying eyes of tiny children or teenagers is not a reward. No, not when your body is severely mutilated in the worst possible way. I have looked death in the eye, and it’s not a beautiful sight.

It’s oddly quiet inside the manor today. I know all the staff, including the guards, have the day off. The master doesn’t allow any staff to throw unwanted attention at us on days when we receive our so-called ‘fine visits.’ On those days, it’s as if we are all pawns in a chess set, ready to be acquired by anyone who will take us. The days of a fine visit are those days that I feel like we are all lambs waiting for our doom, our final step to slaughter.

No one has ever chosen me, and I suspect it’s because of some sick and sordid desire from the master, which causes my stomach to turn.

I slowly get out of bed, feeling the chill of the floorboards against my feet and the cold creeping up my legs. No sounds are heard below my floor, which is usually full of life. This manor may not be an actual orphanage that saves children from being homeless, but it is a place full of orphaned children waiting for anyone to pick them up, just to be free from this place. Although they rarely receive their happy ending, and usually end up in places much worse than this. If one is fortunate, the master will not hover over the children all day, as he has so many of us to manage. But if a doll master chooses one, then they will have their prying eyes on them twenty-four-seven.

We have specific hours of the day to enjoy what we want, although few here have any hobbies. The master knows that giving us free time is the only way to keep us all in here, to brainwash us into believing this is right for us. That this is normal, something we need to function.

I call it bullshit, but there is not a single thing I can do about it.

Although other children might think differently, I’ve been here for seventeen months now. I still remember the outside world, and how free it felt to live in a loving home despite losing everything. Tragically, many children in this manor were taken away before their teenage years, either through being sold or kidnapped.

The sight of this place makes my skin crawl, and I wish I had the power to get out.

Maybe someday I will.

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