On Bishopsgate Rise stood the townhouse of Merchant Prince Elias Gorham, a structure of brick and stone so proud it seemed to sneer upon its neighbors. Gorham was known for his prosperity and his disdain. He bought warehouses and let them rot, driving tenants into ruin until he claimed their leases. To him, the city was not a home but a board, and its people were only counters for his game.

That night, rain lashed the windows and the gutters vomited water into the street. Gorham dined alone at his table, gnawing lamb with a merchant’s satisfaction, his servants dismissed for the evening. He raised a glass of port and toasted himself, muttering, “To fortune, and to the fools who cannot grasp it.”

Then the house groaned. At first it was the timbers, as though the wind had found a way inside. But soon the very frame of the house shifted. The floor tilted beneath his feet, and his goblet slid the length of the table before striking the floor. He grasped the chair back, heart thundering, and listened.

The walls creaked like ships at sea. The chandeliers swayed. Slowly, inexorably, the entire house leaned toward the east, toward the gallows yard where traitors once swung. Portraits clattered to the floor. Silverware danced in drawers. Gorham stumbled from room to room, striking at doors that would not open, windows that refused to break.

From the street, neighbors woke to cries and saw the townhouse bowing like a penitent, its windows slanting as though dragged by invisible chains. None dared go near. The rain had carved a circle about the building, dry stone at its foundation, as if the storm itself stood guard.

Inside, Gorham shouted into the silence. “Thief! Specter! Show yourself!” His voice cracked. The tilt grew steeper. Chairs toppled, shelves emptied, and the walls groaned as though under the strain of a cathedral’s bell.

Then came the silence. Heavy, suffocating, the same silence that had haunted counting-house and church and court. Gorham collapsed upon the stairs, clutching his chest. He stared upward, and through the angle of the ceiling beams, he thought he saw the outline of a visor, black and sharp, staring down at him.

The tilt ceased. The house righted itself. The rain slackened. When the neighbors dared enter at dawn, they found Gorham gone. The servants returned to rooms intact, save for one change: every doorframe and lintel bore a carved line, faint but sharp, a sigil repeated again and again until the entire house seemed branded.

In the dining room, upon the table where the goblet had fallen, lay an iron key tied with black thread. The wine stains about it had not spread outward but inward, drawn into the sigil like blood into a wound.

From that day forward, the house remained still, but its new tenants spoke of dreams where the walls leaned, and where unseen steps moved just above the rafters. They did not stay long. The house kept its vacancy, as if unwilling to house any man not yet judged.

And so London whispered again: that Grathok did not kill as men kill, but bent the very bones of stone and timber. That he need not strike, for the weight of silence was heavier than any blade.

Chapter XI: The House That Tilted

chum