The billionaire had made his money and his empire ran itself.
He no longer needed to be on board. Those left in charge were capable of seeing that global profits only went up. He had worked hard to build what he had and was now intent on pulling back, pulling away. He had been planning his getaway to a hidey-hole for some time. It was finally settled with everything payed for. The deeds for the castle were now in his possession and he had made arrangements for his new life to be catered for with a selected vehicle and living-in staff all hired and in place. In short, the various hiring agencies and providers he had employed assured him that everything was as requested and in place, and all would be ready on his arrival in a quaint little town in Eastern Europe. The building was extremely old but quite magnificent. This fact that it was indeed a castle served to take care of one of his whims of childhood. Despite his being a hardened business man he had many of these.
It had come to his notice, while researching the history of his new home, that his own somewhat unusual family name being Rankenbine, did have a similar sound to the name Frankenstein, for the untrained ear. Such a thought was dismissed at the time, being seen as just another echo back to his childhood whims.
On arrival, he met the staff and thanked them all for being prepared to both serve him as master of the castle and to take care of and maintain such a large property. He noted a degree of nervousness, an emotion that they all seemed to have in common. He imagined that, peasants as they were, coming face to face with an illustrious man of wealth coming from the west, was likely to have this sort of effect at first. In the early few days, he chose to spend time familiarising himself with the town. He went for several walks, looking at shops and buildings, occasionally entering an establishment to make himself known as their new neighbour. Doing this, he detected the same presence of anxiety he had seen displayed by his employees. Even in the streets, he was aware of receiving odd looks from the locals.
His favourite room in the castle was the study that had been set up according to his instructions. He had chosen the furnishings and was pleased to find that the large desk he had chosen was located by the window as requested. This gave him an expansive view of the front grounds and the long driveway up to the building. He felt sure that in this peaceful and secluded place he would spend many an idyllic evening with no thought if anything other than his own well-deserved comfort.
No more than a week had gone by when, on one such quiet evening, while smoking a cigar and reading Dickens, his spell was broken. The silence was broken. He became aware of a growing cacophony of voices coming from outside. He pulled back the curtain a little and saw a great procession of people, far greater than the population of the town, slowly making their way towards the castle. Most were carrying torches. They all seemed to be armed with pointed staffs, pitchforks and scythes. The blazing procession grew nearer and the chanting louder.
It was only an ancient whim that stirred the peasants. Such townspeople and those from surrounding villages had long memories, going back generations.
They seemed to be chanting his name… or was it that other one?