The Menace Of That Most Demented Order (1) I have—in my subsequent accounts—undertaken to document the fait accompli (it matters not what the lampoonist will say, it is veritable) that my uncle Bernard Wellingsworth yet walked the Earth in the guise of one Alexi Shostakovich, the caretaker of Wellingsworth Manor. It has been espied that he has through no doubt some effectuated foul craft thoroughly outwitted constabulary, victim’s families, and the surrounding communities as to the legitimacy of his demise. He has in his own words ‘…staged his own death and now his master’s bidding is done even the more stealthily!” This chronicle will—however—endeavor to unmask the deeds of that most demented order that my uncle uses as his springboard into iniquity, which—I have been able to descry—is only a solitary arm in a multi-appendage and swinish configuration spanning the world over! To say that I, Doctor Eli Wellingsworth, was dispirited by the implications of my family’s yesteryear being actively engaged and entangled in this evil (and not just isolated with Bernard) would be a vast and sweeping understatement the likes of which have never been uttered by man. When my uncle Alfred with whom I had been abiding with told me of this my mind—at its reveal—raced at the ramifications. My spirit sunk so low I felt as if I had been overburdened with a weight so extreme as to leave long and lasting mental scars that would outdistance even my progeny. A man—as I—does not take the antiquity of his family genealogy frivolously; nor does he sit still and allow it to persistently be befouled, besmirched, and sullied ad infinitum. I would in point of fact put certain plans into motion that would help to necessitate the cure of my family line from the plague that was Bernard Wellingsworth. I have thus far delineated in the erstwhile narrative of the succor I effected to obtain from two gentleman, Landon Virgins a private investigator, and Jonathan Caulier a paranormal researcher endowed with psychic ability. Jonathan was dwelling with me in my Uncle Alfred’s sumptuous chateau while I visited the place of my birth whilst Landon sojourned in the inner city of Manchester, England. On one such interval I anticipated the next investigative report from Landon (at a time my Uncle Alfred was away attending himself with industry dealings) there was a sonorous echoing of the doorbell. A maidservant answered and recognized it to be a detective from the local constabulary offices. She sought me out and he forthwith introduced himself as Ackerly Lott and inquired if he could commune with a Wellingsworth. I notified him that my uncle was not procurable but that I could enunciate for him in this incitement. He obliged and we conferred for an evanescent span of time. The import of why he was here correlated with a succession of recent eventualities. He said that the investigation encircling Bernard Wellingsworth was being reopened because queer murders were occurring which bore his trademark. After he articulated the constabulary department’s perturbation that these may be copy cat murders I shared with him certain facets of my story—dispensing less stirring and supernatural allotments—in essentially illuminating to him that my uncle Bernard was still extant, and that I had seen him (he had unveiled himself to me as such is what I indicated) and that these murders that were materializing was unquestionably the work of a sick and demented mind. “Can you prove any of this?” said Ackerly. “No,” I said, “that I cannot; though at this time I am running methods and operations which will facilitate me to be able to do so.” “Why would he reveal himself to you?” replied Ackerly. At this inquiry I hesitated to a supreme degree. Paralyzing thoughts I had only just recently became abreast of came unbidden to the forefront of my psyche and that preponderance of mental gravitation was unloaded all at once as I considered the activities of my uncle, the sorcerer and sadist. “—He wants me to—join him!” remarked I. Ackerly creased his forehead. Here I continued with some difficulty and did not restrain myself. “My family has a—history of this kind of activity, stretching back hundreds of years; séances, occultist black magic practices, demonology, sacrifices, all manner of evil things. He wants me to take part! My Uncle Alfred is the one who communicated this familial history to me.” Ackerly deliberated on this solemnly I perceived to my complete and utter stupefaction. The man did not take me for a charlatan. He purposed to get into contact with me at an alternative time subsequent to relaying this revelation amongst higher ups in his department. When I learned of Ackerly’s direction it was akin to the good Lord lifting a parcel of the grieving weight I had been wrestling with on account of ascertaining my uncle yet lived and preyed on the living. It was an alleviation to ultimately acquire a person in authority committed to the matter. Landon ran a private venture and was not linked to any constabulary offices. Though I knew in my heart that these disturbances to my psyche would not cease completely until I had dealt with the horrors perpetuated by my uncle and bought his actions to cessation. Landon was soon to promulgate his newest recounting on the whereabouts and proceedings of my uncle, but as this interval progressed I must remark on certain puzzling predicaments. Peculiar particulars began to take place around and about me such that I began to question my own faculties. I have expressed in my aforementioned accounts of circumstances arising wherein I would come into contact with a luminescent figure, a little girl garbed in a bright blue blouse. In my first detailing of beginning to become acquainted with the bizarre specifics of my uncles deviltries, I mentioned that I was arrested inside of the library by this figure and that (through some unknown channels) when I supposed inwardly that she was taken prey by my uncle Bernard’s malice she smiled towards me. This led me to believe that my suppositions were true, and that she was indeed murdered by my uncle. Then, in my second account, whilst I was at my place of abode in upstate New York, she appeared to me again, only in a dream, telling me that I must not forsake her nor the others who were subjugated to my uncle Bernard’s malevolence. And when Jonathan and I made trekking to Wellingsworth Manor in an effort to see if he could discern any supernatural presence the little girl in blue unlocked the door to the manor for us and it is there where my uncle expostulated a possibility of me becoming a part of his order. These—on the whole—gave me an unwavering impression that little ghost of a girl was committed to my cause, and wanted to aid me in repelling the evil of my uncle in some way. However, that inclination would be scrutinized given the following utterly uncouth episodes. I could be conversing with Jonathan in any given day or situation. We could be discussing the practicability of making a return to Wellingsworth Manor when I would—and I know how inexplicable this sounds—I would perceive the girl in blue standing near some sculpted figure in my Uncle Alfred’s manor, or positioning herself near an all encompassing painting, shaking her head, gesticulating wildly and shrieking about with possessed fervor, “NO! NO! That’s a bad Wellingsworthless!” and then she’d skip off through some wall and disappear from my vantage point. Or—for instance—Detective Ackerly’s visit in case of point. My Uncle Alfred was told at interim of his desire to assist me with apprehending Bernard and when I expressed my inclination to cooperate in any possible way wherein Bernard could be bought to justice—and he appearing reluctant—I fancied that the little girl in the bright blue blouse was lurching through the extraordinarily capacious halls of my Uncle Alfred’s manor with a hand grasping at her slit throat and enunciating whilst wheezing as if her life force was leaking out of her, “—You don’t—want this—to—happen—to you—do you!?” and she’d again escape my point of reference. There were more, but the gist has been realized. The extremely peculiar part of all this is that I was the only individual who ever espied her. She never appeared to Jonathan nor my uncle Alfred. When I expressed reservations about these happenings with Jonathan he showcased a profound interest. “It may be,” said Jonathan, “that a spirit adjoined to Bernard Wellingsworth—like a familiar—has been sent to dissuade you from prosecuting him. I would not doubt the possibility. You told me yourself that he wants you to become a part of his order. I say, don’t worry yourself over it too much, it’s not like it can hurt you.” “But why would the spirit take the form of the one who was assisting me?” remarked I. “To throw you off the trail,” said Jonathan. “There are good spirits and evil spirits. The little girl just wants you to help the authorities in catching Bernard. This spirit troubling you is obviously an impostor.” “I see,” spoke I. Whatever the reasoning was behind these frightening visions, I was most assuredly becoming unhinged by it all. Landon arrived to disseminate his latest detective analysis on a Tuesday morning at around 6:00 p.m. Jonathan and I acquainted with him in the extravagantly arrayed living room whilst being attended by a chambermaid who bought us a bottle of superior wine to help settle and unwind ourselves. “Last weekend,” spoke Landon, “I followed—this Alexi—to several various haunts. He did not return to the ramshackle community and there was no meeting there, so I was not able to decipher new revelations concerning his group. However—” Here Landon desisted, as if he dreaded divulging a segment of his investigation. I detected that he possessed an immense kind of guardedness. He continued. “— There was one place in particular, a queer shop that he frequented, in a supremely isolated area, backwoods even. I suppose, the best way I could describe it, is to say that it was—an occult shop.” Jonathan at this reveal nearly bristled. He could—I perceived—hardly stifle the upsurge that was overflowing out of him. “I told you there was something to the supernatural, Landon. Do you consider me a crackpot now?” Landon gave the impression of shrinking away from Jonathan’s declamations. It will be remembered in the foregoing account that Landon was zealously effected against me incorporating Jonathan’s psychic ability in this endeavor, and desired that I would awaken from whatever spell he had me encapsulated in. I could not blame the man. I had been a staunch denier of all things considered supernatural until I came face to face with the reality that was my Uncle Bernard. Landon would hold constricted to his suppositions and scepticisms far more tightly than I was of mine, however. “And,” began Landon, “it is certainly possible that a reasonable explanation could be had of all this. It doesn’t mean that the man is involved in some secret otherworldly cult trying to steer the planet into the netherworld.” “Did you go inside of the place?” asked Jonathan. “What? Of course not! What reason would I have had to do that?” “Perhaps you could have learned something as to what Alexi is planning?” Now Landon was on the cusp of his own bristling. “For all I know he could have went in there and purchased a Ouija board for his grandsons. Eli, I will ask you once again, must you continually be led astray by this heathen?” “Gentlemen, please,” spoke I. “Landon, I understand the position that you must be in. I was in a similar position when I was first coming to terms with my Uncle Bernard’s deviltries. It may be soon, or it may be a longer interval, but you will eventually come to realise that there is a dark and foreboding power behind that man the likes of which ordinary folk aren’t wont to come in contact with throughout the whole of their lifetime.” “Who said I even believed the story of this Alexi character even being Bernard?” said Landon. “I have agreed to take the assignment, and I will fulfill my duty as required. If I’m being honest, work hasn’t been all that plentiful these last few months…” Upon hearing this, I resigned myself to the eventuality of Landon uncovering some hidden path of doom that my Uncle Bernard was traversing, that unraveling would be enough to disclose to him the verity of my claims. “In any event,” spoke I, “would you mind giving Jonathan and I the directions to the occult shop? There may be something there which you have completely overlooked.” Landon showcased a disconcerted demeanor upon hearing this request. He looked at the two of us with an almost shock of unbelief in his eyes. “So you two will be cleaning up after me? I’m not so sure I can countenance such a thing. I told you before that you should leave the private investigating to the private investigators.” Just then I was about to protest when Landon all of a sudden had a change of heart. “Alright. Just this one time I will relent. Since you two obviously feel as if I’ve “missed something” why don’t you have a stroll down witches lane. I’m sure you’ll make a far more productive investigator than I ever could,” said he, a smug smile showcased on his features. But I had retrieved the particulars of which I sought. And so thus it was that Jonathan and I made trekking to the aforementioned place of enchantment. When I beheld the interior of the wonder-working and decadent emporium of sorceries not-to-be-named for fear of calling down unendurable imprecations, I was thoroughly mortified to perceive that mortal creatures were allowed to ingress these pathways and undertake it as so without any inkling as to the divine retributions. It was an isolated locality, being (I so supposed) necessary to shield its many patrons from the penetrating inquiries unquestionably more upstanding individuals would seek after.
Copyright © 2012 Michael Harris |