The Menace Of That Most Demented Order
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.
There were shelves upon shelves of creature parts situate within beakers and preserved with ice (frogs parts for instance, mice, other rodents, insects (millipedes, centipedes, grass hoppers, and other assortments of the insect kingdom), dead reptilians in glass encasements (king cobras, rattlesnakes, lizards); to what purpose there was no way to descry, though I surmised these were ingredients in one potion or another.
Immediately after processing this, I was arrested by hand crafted voodoo dolls dominating a capacious corner to the right of me. They were procurable for purchase for any inquisitive mind wanting to practice the black magic of voodoo. Jonathan made gesture in the direction and commented that there is power of a kind behind these procedures, and I could scarcely suppress a shudder.
Then there were the manuscripts. Rows upon rows of ancient tomes, dark grimoires which presented repulsive concepts of the demon hordes on their exotic coverings; creatures encased in the Satanic pentagram and being summoned forth by some nefarious priestly order.
It was this section of the shop that I had reason to believe my Uncle Bernard had come to inspect. In my very first account, I elucidated on how the library inside of Wellingsworth Manor was (in literal truth) row after towering row of bookcases housing a veritable amalgamation of sorceress tomes, the very letterings displayed on these hardbacks intimating tenebrous and detestable portents, only peeks and glimpses into an underworld existing beside us and only really, truly, and frightfully espied for those multitudes of lost souls on that other side of existence.
Jonathan and I made ourselves very busy passing down the book aisle ways. I examined one such grimoire, leafed through pages and pages of ancient diagrams, guidelines on summoning Moloch the Phoenician Canaanite devil, briefly discerned that I was reading sacrifice requirements and with rapidity placed the book back on the shelf where it belonged. Landon seemed more willing to venture down this rotten path. He would select a tome and spend more time than I reckoned proper, seemingly digesting what he was reading. I knew that I could not remain in this place much longer without a persistent and oppressive despondency being experienced, and because of my God fearing sensibilities I sought out the operator of this establishment so that I might inquire after what it was that my wretched Uncle Bernard was searching for in this bottomless pit, this hell’s sanctuary and abode.
The proprietor was a young woman and I posed assorted penetrating queries as to if she could assist me in recalling the activities of a very lanky individual possessing a congestion in his voice. She remarked that she did in fact remember him and that he had spent time in the emporium the weekend past. I asked her forthrightly what my uncle was seeking here. She replied by commenting that it was her policy not to share with others the activities of her patrons. I informed her that the matter at hand was one of utmost importance, and that coming away comprehending the designs of this most tainted individual would help to confound any and all pernicious activities that were proposed and perpetuated by his dark heart. She hesitated at this and seemed to be wavering at the seams. Recognizing this as such, I pleaded and petitioned to the common decency that she harbored in her human frame to divulge the least bit of knowledge, a scruple of a notion as to my Uncle Bernard’s machinations. She obliged then, mentioning that Bernard was after a most ancient and primordial tome of summoning, one that was called The Book of the Dakaroth. She commented that this tome and the portents linked with it had coerced many of its seekers past the point of mental balance and stability, and that there were only an infinitesimal number of the tomes known to be in extant. I thanked her then, wringing her hand with much fervor, imparting to her that she had indisputably done this city a boon, a blessing, and a service in helping me to unravel this man. I gathered Jonathan afterward and we took our leave.
Even though I was only newly becoming familiarized myself with that world that existed beside our own, having some understanding of what my Uncle Bernard was seeking would help—I distinguished—to focus my crusade, however interminable it was in truth or turned out to be. Just what exactly was The Book of the Dakaroth? Why was my uncle so incessantly seeking out its contents? What was contained in its brittle and tattered pages that drove him so? At the onset of the discovery of this from the occult mistress, my ruminations almost entirely dwelt upon these and their sister-like speculations.
It would also be during this interlude that I received a fortuitous visit from Detective Ackerly Lott of the constabulary department. The chamber maid welcomed him inside and we accosted one another with the customary gentlemanly salutations. He conferred that he had shared my accounts with the higher ups of his department and that they did not take much of any of my account solemnly.
“Well,” said I, “I must say, it would have been near miraculous if they had. In any case, I must thank you for your efforts and for putting this before those who can truly do something about it. I fear—however—that my Uncle Bernard will have to be apprehended through less legal means.”
“You don’t mean to say,” said Ackerly, “that you yourself are going to—kill him?” Here I halted and considered my next course of speech. There can be no doubt that I have entertained the possibility of ending my Uncle Bernard’s life, ever since I dared to defy him and took up the challenge to bring about an end to his dark intentions. But confessing that here, and now, before a detective would surely not be the right course of action. I feared—however—that my halting without quickly answering the inquiry had already given away my designs, and so I sought to steer Ackerly away from his certain intimation.
“I cannot sit here and purport that it has not crossed my mind, but who am I to take the law into my own hands?” spoke I. “My Uncle Bernard is engaged in a complexity of evil, this is true, but it would only be proper to allow local law enforcement to deal with him. I only hope that through my activities and my comrade Landon’s investigations that I am able to bring to light that he still lives, so that those in authority can seek him out, and bring him to justice.”
“I see,” said Ackerly. “Listen, Eli, I may not have been able to marshal any of the department higher ups to even consider the likelihood that Bernard Wellingsworth is still alive, but I—for one—believe you. I have throughly examined Bernard Wellingsworth’s case study and the exact same things are happening. I have no doubt that this Alexi is in fact Bernard and that he has—as you say— faked his own death so that he could practice in secret what he was wont to do in the past. The murders must stop, by any and all means, and I mean to see them come to an end.”
“What are you suggesting?” remarked I.
“If Bernard Wellingsworth wants you to join him then perhaps we can use this to our advantage,” remarked Ackerly. “What if I set up some recording equipment on your person and you get him to confess to certain things, or we manage to record a ceremony or rite of his order?” It seemed wholly compatible with exposing Alexi Shostakovich as Bernard Wellingsworth in truth. I would have to place myself in untold peril and uncertainty (this is true) but this would be a modicum of sacrifice to see this man and his diabolical nature strung up for the crimes committed against humanity that he so laboriously engaged himself in. I was ready to acquiesce myself to this mode of endeavor when I espied the little girl in the bright blue blouse descending from the soaring ceiling with an antagonizing look on her features. She spoke not a word as her descent coalesced, but there was a kind of malevolence present in that stare of hers which would make any man rethink his enterprise. My mouth had long ago fallen agape as my gaze remained positioned on her descended form, which escaped my vantage point once she went through tiling, between Ackerly and I. Ackerly at length recognized that I hadn’t answered his proposition and began to question my constitutionality.
“Is there something wrong, Eli? You don’t want to do this?”
“—No,” remarked I. “That is not it at all. I—wholeheartedly agree. I see the sense in trying to capture my Uncle Bernard in this manner.”
“Good,” replied Ackerly. “I will get back in contact with you at a later date, so we can go over the particulars of it all. It is for sure dangerous work, and I would not willingly wish to put you in harms way, if not for the fact that no one on the force would even entertain such a story. Do not worry yourself overly about it, however. I will be present throughout, not far from the location, in case anything untoward takes place.” With that Ackerly stood, we said our goodbyes, and I was that much closer to seeing the actions of my Uncle Bernard rectified.
The indomitable weight I bore over the deeds of my demented uncle having been assuaged a prodigious measure now that I had garnered the succor of a fellow capable of arrest and authorization powers, I mightily anticipated the next report that Landon had to disseminate to Jonathan and I. He acceded on a Thursday evening, a little over a week after he had divulged his previous report on my Uncle Bernard Wellingsworth, who conducted himself in the guise of Alexi Shostakovich, the caretaker of Wellingsworth Manor, and had through some unquestionably defiled methods thoroughly outwitted law enforcement, victim’s families, and the surrounding communities as to the legitimacy of his decease.
Before his arrival, my Uncle Alfred and I conversed and he (to my complete and total incredulity) wished to be in attendance for this narrative. It shall be recalled here that towards the conclusion of my second account my Uncle Alfred Wellingsworth (whom I had been residing with while I visited my place of birth in Manchester, England) attempted to persuade me to do away with apprehending Bernard, and to aspire to persist as if justice had indeed been served those innumerable years ago. Throughout the preceding days—however—I had begun to notice an interest that my Uncle Alfred displayed, a certain curiosity and inquisitiveness that piqued and gave rise to suppositions that I myself began to harbor about him, such that I perceived that he too began to long for some kind of closure concerning this dark blemish on our shared Wellingsworth ancestry.
Landon therefore arrived, the sonorous doorbell filling the elephantine mansion, was greeted by a maid and was thenceforth led into the splendidly attired and gorgeously ornamented living room where Jonathan, my Uncle Alfred, and I were assembled, awaiting him. He carried a suitcase which housed documents of various sorts related to the case he purposed to take on, and a digital camcorder. All these were his implements as he began to expostulate what it was that he had newly discovered about my dastardly Uncle Bernard. Customary greetings were had. I clarified that my Uncle Alfred now wished to be a part of whatever it is we were engaged in. Landon acknowledged my uncle, regarded the each of us cursorily, and commenced explaining what he had uncovered as he took his seat on an immaculate chesterfield.
“Well, I must say, what I have unmasked about this Alexi personage you have me investigating has certainly made me—what is the word I’m looking for—intrigued as to his ultimate purpose and designs.” He looked from face to face with an almost half-mocking smile, a self-satisfied smirk epitomizing his countenance. “You will recall that it wasn’t too long ago when I had installed surveillance equipment inside of this decrepit community that he has a penchant for retreating to. However, the queer thing is, that the sound captured was vaguely muted, blotting out much of what was communicated. However, I reinstalled some of my equipment and was this time able to get a much clearer signal.”
“What did you find?” remarked my Uncle Alfred. Landon here halted, seemingly supremely hesitant to divulge the particulars of his investigation. Even as he began he would backtrack and rethink how to phrase what it was that he was trying to communicate.
“There is—or at least this is what appears to be going on—it definitely seems as if these individuals are engaged in activities which—now how best to phrase this?—activities which lead one to assume that they are—completely and unequivocally—quite mad.”
“You haven’t really said anything,” remarked Jonathan. “Why do you consider them to be mad?” Landon’s look of penetrating scorn towards Jonathan was at this point the worse I’ve ever seen it. “I think that you, Jonathan, would fit right in with the eccentricities of these quacks.” Landon then seemed to retreat inward, as if attempting to draw forth exactly what it was that he saw of this most menacing order. He would glance at his documentation from time to time to summon forth the correct terminology.
“They speak as if zealously affected…they have a leader—this is true—being this Alexi who you wish for me to follow, but I am now having certain misgivings about him. He makes these sweeping declamations about what he calls ‘the springing forth of the ancient darkness’ and says that they are going to ‘plunge the land into a cesspool of misery,’ whatever that means. I quite think you have me following a cult leader. Why, Eli? What do you have to gain by tracking down this man?”
“I have told you, Landon, this man is no ordinary human being. He is in truth the same unrighteous individual who practiced sadism, occultism, and other wicked idolatries those many long years ago, and swallowed up numerous innocent persons in his pursuit to appease the god of this age. I do not know how he managed to do so, true—and in fact I believe only those of his inner circle are privy to those nefarious particulars—I only know the why of it all: the man is so far gone that he will stop at nothing to gratify the most carnal, licentious, and darkly spiritual instincts of those who cast away the fear of a righteous God before their eyes. I cannot be any more direct than that.”
“It is unfortunately the truth,” spoke my Uncle Alfred. “I have known about Bernard’s dubious conduct for many years, and have only recently come to the point of believing that he cannot be allowed to continue and practice this iniquity. Do not cringe or shrink at those things which are not readily explained, for there are many particulars that escape our sphere of understanding, peculiars which the Good Lord has deigned to leave us in the dark about.”
It appeared that my insistence that Bernard Wellingsworth yet walked the Earth and was cloaked in the guise of Alexi Shostakovich added to my Uncle Alfred’s confession was beginning to penetrate the inner workings of Landon’s being, for he seemed to mull over this proclamation with the utmost consideration, and it seemed he began to view what we were saying as a distinct possibility. He aired his concerns.
“There is—something that you all should see,” spoke Landon as he stood and walked towards the television. “It is very strange, as the video records only up and unto a certain point, and then blanks out. I had thought that I had rectified any and all problems with my equipment, but perhaps—in any case—you need to see this.” He began linking the digital camcorder to the television. He searched through the recordings and found that which he sought for, sat the camcorder on the television stand, and pressed play.
It is likely that some when presented with anything resembling substantiation to preternatural occurrences are able to proceed with their lives as if nothing untoward has taken place. It takes a genuine intellect to admit that in this most mysterious world of ours there is assuredly some undercurrent of the supernal; and—given the depth and depravity of the human heart—without doubt there is as well a tinge of the infernal in opposition to the heavenly powers. What we saw—however— would leave one with few reservations as to these suppositions, as a display of unabridged lunacy and terror stood shockingly before us, leaving (in my case this at least proved true) unending imprints which had left me with a renewed questing for the why of it all.
A young woman was being led to an altar in a ritual concourse, complete with elaborate candles aflame throughout the expanse, robed individuals in black garb dragged her there, terror flooding her every pronouncement as they laid her along the altar and strapped her hands and legs in using leather thongs while the head of the occult (Alexi) intoned over and over again passages written in an immemorial book he was holding. All the while the other occultists were chanting and swaying, as if they were building up to a fever pitch; and I fancied the light from the candles lessened a good deal, a descended darkness coming upon the scene. And then, in that indistinct light, guttural sounds could be discerned coming from unknown vantage points, all the while the destitute young woman was shrieking at the tops of her lungs. And then, static. There was no discerning what transpired beyond this point, leaving one dwelling on a host of sordid possibilities.
It does not take much ascertainment to know that the all of us were supremely unsettled by the viewing of this. Even Landon, who had without question seen its contents a plethora of times, dwelling on its significance and ultimate though disconsolate meaning, was disoriented to the foremost degree, a puzzled expression populating his face. I nor any of the others spoke for a great while, the static from the video filling the capacious room and an unparalleled uncertainty situating itself about me. That poor woman…to know and understand that my Uncle Bernard practiced abominations such as these chilled me to the core of my being. There was—however—a resolute spirit rising up within me at this same moment, and I knew that I was rushing headlong into a propitious confrontation with an unchecked evil that had to be made sterile, no matter the price to my physical or even mental welfare.
It was Landon who broke us out of our inward considerations, for he moved towards the television and began unhooking his equipment.
“Eli,” remarked Jonathan. “You told me that Bernard in former times would—lure women to his place of abode and offer them up to creatures of the underworld. This seems to be what we have just witnessed.”
“Yes,” remarked I. “That would appear to be what we have been made aware of.”
“I wonder—” commented my Uncle Alfred, “It is very—why did the recording cease at that exact moment. It is almost as if—we are being teased.” There was silence at this, the all of us digesting this vital nugget of information from my Uncle Alfred as Landon returned and began to pack up his equipment. It was a genuine analysis. It seemed almost as if a trail of bread crumbs were being left for me to follow, just enough so that I would proceed undisturbed. It cannot be doubted that Bernard was in possession of powers and persuasion of a wholly contemptible and otherworldly nature, but could he steer recent events as they have come about? Could the little girl in the bright blue blouse being—as was supposed by Jonathan—an evil spirit sent to discomfit me, could that spirit be used to seduce me towards a certain outcome when I beheld my uncle in our next confrontation? Could discovering that my Uncle was going after a primordial tomb called The Book of the Dakaroth, could that too be a part of his design? And was it not in the realm of possibility he’d find some way to work whatsoever becomes of the operation that Ackerly Lott and I are going to engage in to his advantage? In regards to what was on the horizon I began to get the distinct impression that my Uncle Bernard was harboring a proclivity for whatever was coming between us to materialize in an aspect that he himself foresaw. Perhaps he felt he could sway me to his position? Whatever it was that gave him his dark confidence, I had to ultimately trust in the divine providence that my Uncle would not add me to his long list of acolytes. And indeed, how could he? I knew of no power that he could command to bring about such a thing. The very thought of becoming a part of this wicked conglomerate would leave palpitations enshroud about me such as it relates to that divine court of cosmic retributions.
Landon packed up his things, said he would return after a brief interval, and though that was the end of that daunting and disturbing night, leaving us all questing for answers that declined to spring forth, it was only the beginning of a deep and dark descent from which I and all my comrades were about to plunge precipitately into.
The multifaceted characteristics of Landon’s account and the queer circumstances of the captured video had not been given proper time for digestion when on the following day a letter was sent to my Uncle Alfred’s place of abode with no postage anywhere to be seen and with writing written in a most curious script on its surface the words For Eli, a household attendant having made me aware of this odd occurrence. I examined the envelop for the minutest of moments, placed it on a desk inside of my guest chambers, and considered in truth of disposing of it, not having the slightest allusion of who would be attempting to contact me this side of the Atlantic. I—however—after a good deal of rumination throughout the day realized this may be an endeavor by that most pernicious cult of my Uncle Bernard’s to impart some knowledge to me, and I expeditiously made my way through the bountiful halls of the middle level of my Uncle Alfred’s mansion to the third floor where my guest bedroom was, retrieved the letter and this is what it said:
You no doubt are beset by many questions and uncertainty clouds your perception and judgment a great deal, but I assure you that what I offer you is power that few can resist nor match. Our bloodline is bathed in the mysterious, it is only fitting that I be allowed to pass on this most arcane wisdom and secrets to one of my own lineage. This has been the way of things for Wellingsworth ancestry since there has been Wellingsworths and is how I took my place amongst the order. I will confess to you now that I myself harbored a persistent and never-dying resistance to succumbing, but desire to know the knowledge (oh, the sweet knowledge!) has ways of seducing even the most resolute disbelievers. Things will—with time—become more palatable to you, ideas you thought to detest will become second nature, and you will grow up in the enigmatic as it were. We must needs meet again, Eli. Find me in the forest that adjoins Wellingsworth Manor tomorrow night. May the Arcane Brotherhood always find you learning, growing, and serving our most maleficent master—
-Bernard
I was unnerved throughout while reading my Uncle Bernard’s letter, my hands trembled, palms stained with sweat; an otherworldly foreboding, a true and tangible apprehension seeping into my conscious mind of what lay on the other side of the reveal, of the yoking again with my Uncle. I could not simply play into his sordid and demented schemes, could I? My Uncle was engaging himself in an assortment of stratagems, wily cunning and craftiness to seduce me into his order. Could he in truth reinforce these tactics? Could I be made subservient to that most (as he called it) Arcane Brotherhood? That most demented of servants to the prince of this world? Despite any misgivings that were welling up in my inner most being, I would ultimately hold constricted to the belief that I had to untangle the iniquity of this man, and if that meant placing myself in hidden and mysterious peril then so be it. I would take up this newfound challenge of my Uncle’s and converse with him on his own unhallowed and sullied ground, the borders of his preceding preternatural and shadowy sanctuary, the forest that adjoined that house that Bernard Wellingsworth built.
The next night Jonathan and I arrived in the residential district of Wellingsworth Manor and took a dirt path detour through the forest located in the vicinity. My Uncle left no intimation as to how I was to seek him out, though I surmised that he would (using some dark and supernatural method drawn from the abyss) happen upon us. He did not in the letter give any forewarning of arriving alone, and I would not have done so if he had. Jonathan being possessed with psychic ability and having some knowledge of this sphere of influence calmed any palpitations that I was currently experiencing only to a degree; however there remained an undercurrent of dread situate within my subconscious mind bubbling up to the surface, yearning to make itself known to me in passageways and avenues the human mind just should not have to wander, true terror undeniably just on the cusp of being realized. What this was I could not tell, though I perceived it to be the fear of what lay just beyond the current unveiling of my Uncle Bernard’s mastery of evil.
After traversing the dirt pathway for some time, I finally pulled the vehicle alongside the road, we exiting the automobile, deciding on the possibility of engaging in a late night walk through this accursed forest. We negotiated many a broken tree limb and crunched over pine needles and dead leaves when (and this is quite curious) a remarkable fog had began to descend over the expanse, a preternatural occurrence it seemed, obscuring any far sight that we could manage in the growing gloom. Jonathan and I exchanged troubled glances and I sought to reassure myself amongst the monstrous perplexity which now stood before me.
“Do you—think this could be the work of Bernard?” I asked him. He hesitated, glancing around this way and that, looking for any such notion that would give a hint as to the nature of this bizarre fog, and—perhaps—disquieted himself as to what it might conceal.
“In truth, I can’t tell,” he said. “We’ll know soon I sense however. This forest has—a history—a very bleak history, I can almost see through the curtain of the past hiding the particulars of what happened here, though it is still quite indistinct. Come, let us continue.”
We walked on cautiously after that exchange. Having some understanding of the peculiars of what transpired in this potentially haunted greenwood, my mental conditioning soon departed from me and I began to waver to the extreme. I would wander places intellectually which sound minds just don’t venture in the everyday course of things. A collage of demoniacal inspired controversies began competing with me as to just how Bernard was going to seduce me into his Arcane Brotherhood.
Would I be shocked into submission? Bernard mentioned that he was beguiled into the Brotherhood. In my case would it take further direct unveiling of even more fiendish creatures of which I (in some circumstances) only saw indistinctly; there being in several other instances more immediate contact? Would my dreams be assailed again? In my second account, which sought to set forth the path that I endeavored to take, nightmares the likes of which I have never known conceivable plagued me, and it was through these nightmares that I had determined to brazen the horrors of my Uncle Bernard. Would these specters return and inflict their matchless mental woe on me in reprisal to my steadfastness? Or, would I actually come willingly? Bernard had said that his desire to practice and delve into these idolatrous secrets was enough to break any resoluteness he had formerly displayed. Was this the position that I myself was going to take? Would I develop to harbor an attraction regarding these condemned avenues of mystic mayhem?
These queries and their sibling-like relatives progressed rapidly through my psyche and conscious mind; when one possibility had been exhausted or extinguished there arose another more formidable to take its place. I had hardly the reprieve granted to consider the rationality of any of these devilish portents. My mind was like an expressway and each of these dastardly potentialities the vehicles which coursed over the paved road. From time to time I would examine Jonathan’s visage and he seemed like he was only receiving shadowed glances of the hideousness which took place in this forest, it being so situationally close to Wellingsworth Manor, where my Uncle Bernard was wont to practice the most vile and detestable acts of depravity his human heart was capable of.
We maneuvered through towering pine trees, a slight glimmer in the distance having aroused our sensory perceptions, and having cleared that we chanced upon a still lake, the thick fog giving the area mystical and marvelous qualities, the full moon positioned above us casting its faint glow and reflecting upon the cool waters. This scenic view had actually achieved something that my puzzling out could not manage, it calmed my mental palpitations. The experience proved—it was true—to work a refulgent magic in bringing a kind of normality to my thought patterns, but this was only to be the calm before the massive overflow.
The two of us would gaze at this wonderful sight for a few more brief moments when I noticed movement on the surface of the lake. It was the little girl in the bright blue blouse, the luminescent figure of which I had become so acquainted with, or was it? Jonathan had suggested to me that this spirit was probably impersonating the young girl who wished me to undue my Uncle Bernard’s malice, who had helped me previously and had wanted to aid in any way that she could. She was approaching now, gliding across the lake, her insubstantial and ethereal form not disturbing the water in the slightest degree. As she advanced, I remained transfixed on her most immaterial, floating figure. The distance between us was evaporating rapidly now, and through some unknown reservoir of strength and determination I managed to steal a peek at Jonathan who stood by my side near the borders of the lake. He appeared enraptured by this ghost of a girl’s presence. Somehow, someway, I called out to him, seeking the aid that he could give. He did not respond. His eyes were glazed over, like he was caught in a mystifying and inexplicable waking nightmare. Now this episode of remarkable uncanniness had the same quality of when I discovered my Uncle to be present with me in Wellingsworth Manor and Jonathan and I both had formerly became incapacitated. It was as if whatever untoward happenings my Uncle was about to formulate were for me and my ears only.
She reached us then. I turned towards her luminescent form and awaited the unfathomable.
“My, Eli, you do make things difficult, don’t you?” she said. And (it must be mentioned here) her voice was altogether not composed of a girl of ten or eleven years of age, but that of a raspy echo, of a demonic being exuding a presence to unsettle the very marrow of my bones, penetrating any resisting powers I had previously established, and making me desire not the comfort of my Uncle Alfred’s Manor, but my home in Upstate New York, giving me pause to doubt this expedition that I had hitherto dedicated myself, the exposing and eradicating of the hidden evil of my Uncle Bernard.
“I—” spoke I hesitantly, “I—don’t quite know what you mean.”
“Oh, you know exactly what I hint at.” And there seemed a flash of red crimson in the being’s eyes, a shimmering enveloped this spirit creature, and I could see the outlines of the being’s true form. Was Jonathan then wrong? Was this ghost of a girl throughout this entire charade in the employ of my Uncle?
“Listen, Eli,” it said raspingly, “We will not be strung along by you. Your Uncle Bernard offers you a place among the greats. Do not be so impudent as to deny yourself a position of prominence with us.” At this some steel was returning to my inward man and I chanced a venture down the path of steadfast confrontation and resistance.
“Where is my Uncle? He—told me that I was to meet him here. I—did not come to dally about with mischievous spirits. I mean business with that man.” The creature seemed to be amused by this, a half mocking smile epitomizing its features.
“You mean business, do you? And we don’t?” It halted here, seeing my apprehension mounting. It spoke then. “Your Uncle, if you must know, sent me in his stead. I have led you about ever since the beginning; in the library, in your dreams, at the manor. You orchestrate nothing. The sooner you realize this, the quicker this will be at an end.” I did not know what to make of all this. To not only perceive rightly for the first time that this apparition, this spirit had been stringing me along these last few months was enough to absorb as is, though this creature seemed to be hinting that supposed poltergeists were nothing more than evil, Satanic spirits sent to mislead humankind, as that is precisely the position I found my own self in, deluded and duped by a demon spirit.
Trying to puzzle this maze of complexity out was perplexing and taxing on my already drained mind, and the spirit gave me an opening to gather my thoughts and prepare myself for whatever else was coming. It did not—it seemed—want me to be too altogether shaken, seeing as how it was projecting its human form; it appeared that it was here to negotiate my terms of surrender. A supreme shudder enveloped my spine at this perceived potentiality. The luminescent ghost of a girl saw this, and sought to reassure me.
“Now, Eli,” it said raspingly, “you know that your Uncle has great need of you, and a place reserved in the Arcane Brotherhood. When the time comes, he will call upon the one Dakaroth, who will serve as your familiar, a most powerful entity to be joined to, it is sure. We will not countenance your delays much longer. There are certainly more direct ways we have of making you more susceptible to us, though Bernard desires that you come of your own free will. However long it takes for you to come to terms of what is being offered, know this: WEEEEEEEEEEEEE—WILLLLLLLLLLLL—HAVVVVVVVVVVEEEE—YOUUUUUUUUUU!” With those words the spirit vanished in a cloud of preternatural darkness before my very eyes, Jonathan returned to me, and we left that forest, a multitude of questions vying for supremacy with my thought processes.
Having proclaimed a great deal of the particulars of my situation and circumstance with the best of my wherewithal, I would be remiss not to remark on the path of declination that my comrades were descending into. It did not take much of an interval after the sinister eventualities in the forest that adjoined Wellingsworth Manor for my Uncle Alfred to begin to confide in me that he was being tormented with a multiplicity of nightmares, such of the terror-inducing kind that would make one dread closing ones eyes for fear of what lay just beyond the curtain of the dream world. I gave him my assessment in saying that it was most probably related to the video of which Landon had shared that dark day, when he gave us all something to internalize, as to the seething shadowy portents being synthesized by that secret brotherhood. But my Uncle remained steadfast in his mounting sentiment, that whatever he was experiencing were direct messages specifically to him, and that they in all actuality related to me.
“I cannot quite place it, but—I have vague recollections when I awaken of veiled creatures situate within obscuring darkness warning me to leave you, Eli, to them, and that they will inflict untold misery upon me if I follow through with trying to assist you. And when they give these warnings, it is almost like an uncovering of their shroud takes place, and I can only glance in their general direction for the briefest of moments, but what I see in just those moments is enough to—oh, Eli!—” My Uncle Alfred and I would go back and forth over the reasoning behind these strange and uncouth nightmares for some time that day. I did not wish to believe that I was singled out to such an extreme degree then; though there would come other affirmations from other parties involved in these sordid events that would begin to shake me to the very core of my foundations.
Jonathan began to have pressing scepticisms as it relates to his ability to prove of any use to the position that I had recruited him. He complained that he was ineffectual in Wellingsworth Manor and also in the forest that adjoined that Manor and that he needed to reevaluate his belief in psychic phenomena. When I told him that the little girl in the bright blue blouse confessed to be in actual truth an evil spirit who was leading me astray he wavered somewhat as to my convictions that this was the case in all psychic matters, but as time wore on and he began to reflect on the more demented particulars spent here in Manchester (particulars of which he adjudicated were of an altogether different quality of darkness than any he had confronted heretofore) I could see him embarking to reassess the whole of his worldview. Jonathan would in fact head back to New York before the final confrontation with my Uncle Bernard even commenced, but he left me with this final terrifying warning: “Be wary, Eli. While I may have reason to doubt the veracity of psychic phenomena after these lunatic peculiars, I still possesses some link with the supernatural in ways that I don’t fully understand, and I am getting the impression that some very untoward event is coalescing around you and any who are involved in this whole affair. I am glad to have met you and been a part of all this, even if I leave somewhat shaken and in doubt of what my “gift” truly entails. I wish you well in the undoing of your uncle,” he said, and left.
Landon—too—showcased an altogether changed mien after having been introduced to the evil of the Arcane Brotherhood. As he shadowed after Bernard, he remarked that he began to see things, he began to perceive messages being sent to him that were not really there. Everything would take on a quality of meaning in the everyday course of incidents. He remarked to me that ever since that fateful video capture of whatsoever took place in that ritual concourse his psyche has taken on characteristics that have left him wondering as to the constitutionality of his own mental acumen.
“I can’t see anything anymore without making some mental link to Alexi, or you, or this whole affair!” He said over the phone one day as I sought to receive the latest from his investigation. “Everything is about this—this case! It is a waking nightmare! If Alexi is in fact Bernard, as you and your Uncle persist, then do you think the man must be employing some influence of his to get this reaction out of me? That there is some spirit trailing me, keeping tabs on me, as I do Alexi, and bringing about this uneven thinking of mine? I do not know how much more of this madness I can take!” I told him to get a hold of himself and that it could not last forever. At the very least—I said—when the case is over he could find other things to occupy his mind with.
But there was one graphic instance of Landon’s developing mental agitation that gave me pause to consider my own welfare. It started with the following revelation of his: “They do not want your life, Eli, they want your soul! They want you to be dedicated to their cause. At least, this is what I have managed to descry. They want you to practice what they practice with the utmost satisfaction known to a dark and depraved heart. They are adamant about this, I’m sure of it. What? How do I know this? It is what they have been whispering to me! Every since that malevolent day, I have been receiving hints as to the nature of their desires, and I have through some unknowable mental gymnastics hitherto unaccessible been able to puzzle it all out. I suggest going back to New York and never even giving this Alexi another thought…”
I was at a loss as what to make of all this. How could all of their problems in the end point back to me? Was this whole remarkable circumstance and uncouth episode just a passage for me to become subservient to this dark order?
It was during the span of a two week period whereby I had come into contact by phone with members of the Arcane Brotherhood that they had set up an occasion for me to view first hand the dastardly peculiars and particulars of their most dreaded practices. It was also at around this same time that Detective Ackerly Lott and I would plan our operation as it were to weed out this ancient and descended familial evil from this town’s sombre history. He had been visiting the manor for several days intermittently, and establishing protocols that were to take place if anything untoward were to eventuate. My Uncle Alfred was there, so too was Landon present. Landon had by now come to a point of such mental agitation that it was his hope that by eliminating whatever threat Alexi posed he could return to his previous mental conditioning. He wished to help in any way that he could, and he would in truth be stationed in a vehicle outside of the complex with my Uncle Alfred, while Ackerly would be positioned in a police van. They would all be able to hear the content of whatever transpired inside of the heretical sanctuary.
It would be a Friday night when Detective Ackerly Lott finally returned to my Uncle Alfred’s abode and the all of us started out for what was to be the most harrowing, stupendously soul-threatening, pit-ensnaring episode since I had become entangled in this dreadful game of seduction with my Uncle Bernard Wellingsworth. Not even the events which took place in the house that Bernard Wellingsworth built would be enough to steel me for the devious revelations which were about to be revealed, nor would the preceding path that I took do much in the way of preparing me for what was to come, namely the menace of that most demented order.
There were dark clouds in the sky that night as we headed for the gated community. The heavens cast a sickly hue, as if on the verge of unleashing a deluge, nature’s maelstrom set to parallel the unchecked and unbridled confusion and chaos that I myself was about to meander steadfastly into. I was not able to keep my self possession throughout. There were far too many speculations and controversies prancing and dancing in my mental makeup for me to rationally consider any of these possibilities. And what is a man bred on rationalism, a mind such as mine to make of this supreme preternatural complexity that he found himself persistently being pushed into? I had long ago come to the realization that there was without doubt supernal as well as infernal powers working behind the scenes of mankind. That acknowledgment—however—did not allow being confronted with the very incarnate of evil itself of this world to be taken comfortably. I knew full well the dangers I was putting myself into, but I felt—as I did when I was first becoming engaged with my Uncle—that a man’s moral responsibility should far outweigh any considerable palpitations he was experiencing. And so I had endeavored throughout to do that which was right and decent. Would that doing the correct thing at times wouldn’t prove so dauntingly difficult…
We arrived at at the gated area at around 9:05 p.m. I know not how to explain it, but the darkness in the sky seemed to be gathering in this very spot, as if a lodestone was situationally close to whatever was being practiced in this haunted vicinity. My Uncle Alfred parked his vehicle alongside a dirt path which peeked into dilapidated units of housing that were disheveled and seemed to be in disrepair, while Detective Ackerly Lott positioned himself on the other side of the thoroughfare. I knew what the protocols were, and so (being beforehand outfitted with recording equipment on the lining of my clothing and person) I exited Alfred’s vehicle and advanced towards the black gate.
There was a speaker present that looked decidedly in ruin, and while I hovered my hand over the button to call for the opening of the gate, the black gate itself creaked open inwardly, leaving the path open to this devilish and decrepit section of Manchester. I entered warily, anticipating only the worst, and proceeded through a pathway consisting of worn down, broken cobbles. I could not discern much in the way of architecture, as the darkness itself seemed to be oppressive here, descending to a depth that would leave even the most heartened individual faint, let alone one of my feeble comportment.
As I proceeded through the gloom, I caught glance of two robed individuals (both clad in black) approaching. I gathered myself up as best I could, though any gathering of mental fortitude on my part must have been feeble-minded attempts at best. They drew near then, all while I tried to make sense of it all.
“We have been expecting you, Heir Wellingsworth. If you would follow, we will lead you to the altar, and the gathering.” I at this moment could have rattled off an assortment of replies; What do you mean by ‘Heir Wellingsworth’? What in actuality occurs at this ‘Altar’? What happens at this so-called ‘gathering’? Though in truth I remained silent and brooding, content to follow for the time being. I had not yet managed to implicate my Uncle in anything secretively evil, and on this point I was determined.
We eventually arrived at descended steps which led into a dark passageway, the atmosphere filled with blighted and mildewed air and candle holders placed not nearly close enough to ward off the encroaching darkness. Neither of my ‘guides’ spoke throughout, and neither did they glance back towards me to ensure that I was shadowing them. I suppose that they were so secure in their assignment and my follow through that it was superfluous to concern themselves with these particulars. I was here now. I had arrived at that point and position of which my Uncle Bernard had designed for me. And of the fulfilling of that destiny there could be no escape.
The passageway finally opened up into the ritual concourse of which I have wrote about heretofore. It was all here. The concourse that was filled with chanting and swaying individuals, though now all of their eyes were transfixed on the ‘new recruit,’ as it were. The concourse where that poor woman no doubt met her untimely demise at my Uncle Bernard’s unwavering hand. The concourse where demon creatures were heard groaning in their devilish tongues and delight. My ‘guides’ moved about to the side and allowed me to advance inside of this hellish and supernatural crypt of the devil, and I finally saw standing near the altar holding a primordial book in his hands, leaning over a bound woman, my Uncle Bernard Wellingsworth. He turned then, and showcased the most pleased expression at my arrival.
“Welcome, Eli,” he said hoarsely as he placed the book on the altar and got closer towards my position. “Welcome to your—initiation.” There were far too many queries waiting to be unloosed from my wavering tongue but what I managed was simply this: “My—initiation?”
“Why, of course,” my Uncle said hoarsely, as he placed his hand on my shoulder and embraced me as though a long lost relative. Throughout I managed to display a totally perplexed demeanor, bemused as to what my Uncle could potentially have planned for me now that he had me where he desired me to be. “You have been—led here, Eli. Do not think that any of your plans were not carefully overseen by my acolytes, which span the globe,” he said with a devious smile. It proved extremely unsettling to come to the realization that this Hadean cult had enclaves sprinkled throughout the globe, however the totality of that import would prove most troubling in my later years. “The Arcane Brotherhood has hands and eyes in places you could not rightly discern, what, given your clouded perception. Rest assured, you were meant to come here. I must needs have someone to replace me, and for that task, I have chosen you. It is as simple and succinct as that.” So it was true. Through no doubt some foul and effectuated task my Uncle Bernard had managed to orchestrate all things to benefit his designs. I grappled with this idea for some time in that hellish cellar, and tried to approximate all that lead up and unto this point, but for all of my seeking and searching, doubting and questioning, I could not perceive when and where I had been led astray. My Uncle saw my complete and utter befuddlement and sought to ‘comfort’ me in his own maniacal way.
“Do not try to figure it out,” he said. “You will not be able. I have only given you, a foretaste. Remember, the girl in the bright blue blouse? She was in truth a spirit working for our most maleficent master. It was she who helped to convince you to return to Wellingsworth Manor and seek to undue my ‘evil,’” he said, observing my demeanor throughout his exposition and garnering support from his acolytes in the form of smiles and head nods. “And the one who proposed to you of recording any thing that took place here, he too is a part of my order. I needed to get you here, Eli, by any means necessary.” This last reveal was like a shock wave sent throughout my mental man. My heart at this revelation dropped so low it had retreated to the very soles of my feet. It was through Ackerly that I was to convince the authorities of who Alexi really was, and to know that he too was in league with my Uncle Bernard shattered any notion of not only bringing to justice my Uncle and his sordid activities, but even making it out of this dark pit alive. If all were conspired against me, who indeed could I trust?
“Do you see now, Eli? Are you ready to partake in the ritual?” I was benumbed. I knew not what to voice nor what action to take, which is why the words that escaped my mouth were an adulterated shock coming from me. “What—would you have me to do?” I said, and wondered at it. Did I really just make this proclamation? Yes, yes I did.
“Follow me to the altar,” was my Uncle’s hoarse pronouncement. And I followed him, all the while the acolytes stood on their feet and began a rhythmic swaying, chanting and the like in tongues long since extinct. I arrived at the altar. My Uncle stood beside and began reciting passages out of the primeval and tattered book he held aloft. I saw a knife positioned near the bound body of the woman, a dark and stained blade which looked as if it had had much use in the ending of lives, and I picked it up as if in a trance. My Uncle Bernard then spoke.
“The demon Dakaroth will ascend and enjoin itself to you from this day onward. You are one of us now, one of the Arcane Brotherhood.” I could not account for it. I held that knife high in the air and was certainly ready with every muscle and movement in my body to strike the life from her flesh with one well placed stroke, her eyes were bulging out of their sockets and were fixed on my determined form; though something restrained me. A hint of light was peeking through the interminable and ever-spreading darkness and I caught the faintest glance of a glimmer in my foggy perception, and I stayed that hand, it being eternally positioned as if to strike the life from that woman. All the while the acolytes swayed and swayed behind me, and chanted in that most primordial tongue ancient and nefarious secrets that would drive any sane man to brink of insanity, of which I had formerly supposed myself to be.
Then I discerned a deep and netherworldly growl surrounding and enveloping the ritual concourse, a guttural GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!, as if issued from the depths of hades itself, a creature set to unmask itself in the most unsettling of ways, ways that should not have to be known to the brittle and fragile minds of human beings. But I had glanced at that glimmer of light; God had seemingly given me what was needed to extricate myself from this portentous plot, and I dropped the knife, letting it clang to the floor, looked about me and saw the most thwarted expression on my Uncle Bernard’s face, and I managed a run, a run towards the entrance, where my ‘guides’ were positioned. Though as they tried to impede my progress I bull-rushed them in mounting speed, racing through the scarcely lit passageway and heading back towards civilization.
The acolytes had stopped chanting now, there were orders being given, a rustling a feet could be heard. But that did not trouble me, I was set and determined to make it out of this spellbound madness with every bounded step I could manage.
I was at the gate then, and I espied opened car doors. Where was my Uncle Alfred? Landon? Then it struck me like a head on collision. Ackerly. What did Ackerly do with my companions? I could hear the advancing exclamations of that most demented order emerging from the unhallowed sanctuary, and I hustled out of the soul imperilling and gated enclosure and marshaled my energies towards the adjoining dilapidated housing complex.
I did not know exactly what I expected to find, but there was a middle aged man lying in the street of this area not far from where my Uncle Alfred’s vehicle was positioned. I ran towards him and discovered it to be in truth my Uncle Alfred. Blood was seeping out of his forehead. I checked his pulse and was relieved to see that he still lived. The shrieks were getting louder now, so I lifted my Uncle Alfred off the ground and went about looking for Landon. I had no understanding of how I was going to make it out of the influence of this heretical place, but I could not leave Landon to a most disturbing fate.
There were many side streets and alleys in this maze of a decrepit and extinct community, so I had no clue as to where I should explore. Added to this the added burden of my Uncle Alfred and it was as if I was attempting to put a puzzle together in the dark. The Arcane Brotherhood had divided its numbers and were sweeping the entire area to locate me. I did not know how much longer I would have until I was theirs again.
I would cut corners and turn down alleyways and was eventually arrested by the sobbing of a man who I perceived to be the voice of Landon. I espied him then, huddled on the concrete of an alleyway and hugging himself. I approached and spoke.
“Landon? It is good to see you whole, my friend. Come, we must get out of here.”
“‘Whole?” he said half-sobbing. “That’s peculiar terminology—for what they have done to me,” he said, sobbing uncontrollably. He gathered himself as best he could though at times he would falter. He managed to continue then. “Something was wrong. We couldn’t—hear anything over the receivers. Your Uncle— was worried, and wanted to follow you inside. Ackerly insisted that all would be well, and suggested—he share a smoke with him. They went away, and didn’t come back.” He was half-sobbing again. “I knew something was not right—when they didn’t come back. So I—called the constabulary; told them some people were gathered and engaging in suspicious activities— in this part of town. They should be here any…” The multitude of sirens that broke forth at just that moment was the most welcome sound I attest to hearing in my thirty-five years of life. I grabbed a hold of Landon at that moment and lifted him off of his feet and told him that he had by calling the constabulary just delivered us from certain and unalterable doom. My Uncle Alfred began stirring, soft moans escaping his mouth, and placing a hand to his head.
“What—what happened?” he said.
“It’s over,” I said. ‘Bernard Wellingsworth will face justice.’
Much was made over the news broadcasts of the secret and diabolical cult that purportedly engaged in human sacrifice to appease Biblical devils. Most commentators found it to be a case of the lunatic fringe, and that these individuals needed to be placed in psychiatric wards and insane asylums. The detectives—of course—found much at that spiritually ruined site that implicated all present, including Bernard and Ackerly. Links were—however—never made as to Bernard Wellingsworth living on in the guise of Alexi Shostakovich. That singular happening has caused me much reflection. I have never before seen a photo of my Uncle Bernard until I had met him in person in Manchester. The particulars of how he was able to fool medical examiners, victim’s families, and the entire surrounding community as to the legitimacy of his decease eludes me to this day. I have considered it being possible that one way he achieved this was through some advanced medical facial transplant, which would explain how a person like Alistair Norrington did not recognize Bernard when he took over Wellingsworth Manor in the form of Alexi Shostakovich. Another, more exotic explanation is to say that Alexi was not really Bernard in any way, shape, or form, and that the man was literally suffering form a grand delusion. And yet, that could not account for how he was intimately aware of Wellingsworth ancestry being linked with this evil and my own Uncle Alfred confessing to having known that Bernard was still extant and operating in full fiendish power as if he had never perished those innumerable years ago. The circumstances of this mystery I perhaps will never solve…
Landon is returning to mental stability by degrees, he has remained forever altered, having been directly influenced by the infernal powers of this world. He has confessed to me that he is now seeking God and his grace as a means of repelling this taint that has spilled over into his subconscious mind, being fully persuaded that if there are infernal orders in this world then there also too must be the heavenly host in opposition. I have commended him for this realization and endeavor, and implored him to continue in his search.
I left my Uncle Alfred on the best of terms, and he has convinced me that I should make it a habit of visiting my family here in England more frequently, a notion which I have decided to adopt. We even established a future date of next Summer being the time when I would return and congregate with long estranged relatives.
The dark stain that has existed throughout the history of Wellingsworth ancestry being now expunged, I returned to my home in upstate New York, and reengaged myself in my psychiatric practice. A period of rest and respite had initiated itself, no doubt a boon and blessing from Almighty God, and I would enjoy these days with the utmost of thankfulness.