THE MANOR
By: Mark Edward Hall
From
the Journal of John J. Tittleman
July
1897
It
is with great trepidation that I, John J. Tittleman, in the year of our Lord
1897—a prisoner it seems in this huge and draughty stone manor named for its
indomitable owner and builder, Captain Nathaniel Ellis—commit to parchment the
events of the past several days. Please
forgive the incongruities of speech and rhythm for I am not entirely clear of
mind, and thus would not swear with absolute certainty that all words contained
herein are, or should be, construed as gospel. After what has occurred this
writer’s very sanity is in serious self-doubt.
I
am feeling slightly better now, the fever seems to have broken, but the head
still aches ferociously, and it causes within me an utter and almost complete
sense of unreality—
Williams
has just fled from the room. It is uncertain as to whether Williams—a
strikingly handsome Negro—is the gentleman’s proper name or merely his
title. No matter. It is the appellative he has asked me—in his exotic sounding
tongue (probably a mixture of West Indian and Creole)—to address him by. He
entered—without announcing himself, which seems to be the custom here at Ellis
Manor—carrying a bowl of bland porridge, startling me as I wrote, and I was
forced to tuck my journal hastily beneath the bed’s massive feather-tic. It is
quite probable that he witnessed the act for he glared balefully at me with
those large, intelligent brown eyes of his, before turning abruptly and
literally fleeing as if being chased. He seldom speaks, and when he does his
manor is curt and businesslike.
He
is gone from my presence now; nevertheless I get the disquieting feeling that
the walls here at Ellis Manor have eyes, and ears.
I
have eaten the small helping of warm porridge—which strangely has a slight red
hue to it—and although it tasted bland and sits heavy and burdensome in the
pit of my belly, it seems to have satisfied—at least for the moment—the
gnawing hunger that had gripped me like the bends since awakening from the
fever. Perhaps this is a good sign. That said, I shall begin anew.
Such
an account would not be wholly adequate without first relaying the events that
brought me to this particular place in time.
It
began with newspaper accounts; that of a ship, a China Clipper to be exact,
captained by one Nathaniel Irving Ellis of James Village, Maine. The vessel,
commissioned by aforementioned captain and built by sturdy stock with locale
materials, was a particularly large Clipper, some 1,200 tons berthen, and
christened with the name Witchcraft.
According to this reporter’s sources, Witchcraft had been round
the horn on a number of global voyages and had made significant inroads as a
China-trade vessel.
Why
Captain Ellis had christened her with such a vile name as Witchcraft is
any man’s guess. There are those, of course, who’ve made ill claims of the
good captain’s morals and intentions. Some have asserted that he nurtured a
life-long romance with the occult, others have said that he literally worshiped
the dead. I cannot attest to any of
these accusations, however appealing and scandalous they may be to the
readership at large, having as yet—to the best of my knowledge—never met the
man.
There
are those as well who pronounced Witchcraft doomed from the very
beginning of her life, based on speculation that she was somehow christened with
blood. It seemed the skeptics were wrong, however, for as years passed, Witchcraft
and her crew completed voyage after successful voyage, and it appeared that she
was not cursed at all. On the contrary, there seemed to be an angel of mercy
resting on her bow, for in all the years of successful voyages Witchcraft
lost nary a single hand.
Then
came that fateful voyage four months passed.
As
I have already stated, I cannot in all good conscience swear that the reports
set forth in this account are wholly accurate, for I was not aboard Witchcraft
on said voyage and therefore did not experience first hand the terrors which
purportedly ensued. The task set forth for reporters of news in this modern day
is a wholly clinical one, which leaves no room for embellishment. Thus stated, I
will pronounce the facts without embellishment, as accurately and as skillfully
as the information at hand will allow.
What
follows is an account verbatim by Witchcraft’s first mate, Joshua
Whitney, following the strange and untimely events on board said ship while
enrout to England in March, the year of our lord, eighteen hundred and ninety
seven.
As
reprinted from the Boston Herald, April 16, 1897.
“We
sailed from Philadelphia on February 9, loaded with grain and lumber and bound
for Liverpool. On the morning of the twenty-seventh a sea boarded us,
sweeping the decks clean, staving all boats except for one, and smashing things
generally. The Witchcraft, a sturdy vessel, had withstood worse in her day, and
Capt. Ellis was certain she could hold up under whatever nature saw fit to throw
at her. The men were not so sure. There had been a feeling of unease amongst the
crew from day one of this particular voyage and slowly as the storm encompassed
us, that atmosphere blossomed into something near to dread.
The
reason for the crew’s unease, besides the gale, was, of course, the presence
of Mrs. Ellis herself, the captain’s wife, who was nearly full term with
child. No man in his right mind
puts to sea with a pregnant woman, but the captain’s word was law and the crew
dare not question him. Also aboard on this voyage—which was not unusual—was
the captain’s Negro servant, known to the crew and myself merely as Williams.
It
was early afternoon, March 3, six days into the tempest. We were floundering,
not making much headway. The men were exhausted. I was in charge. We hadn’t
seen the captain in nearly twenty-four hours.
Then
came a series of agonizing screams, the likes of which I had never before heard.
We all knew that they were coming from the captain’s cabin and that Lady
Amelia must be the one making them. The rumor was that Lady Amelia had gone to
term early and was delivering child prematurely. We learned later that the lady
in question had indeed given birth, but had died in the process. We were all
quite grieved by this terrible news. The child was saved, however, but none of
the hands ever saw the purported baby girl.
Rumor
spread like fire amongst the crew and it told of a cursed child.
That
very afternoon the storm began to subside somewhat and we were all grateful.
What we didn’t realize, was we were in the eye of the cyclone. A ship was
spotted several hundred yards to leeward. She was listing badly, but after
heaving to and signaling, it was determined that she was a ghost ship (which in
modern seafaring terms means that she had been deserted some time ago) because
no return signal was forthcoming.
The
captain had come above deck by this time and he looked drawn and pallid. His
eyes were dulled, haunted orbs in his head. He did not speak much and no one
dared approach him.
Well,
the captain surveyed the ghost ship with his glass and determined that there was
a lantern aglow on her decks. How a lantern could stay lit in such a gale was
beyond me, and I told the captain so. But he just looked at me in that way that
said his word was law.
After
a brief—and somewhat heated—consultation between the captain and myself it
was decided to heave to for a second time and go to the assistance of the ship
which was drifting far to leeward by then. Just before dark we had worked up as
close to the stranger as we dared—given the uncertainty of the tempest—and
we hove to under a goose-wing main topsail.
Well,
we ran across her stern, hailing as we passed, and sure enough, a lone man
appeared on her deck just standing there motionless in the midst of that gale.
It
was evident that we could not dally a moment longer, for the storm was once
again burgeoning and the ghost ship was now taking on heavy amounts of water and
listing severely to starboard. It was determined that she would not last the
night. At any rate Captain Ellis immediately sent the lone whaleboat under my
command to the sailor’s relief. By this time night had fallen. It was
pitch-dark and to add to our misfortunes, a sudden ice storm set in. Seas were
twenty-five feet and we were unsure if the whaleboat would even hold up under
such conditions. We slowly bridged the gap between the Witchcraft and the ghost
ship, however. In time she could be seen as a dark shadow in the roiling
cauldron of the sea. We hailed the stranger but to no avail. If indeed he had
ever had a voice, it was now silent. I made the decision to stay with the
whaleboat while the other five hands went aboard in search. We managed to grab a
dragging bowline. I tied her off and the men scrambled up her listing hull,
deck-side.
After
a time my men were back, sliding back down the rope, and with them, the
stranger, who carried with him a rather large vessel of some kind. At first I
thought it to be a seaman’s trunk, but the more I gazed at it the more
un-convinced I became. The look of it was quite disturbing. I could not readily
identify its construction, but whenever I chanced a glance toward it I got this
most dreadful feeling. The shape wasn’t exactly right either and to be
truthful it seemed to change its shape with each passing scrutiny. Some sort of
strange animal-like hide seemed to be stretched over it, scaly, like that of a
reptile, and the illusion was that it pulsed like some terrible beating heart,
as if it contained something alive. But in all honesty, I cannot now swear to
any of these assertions. It was dark, the tempest was raging and I was very
tired and frightened.
The
vessel appeared quite heavy and cumbersome, but the gentlemen did not seem at
all burdened by its weight or mass. He stood straight and undaunted by it,
sliding down the rope with one extraordinarily long arm looped around its
massive bulk while using the other hand to descend. When two of my men came to
his aid and offered to help the man shook his head resolutely but did not utter
a single word. Instead there was something in his eyes that made us not wish to
challenge him. He was an odd-looking fellow, quite tall and thin, light
complexioned, with skin like wax. He did not speak, kept to himself, and after
that first encounter would not meet my eyes directly. I became quite nervous.
From the moment he and that strange vessel came aboard the whaleboat I felt
something was not quite right. The men had also become edgy with the stranger
aboard and there was a look in their eyes that had not been there before
departing the whaleboat. It was a strange and haunted look.
We made our way back to the Witchcraft safely and the captain greeted our guest with standard protocol. There were words exchange between the captain and the stranger but the storm was noisy, I was busy setting the riggings and I did not catch what was said. The stranger was shown to his quarters—not once relinquishing the massive trunk to any of the men—and then he was back with the captain—evidently leaving the trunk behind. It was decided that explanations could wait till morning, for the storm was once again burgeoning with great fury. All that night the stranger worked silently beside us, and just before dawn he slipped away. Nobody saw him again.
In
the morning, the captain’s beloved Amelia was buried at sea. The stranger did
not appear. Later two men were assigned to find him. Those two men became sick
with fever and died. Neither the stranger nor the odd-looking vessel of which
he’d carried aboard was ever again seen.
It was said that
Williams had stayed below to care for the captain’s newborn child, for he was
not seen again until the end of the voyage, when he hastily left the ship
carrying a bundle that might or might not have been a child.
One thing was certain,
though. The voyage had become cursed. Following the death of the two hands,
Captain Ellis decided to make way back to homeport. The next night three more
hands became sick with fever.
A
terrible disease ensued and burial at sea became commonplace. Some men on board
had taken to praying that Witchcraft would never reach her destination. And they
were right in doing so, for no one wished to carry this strange and deadly
disease home to loved ones.
Nevertheless,
amid ferocious seas and an infuriating tempest that dogged us nearly the whole
way we set sail for James Village. It was a nightmare voyage, men becoming sick
and dying in the most horrible way. Upon arriving in homeport, all but Captain
Ellis, three others and myself were gone. There were twenty-three in all who had
perished.
In
dry-dock Witchcraft was hastily dismantled and every plank aboard her searched
for some sign of the stranger and his odd vessel. None was ever found, and the
remnants of Witchcraft was thus set adrift in the St. James River and burned to
ashes as the families of the dead stood weeping and cursing God in the glare of
the great and terrible pyre.”
Upon
reading the account of First Mate Joshua Whitney in the Boston Herald this
reporter saw fit to post a letter to Capt. Ellis who reportedly, since the
tragedy had been holed up at his residence in the small sea-faring hamlet of
James Village. Within a fortnight I received a return reply stating that my
presence would be welcomed for an interview if so desired. Said captain also
stated that there had been so much speculation concerning the ill-fated voyage
that he had decided to set the record straight once and for all. The good
captain also informed me that he would send coach and driver to the Portland
station on specified time and date.
I
was delighted, and hastily made arrangements for my departure.
I
am delighted no longer. I have been in residence now for quite some time. I am
uncertain as to how many days and nights have passed, for the darkness is all
pervading and the fever has kept me somewhat delirious and tied to bed.
Williams, the manservant sees to my every need. He is far from talkative,
however. Even so he has managed to make clear some very important details of my
residency: a warning against drawing the curtains open in daylight hours, for
one thing. I have not been in a position to argue, for with the fever, I have
discovered that even a single shaft of sunlight is enough to cause my head to
spin wildly with agony. What is this strange and terrible sickness that has
befallen me? I pray for deliverance, but as each day passes I fear that I have
become infected with the same fever that took the lives of so many hands aboard Witchcraft.
As
of yet I have not been granted said interview with Captain Ellis. Furthermore I
have not once laid eyes on the man, although a stranger has been round from time
to time. I have awakened in delirium and found him standing above the bed
staring curiously down at me.
It
seems, that for the time being at least I have become a prisoner here in this
cold stone house, a house that as far as I can determine is both beautiful and
strangely disturbing. In the night I hear strange noises from somewhere within
the walls of this mysterious mansion and my fevered dreams are filled with the
sounds of silvery laughter, as if from the mouth of a child, followed thereafter
by blood-curdling screams. And in my delirium I see flaming eyes, blood-red
lips, and sharp, terrible fangs. The only explanation for these strange and
horrifying delusions—the only explanation I will allow myself to
entertain—is of course, this cursed fever.
I
know not how much longer I will be forced to wait here in this nightmare manor
for an interview with said captain, but since eating the warm, red porridge my
spirits and general health seem to be on the upswing, and I have decided to
relate to the best of my recollection the events of the past several days,
beginning when the chartered coach entered the village proper, and I will try to
convey as best I can the strong sense of terror and unreality that overtook me
from that moment on until now.
The
coach trundled through the narrow cobbled streets of the old village, the
galloping trot of the sweated horses echoing back at us like gunshots off the
brick townhouses that lined both sides of the shadowy riverside passage.
Although
it was a hot mid-summer day, clammy and close, the streets were completely
devoid of pedestrians. This troubled me. I was troubled by something else, as
well. The driver, upon meeting me at the Portland station, seemed upset that the
Concord Coach, that of which had provided my transportation from Boston, was
late in arriving. I found him pacing nervously, pulling his watch out every few
seconds and glaring grimly at it. He hastened me quickly aboard his coach
stating flatly that we must hurry, that we must make Ellis Manor before
nightfall.
I
did not argue, wondering if his manners and the short, humorless way in which I
had been treated were common attributes of all James Village natives. There was
no doubt about his urgency, however, for the entire distance between Portland
and James Village he sat on his box whipping those poor horses nearly to death.
Once
inside the village limits, however, the driver slowed the horses to a brisk
trot. As the coach trundled through the village’s main thoroughfare I cast my
eyes curiously to the left and up, and saw, above the rooftops and beyond the
townhouse chimneys, littered across the terraced hillside, caught in the last
burning rays of a dying sun, scores of small, gothic houses; old, stolid in
their implacable equanimity, and nestled in amongst them, an ancient Anglican
church with its tall, reflective cross atop its steeple stabbing toward the
heavens like some great, malevolent dagger.
I
looked away then, not knowing exactly why, but having the strong sense that
something was horribly amiss in this small coastal New England village. I know
that such a conclusion was rash, but I could not help myself; as we rode I
became increasingly more troubled. Not only did the driver’s urgency and the
frenetic pace in which we had traveled trouble me, but there seemed to be
something else happening as well. I am not certain that I can adequately explain
what, but I will try: it was as if my entire being had become overwhelmed with a
sense of reverie, as though I had slept for a time and then awakened in a
half-dream. Yet strangely I was fully aware of the fact that I had not slept at
all.
I had been under the miss-impression upon leaving Boston that I would be visiting a bustling community of shipbuilders and seafarers, but as I gazed out into those baron stone streets not a single soul was in evidence, and an oppressiveness as dark and as still as the spirit of death lay gloomy and close over the entire village.
What
could this mean? I asked myself. What is wrong in this place? My silent
questions were answered almost immediately by the driver’s urgent summons:
“Aye,
Mr. Tittleman, the night is near upon us and we must hasten indoors and bar
entrance lest we be caught in its fearsome grip. Can you not feel its weight
bearing down upon us?” The driver had turned toward me and I saw in his eyes a
cast of almost inexplicable fright, and his mouth was set in a grim line of
dismay.
“Rubbish,”
I shouted in reply, knowing full well that it was my own sense of rising
paranoia that I was trying to extinguish. “It is merely the night after all.
What harm can be found in the night?” By then I was leaning halfway out of the
window, cupping both hands round my mouth so the burgeoning wind could not steal
my voice. “Why would one wish to hasten indoors and bar entrance?” The
driver turned back to me but did not reply. I could clearly see by the cast of
his eyes and the grim set of his jaw that he was staid in his conviction. He
then crossed himself, and an icy finger of fear crawled up my spine. I could
sense suddenly that I was in the midst of some unspoken truth that I did not,
and perhaps never would grasp. I slid back through the carriage window and
settled uneasily back into my seat, and as I chanced a glance to the side I saw
with much trepidation that in some of the houses along the shadowy passage the
curtains were drawn back ever so slightly and eyes—eyes as sharp and as
glittering as blood-rubies, eyes that could be at home only in the night—were
staring out at the coach as it trundled noisily past. An unwitting shudder went
through me, chilling me to the bone, for I felt that those terrible eyes had
seen into my depths, perhaps to the heart of my very soul. I pulled my coat
around me and hugged myself to keep warm even though the temperature outside
must surely have been tottering close to the eighty-degree mark.
“Tis
the way of the Village,” the driver barked suddenly. “They are all in their
houses with the doors barred. Since the end of that damned ill-fated voyage,
when night falls it happens.”
“What
happens?” I asked.
“Children!”
the driver replied, as if any fool should have known. “Be warned. Do not
venture out after dark, neither the village nor the countryside, for the little
demons roam. Tis the curse of Satan himself, I tell you.”
“Children?
Little demons?” I repeated in awe, not understanding, perhaps not wanting to
understand the implications of that statement. I observed then that I had
unwittingly grasped the side rail to steady myself and the knuckles of my hands
had gone white with strain. The curse of Satan? Surely this was madness.
Surely this entire day was madness. I settled myself uneasily back into the seat
as the carriage cleared the village proper, entering once again the ominous
darkness of woods. For this I was somewhat grateful, for in darkness, I believed
foolishly, those glittering eyes could no longer gaze upon me.
The
driver upped his pace then; he was frenzied beyond belief, unmercifully whipping
those poor animals as the sky darkened overhead with the coming of a summer
storm. The air grew heavy with the oppressive sense of moisture. Thunder
muttered uneasily in the distance and jagged forks of lightening stabbed into
the earth like the tongues of hell-fire serpents. The coach yawed and strained
against its leather springs.
Off
to my right and through the trees I caught a glimpse of the River St. James and
the masts of clippers, brigs, barks and schooners bobbing in its uneasy swells.
Above and beyond the masts, some distance away, toward the south, a gray pall of
clouds swirled and massed like a whirlwind of viscous poison. And through the
swirling mass I chanced a glimpse of a lofty crag. For the most part the crag
was encompassed in dark forest, save the very top, which seemed curiously devoid
of flora. I was captured immediately by the sight of that odd vortex swirling
round that craggy spire, never before being witness to such a peculiar
phenomenon. My body gave yet another unwitting shudder.
What is this strange place?
I asked myself. A place I had so fervently journeyed to. Could it be that the
accounts I had read and the rumors I had scoffed at in my own overly cynical,
journalistic mind could in fact be correct? Could it be that the published
accounts of the first mate of the clipper, Witchcraft and its mysterious
voyage were indeed fact and that something was strangely amiss in this tiny
village? I realized suddenly that I had journeyed all this way to dispel those
very myths. Now I could do nothing but fight the growing sense of alarm inside
of me.
I
had concealed a flask in my boot upon departing Boston and chose that moment to
extract it and partake of a healthy swallow of its contents, a fine amber
brandy. And I did so with great relish. It succeeded in warming my bones but did
nothing to quell the terrible dread I felt deep in my soul.
The
coach cleared the darkness of forest once again and this time instead of village
I saw a green sloping land filled with pastures and distant woods, and
farmhouses.
I
looked and beheld in the distance a wide expanse of ocean whose waters were
being whipped into a hideous frenzy. To the right and left as far as the eye
could see the water was ink-black and bubbling as if it was some vile brine
boiling in a massive caldron. And yet that spinning vortex continued to whirl
crazily around that barren crag as dark elongated clouds spun away from it like
the tattered remnants of ruined curtains.
The
driver lashed the team unmercifully and at the foot of the hill he pulled back
on the reins and brought them up short, swung them about, entering onto a road
to the right that was nary a road at all, but merely a wide path with two
wheel-ruts at its center. And once again, this time with dismay, I found myself
shrouded in shadowy forest. We were all but hemmed in with trees, which in
places arched over the roadway till we passed as through a tunnel. Every now and
then the horses would throw their heads up and sniff the air suspiciously, and
looking through the window I saw that the driver was having difficulty holding
them on course, for they were trying to break pace in their panic and turn back.
Their whinnying was filled with the unmistakable sound of terror.
The
sun had now fallen behind that lofty crag and darkness was encroaching the land.
The trail ahead was rugged but still we flew over it at a feverish pace.
Presently
we passed near the foot of the crag in question. The coach rocked and swayed as
a ship in rough seas, the horses whinnied and reared, threatening to break
stride and bolt away in panic. The driver held them fast, however, despite their
insane antics, shouting terse commands, his whip cracking fiercely down on their
seemingly impervious flesh.
Presently
the muttering in the heavens turned to a loud and ferocious roar, and the
terrible wind made noises like a demon, stealing away the whinnying of the
horses.
“It
is too near nightfall,” the driver cried, and his voice was nearly stolen by
the horrendous cacophony around us. “Dear God, we must make Ellis Manor before
they are upon us.”
“Before
they are upon us?” I shot back in reply, my voice filled with trepidation.
“Who are they?” I did not want to think about the children he’d
mentioned; little demons with blood sucking mouths and terrible intentions. For
an answer I was rewarded with nothing but the shrieking of wind. “Driver!” I
railed, and again received no reply from the box. The coach was careening at
great speed by then, rocking and shuddering. I leaned out of the window and saw,
to my utter and complete dread that the driver was no longer on his box and the
reins were whipping about freely in the wind. A terrible fear went into my
heart, for the team was now racing out of control, their heads lolling to and
fro in delirium, their bulbous eyes insane with utter terror. At that moment I
saw fit to cross myself, believing that my last breath was most certainly about
to be taken. I could do nothing in those last few precious seconds of my life
but stare out of the window and shudder as the maelstrom encompassed the summit
of that hideous crag and settle on it like a roiling dervish.
Then,
an all-pervading darkness blanketed the land. It was as if some strange and
wicked power had suddenly extinguished all light from the earth, plunging us
helpless pilgrims into a hideous endless night. In my moment of absolute
blindness I could feel the coach trembling unmercifully beneath me, then
suddenly, the vibration ceased, and with it, all sound and all sensation. Now I
was not merely blind, but deaf as well. Sensation suddenly returned, and with
it, disorientation. I felt the coach keeling forward at a frightening angle. I
was powerless in my terror for I knew that I was falling. My stomach lurched up
into my mouth. My mind conjured some hellish abyss without end, a bottomless pit
of purgatory where I would most assuredly descend forever without the benefit of
sight or sound. I grasped the side rails with both hands and stopped breathing.
The carriage tumbled suddenly out of control; end over end, slamming me
dreadfully and painfully into the forward seat. There was a horrendous crash. I
screamed. All sensation ceased suddenly and this time it did not return.
Darkness enveloped me and I was grateful.
Sometime later, perhaps hours, perhaps only minutes, I awoke face down, sick with pain, disoriented. Total darkness prevailed. There was a pervading stillness as well. The storm had passed and perhaps in sympathy with nature’s silence my heart seemed to have stopped as well. I could not find my breath. I groped about me blindly, wanting very badly to grasp hold of something substantial, which would confirm the fact of my continued existence, but I was rewarded only with hand-full after hand-full of wet, pebbly soil. The darkness was so pervasive that for a short moment I believed I had somehow been blinded. But this was short-lived, for suddenly moonlight broke through scudding clouds, showing me that I was lying at the base of what at first appeared to be a large stone tomb. I struggled weakly to my feet, staring at the monolith. I stood there on shaky kegs scrutinizing the strange-looking phenomenon. It might very well have been a tomb of sorts, I suppose, for it was dull gray in color and appeared very smooth like polished marble. But I did not think it was marble, for the cast was perhaps too smooth. It appeared more metallic in construction, like pewter or unpolished silver. It seemed to glow dully, however, with some strange inner light, and there was a slight pulsing on its surface as if a heart lay at its center. I closed my eyes and opened them again but the light and the pulsing persisted. From my vantage the object at first appeared to have only three sides narrowing as it pointed skyward like a miniature version of one of the Giza pyramids. A moment’s scrutiny, however, dispelled that illusion, for now it appeared to have many sides, then the object seemed to shift shapes again. I closed my eyes not wishing to look upon the wretched thing a moment longer. But unwittingly my eyes again opened and I saw that the land around it was desolate and barren, as if scorched by some ferocious and titanic forest fire. There seemed to be some sort of energy force coming from the thing, for along with the light and the slight pulsing I felt a kind of vibration in my head accompanied by a low frequency humming. I took a step in its direction. Unwittingly I was being drawn toward the wretched thing even as I tried to ignore it. My heart filled with dread at the prospect.
Suddenly my head snapped around to the left for there came a series of soft mewing sounds, and in their midst a terrible cacophony of moaning and wailing, like tortured children. I squinted into the darkness trying to identify the source of those sounds and suddenly my blood turned icy-cold, for there on the ground, not ten rods distant, I beheld what at first looked to be a mound of gray, writhing flesh. I crossed myself, then closed my eyes and opened them again quickly, hoping to dispel the illusion. I was to be disappointed, however, for still the vision persisted, and beneath those other terrible noises my ears picked up the unmistakable sound of slurping, like hogs gulping swill. I shambled several tentative steps closer to the illusion, wanting to dispel the image as quickly as possible, for I felt strongly that my very sanity was in grave jeopardy. I froze solid in the silence-shattered darkness, for there, beneath a bevy of small, malformed, human-like forms, lay the coach’s driver, arms and legs splayed out as in death, blank, lifeless eyes staring toward the heavens, as those terrible little inhuman things fed upon him. I backed away slowly, an unwitting moan of revulsion wrenching from my throat, and I continued to moan for the horror that I was witnessing.
I
have no clear memory of all the events that followed, for something in my mind
must surely have given way. The next several minutes were like a waking
nightmare. My moans of terror and revulsion drew the attention of those small,
hideous feeders for they all turned their terrible gazes upon me. Their eyes
were yellow, blank, pupil-less orbs that seemed to burn with some terrible alien
life, their tiny mouths—filled with small, pointed teeth—were clogged with
torn flesh and covered in the blood of their victim. I stumbled back several
steps, suddenly aware of the screams that were convulsively exciting me as those
hideous little monsters deserted their feast and begin slinking in my direction,
moaning and writhing as they did so. I could not find my legs, frozen as I was
with abject terror.
The
rest of what happened comes back to me now as if in a dream.
From
out of the corner of my eye I saw movement. I whirled and to my great and utter
astonishment, up from the very bowels of the earth not twenty rods away from the
cursed monolith, a man appeared, tall and thin and white of hair and smooth of
complexion. The pupils of his eyes, which I could see quite clearly, were slit
like those of a cat and they seemed to burn with a cold, green fire. He stood
for a moment on the topmost of what appeared to be a smooth, pewter-like step
watching the moaning and writhing advance of those hideous, little yellow-eyed
monsters before shouting some sort of terse command with a deep, masterful voice
in a language I did not recognize. Although they seemed reluctant to do so, the
little monsters stopped their advance not five feet from my quaking body. They
stood there for a moment writhing as if in agony, then slowly they turned and
began a slow retreat.
My
legs suddenly gave way beneath me and the last sight I remember seeing is a sort
of black streaking mass; it seemed a million tiny hands were groping me, and my
head was filled with the sounds of suffering and anguish, like tormented souls
burning in the fires of some unspeakable hell.
For
another spell of time I remembered nothing. Then gradually came the vague
beginnings of consciousness. I found myself again lying face down—this time on
a hard and unyielding surface—and I remember trying to turn my body over.
Everything inside of me ached. I heard what sounded like water dripping in a
great hollow place. I finally managed to struggle onto my back and open my eyes.
At first I could not be sure of what I was seeing.
Then, as my eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness I noted that high above
me, suspended in the midst of some titanic well-like structure there was a vast
nest of sorts. The webbing that made up the nest was akin to a giant and
loathsome spider-web, only much more complex in its configuration. There were
literally hundreds, perhaps thousands of strands of webbing going away from its
epicenter, which attached themselves to the walls of the vertical cavern in
sticky clots. At the center of the nest rested a worm-like thing of massive
proportions, wrapped as if in a giant cocoon. And the cocoon was writhing as if
it contained some huge, bloated creature of unnamable origin caught in the
throes of some ghastly metamorphic transition. From the body of the thing there
dripped large clots of repugnant smelling fluid, viscous in consistency which
splashed the cavern floor all around me. And to my great and utter horror, with
each splatter of fluid, a hideous transparent creature of sorts was born—the
likes of which I could never in my wildest nightmares imagine. The creatures
closest to my position eyed me balefully with hideous glass-like eyes before
scuttling off into darkness on clickety-clackety claw-like appendages.
The
sensation of heat suddenly turned my attention away from those terrible things,
and over near the cavern wall, not six feet from where I lay, some sort of
alien-like vessel the size of a coffin pulsed as though it contained—or
perhaps more fittingly, was—a beating heart. And with each beat it would swell
to perhaps half again its size and its color would turn from midnight-black to
the most repulsive crimson I have ever imagined. In retrospect I now believe
that its colors were not of any known spectrum on this earth. And the heat
coming from it was like the heat of fever and sickness, of despair, of something
far worse than death. At that moment I honestly believed I had died and
that this place was most assuredly Hell. I tried to stand but was unable to find
my legs. I began to scream as the mass above me began to descend on creaking
filaments, and I screamed as the vessel began pulsing frenetically like a
stressed heart that might burst at any moment, and I screamed until finally my
mind shut down completely.
An
all-encompassing pit of darkness swallowed me for what seemed a very long time.
When
finally I awoke I felt drowsy, lethargic, disoriented. I found myself in a large
bed covered in fine linens, the room lofty with tall arched windows, draperies
crimson in color. In the lantern light they appeared dark as blood-stains
against the whitewashed walls. A moment of panic seized me for my first thought
was of that wretched vessel. But I forced myself to stay calm. Perhaps I had
died and this beautiful place was some sort of way station on the road to the
promised land. I was thankful for that, at least. It was a far cry from the
hideousness I had witnessed in my previous death.
These
notions were dispelled almost immediately, however, for there was a man standing
above the bed, watching me with sharp, intelligent eyes. He said nothing; just
watched me without expression. He was tall and thin and handsome. Could this be
the same man I had seen exit that strange monolith just prior to witnessing the
hell of all hells? I watched him carefully. No, I concluded finally, it could
not be, for the eyes, although sharp and intense were brown in color, not green
slits like those of a cat. I stared into those eyes, and in them I saw the cast
of something terrible and tragic, as though through life’s journeys, this
young man had been hardened beyond his years. His hair, much too white for his
young face, harked back to a past best left forgotten.
And
suddenly I knew who this person must be. “Captain Ellis?” I cried out, my
voice hoarse and uncharacteristically week in my own ears. “Captain Nathaniel
Ellis? What is happening to me? Please, I beg of you.”
A
general pause ensued and I began to wonder if my summons had fallen on deaf
ears. The gentleman wiped his brow thoughtfully then turned and without giving
me the courtesy of a reply walked purposefully from the room.
I
know not who the gentleman was, but other than the marked difference in the
eyes, I suppose he could very well have been the man who’d exited the earth
near that strange-looking monolith. But I am not completely certain of anything
anymore. I have seen too many horrific visions to be sure that any of them are
real. In this place dreams and reality have become too closely linked and it is
becoming increasingly difficult to differentiate between them.
I
have seen the same man from time to time over the past several days. It is
usually when I awake in delirium, the vestiges of those terrible dreams of the
suffering, cannibalistic children, the loathsome pulsing vessel and the horrible
metamorphic worm still in my head. There he will be, standing over my bed
staring worriedly down at me. I do not understand why he refuses to communicate
with me. I am here, after all, by invitation. “Where is Captain Ellis?” I
keep insisting. “If you are he, please talk to me?” Alas, I receive the same
answer of silence from both the strange gentleman and the Negro servant,
Williams.
Something else. Upon awakening I find my arms dull and aching from a
myriad of small pinpricks, and do not understand where they are coming from. As
time passes I am becoming more and more resigned, however, and have begun to
believe that I will never be allowed to leave this place.
I am weary with this writing. I do not wish the fever’s return. I
believe it is well into the night by now, although in this place, it is
sometimes hard to differentiate between night and day. The two seem to run
together as one all-encompassing void. Now the strange and terrifying noises
that have become synonymous with this draughty old mansion have resumed. I shall
hide my journal beneath the feather tick once again and try as best I can to
find a few moments of precious rest amongst the cacophonous bursts of
hair-raising shrieks and the delicate, almost hypnotic allure of that soft,
silvery laughter. I have been thinking that I might try and break out of this
stone prison, eventually, but it seems the longer I am here the more those kinds
of thoughts desert me. Ah, well, perhaps when I am stronger. Right now I am
finding it quite difficult just keeping my eyes open. Sleep beckons and I will
not keep it waiting, for with it comes that dark void that allows me to
forget—if even for a short time—where I am and what I am becoming.
John J. Tittleman
July, 1897