The Path That Eli Wellingsworth Took (1) To this very day I remember with acute pronouncement the course of processes that led me to confront the horrors perpetrated by the hand of my uncle Bernard. The marching on of time has seen no alleviation in this regard, as every inlet and dimly lit corner can be accessed with unending profundity. Like all decent and reputable men, I would like to be seen as a man of inherent justice, and that if I behold a wrong or see some misplaced deed or evil, I will redress it. This is what first led me back to my place of birth in Manchester, England, to take control of the estate of my deceased and demented uncle, and to get a first hand account of the activities of a man who had so strayed from the straight and narrow as to call forth a kind of madness upon the very watcher. I was--too--intensely committed to reestablishing the dull luminous that now accompanied those individuals who inherited the name and called themselves Wellingsworths. What I ascertained though, and what transpired during my journey was nothing short of a collection of fantastical absurdities. My uncle Bernard yet walked the earth in the pretense of one Alexi Shostakovich, the caretaker of the manor. I knew not how he was able to so massively deceive law enforcement, medical examiners, victim's families, or the entire surrounding community, but by some foul craft he effectuated this insidious task. Let it not be assumed, however, that I was the lone human being who had seen and beheld those things that were walking abominations. There were three young gentlemen whom I employed to help me to refurbish the manor. We absconded the place with our lives intact, but with our sanity very much in question. I shuttled the young men to their homes, and implored them to never again revisit my uncle Bernard's dwelling place. They agreed in earnest, and I assume had exceptional trouble repositioning themselves to some semblance of normalcy. For my own part, my pursuance and interests now laid with informing the authorities that my uncle Bernard still lived. I first made trekking to the realtor that was in charge of the property and asked for an audience with the chief of operations. I stated that what I had to tell him was forthrightly related to the former proprietor Bernard Wellingsworth. He obliged to hear me out on account of having worked under Bernard and being familiar with his case study. I expressed to him in no uncertain terms a summary of the whole of what I had experienced, and at the very end told him that Bernard Wellingsworth lived on in the guise of Alexi Shostakovich, the very man who worked under him. I had maintained his interest all the way up and unto that revelation. He seemed a bit agitated. He shuffled this way and that in his seat and gave me the following reply: "I don't know why, Mr. Wellingsworth, sir, you feel the need to rummage through this city's somber history by making up such drivel. When I first met you, you seemed an intelligent and upstanding gentlemen. I would never come to think or imagine that you would lessen yourself with a jest such as this. Bernard Wellingsworth is dead. The authorities shot him in cold blood. His body is buried. That is fact. Please don't go around telling tales such as this in the name of a good joke, it's all in very bad taste." I would verbally wrestle with him for only a short progression of time, time that would all prove ineffectual and of little avail. My next order of business then would be to get in contact with local law enforcement. I cannot convey into words the indefatigableness with which I partook in trying to convince the authorities of who Alexi really was, but those efforts fomented nothing more than laughter and outright mockery. I would visit several other stations scattered about the relative vicinity of the area all in a span of five days, but was met with similar reprisals. Neither of the local departments were disposed at my suggestion to at the least keep tabs on Alexi, and most doubted whether I was truly of Wellingsworth ancestry. It dawned on me at some point that the young men could serve as supporting witnesses to the incidents but I later forsook it on the fundament that I didn't want to get them any further embroiled then they were, and neither did I want to put their lives in any imperilement. I could understand how and why these men sensed my statements and deportment not to be genuine. I'm reminded that even to the very end I held constricted to my convictions and scepticisims as it relates to all things considered supernatural. I imagine the notion that my uncle Bernard had not died that night long ago was one of ludicrous folly, an idea not to be conceived in even the boundless realms of a thousand and one dreamers fancies. Almost two weeks had passed since events in my uncle Bernard's manor, and as it stood, I could marshall no one in authority to my crusade. In interminable reluctance and defeat, I resigned to pack up my things and head back to my home in New York and return to my practise, and try to live to the best of my wherewithal as if nothing had ever happened. The flight back home was wholly uneventful and I had only my thoughts to supply me with any company. I arrived in New York on a Friday evening and would resolve to renew my work on that following Monday. I made it to my home in a less than forty five minute drive from the airport. I walked through the halls of the complex, my traveling bags in hand, and drew out my keys to unlock the door. As I was doing this very thing, I heard in no identifying area what could only be described as a confounding display of multidinous whispers and a chilling dread enclosed my spine, such that I fumbled the keys in the lock wherewith I was trying to open. I turned about me and there was no likeness of man or creature in any direction. In the back of my mind I knew what this meant, but it seemed a distant fantasy that something so foreign would find its way here where I lived. I entered my apartment and closed the door behind me, a collage of questions now vying for control of my thoughts. I began unpacking my things and afterwards settled on watching a bit of television. I flipped through the channels, predominantly with a focus on newsbroadcasts, in an undertaking to familiarize myself with the latest news of the area. Time would edge on, and at some point the television began to flicker in and out. I ensured that the cable line was firmly inserted in the socket, and it was so. I sat back down, reasoning it to pass over soon, when I perceived in one instance what looked to be the imprint of a hand in the television screen. It seemed farcical to me, but it would come back at intervals, as if some thing was attempting to interact with me and come through the television set. It had now reached around 10:30 and I determined within myself to call it quits for the day. However, despite my longing for sleep, I found myself to be unbelievably restless and agitated, constantly trying to push those things which had occurred from the forefront of my mind, and unable to. When I was finally able to sleep, I experienced a dream unmistakable from any other. The little girl in the bright blue blouse from my uncle Bernard's abode was speaking to me, saying that I could not give up on her and everyone else who was subjugated, and that I must act in their stead. She was enveloped in a dazzling display of white light and I could only behold her splendor whilst speaking not a word. I awoke startled, not wanting to brave anything of the sort. I had endeavored to do what I could, and all I exeterted proved to be in futility. I arose out of my bed and headed for the shower, the warm water from the nozzle giving me a wealth of relaxation. I felt a good deal at peace then. My thoughts now compacted around what the little girl could possibly have wanted me to do. Indeed, what could a lone psychiatrist do to free her fettered soul? There was no influence that I possessed that could help me thwart the inimitable evil of my deranged uncle in the slightest, not when the whole city of Manchester was encased in his cunning and crafty deception. While I was thinking on these things, I discerned that there was a misshapen and outlined figure standing on the other side of the shower curtain. As soon as I espied this strange occurrence, and before I could properly react in any way, there arose a piercing cry in the room, a blood curdling scream, so loud and netherworldly it was, and as such I let loose one of my own for fear of what lay just beyond that shower curtain. I covered up on the floor of the bathtub as best I could, with my hands as a safeguard for my ears, and my eyes closed, hoping that whatever lay outside would leave me be without having to look upon it with my two eyes. Soon I found that the only cries were coming from inside of the shower and I stood and observed that there no longer was anything present in the room with me. I would remain in the shower for some time, not able to come to terms with what I had acquainted myself with, and for consternation of whatever else may be lying in wait for me for the remainder of the day. My thoughts and emotions were an assemblage and mishmash of apprehensions, absurdities, and disinclinations. My heart thumped and thudded along the lining of my chest cavity and my breath came in raspy intervals. I stood solitary in that shower like a man who had come face to face with the grimmest of reapers himself, and by divine intervention alone lived on to tell the tale. However long it took, I managed to conquer my unsettled demeanor and there was, to my complete and utter astonishment, no other incidents to speak of during the remnant of daylight, not in the morning, or afternoon, nor the evening. As the day wore on, I was slowly but surely regaining my constitutionality. I felt as if it were possible that these events which had come about were only spill overs of things which took place in the house that Bernard Wellingsworth built, and that there was to be no permanency. Then night fell. I managed to fall asleep with comparative ease that night, but the dream that I had was one of unabridged lunacy and terror. I dreamt that I was watching a newsprogram and the topic of discussion was one related to my--as it was called--'witch hunt' for my uncle Bernard. Yet the broadcasters themselves were all manner of evil beasts from netherworldly places, having hoofs of ungulated mammals for legs, clothe-less she-goats and billy goats with human aggregates sitting in anchor's chairs and other like abominations to be perceived in the background. And there arose about them an air of wicked laughter at places, a mocking cacophony at my attempts to unravel my uncle's pernicious plans. "Poor, poor Eli," said one she-goat anchor raspingly, "he's gone and got himself mixed up in things that he doesn't fully comprehend, nor is he now able to remove himself from the inner workings of the order." There was a ring of hoarse laughter from places that one could not fully see, mouths sprang open from the two anchors, haughty and untoward it was. The billygoat spoke. "If by fate he stumbled upon the fact that his uncle still lived, then by fate he will die from it." More indecent laughter encompassed the newsroom. I--in mounting perplexity--attempted to switch the channel, but all channels broadcast the same disorienting and unnerving images. Said the raspy-speaking she-goat: "He should be a good little Wellingsworth and take his life. There, there, that's a good little Wellingsworth." Said the venomous billy goat: "No choices left now, Wellingsworthless. Waiting for the end is all that's left for you." I lurched forward in my bed, drowning in a pool of my own sweat. Paranoia began to reintroduce itself unto me. When would the evil beasts strike next, and in what form and manner would they take? Is this how I was to live my life for the remainder of my days, in abject fear and terror? Was I, Doctor Eli Wellingsworth, to become as bound mentally as those misfortunate individuals whose minds I'd tried to revive all those numerous years in the psychiatric wards? I felt as one caged, an animal being continuously prodded and primed to the delight of creatures incapable of showing a speck of sympathy or empathy. Was there no way out? Even in this garbled state, I discerned that a kind of madness would eventually overtake me if I were to remain in this position. I could not let this come to fruition. My heart rate eventually began to mollify, and I commenced to reflect a little more intelligibly. These otherworldly creatures, they would not stop oppressing me, not in the slightest. I had been exposed to things which no man should ever have to unmask, and they no doubt now saw me as a sort of threat. To my very limited knowledge, I was the only person who apprehended that my uncle Bernard yet walked the earth. And so thus it was at that moment in time that I descried that my salvation lied not in a cowardly retreat, but in bold and steadfast confrontation. Whatever my uncle was planning, whatever diabolical motives he had, I had to investigate them for myself, and--with all and any weapons at my disposal--bring them to cessation. This time--however--I would essay to muster as much potent help as I could, help that would originate in the States as well as abroad. Soon after I made my determination to brazen the darkness of my uncle Bernard, I resolved to attract the assistance of those people whom could help me to bring about an end to my uncle's deviltries, and the two positions I felt were qualified to do so were that of investigators, both paranormal and private. Garnering the facilitation of a paranormal investigator would--I believed--give me much in the way of insight into the workings of the netherworldly, and having a private investigator would allow me to track the whereabouts of my uncle, who walked in the pretext of Alexi Shostakovich. As it relates to the paranormal I presumed it would be best to recruit in New York, and I was contented to finding the private investigator somewhere in Manchester. I had hope that I could find a man or woman in New York whom didn't mind a little traveling. Payment was not an obstacle with me, and I felt that the individual might consider it a worthwhile endeavor to take a case in another country. After the stilling of my heart, it did not take me very long or much pondering to come to these conclusions. I mostly did so over a soothing cup of tea in the living room. It perhaps should be mentioned--however--that there were no queer events or happenings to speak of at all over the residuum of the Sunday period, after the circumstances of the nightmare. It was almost as if the job of these creatures was simply to lure me back out into the open, back to my birthplace of Manchester and my uncle Bernard's base of operations. Monday morning arrived swiftly, and I had begun to leaf through the yellow pages in pursuit of where I might find investigators of the paranormal. As I deduced, there were many options to choose from. I called around to several places, comparing prices, inquiring about abilities to travel, and so on and so forth. I finally chanced upon a gentlemen who was receptive in Jonathan Caulier of Paranormal Investigators Inc. I told him in part my story, the most powerful and stirring portions, and said at the conclusion that I wished to unravel the intent of my uncle Bernard, and at the very least prove that he still lived. He mentioned that he was somewhat familiar with the case study, and was intrigued at how it was possible for my uncle to have slipped through the cracks of authority. He asked if it would be possible to meet, so that we could further discuss the possibility of him taking the case. I agreed, and we decided to meet one another at noon that day. I shuttled a scant thirty five minutes from my home to Caulier's place of employ. It was a quaint brick building that stretched into the sky. I was supposed to meet Caulier in suite 102. After inquiring around for a brief moment, I made it there with little trouble and waited patiently for him to greet me. He came out to the lobby and introduced himself. "Ah, Doctor Wellingsworth," he said, embracing my hand. "It's good to meet you in person. Please, step into my office." I stepped in, he shut the door behind us, and we talked at some length. Jonathan was slightly overweight and middleaged. His hair was thinning and he wore jeans and a button down shirt. He first inquired what it was that I felt he could do for me. I replied with the following. "I will admit that I am not schooled in this field or area, it is not my expertise in any appreciable way, but I was more or less hoping that you could serve as a--a guide of sorts. I was thinking that my task would be a great deal easier if I bought someone along who understood these things." "Well," said Caulier, "there are devices that we use to measure the paranormal, things that I'm sure could serve you in this regard. And from what I remember of your uncle, he murdered a lot of people. I'm also a psychic, by the way. Do you believe in psychic ability?" "--I cannot say that I have ever had any experience with the phenomena, and I'll be honest in asserting that in the past I considered it hogwash, but now, given the sobriety of things that I have come across--" Here I trailed off and reflected on the things that lead me up and unto this point, and I found it difficult to continue on. "Yes well, we get that a lot here. I'm sure after a bit of hands on time you'll see the benefits in what I can bring to the table." We talked only a little more and it did not take us long to iron out the particulars of a deal. He acquiesced to journey with me for at least a month. As I talked more about things that concerned me (and in saying this I mean in reference to the things that I had seen with my own eyes) I very nearly got the impression that Jonathan was genuinely excited at intervals. He would smile at things revealed, practically in an oblivious sort of way, as if he didn't have a realistic appreciation of the things I had been dealing with. I soon came to the rationalization that his senses may have been deadened and dulled to these things, having been intimate with them so many times and ways. But could it be sensible to take matters such as these as lightly as he did? We consorted to depart for Manchester in three days. As it was during that anteceding Sunday, those days arose with not a single bizarre occurrence or happening. I met Jonathan at the airport on that Thursday at around 9:00 a.m. and we boarded the plane near 10:30 a.m. During the flight, our conversation mostly touched on the particulars of my uncle Bernard's malice, what he could possibly be purposing in his black heart, and other such discriminating circumstances. We touched down in Manchester close to 3:00 p.m., retrieved our luggage, and gained the services of a taxi. I had made arrangements with one Alfred Wellingsworth, an uncle of mine who was seven years the elder of me and who oversaw a portion of railroad operations in the country. We would be staying with him in his very spacious manor, an elegant and sumptuous residency, as we tracked down Bernard. I had not really been on speaking terms with most of my family who remained in England. As I have told in my previous account, my mother moved to America while I was but a babe, due to a dispute with family, perhaps concerning business or related interests. There were--however--some members of family who lived in America, and there were times when we would be visited from those in England, so I was not altogether distanced from relatives. The taxi cab drew into the archway of Alfred's driveway and we commenced unloading our things. We were greeted by an attendant and Alfred himself came near us. "Eli, my boy," said he as we embraced. "It's been far too long since we've last seen one another. How have things been going on your end?" "My practise is flourishing and I've been doing good work in the field," spoke I. "Though I cannot deny that recent events involving uncle Bernard have cast a dim shadow upon all of that work." Alfred here became solemn and looked away from me for a moment. "Yes well," he then turned toward Jonathan. "And you must be the gentlemen who will assist my nephew. Jonathan, was it?" "That is correct, Jonathan Caulier. It's very good meeting you, Mr. Wellingsworth." "Likewise. The two of you should look forward to a splendid stay. Whatever you may need, do not hesitate to ask. There are servants throughout the manor, waiting on your every call. Now, if you two will excuse me, I have some pressing matters to attend to, business beckons. Elie, it was very good seeing you again," said Alfred with a smile. "It was--as you said--far too long of an interval," remarked I. Alfred set forth for his BMW, pulled out of the driveway, and went about his way. Jonathan and I had our things conveyed to our seperate rooms and we now busied ourselves with finding a private investigator whom could help us persue Bernard. I again checked the yellow pages of the area and called around questioning about rates and availability. I was considerably restrained in what I revealed and what I concealed, as I was very much cognizant of the fact that telling anyone over the phone that Bernard Wellingsworth yet walked the earth would not get me anywhere. I soon settled--however--upon one Landon Virgins of Virgins Investigations. As it was with Jonathan, he too wanted to meet before taking on the case, and we agreed to come together the next morning. He would journey to the mansion and we would discuss where we would go from that point on. Landon arrived at 10:00 a.m. and both Jonathan and I were awaiting him in the superabundance of what was the living room. One of Alfred's many maids lead him into the room. Landon looked to be in his early thirties. He was of medium build and possessed a strong face and at first impressed upon me that he was of gentlemanly stock. "A Landon Virgins here to see you, Master Wellingsworth," said the maid. I stood up from my seat to make his aquaintance as he approached us. "A pleasure it is to meet you, Mr. Wellingsworth," remarked Landon as he took my hand. His attention was then arrested by Jonathan. "And just who might this be? A relative perhaps?" "My name is Jonathan Caulier. I'll be serving as a paranormal investigator during the case." Landon glanced from me to Jonathan with what it seemed to me a look of amusement. "'Paranormal investigator?' Why, whatever would you need one of those for, Mr. Wellingsworth?" "Please, call me Eli. And, I must confess that I was not completely honest with you during the call. There is--however--a very good reason for my needing someone who specializes in the paranormal, and I will now share that with you. You see, I request your assistance in investigating a man by the name of Alexi Shostakovich, the caretaker of my uncle Bernard Wellingsworth's manor. However, Alexi is Bernard, as my uncle did not perish by the hands of authorities that one night long ago." Landon's look of amusement only returned at this revelation. "Come again?" "I know that it is exceedingly hard to consider, but the man made that very confession before me." Landon let out a kind of chuckle. I then began to debate within myself if I had elected the right man or not. "Let me see if I have this aright," spoke Landon as he paced about the room. "You're telling me, that that madman Wellingsworth is still alive? That somehow, he managed to deceive the entirety of Manchester, and that he parades around in the guise of this Alexi? Come now, Eli, cease with the pulling of my leg." "Yes, this is exactly what I'm saying to you," spoke I. "And in so doing I am not--as you say--pulling your leg." By now Landon had put on a small smile. "So you want me to investigate this Alexi," said Landon. At this juncture he seemed to be juggling the matter over within himself, bemused. I caught glance of Jonathan and perceived from his facial expressions that he felt we should consider other persons. "Fine," he said after a time. "I shall take the assignment. That doesn't mean, though, that I believe for a second your story, nor does it mean that I have to work alongside this false prophet." And he said this latter portion with such vehemence that I thought for a moment that Jonathan and he knew each other in year's passed and suffered a falling out between the two of them. "Thank you for your kind words, sir Virgins," spoke Jonathan as he bowed. "But I can tell you now that there's nothing about what I do that's false." "Gentlemen, please," remarked I with a motion of my hands. "We do not need this kind of hostility. Landon, what kind of information do you need in tracking down Alexi?" "Where is he employed?" asked Landon. "That's a very good starting point."
Copyright © 2007 Michael Harris |