Dark Rebirth (1) “Uncle Gerald dead. House yours. Claim tomorrow.” Such was the rather frank letter I received from my cousin Mina, announcing the demise of my ancient and eccentric uncle, Gerald Postlethwaite. As his closest living relative (Mina was his ward) I stood to inherit the house, furnishings and considerable amount of money which the old buzzard had saved over his many, many decades. I had not known my uncle well, had not seen him for many years - all I knew about him, needed all anyone knew, since he was something of a recluse and not given to social situations, was that he was thought of as rather am absurd figure in the village, and that the locals to some extent feared him. I had never been given any cause to think of the old man in any way but fondly, and I was even more disposed to consider him in such a manner as a result of his bestowing upon me his considerable property. It was as the result of my cousin’s telegram, then, that I found myself in the chaos of housemoving, attempting to transfer all the personal effects which I required from my own humble accommodation to my uncle’s huge, castle-like building in the most remote area of the Highlands he could find. I describe the house as “castle-like” and yet I had never seen it, having done little more than correspond with uncle Gerald for the past seventeen years; he had moved there from his pervious rambling old house almost ten years ago. I knew from my solicitor’s information that the place in which I was going to live was almost five hundred years old, but had been restored in the original to such an extent to have the effect of transporting one back to the thirteenth century with an unnerving ease. I was not superstitious nor afraid of such an idea - it rather charmed me, living as I did in the maelstrom of industry and activity that was the beginning of the twentieth century. Perhaps I should explain at this juncture why I, a well-established man of almost forty, would be willing to give up my comfortable routine in order to live in a remote aged house owned by a remote aged uncle. The truth is simple: I disliked my life intensely, had for years. My job was appropriately highbrow but exceedingly dull; I had no wife and children to distract me from the loneliness of my middle years; both my parents were dead. In fact my life could not get much lonelier; even my friends were little more than acquaintances, and all of them only really interested, not in me, but in my title and money, none of which I had earned and neither of which truly represented me. As you see, my life was not one which could not be left without a painful wrench. The new life I would be living, as rural nobility in a distant part of the country, contained some traditional and ironic appeal. As a result I found myself seated in a rather grim little train heading for Shamlean, in the Scottish Highlands, on Monday, the seventeenth of February, in the year 1919.. It had been a noted aspect of my uncle’s character that he had a tendency to eccentricity; some even believed him totally mad. This oddity was reflected in his will, which stipulated that the house and money and all his effects would come to me on a single condition: that I was to maintain the house and all its contents in its current condition, and was not to remove or add anything to it other than my most necessary personal property. A strange and demanding request, perhaps, but I was perfectly happy to make a clean break and a new start, and so acquiesced without any complaint. Another example of my uncle’s eccentricity which made the locals look upon him so uncomfortably was his peculiar ability to live totally alone, without the companionship of man or beast - people could only assume that Lord Postlethwaite cooked and cleaned for himself, for no maid or cook had ever been seen around the building - although he had occasionally interview young women, ostensibly for such a job, no one had ever seen them coming in or out of the house, and presumed that he had deemed them unsuitable. There were, of course, other speculations which were terribly inappropriate and threatening to my uncle’s character. Despite this, everyone I met in the village confirmed that my uncle was a recluse and made little or no contact with anyone or anything during his time living in the village. Imagine my surprise, then, to perceive, upon disembarking from the train, a thin, dishevelled figure waiting on the empty platform, his eyes following me as I clambered down and prepared to pick up my cases. I frowned at him, and he scurried towards me; I felt in my pocket for some change, believing that this must surely be some kind of unfortunate beggar, and was startled when he asked me in a surprisingly cultured tone: “Are you Mr. Senwick?” “Yes, my man, what is to you?” I replied, put somewhat on my dignity by the man’s familiar manner. “The nephew of the late Postlethwaite, Lord Gerald?” “Yes.” “And heir to his estate?” “That’s correct. I move into his home today. But how do you know all this?” His manner completely changed; the interrogative, calculating tone fell from his voice, and he cringed in the most obsequious way. It was quite nauseating. “I am Renfield, sir, your uncle the late Lord Gerald’s servant, sir.” “My solicitor mentioned no servant. I was under the impression that my uncle lived alone.” “No, sir, I was with him, sir.” “But for how long?” A faint, almost wistful look came into his eyes as he replied softly, but in the same cringing manner, “Always, sir. I served the master, sir. I always served the master.” “Ah....I see.” I must admit to being somewhat put off by his behaviour. The man was positively bowing and scraping and yet there was something in his manner - something which suggested that he knew more than I did, that he was inevitably in control in this situation. Not unusual, perhaps, considering the circumstances. But it put me on my guard. “Well then, Mr. Renfield....what’s your Christian name, by the way?” “Just Renfield, sir.” “Ah. Well then, Renfield....perhaps you should escort me to my uncle’s house.” “With pleasure, sir. Immediately.” I had never seen anything quite like it. The rooms were huge, and dark, incredibly so - I had heard rumours in the village that my uncle disliked the sun and would never leave his home in summer, preferring to lurk in the shadows of the castle - in my mind I kept referring to it as that - until night fell. Only in the dreary winter months would he venture forth, perhaps for a few hours at a time, poking around the village, never actually seeming to do anything or interact with anyone. At the moment, however, I pushed my eccentric relative and the intrigue he presented to the back of my mind, concentrating on the more immediate problem of my legacy - not the house, but its contents; which went by the name of “Renfield”. It seemed that he was indeed included in the will of my uncle, not as a beneficiary in the conventional sense but classed somehow as part of the property. The man informed me that he had served my uncle for many years and that the old fellow had been good enough to write into his will that the faithful servant be kept on by his nephew - me - upon uncle’s death. Odd. Not just the circumstances but the individual himself. There were no other staff in the house and Renfield claimed that there had never been so much as a maid. The villagers, surprisingly, had not even been aware of Renfield’s presence. “But surely, I exclaimed, “you must have left the castle sometime! What about food and other supplies? My uncle didn’t fetch them himself?” “Actually, sir,” he smiled at me in that disconcertingly obsequious way of his, “most of the Master’s (he always capitalised that word; it made me a little uncomfortable) supplies were brought in to us.” For some unknown reason this statement amused him, and he flashed a startling grin at me. I couldn’t understand at the time, of course - I had not the knowledge then to appreciate his wit. I have often reflected on how naive and close-minded I used to be then. During the course of the first day, while we installed my few possessions and made my new rooms tidy and habitable (I didn’t like, somehow, to call in workmen; Renfield seemed so schizoid, so adamant that the memory of my uncle should not be insulted by going against his wishes) I asked my new - assistant? - many questions about himself, to most of which he responded with a gentle nod, or a wry smile, as though laughing at some cosmic witticism which had for the moment escaped me. I found out very little from my polite interrogation, save that Renfield was of a good sound family; he had served my uncle for years (though he still seemed to me far too young to have done so for the time he claimed); he had (he said modestly) some learning. In fact, considering that he had apparently spent his life in service, he was remarkably well educated and seemed to know a great deal about several highly learned subjects: law (his understanding of which was sporadic and outdated); natural sciences, history (especially that of other cultures, which impressed me greatly); biology, human and otherwise, and literature. He also knew a great deal, much to my bemusement, about the internal affairs and events of old-fashioned mental asylums, right down to correct dosage of various drugs and restraining methods. It was, he said with another of those little smiles, a study of his. All in all Renfield struck me as quite the gentleman, and an intelligent one at that. It was almost four days before I began to notice things properly. Looking back I am surprised that my curiosity took so long to assert itself, but what with the moving, the life changes, and Renfield, I was all at sea for the first week of my new status. Naturally, however, it came to pass soon enough that I developed a strong desire to understand the circumstances of my uncle’s death, and moreover, of his life. The desire became, eventually, an obsession, the organic result of the various strange, even alarming....but I get ahead of myself. I intend this to be a true history and a chronological one; it would not do to confuse matters with retrospective analysis of the events which followed. The first - shall we say - curiosity came while I was hunting through my uncle’s desk, not exactly snooping - the poor man was dead, after all, and I his only surviving relative - but determined to sort the endless variety of papers which I found there. I had discovered a journal - a rather battered volume - clearly my uncles; unfortunately however it was firmly locked and no sign of the key, despite a half-hour search. Eventually, in despair and certain that this book held the key to my uncle’s mysterious reclusive life, I called Renfield to the study and asked him if he knew the whereabouts of the required. To my surprise he did not fawn on me as usual, but gazed with a grave and strangely dignified sadness at the volume I held rather carelessly in my hands. “Ah, the old Master was forever writing in that book of his. I rather think he intended it as a story of his life, you know. Not that he would publish it of course.” I was half-expecting my odd companion to object to my reading the journal; his respect for my uncle (who had now become the “old Master”, while Renfield had begun a discomfiting habit of addressed me as “Master”, a title which made me feel most awkward) seemed so profound that it seemed I was almost violating his trust in me. But the man actually appeared quite pleased; he recovered from his minor fit of melancholy and told me cringingly that of course he would fetch the key, right away, he knew exactly where it was, Master. With vague amusement which bore the danger of becoming affectionate, I watches him slip quickly out of the room. A few moments later he returned, holding the desired object. As I unlocked the tomb and began to read, however, I felt his dark eyes upon me, and on looking up, found him gazing at me with an expression of decided pathos. Suddenly it occurred to me that I had been rather inconsiderate of the poor man’s feelings; after al he had spent far more time with Uncle than I ever had, and seemed to harbour not only respect but a commendable, if unusually profound, devotion. Deciding to spare him the pain of watching me unfeelingly hunting through the old man’s personal effects, I rose and placed an arm lightly across his shoulders, intending to steer him back to the library or wherever it was that he lurked. To my astonishment, he positively cringed under my touch - not in fear or revulsion but in an almost canine ecstasy. He brought to my mind at that moment the image of an abandoned puppy, starved for affection and delighted at any opportunity for physical contact with his beloved rescuer. I drew back as quickly as I could and ushered him instead from the room. That was the first, as I say, odd event - the first indication I had that there was something decidedly odd about Renfield and by implication, my uncle. I began to formulate a mental list of all the little eccentricities which my companion performed; and there were indeed many. Likeable and harmless as he seemed there was something about Renfield which made me shiver, although I never felt that he was the source of the unpleasantness, exactly - more as though he himself was the target, the victim. These feelings confused and concerned me, and I determined to find out all I could about old Uncle Postlethwaite. The journals told little; he had not, apparently, been writing his autobiography as Renfield had suggested. The large book was simply a daily record of events and contained remarkably little in the way of insight into the old man’s character. I had the feeling however that Uncle had been writing deeper words than these; there were constant referred in his journal to “the Work” which I took to mean the record of which Renfield had spoken. There were also often remarks about an unnamed woman, perhaps a love of his; it had apparently ended tragically, however. There was nothing else of interest in the book until the very last pages. These, in fact, were quite incongruous, but at the time I put it down to my uncle’s deteriorating mental state (for which there was on evidence, however, but the above): 17th. August. Morning. They will come today. I know it. I have known for many months now; Renfield will not accept the inevitable but insists that all is well, that there will be many nights yet....how he has suffered, in the name of.... (here, several words were scribbled out, and try as I might I could make no sense of them) Tonight they will come. I must be ready. But there is nothing to be done, my time is coming to its close....I must prepare....for the one who will follow me. I could only assume that the final line referred to myself. The poor thing’s mind must have gone, I mused. Perhaps he had always been a little mad; however there was nothing to suggest so in the rest of the journals. I will not bore you by recounting the many minor circumstances which left me to become suspicious of my uncle’s life and death; the obsession that all was not as it seemed. I went from day to day, living not so reclusively as my uncle. I even went to the extent of hiring a maid, an idea to which my faithful Renfield responded with disgust and even offence. Needless to say she was not with us long, and on the night she left (somewhat mysteriously) there was a particularly good wine on the table. I enjoyed it thoroughly, though Renfield (who often ate with me as I dislike dining alone) refused to touch it, preferring instead his usual fare of rare meat. He had, he told me, once a great fondness for wine but it had led him only to misfortune. The days passed, and I forgot for a while about uncle in the various hustle and bustle involved in personalising the house. I couldn’t choose my own furniture or decor, but I was determined to make the place my own, anyway, and poor Renfield spent most of his time moving chairs, tables and paintings until they met my specifications. The nights I spent reading my uncle’s journals, and as time passed I began to feel closer to him. He was not really anti-social; he struck me as a very lonely man. I found it odd that even in his older journals there was no reference to my cousin Mina; only very brief and impersonal remarks. I became convinced that their existed other record of my uncle’s; one containing all the deeper thoughts and feelings which the books I read were lacking. Once I quizzed Renfield about this; he seemed quite pleased at my interest, but informed me regretfully that he didn’t think there was such a work available at the current time. I was bewildered; if there was no such book now surely there could never be, for my uncle was dead! It was the second indication I had that there might be more to my uncle than met the eye. However, it was not until three days later that I began my enquiries in earnest - because of a series of bizarre and frightening experiences. I was in a box, and tight closed box, so small, so claustrophobic, yet harshly familiar. My mind felt detached, afraid, and yet powerful - as though I had waited for this moment for years, waited in silence ad exile. My heart leaped with a horrid mix of excitement and terror. Trembling, I lifted a hand towards the lid - as it opened, exposing my body to the light - for some reason my terror intensified, as though I sere photophobic; then I saw the lamp, and relaxed; a man was standing over me, his dark eyes nervous and wild; he was mad, I knew , but I did not fear his madness , because he was mine and would not harm me; was incapable of harming me. I sat up slowly, each limb aching and stiff, and in confusion raised my hand to the lamp that I might perceive the reason for my discomfort. To my utmost horror, the had was not mine! Wrinkled with extreme age, pale and mottled....I turned it over and saw hairs in the palms of the hand....and, with a fear which made my earlier terror pale in comparison, I realised that the hand was mine.....in was.... I awoke screaming, to find myself sitting up with the beside lamp lighted, staring in terror at my own, smooth, slender fingers. As I looked about in bewilderment ad reality began to dispel the horror of the dream, the door flew open. I am embarrassed to say that I shrieked like a child and flung myself under the bedclothes. As I lay trembling, a gentle hand pulled the sheets back, and I lifted my head to see Renfield standing quietly beside me. “Master?” “It was....just a dream, a dream?” I could hardly believe that the event I had experienced had not been real....so potent.... “Yes, Master.” My companion murmured. “Just a bad dream.” He gazed down at me, and revelation struck. “It was you!” I hissed. “Master?” “In the dream! It was you!” “You dreamed about me? I am honoured, Master.” I thought I detected a trace of dryness in his cringing tones. At the same moment I realised how ridiculous I was being - it had been a simple dream, nothing more; and what of it? But still, I was disturbed; the nightmare had not seemed like an ordinary dream; more like a memory....a recollection from long, long ago....could it be that my uncle’s memories and thought had somehow impressed themselves upon the house, this room, where he had once slept? I felt foolish to consider such a possibility, and as daylight streamed into the cold little bedroom, I felt the last of my fears begin to dissipate. They did not remain dissipate for long. It was barely two days later that I found out more about my unusual companion that I had ever expected to know. Already, of course, I had ascertained that Renfield was not quite what he seemed; however since his - oddity - appeared relatively harmless I gave it little thought, beyond the normal casual curiosity. But my uncle’s strange journal, with its bizarre detachment and omissions, and the weird and frightening dreams I had experienced, led me to an obsession - I needed to know the circumstances of my uncle’s death; I yearned even more to understand the events of his life. Suddenly his eccentricity seemed unnerving, almost dangerous; I knew that there was something, something missing - an evil, lingering gnomon which it was I knew within my grasp to understand. But how to find this information? What I needed, and desired with increasing desperation, to possess was my uncle’s journal - his true journal, the genuine, complete, unequivocal set of memoirs which somehow I was certain existed. It was this new compulsion which led me eventually to the truth - though not, ultimately, in the way I had expected.
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Copyright © 1999 Kerry L. Schofield |