The Menace Of That Most Demented Order (2)
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.
Copyright © 2012 Michael Harris |