The Menace Of That Most Demented Order (4)
I was at a loss as what to make of all this. How could all of their problems in the end point back to me? Was this whole remarkable circumstance and uncouth episode just a passage for me to become subservient to this dark order? It was during the span of a two week period whereby I had come into contact by phone with members of the Arcane Brotherhood that they had set up an occasion for me to view first hand the dastardly peculiars and particulars of their most dreaded practices. It was also at around this same time that Detective Ackerly Lott and I would plan our operation as it were to weed out this ancient and descended familial evil from this town’s sombre history. He had been visiting the manor for several days intermittently, and establishing protocols that were to take place if anything untoward were to eventuate. My Uncle Alfred was there, so too was Landon present. Landon had by now come to a point of such mental agitation that it was his hope that by eliminating whatever threat Alexi posed he could return to his previous mental conditioning. He wished to help in any way that he could, and he would in truth be stationed in a vehicle outside of the complex with my Uncle Alfred, while Ackerly would be positioned in a police van. They would all be able to hear the content of whatever transpired inside of the heretical sanctuary. It would be a Friday night when Detective Ackerly Lott finally returned to my Uncle Alfred’s abode and the all of us started out for what was to be the most harrowing, stupendously soul-threatening, pit-ensnaring episode since I had become entangled in this dreadful game of seduction with my Uncle Bernard Wellingsworth. Not even the events which took place in the house that Bernard Wellingsworth built would be enough to steel me for the devious revelations which were about to be revealed, nor would the preceding path that I took do much in the way of preparing me for what was to come, namely the menace of that most demented order. There were dark clouds in the sky that night as we headed for the gated community. The heavens cast a sickly hue, as if on the verge of unleashing a deluge, nature’s maelstrom set to parallel the unchecked and unbridled confusion and chaos that I myself was about to meander steadfastly into. I was not able to keep my self possession throughout. There were far too many speculations and controversies prancing and dancing in my mental makeup for me to rationally consider any of these possibilities. And what is a man bred on rationalism, a mind such as mine to make of this supreme preternatural complexity that he found himself persistently being pushed into? I had long ago come to the realization that there was without doubt supernal as well as infernal powers working behind the scenes of mankind. That acknowledgment—however—did not allow being confronted with the very incarnate of evil itself of this world to be taken comfortably. I knew full well the dangers I was putting myself into, but I felt—as I did when I was first becoming engaged with my Uncle—that a man’s moral responsibility should far outweigh any considerable palpitations he was experiencing. And so I had endeavored throughout to do that which was right and decent. Would that doing the correct thing at times wouldn’t prove so dauntingly difficult… We arrived at at the gated area at around 9:05 p.m. I know not how to explain it, but the darkness in the sky seemed to be gathering in this very spot, as if a lodestone was situationally close to whatever was being practiced in this haunted vicinity. My Uncle Alfred parked his vehicle alongside a dirt path which peeked into dilapidated units of housing that were disheveled and seemed to be in disrepair, while Detective Ackerly Lott positioned himself on the other side of the thoroughfare. I knew what the protocols were, and so (being beforehand outfitted with recording equipment on the lining of my clothing and person) I exited Alfred’s vehicle and advanced towards the black gate. There was a speaker present that looked decidedly in ruin, and while I hovered my hand over the button to call for the opening of the gate, the black gate itself creaked open inwardly, leaving the path open to this devilish and decrepit section of Manchester. I entered warily, anticipating only the worst, and proceeded through a pathway consisting of worn down, broken cobbles. I could not discern much in the way of architecture, as the darkness itself seemed to be oppressive here, descending to a depth that would leave even the most heartened individual faint, let alone one of my feeble comportment. As I proceeded through the gloom, I caught glance of two robed individuals (both clad in black) approaching. I gathered myself up as best I could, though any gathering of mental fortitude on my part must have been feeble-minded attempts at best. They drew near then, all while I tried to make sense of it all. “We have been expecting you, Heir Wellingsworth. If you would follow, we will lead you to the altar, and the gathering.” I at this moment could have rattled off an assortment of replies; What do you mean by ‘Heir Wellingsworth’? What in actuality occurs at this ‘Altar’? What happens at this so-called ‘gathering’? Though in truth I remained silent and brooding, content to follow for the time being. I had not yet managed to implicate my Uncle in anything secretively evil, and on this point I was determined. We eventually arrived at descended steps which led into a dark passageway, the atmosphere filled with blighted and mildewed air and candle holders placed not nearly close enough to ward off the encroaching darkness. Neither of my ‘guides’ spoke throughout, and neither did they glance back towards me to ensure that I was shadowing them. I suppose that they were so secure in their assignment and my follow through that it was superfluous to concern themselves with these particulars. I was here now. I had arrived at that point and position of which my Uncle Bernard had designed for me. And of the fulfilling of that destiny there could be no escape. The passageway finally opened up into the ritual concourse of which I have wrote about heretofore. It was all here. The concourse that was filled with chanting and swaying individuals, though now all of their eyes were transfixed on the ‘new recruit,’ as it were. The concourse where that poor woman no doubt met her untimely demise at my Uncle Bernard’s unwavering hand. The concourse where demon creatures were heard groaning in their devilish tongues and delight. My ‘guides’ moved about to the side and allowed me to advance inside of this hellish and supernatural crypt of the devil, and I finally saw standing near the altar holding a primordial book in his hands, leaning over a bound woman, my Uncle Bernard Wellingsworth. He turned then, and showcased the most pleased expression at my arrival. “Welcome, Eli,” he said hoarsely as he placed the book on the altar and got closer towards my position. “Welcome to your—initiation.” There were far too many queries waiting to be unloosed from my wavering tongue but what I managed was simply this: “My—initiation?” “Why, of course,” my Uncle said hoarsely, as he placed his hand on my shoulder and embraced me as though a long lost relative. Throughout I managed to display a totally perplexed demeanor, bemused as to what my Uncle could potentially have planned for me now that he had me where he desired me to be. “You have been—led here, Eli. Do not think that any of your plans were not carefully overseen by my acolytes, which span the globe,” he said with a devious smile. It proved extremely unsettling to come to the realization that this Hadean cult had enclaves sprinkled throughout the globe, however the totality of that import would prove most troubling in my later years. “The Arcane Brotherhood has hands and eyes in places you could not rightly discern, what, given your clouded perception. Rest assured, you were meant to come here. I must needs have someone to replace me, and for that task, I have chosen you. It is as simple and succinct as that.” So it was true. Through no doubt some foul and effectuated task my Uncle Bernard had managed to orchestrate all things to benefit his designs. I grappled with this idea for some time in that hellish cellar, and tried to approximate all that lead up and unto this point, but for all of my seeking and searching, doubting and questioning, I could not perceive when and where I had been led astray. My Uncle saw my complete and utter befuddlement and sought to ‘comfort’ me in his own maniacal way. “Do not try to figure it out,” he said. “You will not be able. I have only given you, a foretaste. Remember, the girl in the bright blue blouse? She was in truth a spirit working for our most maleficent master. It was she who helped to convince you to return to Wellingsworth Manor and seek to undue my ‘evil,’” he said, observing my demeanor throughout his exposition and garnering support from his acolytes in the form of smiles and head nods. “And the one who proposed to you of recording any thing that took place here, he too is a part of my order. I needed to get you here, Eli, by any means necessary.” This last reveal was like a shock wave sent throughout my mental man. My heart at this revelation dropped so low it had retreated to the very soles of my feet. It was through Ackerly that I was to convince the authorities of who Alexi really was, and to know that he too was in league with my Uncle Bernard shattered any notion of not only bringing to justice my Uncle and his sordid activities, but even making it out of this dark pit alive. If all were conspired against me, who indeed could I trust? “Do you see now, Eli? Are you ready to partake in the ritual?” I was benumbed. I knew not what to voice nor what action to take, which is why the words that escaped my mouth were an adulterated shock coming from me. “What—would you have me to do?” I said, and wondered at it. Did I really just make this proclamation? Yes, yes I did. “Follow me to the altar,” was my Uncle’s hoarse pronouncement. And I followed him, all the while the acolytes stood on their feet and began a rhythmic swaying, chanting and the like in tongues long since extinct. I arrived at the altar. My Uncle stood beside and began reciting passages out of the primeval and tattered book he held aloft. I saw a knife positioned near the bound body of the woman, a dark and stained blade which looked as if it had had much use in the ending of lives, and I picked it up as if in a trance. My Uncle Bernard then spoke. “The demon Dakaroth will ascend and enjoin itself to you from this day onward. You are one of us now, one of the Arcane Brotherhood.” I could not account for it. I held that knife high in the air and was certainly ready with every muscle and movement in my body to strike the life from her flesh with one well placed stroke, her eyes were bulging out of their sockets and were fixed on my determined form; though something restrained me. A hint of light was peeking through the interminable and ever-spreading darkness and I caught the faintest glance of a glimmer in my foggy perception, and I stayed that hand, it being eternally positioned as if to strike the life from that woman. All the while the acolytes swayed and swayed behind me, and chanted in that most primordial tongue ancient and nefarious secrets that would drive any sane man to brink of insanity, of which I had formerly supposed myself to be. Then I discerned a deep and netherworldly growl surrounding and enveloping the ritual concourse, a guttural GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!, as if issued from the depths of hades itself, a creature set to unmask itself in the most unsettling of ways, ways that should not have to be known to the brittle and fragile minds of human beings. But I had glanced at that glimmer of light; God had seemingly given me what was needed to extricate myself from this portentous plot, and I dropped the knife, letting it clang to the floor, looked about me and saw the most thwarted expression on my Uncle Bernard’s face, and I managed a run, a run towards the entrance, where my ‘guides’ were positioned. Though as they tried to impede my progress I bull-rushed them in mounting speed, racing through the scarcely lit passageway and heading back towards civilization. The acolytes had stopped chanting now, there were orders being given, a rustling a feet could be heard. But that did not trouble me, I was set and determined to make it out of this spellbound madness with every bounded step I could manage. I was at the gate then, and I espied opened car doors. Where was my Uncle Alfred? Landon? Then it struck me like a head on collision. Ackerly. What did Ackerly do with my companions? I could hear the advancing exclamations of that most demented order emerging from the unhallowed sanctuary, and I hustled out of the soul imperilling and gated enclosure and marshaled my energies towards the adjoining dilapidated housing complex. I did not know exactly what I expected to find, but there was a middle aged man lying in the street of this area not far from where my Uncle Alfred’s vehicle was positioned. I ran towards him and discovered it to be in truth my Uncle Alfred. Blood was seeping out of his forehead. I checked his pulse and was relieved to see that he still lived. The shrieks were getting louder now, so I lifted my Uncle Alfred off the ground and went about looking for Landon. I had no understanding of how I was going to make it out of the influence of this heretical place, but I could not leave Landon to a most disturbing fate. There were many side streets and alleys in this maze of a decrepit and extinct community, so I had no clue as to where I should explore. Added to this the added burden of my Uncle Alfred and it was as if I was attempting to put a puzzle together in the dark. The Arcane Brotherhood had divided its numbers and were sweeping the entire area to locate me. I did not know how much longer I would have until I was theirs again. I would cut corners and turn down alleyways and was eventually arrested by the sobbing of a man who I perceived to be the voice of Landon. I espied him then, huddled on the concrete of an alleyway and hugging himself. I approached and spoke. “Landon? It is good to see you whole, my friend. Come, we must get out of here.” “‘Whole?” he said half-sobbing. “That’s peculiar terminology—for what they have done to me,” he said, sobbing uncontrollably. He gathered himself as best he could though at times he would falter. He managed to continue then. “Something was wrong. We couldn’t—hear anything over the receivers. Your Uncle— was worried, and wanted to follow you inside. Ackerly insisted that all would be well, and suggested—he share a smoke with him. They went away, and didn’t come back.” He was half-sobbing again. “I knew something was not right—when they didn’t come back. So I—called the constabulary; told them some people were gathered and engaging in suspicious activities— in this part of town. They should be here any…” The multitude of sirens that broke forth at just that moment was the most welcome sound I attest to hearing in my thirty-five years of life. I grabbed a hold of Landon at that moment and lifted him off of his feet and told him that he had by calling the constabulary just delivered us from certain and unalterable doom. My Uncle Alfred began stirring, soft moans escaping his mouth, and placing a hand to his head. “What—what happened?” he said. “It’s over,” I said. ‘Bernard Wellingsworth will face justice.’ Much was made over the news broadcasts of the secret and diabolical cult that purportedly engaged in human sacrifice to appease Biblical devils. Most commentators found it to be a case of the lunatic fringe, and that these individuals needed to be placed in psychiatric wards and insane asylums. The detectives—of course—found much at that spiritually ruined site that implicated all present, including Bernard and Ackerly. Links were—however—never made as to Bernard Wellingsworth living on in the guise of Alexi Shostakovich. That singular happening has caused me much reflection. I have never before seen a photo of my Uncle Bernard until I had met him in person in Manchester. The particulars of how he was able to fool medical examiners, victim’s families, and the entire surrounding community as to the legitimacy of his decease eludes me to this day. I have considered it being possible that one way he achieved this was through some advanced medical facial transplant, which would explain how a person like Alistair Norrington did not recognize Bernard when he took over Wellingsworth Manor in the form of Alexi Shostakovich. Another, more exotic explanation is to say that Alexi was not really Bernard in any way, shape, or form, and that the man was literally suffering form a grand delusion. And yet, that could not account for how he was intimately aware of Wellingsworth ancestry being linked with this evil and my own Uncle Alfred confessing to having known that Bernard was still extant and operating in full fiendish power as if he had never perished those innumerable years ago. The circumstances of this mystery I perhaps will never solve… Landon is returning to mental stability by degrees, he has remained forever altered, having been directly influenced by the infernal powers of this world. He has confessed to me that he is now seeking God and his grace as a means of repelling this taint that has spilled over into his subconscious mind, being fully persuaded that if there are infernal orders in this world then there also too must be the heavenly host in opposition. I have commended him for this realization and endeavor, and implored him to continue in his search. I left my Uncle Alfred on the best of terms, and he has convinced me that I should make it a habit of visiting my family here in England more frequently, a notion which I have decided to adopt. We even established a future date of next Summer being the time when I would return and congregate with long estranged relatives. The dark stain that has existed throughout the history of Wellingsworth ancestry being now expunged, I returned to my home in upstate New York, and reengaged myself in my psychiatric practice. A period of rest and respite had initiated itself, no doubt a boon and blessing from Almighty God, and I would enjoy these days with the utmost of thankfulness. —Thus ends the first chapter or part of The Perils of Eli Wellingsworth
Copyright © 2012 Michael Harris |