Wrath and Ruin

by C W Briar

  I spent my Sunday morning on the important tasks of nursing my hangover and writing my latest letters. I intend to post them to you tomorrow.

  We further explored the streets of Haughtogis Point in search of sewer holes where we might snare the creature. The village felt altogether different with the men and boys home rather than toiling all day at the quarry. They looked weary, cracked, and sore, like machines on the cusp of breaking down. They shared few smiles and laughs, as joy is expensive to people so impoverished of energy. A lot of them sat on the sides of the street, watching their children play but not joining in.

  So while the ghoul may not, in fact, be a ghoul, I nonetheless found awakened dead among these poor workers.

  We scoured the gardens and located the door Mr. Williams told us about. It had been built into one of the arched recesses that decorate the pedestal of Lady Ragiston’s statue. The hill slope and evergreen shrubs wrapped almost entirely around it. No one would ever find it by chance, except perhaps young lovers in liaison behind the bushes.

  The door used to match the marble structure around it. Much of the white paint had peeled, exposing the oak underneath, and the statue pedestal had pulled a blanket of moss up over its base.

  After trying the locked door, I contacted Sheriff Richt and asked him to obtain a key from Timothy. I hoped his authority would make the butler a little more cooperative. Unfortunately, Timothy insisted he knew of no such key, and that, since the door resided on Ragiston property, it must be among Leonard Ragiston’s effects.

  I have made arrangements to enter the underground chambers tomorrow. Claude intends to hire a locksmith from the neighboring village. Meanwhile, Sheriff Richt is conscripting hunters to help us kill the ghoul. I would rather catch it as a live specimen for you, Professor, but it has mauled too many people. I cannot in good conscience risk others by dragging this ordeal out longer than necessary.

  I did lay a rope snare near the hidden door and baited it with meat. If we are fortunate, the trap will put an end to this madness tonight while we sleep.

  I will be sending these letters to you come morning. Even if we have not captured the monster by the time you receive them, come to Haughtogis Point anyway. I have confirmed the existence of an animal unlike any other, and that should be all the convincing you need to join us.

  I await your reply or arrival.

  13

  The weather awoke drab and dreary. The rains came not so much as a downpour but as a loitering, smoke-like mist. The one benefit of the miserable conditions was that I had an excuse to wear my heavier coat, and its longer sleeves covered my stitches.

  I loaded a bag with lanterns and a net, and then I headed with Rose to the hidden door. My snare had captured the same stray dog that Rose befriended the day before. She released the dog, fed it part of her breakfast, and named it Gargoyle. Then she shooed it away for its protection.

  Shortly after, Sheriff Richt arrived with his conscripts, a pair of boys with rifles. The older one, named James, looked about Rose’s age and was every bit the cocksure hooligan I feared would volunteer. He bragged about almost shooting the ghoul once and swore he would avenge his cousin, Mr. Hill. The imbecile carried his rifle over his shoulder without any regard for keeping it dry from the rain, and he laughed loudly as if we were hunting a treed raccoon.

  In a more amusing faux pas, he approached Rose and tried to spur conversation out of her. She responded by saying, “Human flesh would make fine bait for the ghoul. If you touch me, I’ll consider your fingers an offering for the task and cut them off.”

  Oh, if only he had been dumb enough to keep bothering her.

  The other hunter, Sheriff Richt’s fifteen-year-old nephew, also happened to be named James. He held his gun at the ready and kept a constant, terrified watch. Unfortunately, he provided little help beyond vigilance. Had the ghoul appeared, the younger James would have been shaking too much to shoot it.

  “Uncle, do you have any more men who can help us?” he asked. “That monster is dangerous.”

  I tried to reassure him. “You ought not worry. There are five of us. If the monster did kill one, there is only a twenty-percent chance it would be you. Gamblers would love those odds.”

  I smiled in amusement. He stared aghast at me.

  Time crept at an excruciating pace in that chilling haze. I listened to the river’s quiet, relentless procession and to the rocks being shattered at the distant quarry. Every time winds moved through the garden like ghosts of winter, both the naked tree and I shivered.

  We jerked at a galoosh sound from the river. The older James was throwing rocks into the water. “If I shoot the ghoul, can I keep it?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Why?” He flung a second rock, one that would have skipped on the water had his awkward throw not wobbled and crashed on the shore.

  “We need the creature for science,” I said.

  “But if I hunt it, I should get its head. It almost bit my cousin’s leg off.”

  “Mr. Wells will be taking it with him,” Sheriff Richt said. “I want this town to return to normal.”

  The time reached a quarter past nine and still we had no word from Claude. I paced along the paved footpath. Every time I faced west, the Voor mansion’s bizarre form loomed ahead through the mist.

  Its conglomerated construction suggested changes in design over time. I doubt the original plans included the elongated layout, squat towers, and gothic arches. If ever I wanted to own a home that discouraged guests, or myself, from visiting, then I would purchase that house. Who would enjoy living in the architectural equivalent of a centipede?

  The more traditional Carter residence likewise stood in silhouette, albeit more distant and obscured. Its broad balconies and parapets overlooked the gardens.

  I paused mid-step. The Carter house overlooked the gardens, the site of the ghoul’s killings, and I had not interviewed the residents.

  I moved mine and Rose’s bags into one of the statue alcoves for shelter, then headed up the path. “Come, Rose. Sheriff, please keep watch until the locksmith arrives.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “To pay a brief visit to Mr. Carter. I will not be long.”

  The young, nervous James hurried after me. “What do we do if the monster emerges?”

  “You need not worry about that,” the other James said as he aimed his rifle at a pinecone.

  “Yes, no need to worry.” Rose thumbed at the older, dimmer James. “Just stand behind him.”

  “Shoot the creature,” I told him. “That Winchester rifle you brought is a fine gun. If you miss, you can use this.” I pulled my knife from its belt sheath and gave it to him.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, tracing the seven-inch blade with his finger.

  14

  The palace-like Carter mansion lay ahead, its silhouette tangled in the rows of wiry brambles separating us from the house. The path meandered through a grove of still-barren trees whose spiraled branches reached up and out like tentacles in the wet air.

  I imagine the place feels charming in the summer.

  The white-bearded owner of the home must have noticed us walking up the trail. He stood in the back door and greeted us as we climbed the steps to his colonnaded porch.

  “Good morning,” Mr. Carter said. “Are you Gideon Wells?”

  “I am, and this is Rosette Drumlin.” I tipped my hat to the man. Water trickled off the brim.

  “I heard about you. How fares your search for the monster?”

  “Wetter than I care for, but we are getting closer.”

  I stopped and shook his hand, but Rose continued on. She crouched under Mr. Carter’s elbow and passed by him through the doorway.

  He stammered, “What … what …?”

  “May we come in?” I asked. “We have some questions and would prefer not to stand in this dreadful weather.”

  Rose squeezed water from her dress onto the vestibule’s cherry wood floor. Mr. Carter’s
maid entered the room and, seeing the puddle, gasped. She hurriedly pulled a mop out of the closet.

  Mr. Carter squinted at me, half-covering his dark eyes with his bushy brows. “Humph. This is a strange visit indeed.” He nodded. “Yes, yes, come in. Would you care for some tea?”

  I smiled. “Or wine. Either would be lovely.”

  Our host showed us to a hexagonal study that would have colored any librarian green with envy. Tiers of books covered the walls except around the fireplace and windows. Rose immediately set to exploring the hundreds of volumes, walking her fingers from spine to spine.

  I glanced through the stained-glass windows, which depicted canaries singing on branches. The unstained sections provided a fine view of the gardens.

  The maid took our coats and set blankets on chairs so we could sit. She then added wood to the fire and left to prepare drinks.

  We began with a trivial conversation regarding my father and a fabricated story about my injury. Mr. Carter laughed at Rose’s fascination with his book collection and offered for her to take one. He had no idea he just made a friend for life.

  “There are some Jane Austen novels to your right, dear.”

  “Thank you, sir. I would prefer this one.” She jumped and yanked a bestiary of medieval creatures from one of the high shelves. The cover illustration, quite typical of the genre, depicted naked mortals being poured into Hell or snatched from the air by winged beasts. She flipped through the pages. “May I keep it?”

  “Yes, but I’m surprised. Such fables are usually of interest to young boys rather than ladies.”

  “I’ve killed one of these,” she said excitedly and pointed to a picture.

  I steered the conversation toward urgent matters. “We should add our ghoul to the book.”

  As I hoped, Mr. Carter began to talk about the creature. He and the people of his house had been keeping watch at the windows ever since hearing about Miss Murphy’s encounter. He pleaded for us to stop the ghoul, lest the strain on his and his wife’s hearts kill them both.

  I inquired about the two lethal attacks in the garden. To my disappointment, I learned that no one in his house had witnessed the incidents. My visit was not fruitless, however.

  The focus of our conversation moved to Leonard Ragiston and Charles Voor. Mr. Carter’s response fueled my kindling suspicions about the men. I gathered by the way he grimaced that he harbored little fondness for his wealthy neighbors.

  “Have you visited the Ragiston quarry?” he asked. “Have you noticed the hours when the workers ferry back and forth across the river?”

  “I have. They’re over there for at least twelve hours.”

  Mr. Carter blew out his moustache with a puff. “The cart horses get more rest than those men. I own the ferry boats they use to cross the river. I cut my rates twice so they can come home with enough earnings to feed their families. Did you know four of them have died in the quarry since last July?”

  Rose said, “That means Leonard Ragiston has more blood on his hands than the creature.”

  “If you ask me, he got what he deserved.”

  I was struck by a sudden fondness for the man’s spirit. “My, the conversations between you and Mr. Ragiston must have been delightful.”

  He cut off my comment with his hand. “Bah. I stopped speaking directly with him years ago. Charles as well. He’s cut from the same greedy cloth. He owns the chemical factory in Penn Hills, and he started hiring competitors for shipping goods after he found out union officials traveled to his factory on my boats. I tell you, those men built their wealth on the broken backs of others and on the graves of their own hearts.”

  Then Mr. Carter confided something that shifted the ground beneath my investigation.

  “I hope you do not think me spiteful, Mr. Wells, but the ways they have abused their people offends me. Plus, I am not comfortable living next door to someone deeply involved with the occult.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Rose and I threaded glances with one another. I leaned closer to our host. “What do you mean by ‘the occult’?”

  Mr. Carter lit a cigarette. “I mean what anyone would. Have you not investigated his house?”

  I shook my head.

  “Charles Voor devotes the largest room to his menagerie. It has the kinds of things one would expect from a man who travels the world to hunt: a lion head, bear paws, and tusks.”

  The animal hides and bones in the Ragiston basement flashed into my memory.

  Mr. Carter continued. “None of those seemed out of place, but the oddities in his collection disturbed me. Grotesque monstrosities. An albino snake with the wings and talons of an eagle sewn onto it. A rat with two heads. Ritual masks covered with human flesh, and the dried corpse of a plague victim. Skeletons, potions, severed tails, and prayer gems he claims contain the souls of the dead. Civilized men ought not have such things.”

  “You say he brings oddities back with him from his travels?”

  “Yes.”

  Charles Voor, world-travelling collector of the weird. That revelation branded him as a suspect in the mystery. Had he brought the ghoul back from some remote corner of the globe, only to have it escape from his collection? It would explain the creature’s presence, not to mention his butler’s defensive behavior.

  Mr. Carter grimaced. “I see that look, Mr. Wells. I know what you are thinking, but Charles has not traveled overseas for years. I visited his home after his last long excursion. I doubt the demon belonged to his collection.”

  He might have dismissed the thought, but I could not. Even if Charles Voor did not knowingly bring the ghoul to Haughtogis Point, genuine occult artifacts attracted malicious entities far more than chemistry experiments.

  I shrugged and feigned agreement with Mr. Carter, hoping to prevent rumors of my suspicions from spreading.

  “You are probably right. If Mr. Voor has not travelled in a long time, and if you have seen his collection, then the creature must have come from somewhere else. His property borders the river. Maybe it swam downstream from a mountain or cave.

  “Hmm.” He stroked his beard.

  “And I would not worry about the menagerie. Those things are rife with harmless forgeries. Nonetheless, if I get the opportunity to inspect it, I will let you know.”

  “Thank you. It would so put my mind at ease to know there’s nothing to fear in that house. You probably think me a coward.”

  “Not in the least. Forgive me if I never get to verify the collection, though. The butler is not terribly fond of us, and I doubt he will let us in. Do you know when Mr. Voor will return?”

  Mr. Carter exhaled smoke from his cigarette as he shook his head. A serpentine cloud drifted away from his lips. “No. He has been gone since before Leonard died. He would have wanted to be at the funeral.”

  “Would anyone else show the collection to us? His wife maybe?”

  “He never married nor had any children. Unfortunately, you have no choice but to go through his butler. I know that man is as sour as Charles is strange.”

  An urge to return to the statue door grew in the back of my mind. We had stayed away too long. I finished my tea and stood. Rose, still flipping through her new book, walked across the room to join me.

  “I knew Leonard Ragiston’s reputation as a hard man,” I said, “but according to you, I underestimated that quality in him. His grandchildren are amicable enough, and yet they have a strong affection for him.”

  “They probably fell in love with the idea of a grandfather more than the actual man. When they were children, he kept too busy with work to spend time with anyone. And what children would not have fun playing in the halls of his house?”

  “Do you think they will become tyrants like him?”

  “I hope not. Their grandmother and parents had soft hearts. But not Leonard. He would have stolen a beggar’s only nickel to buy himself lunch.”

  15

  Armed with new insight, I bid Mr. Carter farewell and set out with Rose. Duri
ng our visit, the clouds had darkened to slate and let loose a pounding rain. Consequently, Rose left her book with Mr. Carter for safekeeping.

  I could not ignore the lure of possible evidence in Charles Voor’s house. Understanding is the lifeblood of exonatural investigations. Thus, en route to the statue, we detoured to the front door of that bizarre mansion. I held low hope of getting inside, but information can be gleaned from conversations as well, even hostile ones.

  Torrents of precipitation, only a robin’s breath warmer than ice, ran heavily off our coats and hats. By the time we reached the mansion’s entrance, the gargoyle statues on the steps were spewing rainwater that drained from the gutters through copper pipes.

  Rose clacked the lion head knocker. Like me, her clothes hung heavily on her body.

  The door opened, and gaunt, old Timothy stood in the gap. He had paled to the color of balsa wood since our previous encounter.

  “How may I help you?” he asked in a fanged tone.

  I grabbed Rose’s shoulder, stopping her from forcing her way in. “Hello, friend. Has Mr. Voor returned yet?”

  “No.” He began to close the door, but I blocked it with my foot.

  “That is a shame, but you can still help me. I heard he has an extensive collection of curiosities in his menagerie. I am quite fond of such exhibits. Might we be allowed to see it?”

  As expected, he said no. “This is a private home, not a circus. I’ll not have vagabonds traipsing in off the street to steal from us.”

  “Mr. Wells took me to see a circus once,” Rose said.

  Timothy ignored her.

  I peeked over his shoulder but glimpsed nothing more than a wall and mirror. “I wish you would reconsider. Where does his collection come from? Africa? The Amazon?”

  He noticed me glancing around him and closed the door against his hip. “He has traveled all over the world. Good day, Mr. We—”

  “Is that why he went to Ontario for research? Is he collecting more curiosities?”