“You look tired, old friend—go get some rest.” I gently stroked his sleek black fur, watching me as though seeming to have understood, he moved away and hopped up into his favorite chair. As with half-lidded and sleep-filled eyes, he had watched me while nestling comfortable down, and drifting into the realm of dreams.
The heat had kicked on and as the warmth spread from out of the grates beneath my desk, I closed my eyes while pondering the events of the past week. I had to question the paranoia that continually haunted me, the endless fear of losing everyone and everything. Had it truly been a passion for comics and childhood memories that now caused me to purchase all of these things? Or was it possibly just some desperate act of attempting to control, and hold onto some part of the past? In the end would any of it make any difference—and did it really matter at all? Truthfully, I did find comfort and pleasure in all of these things. And for that brief moment in time, if it spared my sanity for even a little while, nothing else mattered…..
Friday, November 1, 1974.
The morning had started out with a bitter cold and unrelenting rain, the dark heavens warning of a storm or quite possibly even snow. I had stumbled downstairs after having endured another restless night, and lethargically shuffled through the contents of the refrigerator. Our diet and lifestyle had changed considerably due to my health concerns, and the disappointment and indecisiveness of my search was certainly evidence of that.
“I’ll be fixing your breakfast shortly--,” Eva had escorted me away from the fridge and to the kitchen table, where pouring tea, she promptly said, “Caitlin picked up some lovely fruit at the market—and I thought to make up some nice waffles this morning.”
“That sounds wonderful--,” I sipped at the black tea and looked toward the window, “I certainly hope that it doesn’t snow.”
“I heard the weather report on the radio this morning--,” She informed me while sorting the plates and cutlery upon the table, “And they said that we should expect it by the week’s end.”
“You could always just stay home--,” Caitlin appeared from out of the hall behind me, pouring tea, and sat at her place at the table, “It’s not as though you’ve been getting much sleep lately. You could use the rest.”
“I promised to meet Rich at the office today--,” I thought aloud, “And I still have to call Ted before I leave the house. He was asking about the next book. You know him—always worrying.”
“Speaking of worrying--,” Caitlin put a finger to her lips in thought, her eyes flashing between where Eva now prepared breakfast and to where I anxiously awaited, “Well, to be quite honest, it’s about old Norman.”
“Has something happened?”
“No—nothing like that.” She peered at Eva, who now focused upon the waffle batter, “It’s just that, well, he has such a long way to travel—and he does live alone in a little rented room. He has no living relatives—and has become like extended family. I was just wondering how you might feel—if we offered him the spare room downstairs?”
“Well, I’m not so sure about that.” I looked to Eva, raising an eyebrow in question, “How would you feel about having someone staying here with you?”
“Oh, it wouldn’t be much bother at all--,” She failed within concealing her enthusiasm, becoming as nervous as a school-girl, as she stuttered, “I would watch over things as always, and see to it that it wasn’t any additional trouble.”
Just seeing the concern in the dear woman’s eyes was enough for me to immediately agree. In all honestly, I had been expecting something like this for quite some time and could not have been happier. Still acting reserved, I thought for several moments before shrugging and saying, “Well, it would save him having to travel, and we could use an extra hand around the place. If you both agree—I see no reason why we couldn’t accommodate the dear old soul.”
“Oh, thank you kindly, sir!” Old Norman suddenly appeared from where he had been concealed and quietly waiting in the hallway, “I just have a few pieces of luggage and won’t be much of a bother at all!”
He appeared as cheerful as a child at Christmas-time and light as a feather as he made for the door! I hardly recognized the man! In past experience, I had known only the grumblings and sarcastic wit of the old fellow, accompanied by his often comical expressions and heavy English drawl, as he had left me in stitches on numerous occasions. In retrospect, he now bore an uncanny resemblance to that of Ebenezer Scrooge’s final transformation in Charles Dickens’ classic tale, “A Christmas Carol.”
I had just sat there, eyes wide and jaw hanging open as the old fellow had rushed off, slamming the door closed behind him.
“Well then—he seems quite pleased about the whole thing--,” Caitlin unfolded and placed a napkin upon her lap, smiling sweetly, “That was very generous and kind of you, my love.”
Eva had said nothing, yet the manner in which she now vigorously moved and cheerfully busied herself in the kitchen had said it all. As I had looked between the two of them, I realized what a blessing they were and how very dearly I loved them.
“I suppose that Eva will have her hands full between the both of us.” I winked at the kindly old woman, “And, to be completely honest. I’ll feel a lot better knowing that there will be a man around the place when I am out, to manage and maintain things.”
“I couldn’t agree more, dear--,” Eva placed a big plate of waffles and fruit before me, “Now, mind the plate, it’s hot, and keep your grubby little paws off the syrup.”
“Yes ma’am!”
After breakfast and tea with Caitlin I had returned to my office and stood at the partially open window, watching as the cab had entered the gates and Eva had assisted Norman into the house with his belongings. The telephone suddenly rang, causing them to look up toward my window, and I ducked, whacking my head against the window frame in passing! “It serves you right for eavesdropping.” I placed a hand to my bruised brow and grabbed at the phone.
“Did I get you at a bad time?” Ted sounded concerned. “Oh, no—it’s nothing.” Dropping into my chair and reaching for a cup of tea, I rubbed at the new lump, “I was just running around my office—and bumped my head against something in the process.”
“Did it rattle out any good ideas for the new book?”
Amused by his usual charm, I sipped at the tepid tea, “No, but it’s starting to come together now. As a matter of fact, my friend Rich has even provided the cover art and title!”
There was a moment of complete silence, puffing as he lit a cigar, as he suddenly said, “Alright, are you going to keep me waiting forever—or are you going to spit it out?”
“Nightrealm IV: Sanctum Arcanum--,” I spoke it as though uttering a curse, “What do you think?”
“It sounds like a book on witchcraft or demonology--,” He thought briefly, “But it’s catchy all the same. I like it! What’s the cover design like?”
Turning to where the painting still rested against the bookshelf, I described it to the best of my ability, “It is blue Victorian wallpaper, blackened on the edges, which incorporates some almost indiscernible demonic faces into the design. There is a blue and glowing symbol in the center of the page, from where a red-eyed raven is seen flying into the symbol.”
“Sounds dramatic, dark--,” He puffed at the cigar, “How is the book coming along?”
“I’ve already written over one hundred and forty-four pages, and I’m expecting to have it ready before Christmas.”
“Sounds terrific—I’ll be looking forward to reading it!” There was a strange pause in his voice, “Um, listen, Michael? I called down to your office earlier and spoke to Carrie.”
“Alright—and?” I was already expecting it before he had even spoken….
“Well—she told me that you—well, had a few health concerns.”
“Yes, it seems that things are a little complicated--,” Admitting to the issues, I sighed deeply, “But I’m on a strict diet and have a new doctor that watches over me like a haw
k.”
“Alright then—I was just concerned and wanted to ask to be sure. But then again—you know me--,” He laughed while coughing on his cigar smoke, “I get treated like a mushroom most of the time. Kept in the dark and fed bullshit.”
“I was going to tell you, Ted—really--,” I thought quickly but found no excuse, “With things being as hectic as they are—and spending most of my time working on the new book…”
“Sure thing—you don’t have to apologize or make excuses for me. I’m just your friend and publisher—no big deal.”
“Okay—I feel bad enough already. I know that I hardly ever call and forget to keep you informed of little things here and there.”
“Little things--,” He coughed, “All that I ask is that you take care of yourself—and keep me notified if anything important or serious comes up. Is that too much to ask?”
My mind raced in numerous directions, but still unable to conceive an acceptable excuse, I simply submitted, “No, it truly isn’t. I’ll do my best to keep you better informed in the future.”
“You mean a lot to me, kid--,” He fell silent, “And we have come a long way together since we began this journey. I just want to know that you’re alright and that things are running smoothly, okay?”
Ted had been some twenty years my senior, but it still felt odd being referred to as a kid. But then again, terms of endearment were few and far between, so I gratefully acknowledged the sentiment, “Ted, for the most part, things are okay and the book is coming along faster than I had anticipated. Thanks again for caring. You mean the world to me as well.”
“Oh, sweet Christ—there’s no reason to go all soft and get mushy on me here.” The Ted that I knew best now puffed at his cigar, “Give me a call when you’re close to completing the project, and in the meantime, watch your butt, okay?”
“I certainly will—and that’s a promise.”
“Okay then—will you and the wife be attending the Christmas dinner down here at the office this year—or did you make other plans?”
“In all truth, we were planning a little party and dinner here. We would love to have you out for supper if you can get away?”
“Let’s talk about that the next time that we speak--,” He cleared his throat, “I was thinking about taking a little time in Acapulco over the holidays. I’m alone as you know—and don’t give a damn for this cold and damp weather. At my age it starts creeping into your joints and bones.”
“Alright then—you think it over and we can talk about it later.”
“Stay on your toes and stick to that diet—talk soon.” And with that he was gone, leaving me standing there holding the receiver and rubbing at a new lump on my head.
A familiar knock at the office door caused me to turn, as a smiling Rich had walked in and dropped into the chair beside my desk. Sipping at a mug of coffee that he had carried with him, he winked, “I see that you’re still in your jam-jams.”
“I was just finishing with a telephone call from Ted and was about to get dressed to meet you at the office.” I pondered for a moment and looked back at him, “Jam-jams, really?”
“Sorry--,” He chuckled, appearing somewhat embarrassed, “Maya uses the cutest terms for some things. I suppose that I’ve accidentally picked up a few?”
“I see--,” Finishing the cold tea, I poured another, and making myself comfortable in the big chair before my desk, said, “But since you’re already here, I suppose that we can talk now rather than going out in that nasty weather.”
“It’s getting colder faster than anyone expected.” He shivered with the thought, holding his mug with both hands as he spoke, “Which was another reason that I just came over here. I don’t care much for mixing traffic with freezing rain.”
“After what happened with the Eldorado, I really don’t care to test my luck at the moment either.” Although I had never spoken of it previously, the accident still haunted me.
“I can’t blame you there--,” Slipping a hand into an inner pocket of his suit-vest, he produced an envelope and offered it to me, “We received this a few days ago—and Carrie just brought it to my attention yesterday. It’s from one of the magazine’s readers. I thought that you might want to have a look at it for yourself?”
Without a word I had accepted the envelope, opening it, and proceeded to read the contents. It was dated for Wednesday, October the seventeenth and the typed contents spanned well into a second page. I had quietly read through the brief introduction. It concerned a man by the name of Gregory Thomas Lumberton, an English grade-school teacher and father of three young girls. Having just recently arrived in Canada and previously been residents of Exeter, England, they had settled upon a simple country home. He had described everything in the greatest of detail and in a manner resembling the great writers of Victorian ghost stories. Which was why I had soon found that I had quickened my pace, reading faster and with greater enthusiasm with each paragraph.
Gregory spoke of the distant mountains, gently rolling country-side and the mighty river that flowed through it. He had then described the dense thicket and tall trees bordering his property, which disappeared into a marsh extending for miles. To this he had added that neighbouring farms were over a mile apart and the town assumedly some ten miles from his own home. There was mention of a rather large, old, thatched roof barn on the property and surrounding wood fence. Assumedly livestock had once occupied the grounds, though not for a good many years as all had fallen into utter ruin and decay. In this respect, the house was quite different as he now clearly pointed out. Describing the Victorian manor as pristine and having been built in 1891 for a physician and his family.
“An obviously well-educated and perfectly rational family man--,” I thought aloud, “It seems as though he managed to get a terrific deal on a fabulous investment.”
Without comment Rich just motioned that I finish reading the letter. There was something in his stare that now spoke of some dark and irrevocable fear. It caused me to immediately return to the pages in my hand.
The writer continued within description of the adjoining grounds and a little cemetery, which hidden among brambles and saplings, had remained unnoticed and seemingly forgotten. He had explained how his children had discovered the place, stumbling upon wooden grave markers while picking blackberries one afternoon. He had also spoken of examining the markers which were illegible, as most of what was there had long moldered away. Seemingly, the children thought very little of these events and were not disturbed in the least by the old graves. This was not the case with Mrs. Lumberton, who suffered terrible nightmares, thrashed in bed and uttered terrible things in her sleep.
It wasn’t until she had discovered a book containing old family photographs in the attic that things had taken a sudden turn for the worse. She had claimed to have heard and seen strange things in the night. Spoke of being awakened by the tread of footsteps, whispers, and then the sound of someone or something calling to her from out of the darkness. But it wasn’t until the youngest of the three girls had cried out in the night and her parents found her huddled in a closet, when things became deathly serious. For the child, having been attacked by some unseen assailant in her bed as she slept, bore bleeding bites and inexplicable dark bruises about her throat and arms.
The child was taken to hospital and treated for the wounds, and refused after that night to sleep in that room, or alone again since. The two older girls had also complained of sounds at their bedroom doors and beneath their beds. Shortly thereafter, the entire family began sharing the master bedroom ever since. The strange sounds and sense of something sinister occupying their home having continued, they now sought assistance, pleading most sincerely.
“What’s your opinion on this matter?” I had looked to my friend.
“It has all the classic signs of a haunting, maybe even something worse? But the guy sounds legitimate enough to me—and he isn’t just some flake--,” He pulled another letter from his pocket, tossing the page ont
o my desk, and said, “I looked into his previous history through the education system. Raymond helped me out with a little background check. It turns out that this Mr. Gregory Thomas Lumberton has always been a respectable and upstanding citizen. Not to mention, that he comes from a well reputed family with an extensive history of educators that spans generations.”
“So, that excludes any previous history of mental health issues or existing illness that might affect his mind or senses.”
“I checked his wife out, too—just in case.” Rich offered the document, “She was a bank clerk before they were married, and her family background reveals no history of mental illness. Not to mention that she’s related to doctors, lawyers and a long list of psychologists.”
“Well, we should look into the history of that house—cemetery and surrounding property.”
“You underestimate me--,” He winked, drawing a notepad and pen from his inner vest pocket, “The house was built in 1891 for a physician by the name of Marcus Irwin Kingsley, his wife and two infant sons. He served as the town doctor for almost thirty years, until his wife and eldest son drowned in a boating incident, May 1932. At which point he retired from his practice, and though remaining in the house, died in hospital from complication due to pneumonia, September 1939. The youngest son, whereabouts unknown, never claimed title of the house or property, at which point it was seized and sold by the bank.”
“The youngest son would be well into his eighties, if he had survived--,” I thought aloud, tapping my fingers against the tea cup, “So we can exclude him from the factor at this point.”
“The house was then sold in June 1943 to Mr. Benjamin Lloyd Porter, wife Ellen and one daughter Theresa, aged fourteen. Although they owned the town grocery, they only remained in the house until 1946, whereupon moving closer into town, Theresa still maintains the family business to date.”
“Relatively uneventful—though they certainly didn’t stay in the house very long.”
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