“Till then, my Caitlin, till then….”
As I hung up the telephone and turned to move, something was bothering me. I could feel Marlowe and his demon from somewhere deep within. But it was no longer a terrifying sensation as much as it was a sense of confidence and security. It was a heightened sensitivity to all things that instinctively made me aware of the crystal hundreds of miles away. I could envision it in my mind and see the blue dish towel that Caitlin had placed upon it. I suddenly knew that neither Marlowe nor the demon had frightened Merlin. It had been something else…. “Watch over my home and loved ones, old friend, please….”
Wednesday, November 6, 1974.
5:45 a.m.
The Porter house was rather large and located directly beside the grocery store, which they still owned and managed. The mother and father were elderly, and the daughter still alone and unmarried. They were quite pleasant and offered coffee, cakes and tea, and even at that late hour, seemed to understand and relate to our specific needs and trouble.
Benjamin Porter was a stout, portly and friendly man. He was bald, wore a long, waxed, white mustache and spoke in a low and deep tone. We had recognized him from the butcher shop in the grocery, but he didn’t seem to remember. His wife Ellen was round and robust and sat with knitting beside the hearth. Theresa remembered us from earlier that afternoon, and spoke softly as she brought out assorted biscuits and tea. “I’m afraid that Colleen has had quite a fright--,” She placed down the silver tray, “But, her and Laura were fast asleep almost before they hit the pillow. I have placed them together in the same room and bed, and left the door open with the hall light burning. They should be just fine through the night.”
“We can’t begin to thank you enough, for everything.” I accepted a cup of tea, and shaking off the chill, cautiously sipped at the hot fluid.
“It’s a sad shame about poor father Delaney, to say the least.” Ellen had sighed deeply, without removing her attention from her knitting.
“He was a good man--,” Benjamin frowned, looking into the hearth and sipping at his tea, “He helped us when we left that nasty old place years ago.” He thought briefly before curiously looking up at me, “You knew that we once owned that property some thirty years ago didn’t you?”
“You were mentioned--,” Rich had nodded, stirring cream and sugar into his coffee as he stayed near the hearth, “Some accident with a pet—I heard, and you moved out of the house?”
Dark glances were exchanged between all three, as fidgeting nervously and speaking in something of a stutter, old Benjamin said, “Well, it wasn’t quite an accident, but few would have ever believed. You see, it was more like murder and out of fear for our daughter’s well-being that we were forced to leave.”
“Father warned Mr. Lumberton--,” Theresa leaned closer and whispered, “That the things that were happening around that old place—were just not right.”
“Father Delaney had mentioned that you had experienced some strange things.” I had looked to Rich who now withdrew his pad and pen, “If you would care to share with us, we would be honored. You see, we manage a type of ghost story and strange tales, magazine. It was the history of the house that brought us out here in the first place.”
Nervous glances had been exchanged by the family until Benjamin had conceded. The hearth had crackled, the old mantel clock had chimed six and he looked up at me, “We had been new to Midvale when we bought the house in April of 1943. We had relocated from Toronto, Ontario, where my parents had previously owned a grocery. I wanted to raise our young daughter in the country and away from the big city.”
There was something in his expression and eyes that spoke of remorse and deepest regrets. I had scribbled into my notepad as he sipped at his tea, and quietly continued, “All had seemed fine for the first few months. It was a big place, quieter, darker than anything any of us had previously experienced. You know how old country houses seem to have a character, a personality all of their own.”
“Did you have any knowledge of the previous owners?” Rich had politely asked, “Did you have any idea of what had happened there?”
“If you’re asking if I knew that the house had been built for the town physician in 1891--,” He seemed angered with the recollection, glaring at Rich, and said, “We had all been aware of that. It was a fine house and just over fifty years old at the time. I knew that it had stood empty for quite a while, and for that very reason, it was an affordable deal.”
“We had no idea beyond rumors--,” Theresa had quietly explained, “The usual small town whispering and chatter that you hear in diners and at church sales, most of the time.”
“It was in the winter—late one night in 1945--,” Benjamin added another log to the hearth, “That Ellen and Theresa started seeing things—shadows about the place.” The old man now took on an entirely different composure, features of solemn refrain. There was an unspoken fear glistening in his eyes as he spoke so softly that we could hardly hear the man, “It was just before Christmas that same year, when we found poor Gunter, our old German shepherd, murdered and hung from the stairs by his neck….”
“When you say murdered--,” Rich politely inquired, having already seen the painful memory reflected in Theresa’s eyes, “Do you mean that you suspect someone had come into your home and killed the animal?”
“Indeed not, sir--,” Theresa had swallowed hard, her eyes huge as she had looked between her parents before turning back to us, “It was something for certain—but it wasn’t any man…”
The statement having left certain pause over all in the room, Benjamin had struggled in description, and then finally said, “Well, you see--,” He motioned with his hands, his face twisted with grief, “He had his head crushed—then slipped between the rails of the bannister from the opposite side of the stairs.”
The claim having coincided with father Delaney’s story, Rich had silently just looked over at me. We both knew that whatever roamed those grounds had not been responsible for the animal’s ghastly demise. It’s method of killing had been entirely different….
“After that incident, which father Delaney had attended as well--,” He nervously explained while almost spilling his tea, ‘There was simply no possible way that we could remain in that place—I’m sure that you understand.”
We had both nodded and been suddenly halted in mid-reaction as Theresa had sobbingly said, “Especially after that evil boy killed all of those poor sheep and dropped them down our well.”
Noticing our expressions, her father had quickly explained, “We had kept a few animals around the place. They were more like pets than anything else, and something to keep Theresa occupied when there was nothing else to do. My wife loves to knit as you can plainly see—and we had a spinning wheel, so enjoyed having the sheep.”
“We never saw it happen—and they never caught the boy--,” Theresa now spoke bitterly, her pleasant expression distorted, “But I discovered what he had done the very next morning, while going to the well for some water.”
“And what made you so certain that it was a young man?” I had looked between the father and woman.
“He left his bloody hand prints all around the stones of the well.” She exclaimed as while vividly distressed, “And made the oddest marking in blood all about.”
“It certainly looked like some kind of sacrifice to some unspeakable thing--,” Benjamin had choked out the words, nibbling at a piece of cake as he waved the biscuit before his face, “So, you understand when this Henry Charles Thorne fellow and his witch sister Agatha wanted the place, we said nothing.”
“It was wrong, really--,” Ellen had slowly shaken her head, still busily working away at her knitting, “They should have been warned, though they likely wouldn’t have listened. They should have been given the choice.”
“Did you report this even to anyone—possibly even the police?” I was horrified at the prospect, but managed to maintain my calm.
“I had drawn out the sheep�
��s bodies—and burned all of the remains.” Benjamin shrugged, “I told father Delaney, he had made some kind of a report, but nothing had ever come of it. He had gone to Thorne and his sister and tried to explain the history of the old place. But Agatha would hear nothing of it—and escorted him out of the house. He had returned only that last time, when the lady herself had suffered a heart attack, and he had visited to offer final prayers.”
“And you know nothing else of the events that might have happened in that place?” I had peered suspiciously at Rich who had shared my thoughts. It was quite apparent than several people had detailed information concerning separate events, but few had ever been shared.
“That woman--,” Theresa had pointed out in thought, “Agatha Thorne, the doctor’s sister. She considered herself something of a spiritualist. She had said something odd to me one time, mentioned a stranger—a man that had come to her home.”
“She was utterly mad, that one—,” Old Mrs. Porter interrupted, “She often talked to us when she came for groceries every few weeks.”
“She claimed that she had contacted the spirit of some man that had once lived there, during one of her séances.” Theresa explained, “And she said that he would not leave her alone, and that he had done and was still doing terrible things….”
“She was a heavy drinker--,” Mr. Porter had shuddered with her memory, “And if you asked me, made most of these claims from somewhere near the bottom of several bottles of wine.”
This had of course immediately caught our attention. Pondering for just a moment, Rich had looked to her and asked, “Was there anyone else in town that went to see her? Another person that we might be able to contact in reference to what she was doing—and what happened there?”
“We had never seen or heard about any of her other guests. The only one from town that dared go anywhere near the place was old Mrs. Anderson.” Theresa looked to her mother in question, and thoughtfully putting a finger to her chin, said, “But, she passed away last winter—and never said anything to anyone about what had gone on in that house.”
“It’s all quite plain—when you consider the facts,” Mr. Porter sighed deeply and sipped at his tea, “The woman conducted herself poorly, rarely ate or slept, and died from a heart condition in the end.”
“Were there ever any stories circulating--,” I made one last attempt, ‘Rumors or anything that might have drawn suspicion, or reason to fear the old property or house?”
“A person doesn’t have to know everything about that property--,” The old fellow slowly shook his head and sighed, “To know that it should’ve been burned down long ago. God bless whoever or whatever caused that fire.”
“Let’s just pray that they never build another house--,” Ellen had looked up from her knitting, “And that no one ever goes back there again….”
“I think that we might be able to arrange something.” Rich glanced up at me. His eyes glassy, and though revealing utter exhaustion, were filled with a dark determination in the dim light.
“Poor Laura has nothing left to go back to in that place--,” Ellen had sighed deeply, and placing down her knitting, said, “But it’s for the best if you asked me…”
“She would be welcome to stay on with us.” Benjamin kindly offered, “We have extra room and she can work at the grocery until she finds something more suitable.”
“No one should ever return to that place--,” Theresa whispered as though mesmerized by the crackling embers of the hearth, “It should all burn and the grounds all about be sewn with salt….”
The words hauntingly familiar to father Delaney’s warning, I had solemnly gazed into the dancing flames. The chill and horror of the night passing with the coming dawn as the dull heavens slowly grew bright. I had closed my eyes for just a moment and lost consciousness, drifting away and into the dismal morning light.
Wednesday, Nov 6, 1974.
1:45 p.m.
Rich had pounded the stake into the ground of the old Lumberton’s property, the sign reading: ‘Sold’. He had purchased the estate from Laura to prevent anyone else from ever owning it, and provide her with money of which to begin a new life. In the spring a crew would erect a ten foot, barbed-wire fence around the whole property. It was an earnest attempt to secure the place and prevent any further loss of life….
We had departed the Porters’ home and driven out of Midvale beneath a bright blue sky. Laura and little Colleen had silently ridden along as we bore them homeward with us. She had insisted that they had nothing left in Canada now, and could not bear to stay. Rich and I had secured a bank account for the woman and child, providing the sum of one hundred thousand English pounds. Although it was well beyond the agreed price with exchange, it was more a gift from the heart than payment for the place. It could never replace what they had lost, but it might offer them a future when they returned home. She would stay with her parents in Exeter, and promised to remain in touch as they departed.
The dear woman was broken. Taking her daughter by the hand and with tear-filled eyes, they had boarded their plane. My soul sank as we stood there and their flight slowly taxied out and onto the runway. The sun peered down as the clouds vanished as though the heavens now welcomed them.
I felt the stinging burn of tears as their flight lifted off and they began the long journey home. The memory of her husband and young daughters all lost, burning deeply into my heart. If we had ever failed anyone in this life—it had certainly been them….
“Let’s go home--,” Rich placed a supportive arm about my shoulders, “We’re finished here, my friend….”
As we drove away from the airport, Rich seemed troubled by something. It was a question that he had been tumbling about in his head for some time, but had not found the words to ask. I had my suspicions, so testing the waters, turned and said, “I see that something has been bothering you since our discussion with the Porters. Does it concern the apparition of her supposedly conjured spirit man?”
“In fact—it certainly does.” He swallowed hard, adjusting his glasses, and said, “We both know that the shadow that hunted those grounds killed and fed in a very different way. So, whatever killed that poor dog was something very different.”
“And you’re wondering now, whether it was some kind of a haunting? Or possibly the demon that we have come to know as patient 1366?”
“How would it have been possible for any spirit or soul--,” He chewed nervously at his bottom lip in thought, “To have avoided that soul-devouring thing that stalked that property?”
“And, it’s for that exact same reason--,” I concluded, “And the fact that our ghostly beast hunted only by the winter months, that I suspect the apparition fell victim to the thing, which is why it vanished after that point, leaving us with only the hunter of the winter nights, and the demon that we have already faced.”
“What are we going to do with that old property now--,” He was visibly unsettled with the prospect, “What if something happens to someone else there?”
“All that we can do now is pray that things will quiet down.” Pouring the remainder of my tea from its thermos, I looked out into the clear sky and, almost whispering, said, “And hope that the powers that be will guard over that place….” I had not spoken of Marlowe or mentioned a thing about the Grim, but the look that Rich now gave me revealed an obvious and dark suspicion….
Caitlin had almost fallen into my arms at the front door when I had gotten home. I had spent several days alone with her, explaining all that had happened, with exception to the events concerning Marlowe. Although there was a bandage still covering the gash from where I had been cut upon broken glass, the rest had still left me uncertain.
I had attended the doctor’s office and seen my new doctor and our friend, Edward Wong. He had done the usual physical exam, taken blood samples and run a few extra tests. I had been reassured about a week later that, all things considered, I appeared to have been doing quite well.
“I’m sorry, sweet
heart--,” Caitlin had apologized over breakfast, putting a hand to her brow in frustration, “I should never have been so demanding and suggested that you quit your research and investigations.”
Dropping my dry, whole-wheat toast back onto the plate, I reached to where she now sat beside me and gently took her hand, “I completely understand and you had the right. Things have become increasingly more hazardous—and you are my wife. In all truth, I feel worse every time I leave you—and realize that it’s not fair to you either.”
“All men go to jobs—and must leave their families at times--,” She drew my hand close, and softly kissing it, said, “I just couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.”
Eva had looked at me from across the table and where she now sat in Caitlin’s usual chair. Norm said nothing and kept his head bowed while indulging his oatmeal, all acting the part of the adopted family they had become.
“You might consider leaving the investigations--,” Eva had politely suggested, “And just caring for the magazine and warehouse?”
“I have considered that possibility, my dear Eva. But I still have to finish this book.”
“You have a brilliant imagination, my love--,” Caitlin had sipped at her orange juice, and thoughtfully said, “Can’t you just come up with something, rather than go running all about?”
“Pardon my saying so, ma’am--,” Norman had finally spoken up, “But if you break a man’s sense of purpose, you break his spirit as well.”
Caitlin and Eva had just looked to him, and then right back at me. Though there was great truth in what he had said, neither of them had wanted to hear it and, at an obvious loss for words, could think of nothing to say in return.
“I’m going to finish this book first--,” I declared firmly but politely, “And then we can discuss the matter again at a later time.”
“We aren’t trying to ruin things or change your way of life--,” Eva has appeared saddened, and spoke in a soft voice, “It’s just that we all love you dearly—and fear for you when you’re out and about.”
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