It is only now, so many years gone, that I can sit with your heart safely tucked inside my left palm. This calcified organ, what was so long ago a small lump of death, has now turned nearly to ashes except for a flat dried remnant. Please know that your heart was not lost for I kept it at my bedside every night, wrapped in white silk inside a copy of your Adonais.
The first thing is justice. These words I write are for you only, my dearest, because you have always belonged to me. You never belonged to Claire. I know that, no matter the wicked lies. No matter the words that echoed in my head how Claire claimed that you named her “your best love.” And, I shall go further and say that you never belonged to poor Harriet either, although I still carry the ever-beating guilt of your first wife’s self-murder.
The truth stands, I seduced you away from Harriet and your two babes. I took great joy in intoxicating you with my passion during our secret meetings at my mother’s grave at St. Pancras. How Harriet must have despised me for the thief I was. I have had moments when I could almost hear her hateful voice shoot like barbed fire at me.
Now, I must utter these words lest they choke me another day. I, Mary Wollstonescraft Shelley, declare my responsibility for Harriet’s suicide. I confess and record it here for you to know. I alone caused her ruin. I alone prevented you from returning to her and your children. Charles and Ianthe grew up motherless, and I shudder for I know the cold ache of having no mother and the heartbreak of a father’s love withdrawn.
Our selfish and scandalous cohabitation drove your wife to such feelings of abandonment and despair that she ended her own life and the life of the babe she carried in her womb. If it was your child, Shelley, if you had unfaithful moments to me, I shall forgive all. I harbor no more secret jealousies. Why wouldn’t you find Harriet’s beauty ravishing with her cream and roses complexion, a girl so bright and blooming with her melodious Irish songs. Not even twenty-one years at her tragic death.
What frightens me most is how both of you met your deaths by drowning. As if by some deathful victory, your destinies pledged for eternity.
Shelley? Will you heed my summons? Will you return your love to me this night?
There arrives a lull. Will a line of your verse tempt you? The soft sky smiles—the low wind whispers near; Tis Adonais calls! O, hasten thither, no more let life divide what Death can join together.
Dear Shelley. Might our souls abide?
At the end of this letter I shall burn this confession, as your body was burned on that awful day on the beach at Viareggio. The Italian laws that deemed it necessary to immediately cremate your body had devastated all I wanted for you. You are not a corpse in your grave and I pity that. Edward Trelawny reported to me that he struggled persistently, burning the tips of his fingers, to remove your heart from the cremation fires. He claimed the organ would not burn and handed it over to Leigh Hunt. I felt shock when I first learned of this. When I asked Hunt if I might have this relic for my own comfort, he flatly refused. I was crushed. We quarreled bitterly for months. In the end, he surrendered. I have treasured your remains ever since with so many kisses upon the white silk.
I hear the winds wooing. Are you near, my darling?
Can you tell me of your final hours upon the Ariel? Of the torrent sea and storm that wrecked your craft and our lives? The very idea of sea worms attacking your drowned flesh made me scream. I admit to a fleeting moment of gratitude when your body washed up upon the shore.
A lost echo has followed me all these years. I daydreamed it was you calling at the dark window beyond my bed. I imagined it was you floating inside the shadow that slipped through the open door. At times I felt an airy surge pressing me, and I wondered, who is haunting me? You are no phantom, no ghastly image for me.
I do so long for one more kiss.
I am here in London on the banks of the Serpentine River in a pageantry of mists. Do you recall our bright Sunday afternoons here, fashioning paper boats to make your flotillas? The water flows in a monotonous cadence now. I thought to make my appeal to you by the sea, but I cannot bear the pain of thinking of your being swallowed up in the deep turbulent waters that murdered you. Alone on a wide wide sea … my soul in agony. Coleridge still haunts me.
I sit quite solitary here in a deserted corner in the moonlit vapor with the tiny warmth of my candles. I have five flames, positioned as a five-pointed blazing star. Shelley, do employ the magical powers that dwell here. Come!
There arrives a lull. This one carries a chill.
I do so love the river. It reminds me of our sail down the dark Rhine, the scenery vivid as a painting, the ruined castles hanging on the precipices, the black woods, and Burg Frankenstein with that ominous chapel.
O Shelley, that you were here; The Castle echo whispers “here!”
Something murmurs. Ah! You are near? An odor moves through the air. I cannot identify it. Perhaps something damp, wet rocks or mud … like a dead low tide. But of course the river remains steady. I cannot see the summer green grass here, nor a flower or hedge. Do you remember, my love, writing this fragment, The gentleness of rain was in the wind. So it is at this very moment. I hear the softest of footsteps.
Is that you, my love?
Something has loosened in my brain these days. Of late, I wake up from sleep certain that the cold paws of the basement rats are upon my cheeks. I shriek and cry. The hateful things. The silence and the solitude of the house at Chester Square have created a vacancy in my mind. I fail to sleep most nights. Physicians are of no help.
O yet, wait. I see you! Is it?
Something at the surface of the river swells up. I can’t quite make out the gloomy shape as it is stiff as translucent ice.
I see two eyes. Dark, like fierce nipples. They do not seem to be your eyes as I remember the delicious boyish blues. Is that a frown? Methinks you are displeased that I have summoned you. Please do not be vexed.
The darkness around is cracking. This cannot be, what is this abhorred monster I see lurking above the waves? Where are you, Shelley? I hear the leaves trembling in the continuous air. Do speak. Grant me your tender voice.
Will you not speak to me? Shelley!
This figure that approaches cannot be you. Not this waxen-faced fiend come up from the waters, jaundiced with tallowy flesh. The face hovers like a snake’s, spotted and withered.
The body wears a black shawl upon the shoulders. A woman, I think, some witch? She drags a hideous heap of hot smoking embers behind her. Who is this! What I have conjured? I can scarcely write
I tremble. Tears
flood.
O my dearest. What a horror has come to me this night. This phantom come up from the river has viciously wrenched my left hand. She thrust into my flesh, like a spear of ice, the bolt nearly entering my soul. I stumbled and fought for breath.
The white silk has fallen empty at my slipper.
She has stolen your heart from my palm! Not a single ash or fibre left for me to possess.
This woman! She came from her cold oblivion with aching hands and bleeding feet, a fiery determination on her shriveled face, eyes fearless, your Harriet.
O Shelley, she has fled with the last of your precious relic, outspeeding the very wind. She was soon borne away in the waters and lost in the darkness and distance.
Yet we, my Shelley, we must prevail. Shelley! I beg you. Do not abandon me now. Do come to me.
Shelley?
There arrives a lull.
The mists on the river have dissipated.
I see. By my days, my soul half knew your destinies pledged. Forgive my tears. I concede What Death can join together.
I remain
truly yours,
M r
As I stood in the dank recess of the windowless chapel at Castle Frankenstein, I could see the faded outline of where the Casa Magni had hung on the wall. Phantom dust blurred up, practically begging me to touch it. I ran my hand across the silhouette, loosening the dust to smear the lines away over the dar
kened surface. A dizzy moth flitted by. She escaped out the door I had left open behind me, into the Eastern air.
Author bio: Paula Cappa's short fiction has appeared in Whistling Shade Literary Journal, SmokeLong Quarterly, Every Day Fiction, Fiction365, Twilight Times Ezine, and in anthologies Human Writes Literary Journal, and Mystery Time. Cappa’s writing career began as a freelance journalist for newspapers in New York and Connecticut. Her novels include Night Sea Journey, A Tale of the Supernatural and The Dazzling Darkness (Gothic Readers Book Club Award Winner for Outstanding Fiction), available as eBooks. Crispin Books published both novels in trade paperback editions. She writes a weekly blog, Tales of Terror, on her Web site at http://paulacappa.wordpress.com/. She is a freelance copy editor in New York.
Dying Scrawl
By DJ Tyrer
Case #BF1466215846
Journal transcribed from notes found on the arms of a corpse written in biro. Recovered from a wheelie bin behind the Dorchester Hotel (later identified as a well-to-do guest).
Right Arm
I believe I am dying
I have looked upon the face of the TRUE GOD and seen a BLANK MASK. The very truth is
I have read the play and learnd (sic) the TRUTH that coils within the atom and wh[ich?]
Dark Stars rise above CARCOSA in a pirette (sic) amongst the Moons. So many Moons. So many Moons.
What does it mean?
What does it men (sic)?
I thought I new (sic) the truth but it transpires that TRUTH knew me. But WHAT does it mean? The many-faceted lies confuse me. The meaning of the sign condemns me. The relevance of eNtropy (sic) deludes me. The nature of myself ELUDES me.
Save yourself.
From the Tatters of the KING.
Left Arm
I have been vouchsafed an eternal truth.
Cassilda warned me of the threat that Louis presents, but I ignored her till it was much too late. She warned me of the danger the PLAY presented and I ignored her. Now I know she was right.
Camilla LIED to me. I would kill her if I could.
It is too late.
LATE.
It is a terrible THING to fall into HIS hands.
Into HIS hands I have fallen.
In HIS hands I remain.
I believe I am dying.
Ends
Author bio: DJ Tyrer is the person behind Atlantean Publishing and has been widely published, most recently in Steampunk Cthulhu (Chaosium), Tales of the Dark Arts (Hazardous Press), Cosmic Horror (Dark Hall Press) and Serial Killers Quattuor (JWK Fiction), and in addition, also has a novella available on the Kindle, The Yellow House (Dynatox Ministries). DJ Tyrer's website is at http://djtyrer.blogspot.co.uk/
Girl in the Woods
By Evan Purcell
Case #BF5068934094
Journal transcribed from official letters, advertisements, receipts, 911 transcript and phone texts, all associated with the various sources involved in the case.
From the desk of Dr. Henry Ward
Addressed to the seven board members of the Knotting Home for the Criminally Insane
June 15, 2012
To Whom It May Concern:
As the primary psychologist for Patient 47-X (Cletus “Hack” Williams), it is my firm recommendation that he NOT be released into the general public. Not only has he not been rehabilitated during his sixteen years at our facility, it is my official opinion that Cletus is incapable of rehabilitation.
I understand that the Knotting Home for the Criminally Insane has suffered heavy financial setbacks as of late, but there must be some other way to save money. At the very least, can’t you select a patient who hasn’t murdered any hospital staff in the last eight months?
My fear is that if Cletus is released, he will immediately embark on a series of grisly murders using a variety of home renovation tools, such as gardening shears and barbed wire. He will choose an isolated location where promiscuous young adults are known to congregate, and he will murder again and again.
For the love of God, do not release Cletus Williams. For the last sixteen years, I have looked into his soulless eyes. And for the last sixteen years, the Devil looked back.
Cordially yours,
Dr. Henry Ward
***
Official Letter of Transfer, Knotting Home for the Criminally Insane
July 3, 2012
Attn: KHCI Staff
As of 10:00 this morning, Patient 47-X (Cletus “Hack” Williams) will no longer be a resident of the Knotting Home for the Criminally Insane. After exemplary work from his primary psychologist Dr. Ward (retired as of last week), Cletus has been deemed completely rehabilitated by the Board of Directors. We wish him only the best on his further endeavors.
***
Receipt from Knotting Hardware
July 3, 2012
Gardening shears…$29.50
Rope (20 ft.)…$7.99
Standard Barbed Wire (10 ft.)…$15.99
Reinforced, Double-Knot Barbed Wire (10 ft.)…$19.25
Machete (as seen on TV)…$26.00
Pickaxe…$12.00
Hydrochloric acid (3 gallons)…$85.00
Total: $195.73
(paid in cash)
***
Advertisement from the Knotting Weekly Saver
CABIN FOR RENT!
4217 Everway Bend
Lakeview property in the heart of Knotter Woods.
Four bedroom, two bath. Security system by Dalmer Alarms.
Perfect for that special weekend away. Only residence in ten miles.
Call (928) 753-****
***
From the phone of Richard Hudson
July 4, 2012
4:59 p.m.
Hi Cindy!
I probably don’t need to tell you this, but you know how your mother and I worry. Please be safe. We love you very much, and we trust you. But this is your first long weekend away from home. Don’t do anything wild, okay?
Say hi to your friends! :)
Love,
Dad
***
From the phone of Cindy Hudson
July 4, 2012
5:02 p.m.
Come on, Dad. Don’t be so freaked. You know I can take care of myself.
***
From the phone of Richard Hudson
5:03 p.m.
Of course, honey. I just worry. Let me know when you get there!
Dad
***
From the phone of Cindy Hudson
6:13 p.m.
Hi Dad!
Just saw your message! The gang and I just got to the cabin. Everything looks good. And don’t worry. Tim and I have separate rooms. LOL.
Tim is unpacking the van right now. Dan and Janey went off to get some firewood. They should be back soon.
Reception isn’t the best, so you might not hear from us for a while. Don’t freak. We have a great security system. Once Dan and Janey get back, I’ll punch in the code.
Lots of love!
Cindy
***
Mass email
7:00 p.m.
To the loyal customers of Dalmer Alarms:
For the last seven years, we here at Dalmer have taken great pride in our track record as the preferred alarm system provider for the greater Knotting area. In order to maintain this high level of service, all Dalmer alarms will be temporarily shut off tonight, July 4, from 7:00 p.m. to midnight. Don’t be alarmed. This is a standard maintenance issue. After midnight, our security systems will go back online. We hope this doesn’t cause you any inconvenience, and as always, thank you for putting your security in our hands.
***
From the phone of Cindy Hudson
7:30 p.m.
Janey! Hurry!
***
From the phone of Cindy
Hudson
7:42 p.m.
Janey? Where are you? Lost? Tell Dan to zip up his pants and hurry up. We’re about to eat.
***
From the phone of Cindy Hudson
8:17 p.m.
Janey? Come on! We’re starving.
***
From the phone of Cindy Hudson
8:24 p.m.
Dan! Where’d you and Janey go? I thought I saw someone outside. Please. We’re worried about you. Tim is gonna go outside and check around.
***
From the phone of Cindy Hudson
8:40 p.m.
Tim?
***
From the phone of Cindy Hudson
8:49 p.m.
Daddy? I’m scared. Everyone else is gone. I think there’s someone here.
Cindy
***
From the phone of Richard Hudson
8:38 p.m.
On my way.
***
9-1-1 Transcript, Knotting County Police
10:42 p.m.
Journals of Horror: Found Fiction Page 7