New Tales of the Old Ones

by Derwin, Theresa

I was aghast; the thought had never entered my mind. I was free, the curse had ended. I did not know what to do.

  I think that Louise sensed this. “Go back to China,” she told me. “I shall stay here in this house.”

  “I can’t let you do that” I said.

  “You can and you will!” Louise told me sternly.

  Bolstered somewhat by my sister’s confidence I looked forward to my later interview with Mr Abnett. He found me waiting for him in the drawing room. With familiarity that spoke of contempt, he poured out two brandies. On receiving mine, I offered him a seat. I thought I would be more comfortable if he was not lurking over me.

  “You have not signed,” he said, observing the papers he had left behind.

  “I do not think I will,” I replied.

  “Mr Fraser do you know what will happen...” he leant forward, towering over me despite the desk between us.

  “I am not the first born son,” I cut in, bluntly. Deflated, he sank back and I revealed my mother’s secret.

  “Very well, Mr Fraser,” he said after sitting in silence for some time, “but we are not quite finished with each other yet.”

  “But the curse is broken, is it not?” I replied.

  “Ha!” he barked. “While the curse may be over our vengeance is another matter entirely.”

  Shocked, I shrank back into my chair, “What, then, do you propose?”

  “I will see that your family is untouched by us on two conditions,” Mr Abnett said, flatly.

  “And they are?” I asked.

  “That you promise to obtain your family’s silence over this matter and you allow me to act as your agent in selling this house,” he demanded.

  “I will sign accordingly for those,” I replied, relieved at finding a final conclusion to my family’s curse.

  Mr Abnett, in a flurry of activity, drew up the document for me to sign then and there. With some trepidation for the next buyer, I steeled myself and signed. Before the ink was dry, he snatched the papers up and said, “Thank you, there is no need to see me out, Mr Fraser, I know the way only too well,” and left us for good.

  X

  One year later...

  I am reading this back to myself sitting at my desk, in China. It seems like an age ago. My father was buried alongside my mother a few days later. Louise and I were given some time to arrange our things. We talked it over long into the night and in the end we took what we decided was the best course of action. We gave some of the money from the sale to Mrs King to set up a new home in the village, as she had been loyal to my parents and we think that she knew everything too. My sister took most of the furniture and I had a few pieces shipped over to China.

  I sealed up the small door before I left, making sure it could no longer be seen. But even after an extensive search of all forty-seven acres of our grounds I never found where the other door in the temple came out. I decided that it was not for me to worry about when we were selling Boleskine House if it was not on our grounds. A large fence was erected around the edge of everything that was ours and a solid gate at the end of the drive, just in case.

  We were never ever visited by Mr Abnett again. I expected every day for him to descend upon us with papers revealing that we could not get out of my forefather’s promise. But he never did. I do not think that it was until we had sorted everything out and had the house sealed for sale that I stopped waiting for his call. Yet, I still even now expect him to some extent.

  We did not expect Mr Abnett to sell the house quickly, but he did. I hope that the charming, but eccentric Mr Crowley that bought it from us will be very happy there and he never has to contend with the strange occurrences that we did.

  James Fraser. 1899

  Thanks to Michael R. Brush, the author of Mycroft and the Necromancer, for his assistance with the editing of this tale.

  THE FEAR ON KINGHAM MOUNTAIN

  Jody Ruth

  “Ah, Mr Cope,” the old man in the wheelchair greeted me as his assistant showed me into the office. I slid my coat from my shoulders and searched for a place to shake it dry.

  Again the pale, wiry assistant stepped to my aid.

  “It is a terrible storm out there, is it not Mr Cope?” the frail old gentleman asked me as a slight cough escaped him.

  “Indeed,” I replied. “I haven’t seen one this fierce since West Virginia.”

  I paused, regretting my words the instant they had left my mouth. The withered man before me was none other than Doctor Cornelius Ettritch, a once strong and vibrant specimen until we had lost ourselves in the Monongahela Forest, West Virginia, and stumbled across a situation so horrific it had changed the lives of all those who were there; or at least those who had survived.

  Men like Doctor Ettritch who had actually been there and witnessed things first hand had other views.

  “West Virginia...” Ettritch said quietly as he stared into the fire that burned low in the hearth. I found myself hoping he would put another log into the flame as the wetness soaked through my clothes and slowly started to sink into my skin.

  The old man repeated the name of the place again and slowly turned his wheelchair toward me. I could now see how that night had affected his physical form. Where muscle, sinew and tendon had once stood prominent and strong there was now weak flesh and hanging skin. Even through his woollen jacket I could see little sign of physical form or strength, the fabric hanging limply from his shoulders.

  He coughed again as if his frail body agreed with my amateur diagnosis.

  “Doctor Ettritch,” I said and stepped forward to steal some of the hearth’s small warmth. “I came as soon as I received your request.”

  The doctor’s shaking hands reached out to clasp mine, the bones of his fingers so apparent I paused before taking them in my own. I held them lightly for fear of crushing them.

  “And I thank you for arriving so quickly, Mr Cope. I trust your journey was not too arduous?”

  I assured him it had not been, and withdrew the telegram he had sent me the previous day.

  “Doctor,” I said, holding it up in the dimming firelight. “It simply states ‘It has happened again’.”

  Ettritch’s wheelchair turned slowly as he fed one of the wheels through his wiry hand. Once he had moved away from me he waved his other hand at the fireplace.

  “Another log, Mr Cope,” he said.

  For a moment I feared I had doused the fire with the chopped wood, but soon the flames ate at the bark and the timber, and the heat and light grew.

  As did the storm outside. The windows rattled and the flames wavered as gusts found their way down the chimney.

  Again I held up the crumpled telegram for inspection.

  “You know of what I speak.” Ettritch said. “It has indeed happened again, this time on the shore of Lake Superior. Ironically, in a small town named Ashland.”

  “It’s heading east?” I failed to keep the incredulity from my voice.

  Ettritch smiled at me weakly, as if I was still one of his students.

  “On what basis did we believe that they would never leave their home in Tempest Mountain? I thought the events in West Virginia had taught you that?” he said.

  Ettritch could see the wheels turning in my mind as I analysed the information.

  “In 1921,” he said, wriggling in his seat to gain comfort. “I was part of an expedition to investigate the disappearance of seventy five people on the side of Tempest Mountain. It was an expedition that saw almost all of my party killed.

  “These happenings occurred at the Robben Mansion, a once lavish building erected by the Dutch-settling Robben family,” he continued, telling me things I should recall, but supplying it in the way an old teacher would to a student who was struggling with a hard mental equation... which – after my long journey and tiredness – was not too far removed from the truth.

  “Your friend Bill Tobin was killed along with Gregory Brunston,” I interjected, my mind recollecting facts and attempting to put them
in order. “The man who had been with them asked you for your help.”

  Ettritch nodded slowly as I spoke, his eyes glittering.

  “Yes, Mr Cope,” he said, a tutor pleased with his student. “He came to Lefferts Hotel where we were all gathered to investigate the local disappearances. The man had us scouring the grounds for search of our missing colleagues, but we found absolutely no trace.”

  “Nor of the seventy five settlers a week or so before” I said.

  “Almost, Mr Cope,” he said, smiling and wagging an aged finger at me. “Only twenty five of the inhabitants had disappeared. The other fifty were strewn in bloodied parts across the ground. They were there, but only in the form of broken bones and scraps of flesh. The ramshackle settlement was wiped out, the centre of the vanishing marked with scorched earth, as if struck by lightning, leaving a large crater in its centre.”

  To mark his words, the storm flashed its light through the shuttered windows, briefly illuminating the room more than the fire could hope to. I flinched at the sight and the sound of thunder that shook the shingles above our heads.

  “What was the name of the investigator who accompanied you?” I asked, having once regained myself.

  The old man fell silent, his gaze returning to the growing flames as rain dashed against the window in thick streaks.

  “Art Munrow” he said. “A good man... a conventional man with an open mind. He spurred us on... to try and evaluate everything we found without dismissing it through science.”

  He turned his head sharply and I feared for a horrifying moment that his neck would snap under the sudden duress.

  “His face was eaten as he stood!” he said in a loud whisper. “Clean away from his skull, his body still standing at the window he patrolled! We thought he was just being overly vigilant... it happened without a sound... without anyone of us realising!”

  He coughed and his body contracted, as if he was to disappear in upon himself. I placed a hand on his shoulder but he shrugged it off.

  “Only a handful of men stayed on after Munrow’s death, once we had scoured the mansion and found nothing.”

  “What of the man who had requested your help?” I asked.

  Ettritch’s eyes narrowed as he looked into a dark corner of the room at something I could not see.

  “I cannot recall his name,” he finally said, after a sharp crack of burning wood had bought him from his reverie. “But he was a troubled soul. Blamed himself terribly for our colleague’s evanescence.”

  “He stayed on at the mansion,” I said. “But his reports were believed by few. He discovered that the Robben family had inbred through the generations with the local mongrels and became a basic, tribal community. His reports indicate a species of human almost apelike in their appearance and mannerisms, with primitive fangs. The ‘red glowing eyes’ I believe were added through careless rumour after the effect.”

  Ettritch laughed mirthlessly.

  “Do you really believe that?” he challenged me, “That legend of the ‘glowing eyes’ had taken precedent over fact and that loose lips were creating a myth? A cult? Maybe you had not seen as much as I in West Virginia?”

  My mouth hung aghast at the implication, but Ettritch held my gaze, his body ravaged but his will as strong as ever.

  “I think it is time we corroborated our tales, Mr Cope,” he said as he pulled his thin shawl tighter. “It appears that maybe we saw different things within the Monongahela Forest, down in West Virginia... or maybe we just saw things differently?”

  He fell silent, disturbing the fire with an iron poker, challenging me to tell my own side of the story.

  The small room contained only Ettritch’s desk and the wheelchair he sat in, so I would have to stand to tell my tale despite my wet clothes. I began at the beginning, trying not to let any detail slip which would cause Ettritch to curl his lip at me.

  I recollected being called from my studies at the University of North Carolina where I was preparing to teach Neolithic History for the forthcoming term. Doctor Ettritch was lucky to have reached me at that time as I still had two weeks before the campus filled with students back from their summer break.

  He had sent me a telegram asking me to join him at Grant County, West Virginia, in a small town called Petersburg. He even wired payment for a car and driver to take me, and asked the university dean to allow me leave on a service vital to the government. The dean could hardly refuse, although he was not very happy about the situation so near to the start of the new term.

  I’m not partial to flights of fancy without good reason, but the doctor ended it with two words he knew would entice me: ‘Tempest Mountain’ – the place where it was believed a family of settlers had integrated and bred with the local mongrels to create a new breed of almost primitive beings. Ettritch knew that this would pique my curiosity, as well as the mystery of the mass deaths and disappearances that had been covered by every national newspaper all those years ago and had gained national interest.

  Eventually the search died down, and people went back to their homes and places of work. The man who hired the duo who disappeared stayed to uncover the mysteries of the mountain; primarily through guilt at their loss, I believe. No one is exactly sure of what he uncovered, but many rumours of creatures summoned by thunder and lightning, with glowing red eyes have abounded ever since!

  A year after this, and a year prior to finding myself dripping on Doctor Ettritch’s expensive rug in his study at his home here in Baltimore, I found myself in a carriage taking me to the Monongahela Forest.

  As we neared Petersburg, the sky darkened and it began to rain incessantly. I had spent most of my time in the vehicle reading text books to make up for not being able to study at the university.

  Doctor Ettritch had been in Petersburg for a week, and was practically bouncing from foot to foot upon my arrival. At this time he was still a tall, broad, muscular man without any hint of the frailty he was to suffer. Who would believe that within the week he would be confined to a wheelchair for the remainder of his days?

  Ettritch informed me another group of people had vanished; this time a small group of settlers who had tried to establish a new, small community further into the forest. He wanted to leave for the site straight away but I insisted that I rest and have some food. He would have none of it.

  We were at the settlement site later that evening; myself, Doctor Ettritch and a small congregation of teamsters. I found it odd that the normally approachable Ettritch was cold and distant to them all, save me. I could only assume that he distanced himself from them in case one of the men encountered a similar fate to those who had disappeared. I had noticed that he spoke to me in a more professional capacity rather than one of a tutor to his student.

  The settlement was a mixture of crudely built log cabins, and hitching posts for horses. There were eight buildings in total – a saloon, barbers, and an assortment of other abodes and businesses –but at the far end of the muddy trail lay a large crater.

  Instantly I recognised its similarities to those of a report of the crater at Tempest Mountain. The ground was scorched and its epicentre was a hole that drove several feet into the muddy ground. Around the crater were broken planks of wood, once a building of some kind. Among these I could see an iron cross, slightly bent and misshapen as if touched by incredible heat.

  “This was the church,” Ettritch explained as he bent down and laid a hand on one of the shattered supports. “The townsfolk were hiding in here from a terrible storm.”

  I raised my eyebrows. A huddled mass struck by lightning during a storm was the same method of destruction that occurred on Tempest Mountain.

  “How many were killed?” I asked.

  Ettritch flipped away the charred lumber, revealing a blackened limb beneath. My stomach churned and I looked away before I could tell if it was an adult or a child’s.

  “There were twenty four people, making this into a habitable town,” the doctor said, talking to my back as I l
ooked back down the ‘street’ we had walked.

  I fished a handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it to my lips. Once I was certain I was going to keep my breakfast down I spoke: “How many remains have been found?”

  “Only enough to verify three bodies,” he said as he stood and brushed the mud from his knees as the rain continued to fall. He waved a hand towards the treeline. “A couple of limbs were found over there – not from the same person – and a leg was found about a third of a mile from this very spot.”

  “In which direction?” I asked, my voice slightly muffled by my handkerchief.

  Ettritch pointed at the mountain that loomed above the forest. The clouds and ghastly weather hid its peak, but its grey, thick, tree-coated base hinted at its enormity.

  “Kingham Mountain,” the doctor said, his voice rising as the wind whipped around us. We both gazed up at the landmark, lightning bringing the thick vegetation that crawled up it to writhing life.

  “Has it been investigated?” I asked.

  The doctor shook his head.

  “That’s why I summoned you, Mr Cope,” he smiled as he indicated for the party to ready itself. “I have only briefly scouted the very base of the mountain, but there is something I need your expert opinion on.”

  The trek to the base of the mountain was not long, but it was heavy going through the mud and trees that seemed to thicken the further we progressed. Leaves and shrubs grew to sizes that I have never witnessed before, and the two men at the point of our troupe hacked their way through with machetes.

  In all, our party consisted of sixteen men; all were explorers and various experts in different fields, from what I could gather through the minimal speech we exchanged during the growing storm. I noticed a few of the men were equipped with hunting rifles stowed in their packs, and I am fairly certain I saw a pistol protruding from the doctor’s pants waistband. I cursed myself for not having had time to prepare better and to equip a pistol myself, knowing the story of Tempest Mountain as I did, and the potential danger that we were walking into.