*****
My dearest son,
Is that even the right way to start a letter? Especially one to you, my son, and one of such importance? I really don’t know. I’m sorry, look at me; I’m rambling. Already I have wasted precious moments.
If you are reading this, which I can only assume that you are, then it means that I am dead. I’m sorry if that seems a little cold, but I would hope that by now you may have started to get adjusted to that fact. I have strictly instructed for this package to be given to you a few weeks after my demise, not immediately. I do not know how long it would take for the man I have entrusted with this to find you. I can only hope it is not too late.
Firstly, I am sorry for so many things. Too many to have time to put in one letter to you. First and foremost, I guess, I am sorry that I could only tell you these things in this form. I hoped upon hope that I could one day say them to your face, man-to-man. But the others overseeing this mortal game have other plans and have not afforded us that luxury.
Above all, I am sorry for not being a better father. I want you to know that it wasn’t through lack of love that I did not do or say certain things. I simply couldn’t. My heart and soul ached every time I wanted to comfort you after you fell and grazed you knee (which was often, need I remind you) or hold you as you struggled to sleep. But in these pages I hope you will find the answer to why this was.
As I write, I am struggling to hold myself together. Please forgive any shakiness in my writing from here on in.
Before I go on, I must tell you one secret that has burned a great empty hole in me all these years. I have been a Dad to you in every respect that I thought I could be, except one. You are not of my blood. I did not sire you. My dearest son, it breaks me apart to even see these words written by my own hand on this page; I am not your real father.
I couldn’t breathe. I faced the ceiling, drawing deep breaths to the point that I thought my chest would burst but it was no use. I still felt as though I was choking. I couldn’t look at the letter, yet couldn’t seem to let go of it. When the initial shock subsided after a few moments, I was suddenly calm again. When I read over his words once again, I realised that I already knew what he had told me. I had always known, deep down inside, that I was different. And suddenly, it all started to make sense.
I needed to know more, so I picked up the letter again.
I hope that you are still reading, for I wish to explain everything. Or as best as I can. Please spare me judgement, at least for the moment, for I am not the monster I may seem.
Before my life with you, I had a family. I had a wife, Jessica, and a baby boy, Isaac. They were both taken from me one night. A night that has replayed itself in every waking moment, and every dreamless sleep, ever since.
I learned very quickly not to talk of their disappearance, mainly for the fact that I couldn’t explain who or what had taken them, and where they had gone. If I were to say to you that beings from another world were to blame, you may think me mad. Then again, maybe you wouldn’t. I suppose it all depends what opinion you’ve formed of me over the years.
They came in the dead of night. Isaac was screaming. I awoke to find Jessica cradling him, unable to calm him down, trying desperately to stop his little arms and legs flailing around. He kept pointing towards the window. I ran over, looked out and my entire body froze as I could see them; tall, thin, grey beings. They looked human for a second, until I caught sight of their bulbous heads and huge saucer-like eyes, black as the night.
They just kept coming. There was already a hoard of them gathered by the back door. I could see their thin hands pressing against the glass, looking for a way in.
I panicked, running downstairs without a clue what I was trying to do. Leaving my wife and child alone in that room was the worst decision I have ever made.
I ran to the kitchen, unable to face going into the lounge and seeing the beings up-close. I could hear them knocking against the glass of the patio doors, and heard weird clicking noises break through the darkness. They were talking to each other.
The phone was in the lounge, so contacting anyone for help was out the question. I searched for the pistol I kept hidden in one of the kitchen drawers.
Then a bright light appeared from out of nowhere, with an otherworldly humming. A shrill screeching came next, forcing me to the floor, desperately trying to cover my ears. That was where I remained throughout what occurred next.
I was frozen, paralysed. They wanted me to stay where I was but forced me to listen to everything that was to come. Whatever they were, they were cruel.
I only really remember the screaming. My wife and child crying out for me, I could hear every ounce of the terror coming from them as they were surely grabbed, touched, pulled, pushed. Torn from me and our home.
Forever.
The lights continued to burn brighter, pulsating with every new scream. And then it was gone. They were gone.
For the next year, I never spoke to anyone. Well, almost no-one. One man came to me shortly after I lost my family. You know him too; the man I refer to as The Caretaker. His real name is Norman Burnett-White, I came to discover much later, once I got to know him very well. He says that I was the only one who knew his real identity. I’m sure he wouldn’t object to me passing this on to you.
At first I didn’t trust him. He was – and still is – part of a covert group known as The Society. These are the same band of men that wish to bring about my death. Once they succeed, I am almost certain that they will plan to do the same to you, which is why you must heed my words now more than ever.
As I grew to know more about The Caretaker, and considering the amount of times he was there to help me stay alive, I came to realise that he was the only one I could trust. I say the same to you; trust only this man.
The Society will come after you, of that I am certain. The Caretaker will help you. It’s his job to protect you; I have enlisted him to do this as one of my final wishes.
Let me try and explain more.
A year after I lost my family, The Society coerced me into a job with the promise that they would help me find them. I wanted the truth; but had no idea what that really went. I just wanted to know where they were, and above all who had taken them. So I could then take them down myself. The thought of revenge made me feel superhuman at times.
I took the job upon The Caretaker’s advice. It took me to a place that I had never heard of, to search for a man that was considered to have been dead for fifty years. It was so unbelievable that I should have just walked away. But they had me on a wild goose chase, and I was blinded by my quest for vengeance. And for my family.
The place was called Wildermoor. I was told at the time not to bother searching for it for it didn’t actually exist, in the official sense of the word. There was no acknowledgment on any maps or guide books of the place, which even nearly twenty years ago seemed absurd.
But it was there, of that I can assure you. I saw it. I saw a lot there, maybe too much. I can’t put all the details in here but I have much more to show you. More on that shortly.
There were things I witnessed there that I could never speak of again. So I wrote it all down. Endless reports, based on the memories that haunted me for many months afterwards. Dreams so vivid that it felt as though I was back there every time I closed my eyes; haunting me for what seemed like eternity. I leave these memories for you; I will explain the keys in the envelope shortly.
Wildermoor brought me to the very edge of my sanity, making me question everything I thought I ever knew about this world. But I also found a sense of hope, a guiding light as it were.
It was there that I found you.
I still have no idea how you came into this world, only that I was there when you needed me most. You were about to be drowned in a pool of the blackest water I had ever seen, by a madman that was to give his own life for whatever cause he was following.
But I saved you. God gave me enough strength to be there for yo
u, to take you away. We kept running, for days on end. Like we always did thereafter.
But I don’t regret a moment of it. Just as I saved you, I believe that you truly saved me. Although as I look back on it now, I know that as my quest – my hunger, my obsession – for the truth of what was happening to this world ultimately consumed me, tearing us further apart, I never lost sight of the one thing that still meant the most to me above all of that…
You.
I never gave you a normal life, but as you will soon find out for yourself, I don’t believe you were ever destined for one. You are special. As much as you are my saviour, I truly believe you are the saviour for all of mankind. I was once told that by a strange old man that led me through my own resurrection there in Wildermoor, and I still believe it now more than ever.
Your destiny is not here – or anywhere – with me in this normal, cruel world. Your birth brought forth something in this world, something darker than any of us could ever imagine. There are no gods present above us anymore. No higher being there to protect us from ourselves. There are now men and monsters that rule this world, and no-one to stop them.
Except you.
Regrettably I now have less time than when I started. I can say no more, I must leave you now but leave you with one final request;
Take the key to the Spinwood mansion. Inside to you left is an oak bureau, probably coated in dust by now. Open it. Take the key inside, the number inscribed upon it will guide you. It will take you to my secret place there, and once you are inside you will find out the answers to every question you possible have, and ever had.
Before I go, I also please ask of you this:
Please do not ever think I did not love you. You gave me a new world, a new reason to exist. And I’m so damn thankful to have been blessed enough to be given the chance to be your father.
Now go. Time is not our friend. Trust only one. Stop for nothing else, until you are there.
I will be with you always.
Your father, Dean Morden.
*****
There it was; everything that I had ever wanted to hear from my dad’s lips when he was alive. I hugged the letter as a heavy teardrop fell, blotting the ink from the back of the page. I sat there and read the letter over again many more times, until the morning light came. Then finally I tore myself away from it, folded it carefully and slid it into the inside pocket of my jacket, next to my heart. I may not have heard the words when I needed to, but now I had them written so that I could look at them whenever I wanted.
Not wasting a moment more, I took the key and left the cottage, crossing the courtyard to the Spinwood mansion.
Chapter Six
Because of how frequently my father and I were on the move over the years, the very fact that he had decided to stay at Spinwood for more than a year made it the only place I ever considered a home. And yet, in the seven years since my dad acquired the property, he had never let me into the main building, let alone actually inviting me in. Maybe this is what he meant when he said he would tell me more when I was old enough, more ready for it all.
I stood now at the massive front door, adorned either side by two white marble pillars that held up the monstrous porch roof. I felt the breeze cut through me, feeling even colder considering how much I was now sweating. It was only just past nine-am and the sun was almost at its zenith. When the breeze dropped, the humid air felt as though it were trying to choke me.
The key slid into the lock and within a moment I had pushed the heavy door open. The rush of dank cold air was still a welcome relief. I stood for a moment, peering into the dusty corridor, before daring to enter.
My footsteps sent echoes dancing all around, returning to me as quickly as they sounded, bouncing from the empty walls. Dark outlines showed where there were once framed pictures lining the length of the hallway walls, leading to the kitchen at the end. I walked through the small, simply-laid kitchen into another hallway.
This one was a lot darker than the first one, for the rear of the house faced south, hardly ever catching much daylight until the evening. Stray cobwebs clung to the rotting window frame. I shielded my nose so as not to gag on the overwhelming stench of mould. I stopped beyond the first window and couldn’t help but stare. The entire timber frame was rotten, and an army of insects weaved in and out of the cracks, helping themselves to whatever splinters they could carry. Dead spider carcasses still hanging in their former homes, displayed for all to see.
I turned around fully on the spot, searching for other doorways, reminding myself only then that I was there for a reason. About halfway down the hallway in which I stood, underneath one of the large windows, was the oak bureau my father had mentioned in his letter. The wood was splintering at the edges, the damp having long ago found its way inside the grain. I pulled down the heavy writing-slide door, quickly casting an eye over the inside.
Nothing.
I closed the slide again and pulled out the long drawer situated underneath it. Inside, amongst a rabble of yellowed papers was a key.
I pulled the key from the drawer and studied it, having to draw closer to the decaying window frame to catch whatever morsel of light that had managed to penetrate the grime. I ran my fingers over the round head of the key, using the flat of my thumb to rub away specks of dirt that had collected inside the grooves, until I could just about make out the number etched into the metal.
2112.
I suddenly felt a heavy rush of disappointment. How could I make sense of that number? It’s not like the house, as large as it is, would be hiding over two-thousand rooms. Deciding that no worthy clues would be behind me, back in the direction I had come, I stepped through a dark doorway in front of me.
The final part of the corridor presented me with only a few options left to try; a door on either side of me and one at the far end. I tried them all, but the key didn’t fit either of the locks. I suddenly felt like a not-so-handsome prince on the losing end of the search for my Cinderella. I checked the number engraved on the key once more and looked around the dingy hallway for anything resembling a clue.
Come on Dad, speak to me. Please.
Just as I was conceding defeat, and about to walk back through the house, something caught my eye. It was something that had appeared so insignificant before that I had plainly missed it. On the wall to my right was an old calendar, its edges starting to curl as a result of the damp winter months. Above the dates was a picture of the Sleeping Beauty castle at Disneyland. My dad had always promised to take me there. The picture was now faded from years of sunlight creeping in through the now-grimy window, much like my childhood hopes of another family trip that never happened.
I scanned the dates below the picture. The page was for December, year 2012. A message appeared to be speaking to me from within the fog which was slowly lifting from my mind, I ran my finger across to the only dated box that had an entry scrawled beneath it; December 21st.
The day I was born.
Written in the box was a simple circle. It took another long moment for the relevance to hit me between the eyes. It wasn’t a shape, or a letter. But a number.
Zero. Me.
Convinced it was a sign, I started searching desperately around me for the next clue. Only when I started to aimlessly run my fingers over the walnut-panelled wall did I chance to find it. I felt it before I saw it; a groove in the wood running vertically. Tracing the line, I could then see that it ran to a height of around six-feet up the wall, before running at a ninety-degree angle back on itself.
The harder I stared at it, the darker the corridor became. I clenched my eyes shut a few times to chase away the spots of colour beginning to dance before me. Able to focus my sight once more, I saw the indentation as clear as day; a door-frame, hidden within the panels of the wall with no obvious means of opening it.
Growing more frustrated by the second, I feverishly swung my arm across the wall, not knowing what I was hoping to achieve aside from relieving a morsel of
the tension growing within me. The motion knocked the calendar from the wall.
That was when I saw it – in the centre of the hidden door was a keyhole. My hands were shaking as I reached into my pocket and retrieved the key my father had left me. It took a few attempts to line the key up properly and I held my breath as I finally managed to turn the key.
With a click, the door opened.
Chapter Seven
After stepping inside the hidden room, I instantly regretted closing the door behind me as I was plunged into darkness. There were no windows, no possible way for natural light to snake in. I turned back and blindly fumbled for a handle, anything that would enable me to open the door and let the light in from the corridor again, but there was nothing. The only object I could feel was the keyhole, but in the darkness there was no way that I would be able to locate it well enough with the key.
I traced an imaginary line with my hand, at shoulder-height, along the length of the wall until I touched the next object. To my relief, it was a light switch. I flicked the switch up, and despite a few more long moments of nothingness, the distant buzz of electricity told me something was trying to happen. Then with a few strained flickers, the lights came on.
I had never seen the room before, and as I gazed around I saw almost every object for the first time. It was like looking through a window into a side of my father that I had never known.
The room was just how I had always imagined his office to be; simply furnished, yet with signs of his trademark organised chaos adorning each surface. Only approximately ten foot wide and no more than fourteen foot deep, I found it claustrophobic. At the back of the room was his desk, bordered by three large filing cabinets on each side. The only other piece of furniture was a trestle table to the left of where I stood, its surface warped presumably from whatever great weight it had supported during its years. Scattered across the top of the table was an array of photo frames. This seemed like the most natural place to begin my search.
Poison in the Well Page 5