Daedalian Muse

by Jamie Crothall

I awoke the following morning with a headache unlike any I had suffered before. Not even the time that I had accidentally knocked over my father’s chemistry set and ingested his smelling salts could have led to a migraine as severe as this. Having never known the true effects of alcohol or recreational drugs, but nonetheless knowing of their repute, I immediately deduced where to lay blame. My eyes were barely able to open and absorb the minimal amount of daylight the blinds filtered in, and I patted my hand about in an attempt to find my pocket watch, which I always left at my bedside. Bringing it into focus I looked at the time. It was after nine, an ungodly hour to sleep in to if there ever was one. I immediately sat up, but the dull pain in my forehead immediately disagreed. I knew that I would have to consult Mrs. Tellman and see if she had any paracetamol to help aid my relief, yet would have to make false disclosure as to the cause of my condition. As I turned and placed my feet upon the floor, however, I made a startling realization.

  I was naked.

  I had never been one to sleep ‘in the raw’, as they say, and found myself searching my memories for any vital clues as to how I found myself in this condition. It was when I turned back to the bed, however, that I noticed the shape of a definitively female form under my sheets. It was Nicolette, and after a quick and exploratory search I deduced that she, too, was naked. Now it would not be to my credit if I said I did not panic at that moment, for I felt as though something truly inappropriate had transpired and an all-consuming sense of guilt overwhelmed me.

  “Wake up,” I urged her quietly, wary of laying a hand on her naked form, despite the sheet that separated her flesh from mine. I quickly stood, dressed myself as hurriedly as possible, then utilized a coat hanger as a poking device to try and rouse her. “Please,” I insisted. “Before you mother comes to see why I haven’t come for breakfast!”

  Eventually she was roused, and sat up regardless of the fact that she was stark naked. The poor dear seemed oblivious, and probably had not yet realized. My heart went out to the girl, who’s shame and embarrassment would be overwhelming, all because of my apparent actions and inability to control my nature whilst under the influence of narcotic substances.

  “What time is it?” she asked, running her fingers through her hair.

  “Never mind that,” I insisted, throwing her blouse to her in hopes that it would be a subtle enough nudge. “We have to discuss this matter!”

  “What matter?” she asked, her eyes squinting through their weariness to make sense of the buttons.

  “Well my dear there is very little room for debate regarding what happened between us last night, and I insist that we think upon the severity of the situation!”

  “Severity of what...?” she asked. She shook her head. “Look mate, there’s only one thing that happened last night, and happened it did. Do you think you’re still gay?”

  “I most certainly am not,” I insisted. “I couldn’t be further from it!”

  “Good,” she chirped, her senses returning to their employ. She slipped on her blouse then searched the floor for her skirt. “It was a laugh though, wasn’t it?”

  “A laugh? This is hardly the time! Have you no perception of what has occurred? My dear girl, I have just sullied your honour! I have tarnished your reputation!”

  “You are joking,” she scoffed.

  She obviously did not remember, which was perhaps for the best. I placed my hand upon her shoulder, hoping to relay my true sincerity. “Nicolette, be not afraid. Though this was hardly in our plans, I am nonetheless a man of my word and a man of honour.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I will make an honest woman of you. This I promise.”

  “Okay, you’re really starting to freak me out.”

  I then did what any good man would do. I went down on one knee.

  “Nicolette Tellman, will you marry me?”

  “Get the hell away from me, you creep!”

  She shoved me, pushing clear onto my back. I caught a fleeting image of her stepping over me and rushing for the door, shouting obscenities as she left. My heart went out to her. She was obviously deeply disappointed with her actions and feeling very embarrassed by what had transpired. Nevertheless, as I vowed to her, I am a man of my word and I had every intent on making her an honest woman once more. From that moment, deny it as she may, as far as I was concerned she was my fiancée.

  To take my mind from this startling turn of events I decided to return my focus to the purpose of my stay in Greyfield. Collecting my father’s camera, I finished getting washed and dressed and went downstairs to the dining room. Nicolette looked as though she had been severely reprimanded for her tardiness and was rushing to have my breakfast prepared for me. To ease the tension I advised that this was not necessary, but Mrs. Tellman was insistent.

  “My Nicolette must know her lot,” she had insisted.

  I resolved then, with those words said, that there would be no more opportune time to deliver the news to her mother. “Mrs. Tellman,” I said, standing and putting my arm around Nicolette. “We have an announcement to make, and in your late-husband's absence I believe I have permission to ask of you.”

  “No we flamin’ well do not,” my fiancée insisted, pushing me away. She was obviously still quite embarrassed, so I decided to give her more time. I indulged Mrs. Tellman with my appreciation to distract her from my supposed proclamation, which she received with a humble grace.

  Upon finishing my breakfast I indulged all three of my hosts in the layout of my plans for that day, to which Justin paid a remarkable amount of attention, going so far as to ask me about vested interests in my craft and the amount of physical exertion it required of me. When I told him that I was going to enter the ruins that day he seemed generally concerned for my well-being, cupping his hand over my own and wishing me well. Mrs. Tellman told me that she had ensured an extra ration of bacon in my breakfast to help give me the strength I needed. While Nicolette did not say anything I knew it was her shame that stopped her from speaking her concern for me.

  Coincidentally enough, moments before leaving, Mrs. Tellman received a visitor in the form of a man in a black suit and white collar. He was introduced as the local vicar, a stalky man in his sixties who looked as though he spent a good part of his life locked in physical labour rather than administering salvation. Mrs. Tellman welcomed his visit with all the humility one would the pope, and was quick to cater to his every need. Though he seemed embarrassed by her servitude, he nonetheless took advantage of it. He was introduced as Theopolis Grisham, and he greeted me with a warm smile and a firm handshake.

  “Mr. Fugit, I believe?”

  “I am.”

  “I must say it is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance. I have heard about your exploits, past and present, through the excited praise of the townspeople.”

  “Exaggerated, I am sure,” I replied, practising my best humility.

  “Well, even legends are steeped in the truth, are they not? Nonetheless, I understand you have shown the resolve to enter the Mews today, is this not so?” I nodded. “Well then, I have come to see if you wish to pray to God Almighty for continued strength and courage, for I am sure that once...”

  I held up a hand to stop him. “Mr. Grisham, with all do respect, I feel that it is not necessary. Though I admire you and all men of your position, I must nonetheless concede that I am not a man of God, but a man of science.”

  “An atheist?” he asked, his voice showing concern.

  I shook my head. “I do not discount the belief in God, I simply to no rely on it. God is the variable in the algebraic equation that is life, and rather than revere it I feel we should strive to find it’s true value. Nonetheless I accept your good wishes and esteem.”

  The vicar took a moment to allow his ‘live and let live’ resolve settle in. “Well then I must acknowledge your kind regard as well. Nonetheless, if you feel you are in danger and have no o
ther alternative, might I give you this as a last resort?” He handed me a small vial. “Holy water, my son. It is a bit cliché, but then again so are the Devil’s tired attempts to ensnare us.”

  Though I doubted its usefulness I did not wish to offend a man that I might later have to rely upon for information. I accepted the bottle graciously and placed it in the front pocket of my vest. At the very least it I figured might later be utilized as an excellent placebo, if I were to resort to such measures. “Most kind, Mr. Grisham. Most kind.”

  I left as Mr. Grisham conceded, with very little resistance, to allowing Mrs. Tellman to prepare him breakfast, the crux of her campaign being that he must have been tired in the days following a Sunday in which so many sought comfort.

  I ambled back down the lane towards Greyfield Park and the subsequent ruins that accompanied it. I found little foot traffic on this day, as though everyone knew of my scheme and wanted no part of it. I encountered Jack on my travels, but he insisted that his mother would not allow him to the park, nor allow him to associate with me. He was rather taken by Aristotle once again and, hoping to appease the boy who would make a fine apprentice, I requested that he take Aristotle with him and keep him safe. I didn’t trust my closest companion with just anyone, but I reckoned myself a good judge of character.

  Unencumbered by weighty instruments or company in tow, I reached Greyfield Park and, finding a fallen branch that could be utilized as a good walking stick, I made my way over to the anchor of my weather balloon. I reeled it in and examined the readings, which seemed unremarkable. The current weather seemed to match what the barometer surmised. Untying the rope, I began to walk the balloon to the other side of the stream, more towards the ruins themselves. I took great care when crossing finding my footing on protruding stones and doing my best to avoid getting the cuffs of my trousers wet whilst keeping a hold of the balloon’s line. I found another anchor amongst the overgrown rubble of the garden to fasten the line to, then let the balloon go aloft and hover over the mews. With that taken care of I ambled over the rubble towards the west wing. I opened the camera bag that hung over my shoulder and wound the film on, preparing to take photographic evidence of any anomaly I might find. I took a few snaps of the grounds. While I discounted the presence of spirits I was nonetheless aware of the concept of spirit photography and, I must concede, I would not be a man of science if I did not rule out every possibility. Besides, since I found few recorded images in my research I would have no choice but to fashion my own reference library.

  There was a small clamour.

  I immediately turned towards the decrepit pavilion, where it sounded as though something had been dropped upon its weathered marble surface. I immediately snapped a series of pictures, but then laughed in spite of my racing pulse, for it was likely only debris that collapsed due to its deterioration, or at best the actions of an animal. Convinced by my own self-mockery that all was well, and perhaps comforted by the childhood belief that all spirits are safely tucked away in the daylight, I approached the remains of the west wing. I examined the abandoned lathe, which showed traces of blood and proved my theory correct - there were no lashes from an angry spirit. But what about the alleged bite? I followed what I believed was Mr. Coaltree’s path, even going so far as to discover his wallet, complete with his identification. He had never mentioned the loss previously, nor was he likely in a rush to return and retrieve it. I pocketed it and, as I stood, looked ahead. There was a blackened stone wall which was collapsed at just over my height so that the windows were not complete. I realized then that this was where Mr. Coaltree must have seen his apparition, as well as roughly being the same area where I saw my 'apparition' the previous day. Slowly I stepped towards the windows, reaching out with my walking stick and beating the grass to startle any wildlife before they had a chance to startle me. I only succeeded in conjuring a dragonfly. Leaning towards the window, I raised the camera to chest level and snapped a picture, illuminating the interior with the flash for only a split-second’s time.

  It was then that I felt a sting in my thigh.

  I immediately turned and felt a continued series of small pelts against the front of my leg, one going so far as to sting my chest. Caught somewhere between panic and an attempt at a quick analysis, I found myself struck many times but there was no sensation that I would consider a bite. Not with a rational mind intact, that is.

  I was being shot with a pellet gun.

  “Stop this at once!” I shouted, shielding my face. Though it was painful it was not debilitating and I was able to walk forward defiantly against my assailant, separating myself from the remains and standing in a clearing where I hoped to ascertain the direction from with the pellets came.

  They stopped.

  “Identify yourself immediately!” I shouted, quite indignant about being shot, not to mention the fact that whoever it was assumed that I would be so naive as to fall for such trickery.

  After a moment’s silence a large stone, thrown from afar, landed at my feet.

  “Oh come on now!” I sighed aloud. “This is just getting ridiculous!”

  Nothing.

  “I can wait all day!”

  There was a moment where I could sense the assailant’s resolve falter, where he was likely reluctant to concede even though he knew his ploy had failed. I looked ahead where the tree-line rustled with the breeze, expecting to see someone step forth, but I was surprised as I heard a voice call to me from my right.

  “You know you really are a nincompoop!”

  While I try to relay every word in its original context from my misadventures, I must admit that the word 'nincompoop' was not actually used, but another descriptive colloquialism that I care not to even replicate on paper.

  I turned and saw a form approach, as feminine yet aggressive as it’s voice was. There stood a young woman with long black hair, a black tank top, and camouflage trousers. She also wore heavy boots and held an air rifle with all the clout of a hardened soldier. Despite her determined stride I could tell that she was young, but it wasn’t until she came closer that I made a startling realization.

  “You!” I gasped.

  It was the girl from Mr. Coaltree’s home. Jack’s sister.

  “I should have known you wouldn’t spook so easily,” she muttered, reloading her rifle with pellets. She pumped it up then held it aimed it at me.

  “I must say,” I stammered, “I am quite surprised.” And indeed I was! Gone were her timid clothing and aloof nature, replaced with someone who was holding me at bay with a rifle. “What on earth are you playing at?”

  “I’m trying to protect this house, that’s what I’m doing!”

  “From what?” I asked, frustrated by her actions. “I am only trying to examine it!”

  “Yeah, and when you tell them that its all okay they’ll bring the contractors back in to tear it down!”

  “Can we please lower the gun?” I asked warily. My legs would be stinging for days and I did not wish for further injuries.

  She seemed to mull it over, but eventually conceded. “If it were anyone else I’d have shot you between the eyes by now.”

  “And for that I am grateful,” I muttered. “What else should I expect from the lovely young girl I met only a day ago?”

  “Christ,” she grumbled, sitting upon a large stone chunk that was once part of a wall. She set the rifle across her legs and leaned against it. “You didn’t actually buy all that ‘Little Miss Priss’ stuff, did you? That’s just to appease my ‘clientele’ for my day job. Gotta earn a few quid somehow in this shite little town, don’t I?”

  I used my make-shift walking stick to push away some leaves and debris from a nearby stone chunk and sat down alongside her. “And do you get paid to scare off contractors?” I asked.

  “Give over,” she scoffed.

  “So why do you go through such bother? Do you think that it should be preserved as a grave site? A landmark
? You could always appeal to historical societies who would...”

  “And have them turn it into a tourist attraction? No way! We can’t have people traipsing in and out of here! That’s one of the things I’m trying to avoid! I have to protect them.”

  “Them? Who is ‘them’?”

  “The spirits who dwell in the Mews. In the basement. I’ve seen them.”

  “You’ve seen them? You’ve been in the basement? I was given the impression that no one has got that far because...” I stopped, answering my own question. It was fear, paranoia, and as of recently, this girl’s trickery that stopped people from getting too far inside.

  “There is...something down there. I’m not sure what. I haven’t got too close. I was too frightened, if you must know. I mean I’m brave but I’m not stupid.”

  “Well I must continue on with my investigation. Now if you don’t mind...”

  “What investigation?” she asked, jumping up to bar my path. “You can’t go in there! Besides, you were asked to investigate the source of Saul’s attack and you have. A rusty lathe and a girl with a gun. What’s left to investigate?”

  “And shall I tell them that you were partially to blame? As you said, if they feel as though the place is safe then they will call the contractors back in. Then what? And what if they decide to lay charges against you?”

  “I don’t know,” she spat, frustrated. “It’s not like I properly planned all this out, is it?”

  I put my hand on her shoulder, hoping to reassure her. “What is your name? Will you tell me this time?”

  She glanced up at me with eyes encircled in red. Despite her attempts at defiance, she was still just a young girl charged with youthful limitations and emotions. “You sure you’re not some kind of perv?”

  “I assure you I most certainly am not. Why I am a man who is engaged to be married!”

  She seemed satisfied with that. “Jill,” she said with a sniff.

  “Jill? And your brother’s name is Jack?”

  “Piss off,” she challenged. “Say it and act like you think I’ve never heard it before.”

  I did not even try.

  “Alright then Jill, lead me down to where you’ve seen these spirits. I shall investigate it and then together we can deduce what it is and what we shall tell the Mayor’s Office.” I extended a hand to her. “Have we a bargain?”

  She shook my hand. “Deal. Just be nice to them, okay?”

  “I promise I shall extend every courtesy.”

  “Just because you don’t believe in them,” she asserted condescendingly, her defiance returning, “doesn’t mean they don’t believe in you.”

  “I did not say that I don’t believe in spirits,” I insisted as she led me around the back of the west wing, on a path I assume she kept secret. “I believe it is possible that these alleged ghosts are temporal imprints left by the living, much like a shoe will leave an imprint in the sand. Much like that footprint, however, those temporal markings are stationary, set in stone such as it were. They could not be of free will, nor can they be dispossessed spirits looking for the light that they must head towards. If that old hag that Saul and I saw are real, then...”

  “So you’ve seen her?” Jill asked, jumping upon my words. “You’ve seen the burning lady?”

  “I have seen the image of a woman, yes. Much like Mr. Coaltree reported her to be. Almost identical in behaviour and...”

  “Just come this way,” she snapped, walking in front of me and removing a large wooden board to reveal a small passageway in the wall.

  Once we passed through the opening we found ourselves in a hallway with only the original support beams for a ceiling. Charred wood and decades of dust lined the walls and floors, and dead wiring hung where complete walls once covered them. I felt like I was surveying first hand the wreck of the Titanic, where one tries to reckon the former glory through the face of the horrible decay. I could actually see, from where we stood, through a number of missing walls the opposite side of the window where I had peered in - the place where the image I had seen must have stood.

  “This way,” she said, leading me further. We reached a door, still predominantly intact, which she opened to reveal a set of stairs. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a small flashlight, but it was not necessary. As we both peered down the stairs we saw an orange glow, something which could not be natural light. In the silence that fell amongst us I could hear what at first sounded like the bustling of a breeze, but soon came to sound like a garbled and mixed array of whispered voices. I gave my mind a moment to process the information it was bombarded with, at which point it began to toss out as many feasible explanations it could.

  An unseen group of contractors conferring under a soft florescent light.

  A small fire lit by vagrants seeking shelter.

  A joke, upon which I was the sole target.

  I stole only a moment to glance over at Jill to assess her reaction. Though she appeared quietly cautious, she did not seem overly surprised.

  “Have you ever gone down there?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I just like to sit here and watch,” she replied quietly. “It’s usually quieter than this, but over the last little while it’s getting brighter, and the voices are more...well...there’s just more of them.” She pointed down the stairs, which ended at a small landing before a wall, whereupon one would have to either go left or right to access the full basement. “I once saw a form drift by,” she said. “It was last week. It vanished halfway across. I am so curious...I want so much to go down there and see them all...but I’m so scared that they won’t welcome me.”

  It certainly sounded as though there were a collection of beings down there, corporeal or not, but conveniently enough they were removed from our line of sight. I did not know what to make of it. The whole room, or at least what we could see of it, was aglow in a haunting orange light, and upon the wall at the foot of the steps I could see something written. It was a series of black text markings which were made more visible when contrasted against the orange light.

  My curiosity compelled me.

  I took the first step.

  Jill’s hand grasped my arm, but just as immediately let it go. “Are you sure?”

  I did not turn, but instead focused on the wall.

  “Something is written there,” I said, entranced by what could be inscribed. I took another two steps, and with each approach I felt as though I were sinking deeper and deeper into a furnace as a warmth embraced me. The flurry of hushed voices seemed to get louder as well - more panicked, more aggressive. I did not believe in spirits, good or evil, and I reminded myself this as I took another step. I stopped right there, however, not out of fear but rather caution. As rational an explanation this phenomena may have had, I still did not know if it were a danger to myself. Instead I withdrew my camera and pointed it at the wall. It was a blur, and I played with the zoom until I drew into focus. There was one word written upon the wall. The letters were backwards, as though a mirror image.

  S U L A D E A D

  I snapped a picture and the flash illuminated the room for a brief moment. Still looking through the lens, something white fluttered past the engraved wall. I pulled my eye away from the camera and glanced down the stairs, but saw nothing. I turned around and looked up to Jill, who’s wide eyes glared down at the bottom of the steps. Clearly she had been afforded a better look at whatever had passed by, and she was, pardon the pun, as white as a ghost.

  “I...I need time to analyze the photograph...” I stammered. “And perhaps,” I continued, taking two steps at a time as I ascended to Jill’s side, “I should come better equipped with my instruments.”

  With the young girl ahead of me leading the charge we fled the Mews with a hurried march, leaving only her flashlight behind.

  CHAPTER SEVEN