The fire had burned down to its embers and the hour approached midnight when Mrs Sternblight at last received her invitation to speak from the chairman of the Pickman Club. There was a slight murmuring ,and at least one audible harrumph at her appearance, for not all members of the club were so enlightened as to be convinced of the considerable merits of the female of the species.
But Mrs Ermentrude “Irma” Sternblight ignored them, strode confidently to the head of the table, fixed the assembly with a stern eye and any dissension was soon quelled by the firmness of her gaze. A hush descended on the assembly, then slowly and deliberately, she took a brandy glass full to the brim and upended it, so that the white expanse of her throat was exposed. The contents were consumed in one long, thirsty pull. She reached into her décolletage and produced and lit a formidable cigar, coaxed it until the tip glowed, puffed away unhurriedly, cleared her throat contentedly and began.
“Gentlemen… I am honoured to have been so recently accepted into your august company, albeit with some reservations, I understand?” She arched a meticulously sculpted eyebrow, but none dared meet her stare, so she continued.
“It is therefore my great privilege to recount for you a most strange and unusual tale which occurred during a recent visit to the esteemed county of Yorkshire. What drew me there was a missive from a Mister Dudley Fitzwyrm, a new arrival to this country from his native homeland of British Columbia, Canada.
He spoke in the most flattering not to say reverential terms, referencing a mutual acquaintance, and being kind enough to acknowledge my trifling assistance in the Matter of the Missing Mi-Go. Mister Fitzwyrm begged my help in a most pressing and confidential concern and requested my attendance at his newly found country seat. It is with his express permission, that I now lay this tale before you, trusting to your good sense and sagacity, both that you may comprehend its lessons and, I must insist on this, that the details of which shall go no further than this very room. Am I to take it that will be the case?” A round of nodded assents assured her that it would be so.
“Very well, gentlemen, thank you. I hold you to your word and your honour. I will not trouble you with the details of my journey, but two day’s excursion and not a little hardship eventually brought me to the hills and dales of God’s own country. I proceeded to the nearby village of Birtleby, and hired a carriage to take me to Fitzwyrm Manor, although as it turned out, no amount of encouragement or financial inducement would persuade the driver to venture beyond the gates of the drive, nor disclose the reason for his apprehensive attitude. Even though he would not speak against the place, his silence was thoroughly instructive, gentlemen, significant even I say, for these country folk’s attitudes often reveal darker and more unwholesome truths about the object of their trepidation.
Fortunately, my extensive travels, both in this country and the wider world, have prepared me well and I am used to travelling light, so I shouldered my single valise and walked up through the heavily wooded driveway.
The day was waning but the light was still good, although curiously few native birds or animals disturbed my sojourn through this gentle midsummer’s eve. The estate was heavily wooded, ancient, dense tree land, which was fairly typical of the region, although this plantation had a strangely oppressive feel to it and carried a faint air of decay and rotting vegetation.
It was a mile or so until I caught my first glimpse of Fitzwyrm Manse itself, a moated Elizabethan manor house of some three storeys, constructed in the local yellowing sandstone. It retained much of its original charm but had been much expanded by subsequent generations, although now it was a little dilapidated and careworn, a green shroud of ivy winding around its ancient turrets and towers.
A strange knocker of unusual pagan design was mounted upon the formidable oaken doors – an unsettling portent – but I grasped it firmly and its knock resounded through the hallway. Footsteps approached and it was not long before a retainer answered my summons.
“Yes, madam?”
“Mrs Sternblight to see Mr Fitzwyrm.”
“Mr Fitzwyrm did not inform me he was expecting guests,” said the butler, a tall, creaking, rather haggard looking fellow, with thinning auburn hair and mutton chop whiskers. Despite his apparently humble manner there was an insolence in his rheumy eyes that I did not take to. He seemed on the point of shutting the door in my face, but I thrust an ankle boot over the threshold.
“Is he obliged to keep his servants abreast of his plans, then?”
“No, madam but…”
“Mrs Sternblight! You came! Oh, I am so glad to see you.” Behind the butler, a younger man materialised and said, “Show Mrs Sternblight in, at once.”
“Of course, sir. This way madam…” the portal was opened, but it seemed to me with great reluctance.
“You will take tea, or coffee perhaps, Mrs Sternblight?” the young man enquired.
“Coffee, and please, call me Irma.”
“Then you shall call me Dudley. Have some coffee brought to the sitting room, please.”
“Yes, sir,” said the butler solemnly and withdrew, apparently much inconvenienced.
“This way, Mrs…”
“Irma.”
“This way, Irma.”
We proceeded through the entrance hall, a shadowy expanse rich with red-oak panelling and laden with the dust of centuries. A grand staircase swept up to the apartments above and the walls were hung with a surfeit of pictures, presumably the preceding generations of Fitzwyrms. One in particular caught my eye, a portrait hung on the first floor landing which dominated the hall. It was of a dark haired woman with a prominent nose, clad in an Elizabethan dress and ruff, her face severe but sensual, her hand displaying a ring with a most particular smoky jewel. The eyes were dark, like jet, hard and unyielding, her thin lips suggestive of sensuality, but most of all, she projected a sense of proprietorship as if she were mistress of all she surveyed.
Coffee was brought by an anonymous maidservant and followed in quick measure by a passable supper. As we consumed it, a pensive Dudley Fitzwyrm laid out the reasons he wished to engage me. I will not recount the entire conversation, but summarise its most salient points for you, gentlemen. Dudley Fitzwyrm was the scion of a distant Canadian branch of the family and was due to inherit the entire estate following the death of its previous owner, a Mrs Patience Fitzwyrm. He had received a telegram some two months ago, urging him to journey here with all haste, but had arrived shortly after his aged relative’s demise. Subsequently, he discovered the terms of her will were most unusual, not to say downright peculiar.
“For you see, the Fitzwyrms are an old family, Irma. We were once great explorers and are scattered widely across the globe. There are branches in many of the distant colonies, several in Australia, more in South Africa, and a positive gaggle in India.
“Why my aged relative chose me to be her successor, I do not know. My parents died when I was young and I have made my way in the world creditably enough, earning a modest living as a ranch hand. The prospect of inheriting an entire English estate and its associated income was simply too enticing a prospect to resist. A real stroke of luck, or so I
thought.”
As he spoke, I sipped on a palatable glass of Bordeaux and examined my prospective client’s physiognomy and demeanour. He was a tall, dark haired fellow in his middle to late twenties and a strapping young specimen too, in the prime of his life, with an impressive physique honed by the arduous outdoor life. Yet, despite his apparent vigour and all the advantages of youth, here was a man labouring under a great burden, and a recently acquired one too.
His body was hunched and his manner withdrawn, his face pale, his brow sunken, and the virile moustache which adorned his upper lip wilted and drooped. Most troubling of all were those dark soulful eyes which were framed by grey hollows and rimed with misery. A troubled young man, when in his situation, troubles should there be none.
“It is a strange legacy,” he said, returning to his subject. “I am to be sole heir with a not inconsiderable income of some three hundred pounds per annum, but all is dependent upon my solving a most perplexing mystery. In order to inherit, I must recover the Fitzwyrm signet ring before the next full moon, or all shall be lost and the estate pass to another. It is a silver band, set with an unusual jewel and has been passed down generations of Fitzwyrms, apparently.”
“I see and this is why you require my assistance? You are aware I am a renowned occult investigator, Mr Fitzwyrm, not a player of find and seek?” I said, trying to remain kindly.
“Nor would I presume to trouble you with such a trifle, unless there were weirder and more outré developments surrounding this matter. For you see, ever since I arrived here, I have felt troubled, haunted you might say, my mind given no rest or recourse, my spirit weighed down, subdued by an unnamed dread. Someone, something, an unseen force of utmost malevolence wishes me ill and works actively against me. I feel it has designs upon my peace of mind, indeed, upon my very life itself!”
“What would cause you to believe such a thing?”
“My days are dreary and restless, full of omens, portents, and unusual phenomena which no material science could explain. Objects fall, seemingly of their own accord, I hear voices which call to me and when I follow them, I find but empty rooms. I seem to drift between this world and others, experiencing strange and terrible visions during my waking hours. I scarcely sleep and when I do, my rest is haunted by unsettling visitations. I feel as if I am constantly watched, as if some dread intelligence directs its malevolent attentions at me.”
“And what of your search for the heirloom?”
“Fruitless, hopeless, pointless. I hardly know where to begin. The only note I received was cryptic, ‘Your destiny watches over you, embrace it.’ I have pondered its meaning, tried searching its truth, indeed I have scoured this mansion from top to bottom but without result. And…”
“And?”
“The month is nearly up. Tomorrow night the moon waxes full again and the chance to claim my inheritance will disappear… and with it perhaps my life itself.”
“Perhaps the two phenomena are linked? Have you thought to seek aid or information? ”
“The servants are no help, indeed are more of a hindrance, full of evasions, half truths, incomprehensible mutterings, if not outright gibberish.”
“And your neighbours?”
“No-one in the locale will come near this place for fear of incurring the wrath of what they call, ‘dark powers’. One confided to me it has been a hotbed of paganism, witchcraft and sorcery for centuries, and that none would dare set foot in the place. Then she simply slammed the door in my face. From what little I can discover, these legends began with Avice Fitzwyrm, an Elizabethan sorceress. She was said to consort with demons and otherworldly powers, and was condemned by John Dee himself, She was apparently condemned to be burned at the stake for witchcraft.”
“Indeed? I believe I have made her acquaintance already.”
“What?!” he said, confounded.
“The portrait in the hall,” I replied, trying to calm his obviously frayed nerves. “She wears this smoky signet ring you seek?”
“Ah, yes a most vivid and unsettling work. I was minded to have it taken down, but the servants baulked at the prospect and would not hear of it. The butler had the boldness to remind me I am not the master of this house yet: his unspoken thought, that I never would be.”
“Most enlightening.”
“So, will you help me, Mrs Sternblight… Irma?” I am at my wits end and fear for my lucidity, indeed my very soul itself.”
“Would you consider leaving? Renouncing this legacy and going back to the life you led before?”
“I would in an instant, if I thought it might do any good. But I cannot bring myself to leave this place, some strange force compels me to stay and see this thing through to the end, for good or ill.”
“Very well, then, Mr Fitzwyrm, I am resolved. I will do my utmost to help you in this matter, although be warned, I fear the consequences may be very grave indeed.”
“I don’t know what to say, nor how to express my gratitude, Irma! From the very bottom of my heart, thank you!” He grasped my hand earnestly, and at that moment a little hope began to bleed into those sable eyes.
“Perhaps it’s best you do not thank me yet,” I said.
“Believe me, this is the best news I have received since I came to this hellish place. I had begun to think death would be my only release.”
“Hmm, well let us hope that will not be the case.”
The next morning I awoke early, rested and refreshed after my arduous journey, and lay in bed awhile, contemplating the strange matter in which I had become involved. Although my sleep had been untroubled, it had not been undisturbed. The enchantments, charms and amulets which I routinely employ to protect me from malign influences had been at work and while their mystical defences had not been breached, their boundaries had been sorely tested. It confirmed my suspicions. Dudley Fitzwyrm had not been imagining things, some malicious power was at work here.
It was mid-afternoon before I was reunited with the troubled heir, for he had endured another distressing night and looked gaunt and hollow-eyed upon our meeting, and in some degree of distraction. In the meantime, I had used the opportunity to explore the house and grounds a little further. It was easy to discern why the place had such a disagreeable reputation, for the rolling hills and dales were choked by woodland and it felt secluded, cut off from the real world, harbouring some long concealed malice which festered here. Ravens and other carrion feeders flocked in the trees and their harsh calls pierced the otherwise eerie silence. Strange fungal growths clung to the trunks of fallen trees and rot and decay seemed all pervasive. Most pertinently of all, unseen eyes seemed to dog my progress and I felt my presence not only noted but actively contested.
“Well, Irma, have you had a chance to ponder a course of action?” enquired Fitzwyrm.
“I have and I think we should begin at the source.”
“The source?”
“Your relative, Patience Fitzwyrm. She has not been buried yet?”
“No, she is laid out in the family mausoleum, and will not be interred until the next successor is chosen. Another quaint old family tradition apparently.”
“Very well, then. Where is this crypt?”
“A little way to the east, I believe.”
“You have not visited her yet?”
“No, I did not think to.”
“Then let us proceed.”
An hour’s perambulation brought us to the edge of the estate and a large semi-circular outcropping of ancient limestone, which must have been formed millions of years ago. Placed in front of these crags was a graveyard where presumably the estate’s retainers had been laid to rest down the long centuries. I do not grace it with the term cemetery, for this was no Christian burial site, but a wild and pagan expanse, where cairns and mounds predominated rather than the headstones and crosses one might expect.
It was a bleak and forlorn place too, half reclaimed by nature and overgrown with rampant moss and ivy, with foetid stems and curling roots which rose from the earth to grasp it with their tumorous tendrils. At its centre, a mausoleum had been raised, a circular edifice made of yellowing lichen-encrusted sandstone with a domed roof and a pair of barred windows set below. Coupled with the maw-like entrance, it gave the impression of a great face, screaming in torment or perhaps ecstasy.
“A most forbidding place,” Fitzwyrm said, quailing visibly.
“Indeed, but let us cleave to boldness. We will not solve the problem by inaction, and time is of the essence,” I averred.
Inside, an almost stygian gloom enveloped the tomb’s shadowy circumference and a series of horizontal niches were carved into its walls, although oddly, they were tenantless. Most curious. A dim, greenish shaft of light plunged down from the dome shining on a central stone plinth upon which a woman’s body had been laid out. Patience Fitzwyrm wore a plain old-fashioned dress and her arms lay by her sides, her fists clutching sprigs of mistletoe. Her visage was spotted with age, and the prominent Fitzwyrm nose concealed under a light veil, but unusually her hair remained dark and lustrous under its evergreen crowning wreath.
“So that is my forebear?” said Fitzwyrm.
“I presume so. There is a marked resemblance.”
“So she is the source of all my anguish?”
“Perhaps.”
“Well, without her death, I would not have been summoned, not have embarked upon this strange quest, would not be haunted by this unwelcome legacy!”
“Curious, here she lies, but the gate is left wide open with no protection against foxes or other predators…”
“Hah! None would dare disturb the rest of… that particular body!” a voice cackled and Fitzwyrm vaulted a foot backward, which drew more wheezing laughter.
The owner was a curious looking fellow of middling build, nonchalantly hefting a large scythe. He wore long boots with gaiters, heavy trousers, a waistcoat with a watch chain and his shirt sleeves were rolled back to reveal brawny arms. Mischievous eyes peered from beneath the cloth cap which covered his forehead, and his face was adorned with a large handlebar moustache beneath its bulbous nose. His manner was fey, almost mocking, and an archness played around his features, colouring his high, rather flute like voice.
“And who pray, are you?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t be praying round here, reckon the old un ‘ud take against it. I’m the groundskeeper, missus.” His eyes twinkled. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Do you have a name?”
“I do.” He winked as if party to some joke of his own, but refused to elaborate further.
“And this was your mistress?”
“Oh, aye … Mrs Fitzwyrm was mistress of us all… and more.”
“Did you know her well?”
“Yes missus, we was very close,” he chuckled. “Like peas in a pod.”
“You don’t seem much affected by her loss.”
“Oh, aye, a sad day, but then it comes to us all, even me, ‘ventually, I suppose. But I’m a believer in the life eternal, the perpetual resurrection an’ all. I know we’ll see t’other again one day. Maybe sooner’n I think.” This thought seemed to amuse him greatly and he could scarce contain his mirth. There was something peculiar about him, something I couldn’t quite lay my finger on, but my instincts were aroused and I was nearly upon the point of making some significant breakthrough when Dudley Fitzwyrm piped up.
“Do you know the whereabouts of her ring? The Fitzwyrm signet which she wore?” he asked, and the groundskeeper frowned, a shadow crossing his face.
“Don’t rightly know. ‘spose it might be in her lair.”
“A most peculiar phrase,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“Argh, don’t mean anything by it. ‘ats just what we call the folly, us serving folk,” he leered.
“This folly? That sounds promising. How would we find it?” said Fitzwyrm.
“Oh, just walk outside and follow your nose, or the path to the west… missus used to retreat there often, when she felt the call.”
“The call?” asked Fitzwyrm.
“Oh, you know, mister. And if you don’t, you soon will. Hah!”
“What do you mean by that?” Fitzwyrm demanded.
“No offence meant, mister. But you’re her blood, her kin, aren’t ‘ee? Her legacy awaits you, whether you will it or no.”
“I…” Fitzwyrm blustered.
“Well, I’d best be off,” said the groundskeeper. “No rest for the wicked, an’ things won’t tend to ‘emselves, now will they, heh? Be seeing you.” And with that, he tipped his hat and stalked away.
“A most singular fellow,” I opined.
“Odd, not to say downright peculiar. What do you think he meant by her legacy? The way he phrased it had most sinister sounding connotations.”
“Possibly, or perhaps he was trying to unnerve you? There was something odd about him though…”
“What is one more peculiarity amongst so many…” said Fitzwyrm and, as he recounted his troubles, my mind began to wander, trying to make connections, striving to identify the eccentric groundsman’s idiosyncrasy that had exercised me so much. Lost in cogitation, a bad habit, sadly, to which I am all too prone, I at first failed to notice a most profound change occurring. Even though it was scarce past mid-afternoon, a darkness had begun to bleed into the day, the light changing, dimming, as if we were undergoing a minor eclipse.
“…and I’m not certain how much more of it I can take…” Now Fitzwyrm noticed it too, and his words trailed into silence.
The light outside the tomb was positively gloomy now, and an awful stillness settled over us. I felt the hairs on the nape of my neck rise as if a thunderstorm approached. A great force had begun to exert itself upon us, a darkling shroud which brought with it a horrible pressure, numbing mind and chilling soul. There was movement from the trees, branches bending and snapping before the passage of some gigantic presence.
“What the devil?!” exclaimed Dudley.
“Something worse, I fear. Stay back and whatever you do,
do not go near the entrance.”
I ran to the portal and, keeping my back to the woods outside, hastily began to inscribe the inner threshold with some chalk. I made a sign, muttered an imprecation and then it was complete. I could only hope it would hold.
Back inside, we pressed ourselves against either side of the entrance portal and awaited the dread thing’s coming. The echo of heavy hoof-beats reverberated inside the dome and the darkness thickened, swallowing up all the light. There was a sticky sound, as of something rubbing and oozing together and a disgusting snuffling, grunting and truffling. A foul odour pervaded our nostrils, a rotting, putrid smell which made the nose sting and the senses reel.
Fitzwyrm was plainly terrified, knuckles clasped white with terror but he could not help himself and started to inch toward the corner.
“I implore you, do not look upon it!” I cried and my fervent entreaty, perhaps just the sound of my voice, broke the compulsion and he pulled himself back. Fitzwyrm closed his eyes and slid down the wall, rendered almost insensible by this terrible manifestation.
Something moist slithered at the entrance and there came an inhuman, high-pitched squealing which was truly awful to hear. A loud, heavy impact made the stone shake and, for one awful instant, I thought it would bring the walls down about our ears. Another shocking blow, and the thing screamed again, like fingernails dragging themselves across your soul. Just as I was certain it must charge inside and devour us both, it halted, then retreated, moving away until its heavy tread was lost amidst the gloaming.
After I had recovered my composure, I went outside to examine the aftermath. The darkness had stolen away with it, dreary afternoon light slowly ebbing back in. Monstrous, elephantine tracks led off toward the undergrowth and the stone was slick with disgusting viscous fluid.
“What was that thing?” Fitzwyrm asked, leaning against the stone as he tried to force air back into his lungs. The strain of the encounter showed: his voice quavered, his face was ashen and he was clearly in severe distress.
“It is perhaps better that you do not know.”
“And those symbols you inscribed?”
“Wards against the foul things of this world and others. And yet it did not attempt to breach them.”
“What was its purpose, then?”
“I do not know, though why it hesitated and then retreated when it had us at its mercy, I…”
“So what must we do now?”
“Perhaps we should seek this ‘lair’ the groundskeeper spoke of?”
“Are you certain? I am not sure my heart would stand the strain of another such meeting.”
“Stalwart hearts and steady heads, Fitzwyrm. Let us journey there and see what we may see. Besides, what other choice is there?”
Despite Fitzwyrm’s misgivings we were not accosted any further on our journey to the folly, however he remained in a state of agitation and continued to glance around, starting at every snap of a twig or uncommon bird call. The blood had drained from his face and there was an unusual cast to his eye.
I feared for his composure and the equanimity of his mind.
Afternoon had given way to evening, the air was alive with a sweet, sickly pollen and the drowsy drone of insects as we journeyed through the woodland. Although there was no sign, it was difficult to escape the feeling that we were observed by unseen eyes.
We followed a winding natural path which led us deeper and deeper into the woodland. Small cairns had been raised at irregular intervals and, as we drew closer to our destination, posies and nosegays of brightly coloured flowers were strewn across the trail. On the trees’ lower boughs pagan symbols had been cut into the wood, and they were hung with strange figurines of intertwined rushes and twigs. Some were stylised depictions of what might have been an earth goddess figure, and there were cruder and more primitive effigies. But no life-affirming fertility symbols these, rather disturbing hints of something more ancient, darker and inhuman.
Glimpsed through the boles of the trees, we caught the first sight of our destination, the folly, which lay in a natural amphitheatre within this ancient demesne. Yet, this was no classical recreation of a Greek temple nor stylised ruined castle as one might anticipate, but a circle of nine standing stones surrounding an enormous central slab.
The outer ring consisted of lichen-shrouded menhirs and in the eerie light underneath the trees they could almost be human forms, maidens caught dancing in wild abandon. The forest floor was carpeted with strange fungi and other cankerous growths, but it was the central fallen stone which most drew the eye. Laid upon its end, this vast lump of rock was shot through with deep runnels, its uneven surface encrusted with dark, mysterious stains of an unknown origin. It was surrounded by more wreaths and wooden figures with an outlying radius of black candles completing the bizarre tableaux.
It was easy to imagine that weird, unwholesome ceremonies, dark sabbats, and unspeakable rites had been enacted here, and maybe not just in ancient times either, for this profane grove showed signs of more recent use. Fitzwyrm seemed much afeard, and even I was unsettled by this ungodly place. It was only using all my powers of persuasion that I could eventually coax him to breach its outer confines.
“This place has an evil air, Irma..”
“You may be right, but I have a feeling we have been directed here for a purpose. Though what that purpose is, I cannot fathom. Sit awhile and rest, while I look closer.”
Unconvinced, Fitzwyrm sat down on a log and began to mop at his brow with a handkerchief. His skin was pale and his eye frantic, his whole posture stooped and withdrawn, like a cur that expects to be whipped.
The pagan ephemera did not intimidate me, so I made straight for the slab where I felt the most significant evidence might be ascertained. The surface was old and weathered, but smooth in places as if worn down by frequent use. There were sets of deep parallel gouges, irregular indentations made in groups of three, where something had cut deep into the stone’s surface. Most sinister of all, almost lost amongst the garlands, I found fragments of hempen rope with dark stains upon them. They had been cut clean through, as if severed by the sharpest of knives. Informative, if not to say a trifle harrowing.
“You would do well not to linger here.” I heard Fitzwyrm’s intake of breath and turned to see who had voiced this sentiment. The newcomer was a sharp faced, middle-aged woman in a black dress with a long white apron and starched collar. Her hair was gathered up beneath a bonnet-like cap and her lips were pursed in an expression of disapproval. Jet-black eyes regarded us scornfully.
“We were directed here by the groundskeeper,” said Fitzwyrm.
“The groundskeeper, hey?” She seemed pleased by this and a flicker of a smile ghosted across that severe mouth.
“And who are you, pray tell?”
“I am the housekeeper.”
“And your name is…?”
“Not important. Know only that I serve… served Patience Fitzwyrm and those who came before her.”
“You have lived here for a while then?”
“Yes, a long time.”
“Then you will know what this place is called?”
“It is called Fitzwyrm’s Folly by the ignorant, but it has other names as well, in languages that are no longer spoken. It is a place of power, a conduit between this world and others. All the Fitzwyrms, from Avice onward, have come here to worship, give praise, make sacrifice.”
“This is no church, no holy place,” said Fitzwyrm. The housekeeper turned a gimlet eye upon him.
“Not all deities are confined within walls of stone, Dudley Fitzwyrm. This is a sacred place… a natural abode, where the true nature of the world is revealed and appreciated… it is said Avice discovered it, though in truth… she merely
awakened it.”
“And what of Avice?” I enquired. “Her name continues to crop up in this chronicle. Why is she so important to the Fitzwyrm story?”
“A singular woman, both wise and powerful. It was she who truly founded this family, this dynasty. Her origins are obscure, lost in the veils of history. Some say she was a mere peasant girl with the gift, but she was a wise woman and a talented one too, and caught the eye of Sir Walter Fitzwyrm, one of the great Elizabeth’s courtiers. They married and when he died, she inherited the title in trust for their only son, Stanley. An astute and canny woman, she sent ships to the colonies which brought back mercantile goods and other riches. She used this wealth to rebuild the house and grounds, expand the estate, lay down the foundations for the entire dynasty.”
“An impressive legacy, yet from what little I could learn from my researches, she came to an unhappy end. Accusations of heresy, witchcraft, sorcery?”
“Lies!” Those sable eyes flashed, then subsided again. “She merely exercised a different kind of power. She was observant, knew how to expose people’s secrets, accessing knowledge that others preferred to remain hidden. When she came to court, the Virgin Queen was entranced by her beauty and her gifts. Elizabeth made Avice one of her favourites and the two grew close, too close perhaps.”
“None of this is in the official histories.”
“No, for the Virgin Queen was a jealous woman, recognising one who could rival, perhaps even surpass her power in the fullness of time. Perhaps… Avice overstepped her bounds, but the Queen had Sir John Dee investigate her and that old mountebank probed lesser folk with confessions and torture, invented lurid revelations, stories and half truths that damned her. By the time he had finished fashioning his calumnies, she was condemned as a witch and sentenced to be burned at the stake.”
“But this did not happen?”
“No, for remember… Avice had the gift and saw what was to transpire, She disappeared before they could arrest her. None ever saw her again.”
“And what happened to the estate?”
“Avice was condemned in absentia and Sir Stanley Fitzwyrm eventually succeeded to the title. He was a sickly child, but inherited his mother’s looks and it was said, some of her power and spiritual strength. Her loss affected him greatly and when his majority came, he refused to attend court, withdrew from public life and confined himself to this estate for the rest of his life. Like his mother, he revered the old ways and sired many heirs to honour them and keep the Fitzwyrm name alive.”
“And so this is my legacy?” said Fitzwyrm.
She looked upon him like a cat that had discovered a particularly flavoursome mouse. “Oh, yes. You will inherit this and much more. The Fitzwyrm legacy is yours if you can claim it.”
“Then where I might find the ring? The Fitzwyrm signet that will ensure my succession?” Fitzwyrm said and again the housekeeper looked pleased, as if harbouring a secret of her own.
“Your destiny awaits you in the manse. As to where you will find the ring? Well, I would begin my search in her private library. For it is there that much may be discovered.”
“Her library? I found no such room when I searched the house.”
“Perhaps you were not meant to find it then. Perhaps you are meant to find it now?”
“But where to begin?”
“I cannot be expected to give up all my… mistress’s secrets. You are a Fitzwyrm, if you are worthy you will discover the way. But you must start with Avice, all things spring from her.”
“Avice?”
“I can say no more. I must leave you now.” Peering intently at Fitzwyrm, the housekeeper gave one last supercilious sneer and then removed herself. As we watched her depart, Fitzwyrm said, “We must return to the house then, it seems.”
“Yes, although I have a feeling that may be a little more difficult than it sounds,” I replied. For as the housekeeper’s form receded into the surrounding forest, an eerie haze had formed and begun to close in upon us. Its tendrils curled and wound their way through the trees, swallowing up the trunks, restricting visible space so that we were soon hemmed in. As it enveloped the stone circle, I advanced and touched it with a finger to try and ascertain its substance. It was icy to the touch, and almost solid in form. When I pushed against it, it resisted, becoming more tangible, barring any hope of escape.
“Trapped!” wailed Fitzwyrm when I relayed the news.
We heard something approaching. Vast wing beats rent the air and in a few breaths they were upon us, three unnatural forms circling in the skies above. Their long, slender bodies were outlined against the pale moon, vaguely humanoid in shape but with curved horns, barbed tails, and clawed feet. There was something diabolical about them but also a fluid, sinuous grace, and when the moonlight struck them it revealed a grey, oily pelt like leathery whale skin. Most disturbing of all there was just a smooth featureless mass where their face should be.
One by one they peeled away and began to dive, making no sound as they swooped at Fitzwyrm. With a piteous cry, he flung himself to the floor only just managing to escape the swish of their razor-sharp talons. Their wingtips missed him by a fraction and he curled into a foetal ball to escape their repulsive attentions. Foam frothed on his lips as he writhed in shock and horror. Seeming to sense his distress, they renewed their attack, revelling in the terror they inflicted upon him.
The repugnant creatures paid me not the slightest attention, which seemed significant, but it allowed me space to form a plan of action. Quickly, I gathered what materials I could, taking twigs and leaves, swiftly twisting and weaving them into a very specific shape. Once the icon had been fashioned, I whispered the protective charm, imbuing the form with the necessary power. For a moment, I thought I must have miscast, but then the talisman began to glow with a golden light.
In the time this had taken, Fitzwyrm’s remaining mental defences had collapsed and he now lay prone on his back, eyes rolling back into his head so that only the whites showed. The creatures had not yet touched him, but seemed to be tormenting him for their sport. Swiftly, I ran over to his recumbent form and stood astride him, raising the talisman toward them. As the first wheeled to renew its attack, I raised the symbol high so that its light suffused the night air.
Its effect was immediate and mid-way through its dive, the first fell creature recoiled as if struck, flinching and then banking away, physically repulsed by the sign’s power.
Another tried but received the same result, and it whirled, physically pained by the talisman’s effects. If it had possessed a mouth I’m certain it would have screamed, but the language of its body was unmistakable, displaying disgust and revulsion. The third, perhaps sensing the futility of renewing its assault, did not even attempt to rejoin the fray but banked and rose to join its unholy companions. Soon all three were flapping away in unwholesome unison, until their forms were lost amidst the evening gloom. As they retreated, the confining mist began to dissolve and I discarded my improvised amulet and attempted to revive Fitzwyrm.
It took all my skill and not a little patience to restore him to his senses and even when he had come to, his mind had received a terrible shock from which it struggled to recover. For a while he was simply a vacant space, then slowly, slowly, he began to mewl and whimper, incoherent, until finally words were formed.
“The faceless things! Aiiee! No! Save me…” He was shaking and panicking and I was forced to administer a stern slap to the face which sobered him quickly enough.
“I apologise for striking you, Fitzwyrm, but you must collect yourself.”
“But… I…”
“Here drink this, it will revive you.” I poured half the contents of my hip flask down his throat and he coughed and spluttered as the fiery liquid met flesh. After a few moments the brandy began to do its work and he became more coherent again.
“What were those things? Why did they attack me?”
“Steel yourself, Fitzwyrm. Those were Nightgaunts and this was no mere accident, but design. Why? Well I suspect what is at stake is not only your sanity, but your very life itself. But there is no evading it now. We must survive, endure, and overcome. The crisis point is yet not reached, but it will be soon and be assured we will weather it together. Come.”
Avice Fitzwyrm did not seem ready to yield up her secrets just yet. If anything, her face seemed entirely set against us, scowling and more severe than ever. Many of her features now appeared to have bored themselves into my brain, the sable eyes, the prominent nose, the utter disdain on that cruel visage. A Tudor rose curled in one hand, exhibiting the smoky, jewelled signet of the Fitzwyrms, but our utter bafflement appeared to amuse her, for her mouth contained just the faintest flicker of a smile.
“How are we supposed to find this secret library from a painting?”
“Give me a moment to think, Fitzwyrm.”
Dudley Fitzwyrm remained in a state of extreme agitation. The recent shocks had not been beneficial to his health, and his skin had an unhealthy pallor, like stretched vellum, his eyes roved wild and his jaw had developed a most pronounced twitch. I knew we must bring this matter to a conclusion, and soon, or his mind would not take it.
“The answer must lie here somewhere,” I said aloud, contemplating the portrait, “if not with Avice herself, then perhaps… wait… look… the mansion behind her!”
“What of it?”
“There are one too many windows. I swear it does not correspond with the doors upstairs.”
“An extra room, then?”
“Precisely, but how to open it?”
I mused for long moments. We were so close, surely the answer must be here somewhere? Avice’s portrait seemed to glower and leer at me now, intimidating and hostile, which meant I must be close…
Then I saw it, and could have given a leap of joy. The rose, the Tudor rose! The hand she held it in had a single finger extended upward. A stylistic flourish? No, a sign! I followed it to its source, an unusual brooch pinned to the brocade of her dress. It was an enamel of a stylised tree with multiple trunks and tendril-like branches and on closer inspection what might have been multiple mouths. Following my instinct, I depressed its surface which gave way reluctantly but I was rewarded with the sound of an audible creak and a door swinging open on the landing above!
Even for one such as I, who was used to the atmosphere of uncanny places, the library was a remarkable and most unsettling place. Indeed, what the housekeeper had termed a library could scarce qualify as such in the conventional sense, for it was more of an organic open space. There were books, yes, and I recognised the spines and covers of many arcane, not to say blasphemous, volumes, but there were many more scrolls, manuscripts and vellum heaped up in overflowing piles. Sloped writing in several different hands rambled across its dusty, crumbling walls and, at its centre, a five-pointed star had been inscribed upon the floor, surrounded by a circle of esoteric symbology.
Nature had run rampant through this place, with fronds of ivy, mistletoe and other less easily identifiable plants of obscure and sinister nature winding and twisting their way throughout. All manner of small creatures scurried through the chaotic undergrowth, skittering into shadowy nooks and corners at our coming. An unusually large dormouse perched upon the vast desk which dominated the far end of the room, its eyes bright, whiskers twitching, with frayed, matted fur and a unicorn-like horn in the middle of its forehead. It got up on its hind legs and contemplated us thoughtfully for a moment, before it too scurried away. Above the desk, a portion of the roof stood open to the skies, for now true night was upon us. Cold stars shone down, though the heavenly vault was populated by strange constellations, unknown suns in strange configurations which made the eyes swim and the mind giddy.
But there, there on the table, lay a great tome, a bound volume in dark leather and upon its surface was a circular band gleaming in the starlight!
“Good Lord, is that it?!” said Fitzwyrm, lurching forward, blundering obliviously through the circle to the other side of the desk. Stepping more cautiously, I followed him. The ring comprised a tarnished silver band supporting that unusual smoky jewel which seemed to burn with a weird internal light. Sparks of gold coalesced into a design resembling a tree with multiple trunks and branches which formed the family crest. Fitzwyrm held it up to the light, and while he regarded it open mounted, I read the gold-lead lettering on the mouldering book’s cover which said, The Servants of Shub-Niggurath.
“Before you…” I began.
“So, you have found it, Dudley Fitzwyrm. My congratulations.” The butler appeared from the shadows, though whether he had been there the whole time or just materialised, it was impossible to say. Dark eyes, laden with meaning, regarded us disdainfully, but Fitzwyrm did not jump nor start this time. Instead he held the band up and stared through the ring’s circumference, entranced by its allure.
“And are you ready to embrace your legacy?” enquired the Butler in a contemptuous tone.
“I am,” said Fitzwyrm, slipping the circlet onto his finger before I could caution him against it. If I was expecting fireworks or some great revelation, there was no such occurrence, although Fitzwyrm seemed different from before, calmer, more rational, the manic look had disappeared from his eye.
“Then, turn the page and become who you were always destined to be!” the butler smirked, in a curiously high pitched voice which did not seem entirely his own. There was a glint, a cast to his eye that was at once both familiar and distinctly unsettling, but it was too late to share the revelation, for Fitzwyrm had grasped the book’s cover and flung it open.
For an instant, nothing happened, but then a sporous cloud engulfed us, sending me reeling, coughing and gagging, as I gasped for air. The noxious emission penetrated my nose, throat, and lungs, irritating them to a marked degree, and I leant heavily against the desk, legs trembling, eyes itching, swooning in extremis. Then I was falling and the last thing I heard was Fitzwyrm’s body hit the ground before mine own.
My mind spun and whirled through the dark of aeons, tumbling and turbulent, as ages passed and the lives of men rose and fell consumed by the vicissitudes of time. Bodiless, weightless, I came to a halt, hazily casting around me in the corona until I eventually recognised the Fitzwyrm manor house. But this was of another time, for armed men in ruffs and long boots strode toward it, intent on apprehending someone, torchlight reflecting on their naked swords. I flew on and over them, out into the woods and beyond, into the night, drawn to another place, a circle of light within the circle of stone. Fires burned and painted bodies and pale flesh writhed in ecstasy and supplication, dancing forms circling in and out of the menhirs around a captive bound on the central pillar. There I lingered or was held, watching as the music, played by an unseen orchestra of flute, pipe and drum grew louder, more intense, a sensual, otherworldly melody whipping the dancers into new heights of frenzy.
Now, other forms materialised, shadowy, corrupt satyrs and worse, half-human, half-beast like things which cavorted and gambolled, mingling flesh in inhuman congress, mating with each other in their orgiastic lust. The music reached a crescendo as their high priestess appeared, wearing a headdress of bone and feather, but otherwise naked as the dawn. It was not hard to recognise Avice Fitzwyrm. She raised a copper knife aloft and suddenly the music was stilled.
“Ai, Shub-Niggurath! Dark Goat of the Woods, I call to thee! Answer me, my mistress!”
A great shadowy phantom which had hovered upon its fringes now bled into the clearing, a diabolic goat with a dozen legs, ebon hooves and tendril-horns which curled into a writhing mass across its back. Three crimson eyes with elongated elliptical pupils burned in its nightmarish face, regarding the sorceress with an unknowable expression. The witch spoke again, her voice high and piercing.
“With this sacrifice, I seal my compact with you, life unending, life eternal, life dedicated to thy service, down the ages for as long as I will be of use, until you claim me again!”
With that Avice Fitzwyrm plunged the knife into the chest of the victim, slashing, ripping at the flesh, lifting his heart up as an offering toward the nightmarish demon. She bit deep into it, blood running down her chin and over her breasts as her body began to shimmer and phase, flowing back and forth, becoming one with the unnatural form of the Black Goat of the Woods.
I swam hazily back up to consciousness, still reeling from this blasphemous revelation, my limbs heavy, body leaden and unresponsive. Dimly, I perceived a low chanting, hushed words and whispered sounds, but my eyelids steadfastly refused to open. Having experimented widely with mystical herbs and vision-granting fungi, I am naturally resilient to the effects of poison and other toxins. Yet, I still felt forced to reach inside my dress for a vial I kept for just such occasions, a concoction prepared by a practitioner from New Orleans skilled in the esoteric arts. Its taste was bitter, vile, but I felt its efficacious effect almost immediately and began to slough off my torpor.
I prised open an eyelash to find I was in the mausoleum again. The hour was close to midnight, and I had been deposited away to one side and left in an unruly heap. At its centre, Dudley Fitzwyrm was laid alongside his deceased relative upon the slab. The three servants, groundskeeper, housekeeper and butler, were arrayed around the pair in a triangle, candlelight illuminating their features, concentrating as they intoned strange words and mystic syllables. An unusual aura, like inky fire, clung to the groundskeeper and as I watched, it passed from him to the housekeeper and then the butler, alighting on each in turn before moving on again. As it did so, their facial features changed, transformed, taking on a similar look, as they were possessed by the ghostly force.
Their tone grew faster, more urgent and slowly, stealthily, I raised myself to the vertical again, hoping to evade detection.
“Do you seek to frustrate my mistress, Irma Sternblight?” said the housekeeper, turning those intense sable eyes upon me.
“Oh, I think we can dispense with this pretence of yours… Avice Fitzwyrm,” I replied, and her eyes flashed and she gave an acerbic laugh. The dark aura leapt again and now it was the groundskeeper who addressed me.
“So, you have seen through my little deception, then?”
“Oh, indeed, for in rendering Dudley Fitzwyrm and I unconscious, you inadvertently revealed more than you intended, your thoughts crossing with mine own. In truth, I had already suspected it with all these convenient little encounters you had arranged for myself and Mr Fitzwyrm. You should have been more careful, Avice, your aura was
showing.”
“Well, aren’t you a regular detective,” said the butler as the focus shifted again and she took control of his haughty features.
“I prefer the term occult investigator, but the methodology is much the same, I’ll grant you. But satisfy my curiosity on one point. ”
“Very well, perhaps you have earned that privilege.”
“You are able to transfer your consciousness between persons, as you transfer it now between your servants. So why Dudley? Why entangle him in your machinations when it seems you have plenty of eager participants to receive your consciousness?”
“Why, the bloodline of course, as I’m sure you know, or must guess. I can exist in other willing vessels temporarily, but for no more than the passage of a single moon. To be reborn, to truly live again, I must reside in one of the blood. It is part of the compact, the agreement I made with her. The woman the world knew as Patience Fitzwyrm, was just the latest in a long, long line, through which I have passed down the centuries. Fitzwyrm succeeding Fitzwyrm, propagating and infecting my own antecedents, one after the other.”
“So why delay? Why bother with the creature which stalked us here? Why the Nightgaunts? Why this strange quest? Do you enjoy tormenting your prey?”
“I admit I do, but that is not the whole reason. The recipient’s mind must be prepared, weakened, pushed to the very brink of insanity. When it hovers there, whilst its defences are at their lowest, it is only then that I may enter unopposed.”
“Which is what you intend to do now?”
“Indeed, but not just yet, for the time is not quite ripe to dissolve the bond which binds mind to body. It soon will be, but that is one eventuality you will not live to witness.” Avice leapt to the groundskeeper, who convulsed rhythmically, then reached down and shouldered his large scythe. He advanced toward me making some experimental swings, the keenness of the blade whistling as it cut through the air.
Now, it is axiomatic that one may employ all manner of protective charms, mystical shields and defensive arts against supernatural foes, and true, that any of those methods might have been effective here. However, I also believe in more practical methods. and so I had come prepared with a little item from a certain Mr Henry Nock, esq. of Nock, Jover & Co. master gunsmiths. You may not be familiar with the pepper-box revolver, or pepperpot as is sometimes known, or indeed you may even hold the antiquated notion that ladies should have little truck with such deadly firearms. But I can assure you it has proved a most efficient and trusty companion on several perilous occasions.
I slid the pistol from my bodice and, taking careful aim, shot the groundskeeper in the chest, much to both his and Avice’s surprise. The scythe clattered as he collapsed, a dark stain spreading across his waistcoat and, as he did so, the aura drained away from him, flowing through the ether and into the housekeeper, who cried out at the unexpected intrusion. Evidently, such an unanticipated entry brought a degree of pain to both the recipient and the spirit, an unlooked for but most welcome development. Features contorting into a horrid new configuration, the housekeeper hurled herself at at me, raising a large and very sharp kitchen knife with murderous
intent.
One of the most practical and useful features of Mr Nock’s finest is its revolving barrel and, with a quick click, another round was chambered. This time the ball drilled clean through her forehead. The housekeeper crumpled, the aura streamed once again, and the butler gave voice to further agonies as he was possessed. Now, it was his haughty features who bore down on me, eschewing all weapons, meaning to throttle the life out of me with his bare hands.
Yet, he too had overplayed his hand, perhaps believing that like a shotgun, two barrels would be the sum of my output. Not so, for the pepperpot is a three-barrelled revolver! And so it was, with a look containing both surprise and disgust, that the butler too perished, shot clean through the eye, if you’ll forgive a slight boast about my feat of marksmanship.
Now, I would like to tell you that was the end of the matter and that with the final servant’s demise, our business was concluded, for with her three servants mortally wounded, the spirit of Avice Fitzwyrm should have had nowhere left to go. Alas, I have to report, this was not the case!
Lacking a suitable vessel, Avice’s restless spirit swooped and circled, first trying to invade my own person, but my wards and charms protected me from her unwanted advances. Howling like a demented banshee, Avice’s spirit bounded around, and finally sought refuge in her former domicile, the shell of Patience Fitzwyrm! The old woman rose unsteadily from her slab, bones creaking, sloughing skin, as she jerked into unnatural life. Nearly a month in the domain of death had given her body the rigidity of rigor, and she jerked and staggered forward in a horrid semblance of life. Yet, in that aged, wrinkled face, the features of Avice Fitzwyrm now twitched and twisted with unbridled fury.
“You will regret your interference, Irma Sternblight!” croaked the old lady’s voice as she lurched forward, limbs warming, anger lending her an inhuman strength. But I am not so easily taken, for during my travels I have mastered the techniques developed by Ng Mui, the Shaolin nun, and was easily able to evade her clumsy attack. Her momentum carried her forward, and I used my leg to trip her so that she sprawled headlong into the ground, wreaking further havoc on that unfortunate body. As she struggled to right herself, I was in motion again, moving quickly and with purpose. By the time she had risen to her feet, I was prepared.
“I will rend you limb from limb and feed your soul to the Mighty Mother with a Thousand Young!” cried the unliving corpse, drawing eldritch power from inside herself, summoning all her hatred and spite, so that her skin rippled with dark energy. Unnatural, tendril-like horns sprang from her forehead, her legs transformed into fell hooves, demonic teeth sprouted over her lips and her eyes boiled with black rage.
I waited calmly, poised, balanced and my tranquillity only seemed to infuriate her further.
“Well? Have you anything to say, before I destroy you?”
“Just this…” I said holding up my pocket watch. “Time is of the essence, Avice Fitzwyrm, and you have run out of it. Midnight is here, and with it your doom.” I displayed my hunter’s face, revealing the minute hand reaching its zenith. In the distance there was a faint refrain as a village bell tolled, chiming the hour.
“Noooooo!!!” screamed the witch as she abandoned Patience’s form and sought to enter the body of Dudley Fitzwyrm. But the sands of time had elapsed, a barrier formed, and now she could not find ingress.
“Are you missing something, perhaps?” I said, holding up the Fitzwyrm ring which I had removed while she floundered. Howling and screeching, the amorphous, shifting aura flowed toward me, but could find no sanctuary there and off it went again, bouncing from the walls like an errant firework wailing in its distress.
As the last chime of the distant clock died away, there came another sound. Foliage parted, branches snapped, thunderous hooves advanced, echoing outside. I dared not look for fear of my sanity, but a darkness, a void, a thing of evil loitered there on the threshold, I could sense it. Avice could too, for her movements grew more frantic, more desperate. Then abruptly she stopped, frozen, hovering over the inaccessible body of Dudley Fitzwyrm as she screamed, “Ai, Shub-Niggurath, ai! No, great mistress! It is not my time! I can still serve… I…”
But her entreaties were in vain, for a great roar reverberated around the space, as an almost indescribable, inhuman sound, somewhere between the bellow of a giant bull and the diabolic tittering of a demon gave answer. The thing that had been Avice Fitzwyrm was drawn inexorably toward it, dragged screaming into the great well of darkness that lurked outside. Despite her attempts its overwhelming pull, patches and fragments of her began to tear away as she was slowly subsumed into the essence of the outer goddess. She gave one last piteous wail and then all that remained of Avice Fitzwyrm was sucked out into the eternal night and consumed in a gnashing, grinding frenzy. The last I saw of her was a glimmer of those sable eyes, not filled with hauteur or malice now, just primal unreasoning fear, a wretched look which will haunt me to the end of my life.”
Having concluded her tale, Irma Sternblight swallowed another large brandy and lit a fresh cigar. A low but growing hubbub of voices greeted her account’s finale, a mix of curiosity, consternation, disbelief, and incredulity, as the shocked members of the club discussed the details and veracity of the tale. Yet this soon gave way to a wave of generosity, admiration, appreciation and a good feeling which overrode any lingering scepticism and doubt, for the mood of the members had swung to approval, and they let it be known most fervently. A few isolated claps rang out, then firmer applause and finally an appreciative wave of acclamation engulfed the room. There were even some whoops and cheers, and rather disrespectfully, a whistle or two from the younger, drunker and more enthusiastic members.
Irma Sternblight acknowledged the acclaim with a wave of her cigar and when it had died down sufficiently, she took little persuasion to conclude her tale.
“Gentlemen, I thank you. I am honoured and not a little humbled that you now endorse me as one of your own. I hope that my accession will pave the way for many more females to join your ranks within this most august of portals (here, a stern eye dared any to defy her wishes). “I wish I could tell you that this tale had a happier ending, but alas it was not to be. Dudley Fitzwyrm was much burdened by his experiences in that bizarre place and had no wish to linger there. He entrusted me to purge the library of its foul secrets and its many manuscripts and tomes now remain under lock and key in a place of safekeeping. I and one or two of my trusted associates will study them more fully and when they are rendered harmless, I mean to donate at least some of the texts to the club library.
“On my advice, Fitzwyrm also commanded that the stone circle be pulled down and the mausoleum demolished, so that their malign influence may never be felt again. Once fully exorcised of any remaining evil influences, the manor house will be sold, but only to a person of impeccable character who will safeguard it against falling into ruin and depravity again. Perhaps some members of this club may care to submit bids next year? A broken but immensely richer man, Dudley Fitzwyrm returned to his native land immeasurably chastened by the experience and vowing never to set foot on British soil again.
“I, however, intend to take what I have learned about Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat of the Woods, sorcerous witches and the artificial transmigration of souls through the generations during this most trying episode and set it all down for perpetuity. I intend to write a pamphlet, if not a short book, so that others may learn and benefit from my experience and recognise the signs of sorcerous possession and cross-generational necromancy. Thus I hope to warn others about the eternal, enduring lessons that made up the totality of the dreadful Fitzwyrm legacy.”