Dear Brutus,
I am now committed to documenting every instance of my odd delusion, and sending it to you should this information be required by the authorities. I of course stumbled again into the trap that had been set for me twice before, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I am now convinced that the serendipitous meeting of one Stanley D. Raymond is not as coincidental as it might appear to the reader. It may even register as sinister, for a foul wind entered with him to the pub on Davies where I was slumped in a booth, countless pints in. He removed his coat and hat. Even the blur of my failing eyesight recognized the wide-brimmed hat he wore. I’d seen it surely, there was no mistaking it. There was some connection between him and the dirt lot, something in the silence that disrupted his temper at my revealing of what I’d seen.
I pointed my finger. “YOOOUUU!”
Stanley smiled a vampiric grin and cocked his head like a dancing sock at an auto dealer. “Yep, it’s me,” he blurted with a goofy smile. “Lookin’ worse for wear, my man! We should get you upright.”
The officer pushed my body into a proper position, but my weak jaw could not respond with any expression but a dreadful frown. Stanley sat beside me and ordered a scotch, neat.
“Glennie Fidd if you have it,” winked the officer.
I stared into his face and tried to decode his purpose in being here. “This your hangout now? Neffer seen you ‘fore the last time.”
The waitress delivered his Glennie Fidd. “Let me catch up to you my man, and I’ll get right into it.” He took it straight back and put two fingers in the air for another. Where was his jolly mood coming from?
“That’ll do. Mr Mayburn,” he put his arm around my shoulders. “You got me thinking. Figure I’m gonna buy the lot. My bid would have been unfathomably shy, but it seems fortune has changed her stripes. They won’t need more than 50 gee. Great news, right?”
I tried to burn his cheek with my eyeballing. “Isn’t worth a dime. Can’t do nothin’ with it.”
“That’s where we differ in thought,” posed the officer. “A West-End plot is the soundest investment you can make. And to think. Such a bargain. You prolly don’t need it, but I’m getting you a Glen, too. You made me a happy man, Mr Mayburn.”
“It’s cursed!” I slurred at him. “Damn thing is a wretched deception! You’ll go as mad as I have!”
He patted my back stiffly. “Oh, I don’t believe in that nonsense. I’ve heard the stories. Town, the South African diamond hound. The real estate moguls. Their odd little parties, their closet skeletons, their fetish for parapsychology. All the oogie-boogie doubtless made the deed good and cheap. Just in people’s minds, what was going on there.”
“What?” was my retort. “What are you on about? Town? Real estate? I really have no idea—“
And I didn’t. But clearly, he did.
“Well, after your strange little ghost story, I did some digging. There’s quite the past there, I’ll tell you. Henry Town, some blood diamond tycoon. He was the owner when the Rand family entered the equation. You see, before he could marry the Rand girl, some terrible accident occurred, and no one in the house made it out alive. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit that superstition was the main factor in the site’s century of neglect. But now, let me tell you, I’m going to make something out of it. And it will make something out of me! A millionaire, at least!”
“It’s dangerous. It’s not superstition. Something’s wrong with that lot. Something causes bizarre hallucinations. You can’t do anything with the damn place!” I slammed my hand down harder than I intended, and for a moment, we had the silent spotlight of the tavern. Then the moment passed.
The officer sighed, grinning. “The gas leak, I know. Hey, for all I know they had the demon core up in there. So there’s a bad line somewhere. I’ll find it. Couldn’t be more than a few gees for the dig. The problem with people? They don’t take risks. You know what they say. If it was easy, we’d all do it.”
“You’re an idiot,” I grumbled, but at this point it was likely my words were barely comprehensible. The waitress brought the whiskey. I clinked my glass with the officer and threw it down my throat unceremoniously.
He did the same. “Well, suppose I’ll survey my acquisition on my way home. You get home safe, eh brother?” The man patted my shoulder, donned his hat and coat, and flew off into the night. But no. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. It was unthinkable. The ghost house. The shadow play. The home of that sweet woman at the foot of the stairs. The Rand he was going on about. And she was to marry the wealthy gentleman. Based on my performance, he could very well do something drastic, something explosive. My speech could be the reason the lot was empty, perhaps I triggered the destruction of the manor. In my drunken state, this all seemed plausible. If it were so, some chemical combination, inspired by my speech, may have ignited the attractive mansion. It could be what’s causing these hallucinations! I couldn’t let Stanley D Raymond become infected, something dire might happen if he reached the lot without this knowledge.
I jumped from the booth and sprawled out the door, tripping over my own feet and scraping my side against the wall of the pub. I stopped traffic as I spilled into the street, washing up on the opposite sidewalk. I could see the flap of his coat, always a thumbnail past the edge of my sight, his wide-brimmed hat dipping in and out of the shadows. I ran thud thud thud, the footfalls thumping in the shallow cavity of my burning chest heaves. He got closer to the lot, and I closer to him, until he reached the gate. He stopped. He was turned away from me, as if waiting for me to catch up. I slowed my landing legs and coughed as I wheezed. He didn’t appear to be out of breath, or even breathing for that matter. He stood, completely still, his back towards me. I approached, gasping and wheezing, barely audible in my entreaty.
“Stanley,” I sputtered. “Don’t go through there… infected… some chemical... it happened to me... such things I’ve seen… I can’t explain.”
He didn’t respond. He just stood, his back to me, unflinching. Unmoving.
“Stanley, did you hear me?” I put my arm on his shoulder. Without moving at all, he somehow went from facing away from me to suddenly facing me, staring me straight in the eyes. Only, they weren’t his eyes. They weren’t eyes at all. They were glowing embers floating in a face that was only shadow, darkness intangible, possibly substance, possibly formless. The mere sight sent me staggering backwards. I fell to the ground. He walked toward me with a determined air. He looked down at me, he became closer, and closer, until it all went black.
I opened my eyes. She was stroking my hair as I lay in a bed furnished with soft, fluffy silken pillowcases and a delicately embroidered spread. The mahogany four-poster bed where I found myself was in season with the furniture I’d noticed the night before in the mansion. This place, and this woman, weren't merely my imagination. The sweet smell of a Victorian fragrance surrounded me. Her cheek was pale and delicate, her lips soft and red. She wore white, informal though it was. I was wearing what I’d lost consciousness in, trousers and a grey V, long coat and argyle socks. My boots sat beside the bed.
“Miss Rand, is it?”
“Yes, Professor. I’m sorry to see you in this state. I hope you feel better.”
Aside from a pain in my temples, I felt much healthier, and was completely without my buzz. It was dark outside the window, in such a way that left the hour indeterminate. It came to me, the memory that Rand would marry Town, and I knew that something terrible would happen here.
I struggled to my feet. “I should go.”
“Must you?” She looked up at me with big eyes.
I thought of the dirt lot, and whatever strange experiment had led to this anomalous time-warp. It seemed impossible, but there must have been some reason I was here, most likely in a time period, or alternate universe, opened up by a man wealthy enough to buy a black hole if he so desired.
I put on my boots and started for the door. I turned around to face Rand. “Where’s Town?”
“With his smoking friends in the parlour. You’re telling me you’d rather see him over me?” Rand pouted.
I coached my face to smile. “In another life, I’d stay forever. For now, your primary suitor could very well be the end of us all.”
I dashed down the spiral stairs and galloped towards the parlour. Town was just lighting a pipe as I barrelled in.
“Professor!” Henry was all smiles. “Brilliant performance the other night, I must commend you. I’ve now obtained all of the writings of this young fellow, Crowley his name is. I’ll bet you’ve encountered his milieu. Am I wrong?”
I’d read some Crowley, though not much, and as a mere fancy. “No, not wrong, Mr Town.”
Henry got up from his circle of visitors. “Well, I think you’ll be excited. I’ve set up a ritual altar table in the basement. We all have robes. I’ve even brought one for you: my inspiration, my mentor, my muse.”
My disposition went from rushed and worried, to absolutely confounded. As Henry brought me downstairs, his arm around my back, his smoking fellows followed.
The situation seemed so utterly ridiculous, I felt like I should be laughing. But I couldn’t. Whatever was in that basement, it was inevitably fated toward our collective demise. All because of me. I pivoted, mid-staircase.
“You know what, Henry? I’d really like to record my observations. Do you mind if I grab my writing materials from home? I’d be less than an hour, and this is fascinating stuff. I think I could even vie for a research fellowship based on what you’ve put together.”
At this, Town winced. “You know, Professor, I really was hoping to finalize our proceedings immediately, for I have obligations in the morning. But if you really must. I would love for this to be recorded. Why don’t we wrap up for the night, and I’ll send someone for you in the morrow.”
I nodded and made my way up the stairs. Like a mesmerized zombie, I walked upstairs mechanically. I walked past Town’s cronies without looking them in their eyes. There was Miss Rand, perched delicately by the staircase bannister. She stared intently as I walked past, her gaze burrowing so far into me I could feel her magnetic influence. Tearing my eyes away felt impossible, if wholly undesirable. That would be the last I would venture near that property, which, dear Brutus, means this is the last I’ll write to you.
I’ve enjoyed our brief relationship of correspondence, but all things must end.
Yours,
Weller Mayburn.
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