Wrath and Ruin

by C W Briar

  Our earlier train ride through western Pennsylvania had crossed dozens of fields with emerald grass and dandelion freckles. By contrast, the brown, stubbly grounds around the mansion made it seem as if winter had only just packed up its snow and departed.

  Furthermore, the house begged for restoration. More shutters were broken or crooked than not, and at least one had been nailed over a window to cover broken glass. Dead ivy hung like nets from pitted bricks. One of the house’s three round towers had shed the shingles from its roof, and the slate tiles lay heaped at the base of the wall.

  The haggard aesthetics were no guarantee the building neared collapse. Indeed, the tour that followed my arrival assured me the aged mansion remained sound, but first impressions forewarned me of the chaos into which we were entering.

  The Ragiston siblings proved humble and amiable in spite of their situation. Claude, rather than his servants, opened the carriage door for Rosette and me. Ida bowed as if we were privileged guests. I wondered if their greeting would have differed if they knew about our train ride; Rosette had busied herself by catching flies and feeding them to the spiders under her seat.

  Claude extended his open hand toward me, but Rosette took it first and vigorously returned the shake. Her forward manners, or lack thereof, elicited wide eyes and a slight blush from the young gentleman. Rosette similarly greeted his sister and three servants, startling all of them and nearly removing the arm of one servant, an old maid, at the shoulder.

  “Oh, my!” Ida Ragiston adjusted her feathered hat after Rosette’s violent handshake dislodged it.

  I laughed in spite of myself and grabbed one of my bags off the carriage. I tossed another to the old butler, who caught it quite capably for a man of his age.

  “Did you have any trouble on your way here?” Claude asked. He pointed at the scratches on Rosette’s leather bodice, which for good reason is better armored than normal women’s fashion.

  “It’s from an old incident,” I said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “I got bit.” Rosette beamed. “Would you care to see?” She began to roll up her sleeve to show off the scar on her left elbow.

  I took her gently by the wrist. “It has been a long journey. Perhaps it is best if they show us to our rooms.”

  2

  I should explain my companion to you, as you have not had the queer pleasure of meeting her. Rosette, or Rose as I call her, is technically a handsome young woman in the same way an angry, twelve-point buck is technically a majestic deer.

  She was fifteen when I discovered her four years ago, fully half my age at the time. While strolling through Scranton, I spied a girl with short black hair and a pauper dress climbing quite nimbly out the fourth-floor window of an orphanage. She scrambled over the exterior walls as ably as I can descend a flight of stairs, and she leapt the gap to the neighboring building without any regard for the thirty-foot drop below.

  Curious, I followed the girl, keeping far behind her and acting as naturally as I could. Within the span of an hour, she swam in the river, galloped on a horse through a market, got thrown into the street by the doctor whose horse she had stolen, danced for pennies, bought three apples, gave one of the fruits to a beggar child, and climbed onto the steel truss of a bridge to eat the second apple.

  The third she threw at me as I passed by. It would have hit my head had I not caught it.

  “I’ll blacken your eye if you keep tailing me,” she warned.

  “When did you notice me?” I asked, then took a bite of the fruit.

  “You were in front of the cigar shop when I climbed out of Saint Mary’s, behind the woman with the brown hat.”

  I marveled at her. She had noticed me from the first. Her attentiveness matched her impressive dexterity. “How did you learn to clamber and leap between buildings with such ease?”

  “I encourage you to try it first, and if you fall, then I’ll teach you.” She froze her lips and gaze into an emotionless expression I have since come to know well. I still struggle to interpret it.

  “Would you like to work for me?”

  “Stay far away from me, you lecher.”

  Her other, half-eaten apple flew at me. I leapt out of its path. “I assure you my offer is honest and innocent.”

  “All right, then.” Rose rolled off the truss and slid confidently down one of the angled spans. Thus ended our bizarre and abrupt interview. She agreed to hire on as my apprentice, and no explanation of my hazardous work dissuaded her.

  The mother superior of the orphanage required far more convincing of my honorable intentions. I was not engaged at the time, nor could I feign the personality of a fatherly figure, thus she considered my request to adopt the girl with due skepticism. In the end, however, she released Rose to my care with multiple prayers of thanks. I gathered the impression the girl’s adventures had been a regular vexation.

  The children of the orphanage did not share the head nun’s enthusiasm. Many cried and held onto Rose with long embraces. The nuns explained she had acted as an older sister to them all.

  After four years, I have still not deciphered the enigma that is Rosette Drumlin. She possesses an unrestrained spirit and impressive strength for her slight build. My betrothed, Emily, has surrendered all hope of training civility into her. She used to fear that Rose would be hurt in my line of work. Now she pleads with Rose not to kick men in their noses or teeth, as blood stains are difficult to wash from boots.

  I long for her to stop instigating fights as well, since I inevitably come to her aid, and I already provoke enough fights of my own.

  But enough of the past. I will get back to describing the task you hired us for.

  3

  The Ragistons and their staff led us to our quarters. Claude and Ida had in their employ an elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Williams, the latter of whom once served as the siblings’ nanny.

  The other member of their staff was Mr. Carlson, a tall black man recently hired to be the groundskeeper and caretaker of the home. I did not envy him. He had a tremendous task before him.

  They offered us first-floor rooms with freshly papered walls, intact windows, and clean, tucked bedding. Mine featured a wide oil painting of a fox chase. The accommodations surpassed those I usually endure while on the hunt, but the low view of the street would not do.

  Mr. Williams knelt shakily before the fireplace and stuffed kindling between the logs. “I will bring your other bags to this room if you desire.”

  “Pardon me if I sound ungrateful, but do you have another room I might stay in? For Rose as well? I would prefer one with a more strategic view of the property.”

  Claude and Mr. Williams passed sideways glances to one another.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Wells,” Claude said. “We have bedrooms on the second and third floors, but they are not yet restored to fitting conditions. I beg you to reconsider this room.”

  I knocked on the mahogany dresser in the corner. “I will not be offended by a dirty room. Many of my hunts require me to sleep outdoors in the snow or rain. I assure you, unless the spiders are large enough to eat me, the quarters cannot be as bad as the worst I have stayed in.”

  The two men looked at one another again, this time with bewilderment.

  As requested, they escorted Rose and me to the corner rooms on the upper floor. Along the way, Claude Ragiston winced at every cobweb, stain, cold draft, and obscene word scrawled on the walls by trespassers during the home’s abandoned years.

  Rose’s room provided a splendid view of the street and the row houses on the other side. Mine overlooked the garden to the rear of the house. I smashed away any cracked window panes that obscured my sight.

  Past the property, fog rose from the river and tangled in the leafless tree branches along the bank. The quarter moon and twilight tinged everything with a shade of purple. I did not expect my first observation of the surroundings to reveal anything, but I spotted a mysterious figure standing on a platform near the water.

  “A w
oman in a bonnet is standing out there in the garden.”

  Claude and Mr. Williams hurried to the window. The old butler grinned.

  “The darkness deceived you, Mr. Wells. That is the statue of Lady Ragiston.”

  “My grandmother,” Claude added.

  “Oh.” I tossed my bag on the mattress, startling a cloud of dust into the air. “This room will suit me fine. Can we all gather to discuss the matter at hand?”

  Most of us walked down the stairs to meet Mr. Carlson in the main hall. My accomplice, however, slid down the curved banister without laughing or screaming, her expression as emotive as a scarecrow. When Rose reached the bottom, she dusted off the front of her leather bodice and sporting skirt. The ensuing whispers between Claude and Ida were likely comprised of questions about our identities and feral upbringings.

  Pillars and the second-floor balconies surrounded the main hall on three sides. The entrance of the home, including the gilded door and stained-glass windows, completed the perimeter. More effort had been made in the restoration of that room than most. The marble-and-parquet floor had been polished, the portraits looked pristine, and the grandfather clock melodiously chimed the hour only thirty-seven seconds late.

  I paced before the glowing stone fireplace as I traded inquiries with the Ragistons and their staff.

  “May I ask how you know Professor Emerick?” Claude asked.

  I explained how I came to know you and the other instructors at Cornell through my research at the university. I kept the details to myself, but I let them know you had employed me before to gather and assess evidence from bizarre cases.

  “My official title, if it can be called ‘official,’ is Investigator of Exonatural Phenomenon.”

  Ida shuddered and shifted in her seat toward the fire. “Exonatural? Is that anything like the supernatural?”

  “Similar, but no. ‘Supernatural’ is a term reserved for ghosts, angels, deities, and other entities that exist, at least in part, outside of our world. In my opinion, such anomalies only reside within the domains of superstition and religion.”

  As usual, Rose raised her hand to protest my assertion. I continued explaining our line of work before she could reopen our years-long debate about supernatural, mystical beings.

  “Exonatural creatures and forces, by contrast, exist only in our realm. I can observe them and dispose of them, should the need arise. They can be explained with biology, zoology, or physics, even if their origins bypass the normal order.”

  Rose huffed. “You exist in our realm, but physics has yet to explain your stubbornness.”

  “Regardless, do not mind the terms. They’re the creation of bored researchers who like to debate and complicate life. For your case, you can simply think of me as a hunter. I find and kill things which should not be living in the first place.”

  Mrs. Williams entered from another room carrying a platter with two glasses of red wine. I gave thanks and, to her surprise, took both.

  Claude reached for the second glass of wine when Mrs. Williams passed. Finding it gone, he feigned a stretch. “Mr. Wells, you said you are from Binghamton, no? Are you by chance related to the railroad magnate?”

  “You are not the first person to ask me that.” I took a sip from one of the glasses. “You do not need to call me Mr. Wells. I’m simply Gideon.”

  “So you are not related to Aaron Wells, then?”

  “Actually, I am.” I winked at my hosts and finished the first glass of dense cabernet.

  The Ragistons straightened their postures. My connection to Aaron Wells no doubt mattered immensely to them, not only because of his wealth but also because their family’s mining business relied upon Wells Rail Industries.

  Ida cleared her throat. “Pray tell, how close is your relation?”

  “He is my father.”

  Mrs. Williams, on her way to the kitchen, spun and considered me anew. Claude began to stand, then sat back down. His gazed bubbled up to the higher floors, toward the run-down halls and rooms he had earlier apologized for.

  Mr. Williams gave the most delightful response. “Your father? Pardon me, but why in heaven’s name do you perform such ghastly work?”

  “Entertaining dull, prosperous guests at dinner parties is ghastly work. Reading contracts is ghastly work. My job offers adventure and discovery.”

  I picked up the iron poker from beside the fireplace and prodded cinders off one of the burning logs. “My elder brothers inherited my father’s mind for business. I was born into the same wealth but with less admiration for it. Money is not altogether terrible, and it’s quite helpful in my endeavors. I just never acquired a taste for the upper-class lifestyle. Adventure and exploration are preferable investments.”

  “And what of your assistant?” Ida discreetly eyed Rose, who climbed onto the wide base of one of the pillars.

  Rose balanced against a coat stand and pointed at the balcony above her. “The builder was left-handed, like me. I can tell by the hammer marks around the nails.”

  “Miss Drumlin is something between an adopted daughter and an apprentice,” I said, rolling the poker between my fingers. “Her talents make her rather eccentric, I’m afraid. But do not be concerned by her. She is quite harmless.”

  Either out of unfortunate timing or playful spite, Rose bumped the coat stand off its legs. It toppled and cracked loudly against the floor. Mrs. Williams hurried to Rose and forcefully helped her off the pedestal, warning her about modesty and safety.

  Claude began to mouth words, then paused. He probably worried that my familial connections added business ramifications to our conversation. The weighty silence reminded me why I am rarely forthright in mentioning my family. I loathe the awkward moments that follow whenever I admit my father is one of the wealthiest men in America.

  I reassured Claude, “Professor Emerick sent me, not my family.”

  “Yes, of course.” He began to bounce his knee. “Our fathers likely knew each other through Andrew Carnegie. My family manages many of his mining operations, and yours of course relies on his steel.”

  “They probably did know each other.” I squinted at him. “You used the past tense. Has your father passed away?”

  Claude swallowed hard, and Ida spoke up. “Our parents perished in the Pittsburgh theater fire six years ago, or else this home would have been their inheritance instead of ours. Unfortunately, our grandfather, Leonard Ragiston, largely abandoned it to vagabonds during recent years. He only used it when he came to inspect the quarry or to visit Charles Voor, and he kept to just a few essential rooms on the first floor.”

  I twirled the poker and slid it back into its holder. “Can you tell me about your grandfather’s death?”

  Claude and Ida lowered their heads. Before they could well up the resolve to answer, Rose balanced on her forearms atop the back of an empty chair. With snarled lips and a slight growl, she said, “I read about it in the papers. The monster tore out his throat.”

  She snapped her teeth together three times in rapid succession, adding further horror to her impropriety.

  Ida got up and moved away from her. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “Consarn it, Rose!” I exclaimed. “Show some sympathy for their loss.”

  Rose stood erect and stared at Ida with her taut, emotionless gaze. “They are innocent of any wrongdoing,” she surmised. “Her distress is real.”

  “I never doubted their innocence. They’re the ones who summoned for help.”

  I moved to a position between Rose and Claude, who was pressing his fist against his lips as he recalled their patriarch’s death.

  “Forgive her, Mr. Ragiston. May we proceed? Please tell me all you know about this ghoul of yours.”

  4

  The Ragistons shared a number of details about the ghoul, and Mr. Carlson recounted stories he had overheard. I will summarize the ones I feel are most significant here. When I have more time, I will provide you with a longer record, Professor.

 
; Local newspapers reported on the attacks in Haughtogis Point, and while they suggested a number of causes, the writers usually blamed rabid dogs or bloodthirsty wolves. That is because they doubted the eyewitness accounts of the locals, who held a unified claim of a demon or ghoul. At least two dozen people swore they saw it. Given my past experience, that means perhaps eight of them genuinely witnessed the creature prowling around town.

  Leonard Ragiston died on the twelfth of January. As Rose so callously reenacted, the beast bit and tore his neck. The cuts on his arms and side indicated he died while fighting off the attack. The first blood fell on the grounds behind Mr. Voor’s nearby mansion, and he ultimately perished a hundred feet away on the path that leads to his own property.

  I asked Mr. Williams and Mr. Carlson, rather than the still-present siblings, if the corpse exhibited signs of having been eaten. The men flashed sour grimaces. They were surprised and appalled by the question, and I was surprised to learn the body had not been chewed. Mr. Carlson suggested that the quick response from servants at the neighboring Voor house scared off the predator. However, savage dogs are not easily chased from their prey, and ghouls have no recollection of fear.

  I suspected, and still do, that Mr. Ragiston was the first of the ghoul’s victims. My hosts shared rumors from older, mysterious crimes that have since been attributed to the creature. I remain skeptical of them because of their much-earlier dates.

  One involved a man whose corpse the townspeople pulled from the river. His cut and bruised limbs resembled Mr. Ragiston’s, but his death sounded like a case of overzealous drinking followed by a nasty tumble down the rocky riverbank.

  The second crime involved a middle-aged woman found with deep cuts and bite marks. Her death piqued my interest, but the creature would have needed to lie dormant for a long time after the slaying. The crime happened five years ago.

  I similarly doubt the ghoul caused the disappearance of two children who worked in the quarry. That incident occurred three years before these recent events, and no one found evidence of violence against them. It is far more likely they ran away, and if an unfortunate tragedy did befall them, I would wager that a mining accident, drowning, or even kidnapping is to blame.