The Third Eye of Leah Leeds

by Christopher Carrolli

  Among the many historical artifacts in the house was a large Victorian mirror, a shapely oval glass surrounded by a rich gilded frame. It was a priceless and seemingly immortal antiquity that my mother had paid specific attention to, delicately polishing and refurbishing it from its sentence of decades gathering dust even underneath the thick cover that hid it so well from time. I would later learn that it had been a family heirloom of the Marlowe’s, (Agnes’ husband’s family).

  It was into this mirror that I’d caught my mother gazing for minutes at a time on several occasions. Afterwards, she was quieter, removed, even morose. I’m convinced that she stared at something in that mirror, something unseen to anyone else...something that drew her in and possessed her. She became adamant that I was never to go near that mirror.

  “Stay away from the mirror, Leah,” she said, one day, kneeling in front of me as I played on the floor. “Promise me you will not go near it!”

  I could tell that she was afraid of more than my just my breaking it and being hurt by the glass; there was some other reason, though I never asked. I’ll never know what she saw in the mirror or around the house. On my own, however, I saw many things that are still just as vivid in my mind all of these years later.

  Shadows walked before me, while figures disappeared quickly around corners, causing drafts to stir up by their passing. Once, I was playing in one of the sitting rooms, and in the flash of a second, a figure stood before me. She was a woman dressed in red lace and black fishnet stockings, but the look on her face was troubled, beseeching me, as though she were searching for a way out.

  Quickly, she was gone.

  Many of them appeared to me that way, and many were women, just staring at me, some with blank expressions. Many were still lost with that frozen look of hopeful rescue. As a child I didn’t understand their expressions, but now I understand completely.

  * * * *

  Sidney sat in the university library, rereading Leah’s memoir that he’d helped her compile a few years ago. It had been awhile since he’d read it, but he knew that the remainder of the chapter pertained to Leah’s later discoveries as to who Agnes and the Marlowe family were, including Angus Marlowe, the son who used the house as his haven for rape, imprisonment, and vile, ritualistic murder. Sidney was attending to his current assignment, researching more specific information on the family, especially anything to do with the house.

  The university kept local and family histories, as well as old newspaper editions, archived in its vast database of historical records stored on Microfiche and various other updated forms of software. After putting Leah’s memoir down, Sidney decided to give himself a refresher course on what he’d already gathered a few years ago on the Marlowe family, especially the interviews he’d conducted with those who were alive to witness the events concerning them, even if they were just children at the time.

  He recalled that the Marlowe family immigrated to America from England soon after the Revolutionary War. The original family, headed by patriarch Winston Marlowe, had commissioned the building of Cedar Manor based upon its English predecessor. The house, in fact, was a colonial counterpart of the original back in England. The eighteenth century Marlowe’s had acquired their fortune in business, mainly importing, and exporting, but it wasn’t until the twentieth century that the word ‘tycoon’ was mentioned in connection with the name Marlowe.

  Casper Marlowe was born in 1900, and by 1930, had become a well-established leader in the Pittsburgh Steel Industry, rendering his name synonymous with the likes of Carnegie, Mellon, and Morgan. As a result, the great-great grandson of Winston Marlowe would soon skyrocket the family fortune well into the zone of multiple zeros never seen before. Cedar Manor had been his home from birth, and in 1929, he made it the home of his bride, Agnes Huntington.

  Casper and Agnes had openly sought out the option of adopting, following several failed attempts at conceiving a child of their own. Then, one day in 1930, they discovered that Agnes was expecting their first and only child. Later that year, she gave birth to a boy; they named the child Angus. But, in the first few years following Angus’ birth, rumors began to persist that something was wrong with the boy.

  Certain words were thrown around throughout the course of the ensuing gossip, words like ‘strange’ and ‘spastic.’ The truth of the matter was never completely learned, and in those early years, Casper and Agnes sought out special schools, but ultimately settled upon private tutors that took up residency within the house. The couple had seen to it that the boy was sheltered away from any form of the public life that was attached to Casper.

  The twentieth century Marlowe’s lived quietly throughout the passing years until incidents regarding Angus began to emerge. Now, Sidney flashed through the microfiche, scanning images and ancient headlines. In 1952, Angus had been arrested for disorderly conduct in connection with an incident that had occurred with a young woman. At twenty-two years of age, he began to escape the sheltered confines of Cedar Manor in favor of the local roundabouts not usually frequented by younger members of families within his class.

  Rumors suggested that Angus had gone too far one night with the young woman, that after repeatedly being rejected by her, he became physically aggressive. She reported him to the police, and after they’d searched for him, they found him drunken, disorderly, and ranting and raving about the devil. Some described him as wild eyed on that night, with piercing blue eyes and a raging voice spouting incoherent tales of visions and dark magic. Nothing ever came of the incident with the young woman, and many believed that his father had much to do with that; big money in small towns covered many things.

  Sporadic mentions of minor incidents involving Angus Marlowe recurred throughout the documented histories: being arrested with a Motorcycle gang, fighting, even preaching bizarre and incomprehensible subject matter in public. As to the extent of that subject matter, nothing was reported. A mug shot in 1962 showed a strikingly different appearance of Angus Marlowe than the one in 1952. In it, he sported long, straggly brown hair and a ragged, disheveled look. The piercing blue eyes now glowered with madness and a far more threatening stare. The latter picture shouted a far cry from the former of the young, clean-cut man with short, slicked hair and the same sharp, far away eyes, though not as menacing.

  Still searching the documented histories, Sidney turned his attention toward an entry in a gossip column dated November 30, 1965. It mentioned how the young son of a local steel tycoon was rumored to be part of a strange cult and had been actively participating in and leading occult rituals, indulging in what some described as ‘dark arts.’ The article went on to opine that the young man’s derelict activity had been erased for many years by his billionaire father, who it was no wonder lived a life of seclusion with his wife. The columnist continued her rant alleging that if this young recreant hadn’t been kept in luxury all of his life and had been disinherited, he might have had his act together. Of course, no names were mentioned.

  Casper Marlowe died on December 8, 1965 at the relatively young age of sixty-five, eight days after the article had appeared. His wife Agnes, and his son Angus, were his only heirs. From that time on, no mentions were made of Angus, and all at Cedar Manor seemed quiet and uneventful.

  Then, in early 1967, the town became baffled by a series of disappearances beginning with a young woman named Lily Hanker. It was later learned that she’d been a local prostitute, often seen habitually walking alone through the streets at night. It had been a cold night in February when she never made it home. Then, in late August, a young woman described by her friends as a ‘party girl’ disappeared after deciding to walk home alone from a party.

  Police saw a connection between the two females, especially the angle of night walking. Another woman was reported missing in October, providing the crucial link to establish certainty—she was also a prostitute and a drug addict. Though she was a slightly older woman in her early forties, police were now certain that someone was preying on young, h
elpless women, usually fitting the bill of prostitutes, drug users, or party goers.

  But where were the bodies? Police and the public became baffled by this question. Searches ensued to retrieve what many were convinced would be the discovery of dead bodies somewhere within the vicinity. They’d searched the various woods, the old mining section of town, remote and unfrequented valleys, and even dragged the nearby rivers. The searches revealed nothing; no bodies were found—until December.

  In the cold of Christmas Day, 1967, Green Valley residents were greeted with tragedy when deer hunters discovered the body of a young woman in the woods, a little more than a mile from Cedar Manor. Her body had been carelessly half hidden underneath a tarp, which had been partially uncovered by what were most likely the surrounding animals. She’d been unclothed and without any personal belongings or identification. The coroner ruled that she hadn’t been dead long, approximately twenty-four hours, therefore placing her death sometime on Christmas Eve.

  The mystery deepened when the body was identified. The young woman was not Lily Hanker, nor was she any of the others that had disappeared. Her name was Sheila Barton, a twenty-something who hadn’t been seen since she’d left for a night out, two nights before. Both of Barton’s parents had positively identified the body. Their daughter had not been a prostitute, they claimed, only a misguided young woman that frequently managed to fall into the wrong crowd.

  Sheila Barton had been strangled, but the revealing discovery was the tattoo of a black pentagram on the palm of her right hand. Her parents had insisted that the tattoo had never been there before, or at least, that they’d never seen it. They’d suspected for awhile that their daughter was possibly involved with cult activity, but they’d never discovered any proof of the fact. It was merely by the books that she’d been reading, the new people that had entered her life, and her withdrawn personality that told them something sinister had been going on. Then, she disappeared.

  Police had shown them various photos and mug shots, one of which belonged to Angus Marlowe. Neither parent had recognized him, but police had heard the rumors regarding Angus and his alleged cult activity. Another factor was the location of the body: in the woods not far from Cedar Manor. It seemed too much to be a coincidence.

  After the holidays, authorities arrived at Cedar Manor to question Angus and learn if he’d been, in any way, connected to Sheila Barton. According to him, he’d never seen the girl. Agnes Marlowe claimed that her son had been at home that night, helping renovate the basement, when Barton disappeared.

  Police had tried to obtain a warrant, but were soon trumped by the Marlowe family lawyer, Mr. Harold Bennet. He claimed that police had no probable cause to search the house, and that any possible suspicions were being based upon gossip. Bennet had also asserted that the body being discovered just over a mile from the house was purely circumstantial. Attaching such suspicion to his client was groundless defamation.

  And Bennet had been right. In an age long before DNA evidence, authorities had no connection between the body and Angus Marlowe. Neither could they connect him to missing women who hadn’t been found. And even if they’d had cause to search the house, they may not have found anything. Angus and his accomplice had walled the bodies up behind the limestone structure of the basement.

  Police had made the gruesome discovery many years later in 2008, after reading Leah’s memoir. Sidney still recalled the day they had approached Leah with their theory that her childhood vision of a body in the basement could mean that the bodies were hidden there. Back then, she’d insisted that she would never return to that house, but told them everything additional about the house and the basement that she could remember.

  The discovery had been a long awaited vindication for the original suspicion years before. Sidney skimmed through the headlines and articles released afterward...

  ‘Police Unearth Bodies of Missing Women at Cedar Manor...’

  ‘Home of Local Tycoon: a Haven for Rape, Torture, and Mass Murder...’

  ‘Police Say Son of Local Tycoon Killed Women in Bizarre Cult Rituals...’

  It was the last headline that held Sidney’s immediate interest. The article told how Angus and his accomplice had conducted cult rituals inside the basement of Cedar Manor. The women were unwilling, sacrificial victims in the rituals that were possibly satanic in nature. Yet the remains had been too decomposed to identify any possible tattoos like the one found on the hand of Sheila Barton, years before.

  Among the many artifacts in the house that were never immediately discovered because of Janet Leeds’ suicide, was a large, black tome of a book left behind by, presumably, Angus Marlowe. Police had confiscated the book as well as various other items such as a candelabrum that held black candles, and a strange, black, handheld mirror. The glass had been opaque, completely black, and casting only glimmering shadowed reflections when gazed into. The newspaper reporter had written an interesting description of it.

  Police had theorized that it was an instrument used by those associated with black magic. Oddly enough, the mirror had disappeared from the police evidence room in 2009. Sidney wondered about the mirror, but if only he could get his hands on that book.

  He read further on, reacquainting himself with the details of the history he’d already known. Agnes Marlowe had died in 1969 at the age of sixty-seven, and the story took a strange twist a year later in 1970. Several witnesses claimed to have seen strange pulses of light, almost like flashes of lightning, they described, coming from within Cedar Manor. Two of the witnesses had reported it to police, who then went to Cedar Manor to check out the scene.

  They’d found Cedar Manor undisturbed, but desolate and abandoned. No one had been in the house, and it was soon discovered that Angus Marlowe had disappeared into thin air. Harold Bennet had heard no word from Angus. None of the family resources were being used. Angus had simply vanished, leaving behind no trace or word of his whereabouts. But, the one thing left behind was the black book, the one Sidney had now decided to locate.

  Sidney rose from the chair and stretched his legs. He would start with the police.

  Chapter Eight

  Susan relaxed in her office, continuing her exploration of Leah’s memoir. By a strange irony unknown to her, she and Sidney Pratt had just simultaneously read the same chapter from two different locations. Something kept nagging at her about that last chapter—the way that Leah reacted to her mother at such a young age, and the way her mother didn’t react toward her. Something was off, yet she couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was.

  She was also amazed at Leah’s resilience as a child, how she naturally accepted and adapted to her psychic abilities, understanding them at such a young age. Most children would have been severely traumatized, but Leah Leeds had walked away with mere emotional scars that she would carry through her life like a soldier. She was beginning to understand that Leah Leeds was one of the most powerfully psychic individuals she’d ever encountered. She lounged back in her office chair and continued to read...

  Cedar Manor

  The Leah Leeds Memoir

  (Excerpt)

  It was my fifth Christmas Eve when I thought I would die in that house. I’d been enjoying the sights and sounds of the holiday, like most kids, and marveling at the huge Christmas tree that my mother had placed in the first floor drawing room, as well as the smaller ones in the hallways of the upper floors. The workmen had finished all but the east wing of the third floor, and the decorations on the first floor had been astounding. Beautiful crystal bulbs clung all the way to the top of the tree amid a myriad of multi-colored lights and glimmering icicles. Beneath the tree, a model train roared through a mini play-set village, spreading nostalgia through a land of pure and unencumbered imagination.

  And like most kids, I anxiously awaited the arrival of Santa Claus, though I’d often wondered if Santa even visited little girls who lived in big, dark, scary houses. But on that day, I no longer cared. Something about my physical being had chang
ed that day; I didn’t feel like myself. I felt ill when I woke up, achy, but mostly hot. The heat I felt permeated my body more by the minute, and as the day grew on, I became hotter and hotter. Unlike the last time, during the tour, the sickness didn’t leave.

  “She’s got a temperature,” my mother said, sighing as she slid the thermometer from my mouth. My parents cancelled their plans for that evening, deciding to stay home with me. By nightfall, I was deathly ill, so my mother wrapped me in warm blankets and she and Dad took turns sleeping on the loveseat in my room. The night I should have been waiting for Santa had me waiting for death instead.

  I awoke screaming in the middle of the night. The heat was burning my body, and I fought to see through blurred vision. My sweat and vomit had soaked the sheets that were quickly whisked away. I’d been screaming for my father, and to this day, I can still hear his voice.

  “Leah, sweetie; you’re going to be all right. Santa’s coming to visit you.”

  None of this mattered at that moment. The screams from my voice had sounded unlike me, for the voice wasn’t mine. My parents exchanged quick glances of panic and fear. I recalled the nightmare that woke me. It was of the grand piano, the one on the third floor. I’d been looking up at the balcony, feeling that same sense of vertigo as before, and the piano had dropped from the balcony and was falling and falling. It was about to crash down on me.

  “No, sweetie,” my Dad said, shushing me. “The piano is upstairs, and you’re safe, here.” I looked around, not even recognizing my own room. Then, I swallowed a teaspoon of something from the hand of my mother, and soon, I was back to sleep. I awoke the next day, feeling normal, as though nothing had occurred. I don’t recall ever being that sick in my life since that day. It was as though something had invaded my body and soon left.