The Journal Of Edwin Gray

by Scott A Johnson

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  Naked Snake Press

  www.nakedsnakepress.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Naked Snake Press

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Published by

  Naked Snake Press

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  Pawleys Island, SC 29585

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006 by Scott A. Johnson

  Cover and back cover art © 2006 by Alicia Burgess

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written consent of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Printed in the United States of America

  The circumstances surrounding the death of my Uncle, and of how I came into possession of his curious journal, have forever changed my attitude on things unknown. I, who am not prone to flights of fancy and consider myself a rational, sane man, find myself staring more into conditions that cannot possibly be rationally explained, with the creeping dread that there may be more in our world that neither science nor faith can adequately unmask. And yet now, I must relate the story and weather the notions that I am more moved by the superstitions of the uneducated than the logic that befits my station, for such a tale must be told, lest history repeat itself on some unfortunate.

  I first recall meeting my uncle, the late philanthropist, Edwin Grey, in the waning months of the summer of 1923. I say recall, for, although I've been assured that I'd met him before when I was a boy, I have no memory of the occasion. My only impressions of the man came from newspaper clippings and family gossip, both of which painted distinctly different portraits of the same man. The former gave accounts of his seemingly endless generosity toward his fellow man by endowing poor houses, schools and the like. Great respect was given whenever there was mention made of his name. The latter, however, told tales of his reclusive nature, and of how he'd dismissed all but one of his serving staff, and that he'd not been beyond the walls of Grey House for more than a year. To the other members of the family, save for his only sister, my mother, he was the eccentric rich uncle who gave away the family fortune and shunned the daylight. There were those, cousins from my father's side, who whispered that it was his dabbling in something arcane that had driven him quite mad, and away from the company of man. Those rumors were silenced, however, with a withering glance from my mother.

  It was toward the end of July when I received word that my application to continue my studies at the prestigious Syracuse University had been accepted, and my mother joyfully sent a wire to her brother giving him the happy news. Edwin soon replied with warmest regards, insisting that I lodge at Grey House instead of the men's dormitory on campus. Though we were quite well off, my mother was raised to believe in frugality, and since Grey House was near the university, it was agreed.

  I arrived in mid-August by train and was met by the only manservant Grey House had left, a large African by the name of Molen, who greeted me formally and helped me place my belongings in the automobile, an arduous task for he ended up having to bind my trunk to the back-end. He seemed something of a curiosity, as his manner of speaking denoted one of high education and breeding, a thing rare for a manservant, rarer still for a black one. But his thick-calloused hands told of a man no stranger to physical labor. Once my belongings were settled, and we were on our way, it took more than an hour to reach our destination of Grey House.

  Its name of “Grey” would, if not for the owner's last name, have been a great misnomer, as it was anything but in both appearance and personality. It was surrounded by a great stone fence with pink streaks in the grain of the rocks, broken only by the wrought-iron gates that stood sentinel on the drive. Inside the gates, the house itself resembled more of a castle than a home in modern America, with its great peaked roofs and stretching arches. On first glance, it seemed intimidating by its sheer size alone. The grounds, I noticed, were badly in need of care, and it was no wonder, as Molen could not possibly be expected to maintain the house and the lawn.

  As we pulled into the carport, Molen informed me that my uncle was, most likely, anxiously awaiting my arrival in the lounge, the second door on the right from the house's main entrance, and that he'd bring my things to my room presently. I thanked him as I went inside, eyes agape in wonder at this place that was to be my new home. The interior mirrored the outer grounds in that, though still inhabitable, the hallway seemed neglected and dark, the only light coming from windows across the front of the house. Thick with dust, the hallway was congested with stacks of newspapers, some in languages I did not immediately recognize.

  I nearly missed the second door, as it blended in with the surrounding walls. Only the tarnished doorknob gave a hint that this section of the hallway was meant to be opened. I felt my stomach flutter as I screwed up my courage to knock, having only the most vague of ideas of what to expect from this blessed lunatic. I was pleasantly surprised when it was a kindly voice that answered my report on the door and bade me enter. Edwin Grey fairly leaped from the chair as he saw me, seeming to instantly recognize my face from many years ago. He called me “dear Christopher,” as though I'd grown up under his watchful eye, and shook my hand vigorously. We then sat and chatted about his latest obsession, the Oriental game of Mah-Jongg, my course of study, and anything else that struck his fancy.

  When I retired, later on that night, I imagined that I would sleep well from having been exhausted, not only by my uncle's inquisitiveness, but also from the day's travel. Restful slumber was not to be mine, however. It was not that the bed was uncomfortable, nor that my accommodations were inadequate, but that I was awakened by the most peculiar sound of my uncle shouting in the darkness. So full of venom and hysteria were his shouts that, at first, I scarcely believed Edwin to be the source. I rose from my bed and, finding my robe and slippers, followed the din down the stairs to a door well past the lounge where I could distinctly hear Edwin arguing with someone.

  His voice was shrill with rage and he spat curses and oaths at the unknown other in the room, whom I'd assumed to be Molen, but I could hear no other voice. I tried the door, only to find it locked. As the intensity of his shouts grew, my own fear for his wellbeing increased, and I took it upon myself to rap at the door, and call his name. The shouting ceased, and Edwin threw the door open before me. When I'd met him earlier in the day, he'd been dressed comfortably in a satin jacket and looked the model of his aristocratic station, but now, in the dim candlelight, he appeared gaunt and haggard, his hair standing on end in all directions and his eyes wide with what seemed to be an unabated rage. Upon seeing me, his anger did not diminish, rather it increased at being disturbed. He ordered me back to my room and instructed me to never again approach this door so long as I resided in his house, punctuating his growling by slamming the heavy wooden door in my face.

  I stood there in shock, for how long I cannot say for certain, for when I had spoken to him earlier he did not seem capable of such ire. I spun on my heels, my every intent to return to my room, pack my belongings, and seek lodging elsewhere, when the ebon face of Molen emerged from the darkened hallway into the flickering candlelight. The suddenness of his appearance startled me and sent me reeling backward a few steps until my back was pressed firmly agai
nst the wall. My uncle's protestations began anew from inside, softly at first, then growing in volume and intensity. Molen gestured for me to follow him back toward my room. Once there, and out of earshot of my uncle, he explained to me that Edwin was not a well man, and that it was his delirium that had driven the rest of the staff to seek employment elsewhere. Only Molen had stayed, though he would give no reason as to why.

  He pleaded with me to stay, to not take the old man's threats and oaths to heart, telling me that what he needed now was family and human contact to save his beleaguered soul. When I asked with whom my uncle was arguing, Molen made a dismissive wave of his hand and told me that there was no one there, that he took to that room every night, and some nights the house remained quiet. Most nights, however, the halls echoed with the madness that it seemed only Molen could bear.

  Such dedication I had never seen before, nor have I seen since, as he seemed more of a worried friend than a manservant, and in the end, his persuasive nature convinced me to stay. He assured me that Edwin was harmless, and in the morning I would see again the man I met earlier in the afternoon.

  When he was certain that I would not flee in the night, Molen left me to my own devices to try to sleep through the echoing tirade of my uncle's madness. When morning came, Edwin Grey seemed himself again, with no sign of the menace from the night before. Before he served breakfast, Molen cautioned me to make no reference to the previous night's events, and I complied with his wishes, though questions burned in my brain.

  And so it was to be for the next two months. My uncle, who never left Grey House, seemed the picture of health and sanity during the day, but in the late night, behind the locked heavy door, he digressed into a frothing madman. I came and went as I liked, taking much time away for studies and always returning just before Molen set the sideboard for supper. Occasionally I would venture out again into the night to converse and carouse with my contemporaries, but always I returned to Grey House to find Molen watching guard over my uncle, and always seemingly grateful to see my return.

  It was late into October that I was awakened from my slumber by a different sort of noise, a loud report that echoed through the halls for what seemed like hours. I supposed I had grown accustomed to my uncles rantings, as they no longer kept me from sleep, but this noise pulled me from a dead state and filled me with dread as I sat in bed trying to puzzle out if I'd actually heard it or not. I knew what the sound was, even before I'd decided if it was real. A single gunshot from a pistol that was fired from somewhere within the house.

  By the time I exited my room, Molen was already at the door of my uncle's bedchamber with a somber, almost sorrowful, look upon his face. In his delirium, Edwin Grey had apparently taken his own life. A single bullet to his temple had silenced the strange voices and madness for good.

  His passing was marked by the city of Syracuse with a day of mourning, the likes of which are usually reserved for the deaths of presidents and dignitaries. The mayor made a formal address, clad in black and showing genuine remorse in losing one of the city's greatest benefactors. My time was spent on the unhappy task of writing my mother and telling her of her brother's passing, though I spared her the details out of respect for her delicate nature. I also found myself in the dubious position of executor of his estate, being the only blood-relative within one hundred miles. I learned that my earlier assumption of Edwin's not receiving guests to be somewhat incorrect, for while social calls were most definitely not welcome, he apparently did have several meetings with his attorney while I was away at my studies.

  Edwin had, his lawyer informed me, changed his will upon my arrival, the details of which I found greatly perplexing. His wishes were clear enough, but his reasoning behind them made me, although very grateful, quite leery. Simply put, his will stated that a portion of his estate was to be given to certain charities that he'd endowed over the years. Furthermore, a great sum of money was to be given to Molen, a thing unheard of for the most part. The item that held the most interest, and indeed seemed the strangest to me, was that Edwin Grey had named me the primary beneficiary, and had, in fact, left the bulk of his fortune, his personal items, and Grey House to me. Molen, who was now unsure as to what to do with himself as he no longer had to work, agreed to help me with the difficult task of sorting my late uncle's personal effects.

  My mother arrived, notably without my father, for the funeral and was surprised to see the number of people who attended. Edwin Grey was apparently greatly loved, as hundreds came to pay their respects to this man who's generosity had so touched their lives. Each of them passed me with a heartfelt statement of condolences, which I found queer because I felt I scarcely knew the man. When the last of the well-wishers left, Molen and I set to the task of sorting and cataloguing everything within the walls of Grey House. Molen confided in me that he was clueless as to the volume of possessions in the house, and that he'd never actually counted the rooms, but that he was keen to lend a hand. Though I accepted his offer of aid, there was only one room to which I wished to gain access. Edwin's study, which even now remained locked with no keys to be found.

  In the end we counted twenty-seven rooms, each fully furnished and orderly, though it was clear by the collection of dust that they had not been in use for several years. In all our workings, neither Molen nor I managed to locate the key that would unlock the study, and the mystery of my uncle's demise. It was not until we ventured into his bedchamber that we found the old iron ring on which a single key hung. While logic would have dictated we begin in Edwin's own chambers, neither of us could bring ourselves to open the door. We, neither one, feared spectral apparitions or the like, but the thought of invading Edwin's chambers seemed distasteful to us so soon after his passing. It was nearly a week before we both felt that such an intrusion would not be too soon.

  Upon seeing the key, I took them up and noticed that Molen became immediately anxious, as though he considered knocking it from my hand. We left Edwin's bedchamber and went directly to the study where I, with trembling hands, tried the key in the heavy lock. It took some effort on my part, and the lock groaned in protest, but finally I won out and managed to get it open.

  I feel that I should explain what was occurring in my mind at that time, so there will be no thoughts that I am irrational or easily spooked by empty rooms. Every room in Grey house held an eerie mood, as if waiting for their absent tenants to return. The heavy dust that caked the oak and cherry dressers seemed to be almost protective in the way it blanketed every thing in the chambers. They were, however, only rooms, and Molen and I had no trouble as we made lists of each one's contents. This room, however, the source of so many nights’ screams and noises so terrible I cannot even begin to form the words to describe them, set my nerves jangling with an anticipation that bordered on abject terror.

  I opened the door slowly, half expecting for some specter or phantom to come rushing at me as I crossed the threshold. What I found inside, however, I found more curious than if the room had been filled to the brim with ethereal beings. I had never seen the inside of this room, as my uncle had always blocked it from my vision with his wild gesturing and foaming, but I'd always assumed it to be a study like any other, filled with books and other fineries. How wrong I was, for the room was bare. The walls were obviously made of the same stone as the rest of the house, yet it matched no other room in construction. Each other chamber in Grey House was as a room should be, rectangular in shape with ceilings of a sensible height. This room, however, was built like a turret, round with a high ceiling. The stones, as I've said, appeared to be the same pink rock from which the other walls were made, but with the heavy velveteen curtains drawn across the window, they seemed black, as if the stone used in this room were obsidian. It took our eyes a moment to adjust to the dim candle light, but when they did, we were astounded by the room's lack of furnishings. Set into one wall was a fireplace that had obviously not been used for the entirety of the summer. The only other items in the room were a large o
ak writing desk, a leather chair, and, sitting on the desk, a leather-covered book.

  It was a large volume, of the sort I'd seen in the university's library in the section reserved for in-library only use. Adorning its rich grain was a design, which I believed to be either oriental or Prussian in origin, of such intricate craftsmanship that there was no doubt that one would find none other like it. Holding its many pages inside was a leather flap that closed with a carved ivory peg.

  I gingerly opened the cover to the first page and found it inscribed in my uncle's neat, right-handed script, The Journal of Edwin Grey.

  I'd scarcely read the words aloud when Molen, a panicked look upon his face, snatched it from beneath my gaze and slammed it shut. It was the master's personal tome, he said, and he would see to it that it was properly disposed of.

  His tone set off a warning in my mind that he knew something of this journal, and of my Uncle's death, about which he'd not been forthright. I demanded to know what he was on about, but he shook his head and replied that no good could come of reading a dead man's innermost thoughts. After nearly an hour of arguing, with me demanding the book and he steadfast in his resolve, I finally reminded him that I was now lord of Grey House, and all of Edwin Grey's possessions were now mine. I remember threatening, hollowly, I might add, to call the magistrate if he did not turn the volume over to me immediately, at which he pleaded with me to let him burn the damned thing. I admit it seems an overly-inflated reaction over such a thing as a dead man's journal, but, at the time, my curiosity only redoubled each time he refused to relinquish his hold on it. Had I known then what I knew now, perhaps I would have allowed him to destroy the volume.

  Molen placed the book gingerly on the table with a look of sadness that I couldn't fathom. He seemed regretful that I was determined to read the entries, and told me as much. He went across the room to the fireplace and sat on the hearth with his head in his hands. As I settled into the chair, Molen began to relate to me the curious circumstances in which Edwin Grey had acquired the journal.