A Parish Darker: A Victorian Suspense Novella

by Rhys Ermire

  For just an instant, his incessant breathing turned to a groaning sound that bellowed into a growl by the time it finished. The conversation came to an end when he brought his hand forward, removing something attached to his belt and bringing it forward—its sharp end pointed in my direction.

  The knife being wielded in his hand was one made for hunting, and likely large game at that. The serrated teeth on the blade had seen some sort of action—that much was clear. Rust had settled over the tip, with portions of teeth to the blade missing from lack of care—or perhaps constant use.

  Without averting my eyes, I came across what seemed to be the protractor on the desk. Wrapping my hand around the device, I attempted to control my heart rate and adrenaline as I brought it to my back, out of his line of sight.

  I did not wish for what happened. My only hope in writing this is that I have convinced you of as much.

  The guest stepped forward, his grip so tight and rage so apparent that the sum of his being began to quiver in anticipation—of what, I did not know, but I suspected a fate similar to that of the rodent outstretched on the table behind me.

  “You don’t have to do this.” I said so with a quiet but resolved tone. The man reacted in turn by coming closer forward with no interest in my words.

  I don’t dare describe this incident for my own sake. It is only now that I relive it this many years on that I can hope to leave something behind for the sake of those who may come across this record and act accordingly.

  The knife came closer, the man still not making eye contact. His deadened stare presented itself in such a manner that one would assume he were looking through me where I stood as if I were not present.

  He bore his teeth as if a wild animal. Saliva fell from his agape mouth onto the floor below.

  I was left with no choice. I pulled this small tool that was at my disposal on the man. It was my only means of defense with his larger frame and superior weapon obstructing any path to a more suitable option.

  The site of the sizable but ineffective blade made no impression on the man so determined in his march toward my position.

  My hands began to quiver for reasons entirely opposite those of my adversary. Where he had rage, I had fear. Where he had determination, I had only more fears.

  He held the blade outward more, as if a viper priming a strike. If indeed a serpent, venom would have surely been seeping from his tusk-like teeth in that moment.

  Many thoughts passed through my mind in those few brief moments—a lifetime worth in just the span of minutes. I thought of my future that would no longer play out and of my dear Emilia who would go on without me. My relatives and friends would never hear from me again.

  His arm was pulled back in one fluid motion by his head. I was certain it would be only one instant before he brought the knife to my flesh in one fell swoop and likely ended me.

  As the blade was on its return trajectory, it changed paths without notice. Just as his arm came down, it was warped in the most grotesque fashion imaginable following a gnashing of the air around him.

  What had once been the man’s thick shoulder had changed form. The knife fell from his limp hand, falling onto the stone surface below.

  The man’s face changed, twisting into something unlike anything I had ever seen to that time. He looked to his right arm, mounting terror apparent in his expression. His body jostled in confusion as if to ask why his functions had been reduced so instantly to something less than himself.

  As his body began to visibly weaken, he was pulled to one side as a foreign object was removed forcibly from his body. Horrifying screams of utter horror escaped his once quiet lungs as he attempted to reach over with his remaining appendage.

  It was not a moment later that he fell to his knees, blood pooling beneath him, as he continued to scream in absolution.

  All became apparent as I saw the two-handed axe, blood dripping from its blade as it was crudely removed from the man’s shoulder. What had once been the connecting juncture in his upper right arm had been reduced to dangling meat. No utility remained—the arm was left hanging by the threading of a nearly severed bone and little else.

  The remaining fragments of bone, all now pointing in unnatural positions, were visible even from my position. Likewise in my line of sight was the one wielding the large axe once again. This time, he did so with confidence and no hesitance in his demeanor.

  The intruder on the ground grasped desperately at his nearly severed arm, pulling at its flesh in the sudden confusion as he attempted to put it back together. He shrilled in agony upon realizing the futility of such an endeavor, instead opting for further self-preservation.

  His remaining good hand rummaged in the considerable amount of blood that had covered his clothing and the ground beneath him, pooling over the knife and making it slippery to the touch. In his condition, he was in no state to actually take it up in arms, but he was still not given the chance. When it appeared his hand had managed to scrounge the hilt, that familiar gnashing sound came once again, this time meeting the cold stone surface beneath us. The clanging sound resonated in the chamber, leaving only silence in its immediate wake.

  What remained was an even more ghastly sight than before. This time, there was no clothing with which to conceal the damage done. The man’s hand had become two distinct halves, chopped between the middle and ring fingers.

  His hand swung upward, the smaller half consisting of the two outer fingers flopping against the outside of his wrist, no longer tethered to the rest. The open flesh made contact with his face as he observed the horror firsthand, gargling in his own blood and muttering increasingly stifled cries of pain and petulance.

  The damaged man slacked to one side on his knees, his right shoulder no longer operable and his left hand now in separate portions. The bone beneath had been shattered in both instances, leaving skin detaching in all directions.

  The misery of his new existence, it seemed, had dawned on him quickly. He looked at me for the first time, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He had been younger than I expected, an assessment made despite smears of his own blood occupying much of his face.

  To this day, I still do not know what he wanted from me as he looked into my eyes for those brief few seconds. We did not share a language or a single point of relation between us. Yet, I still felt empathy for what life he had left.

  The feeling was short-lived and faded with haste as I watched my host raise his favored axe above his head once more. The stillness in his expression and his composure remained unchanged throughout.

  Baron Lechner von Savanberg brandished his weapon against the impaired man for the third time. He met my eyes as I watched him, unlike my earlier assailant. There was no sense of regret, only purpose, in that look we exchanged.

  The blade came down with resolution. No pretense was made of sparing the man’s life. The axe came down overhead, splitting a portion of his skull in front of me and spilling some portion of his remaining fluids onto my shoes and the floor beneath us both.

  Such a sight is one that carries with it a life sentence. There is no divorcing your mind from such a memory, try as you might. Taking to a drink will serve as a temporary solution that magnifies the regret in your darkest moments. I know better than anyone, all this time later.

  I had watched the Baron save me from a man wielding a knife, one so intent on ending my life that he would have succeeded without my host’s intervention. The subsequent mutilation of the man’s hand prevented him from taking up a knife to finish the task. Yet, it was the Baron’s calm demeanor in resting the axe in his head and ending his life that I found most disturbing of all.

  As grotesque an event as I had just witnessed, it served as only the precipice of my nightmare at the Castle Savanberg.

  CHAPTER VIII

  There are few incidents that could rival those I experienced in the company of Baron Lechner von Savanberg twenty years ago in 1891. After recounting for the first time in full the incident with
the man who was struck down and nearly dismembered by my host, I took some time to collect my nerves over several drinks. I feel compelled to share with you the extent of my journey and can only hope I will be able to complete this record with the time I have left.

  The Baron attempted to remove his trusted axe from the head of the man he had downed with only a tug in the opposite direction. Finding it insufficient, he wasted little time placing his foot to the man’s upright back and using his weight to complete the task.

  With the axe removed, nothing remained to keep the man on his knees, causing the body to topple and his head to settle with a crackle just affront my feet. Whether it was his fractured skull making such a sound or his spine snapping in some place, I was not sure, but I took some comfort in the thought I may never hear such a sound again.

  After some moments staring in horror at the inside of a man’s skull for the first time, I return my glare to the Baron himself. With as focused a disposition as ever, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping down the blade that had been soiled with blood, bone fragments, and likely brain fluid.

  “Edwin, is something wrong?” Mild concern was evident in his voice.

  Whatever utterings were carried with my breathing at the time were not vocalizations but instead evidence of shock. My hands trembled, and the Baron noticed. My fingers tingled with a sensation entirely foreign to me, and somehow, I felt the Baron noticed that as well.

  “Edwin, Edwin, Edwin!” he exclaimed happily. “You have nothing to fear. It is over now. You are safe, as am I. This can be a dangerous world, but only if you are unprepared.”

  The scene had turned into a macabre one. Blood had found its way onto my clothes and his, as well as onto the cages of the mice behind me. As I was surveying the damage, my open mouth no doubt signaling my ill-suited temperament, Baron von Savanberg tossed his bloodied handkerchief in my direction.

  “My friend, you have some of it on you,” said he, Germanic accent intact, with the practicality and mannerisms of a host just as he had upon my arrival. “Do hurry though, as I will require your assistance if we are to make the most of this night.”

  His reference to blood as a nondescript entity did not escape my notice. I could only guess as to his psyche, but it did not appear he had any sympathy for the man that now lay dead and ruined on the stone slab beneath our feet.

  He no doubt sensed my apprehension at the thought of even speaking following what had occurred. “We will do things, and we will do them right. You shall see. For now, do make yourself presentable.”

  I had many questions for the Baron following what transpired, but I found myself unable to speak, as if paralyzed. The feeling was akin to that of a dream in which you cannot scream.

  The Baron placed the two-handed axe against the wall by the door in a casual manner before crossing the room, stepping over the dead body with no alarm. In a curious move, he centered his attention on the mice in the cage, first taking nondescript food from a small container and tossing it into their cages.

  A strange rapport was present between him and the rodents. Upon getting near the cage, they reacted much differently than they had with me. Their reaction was in fact that of grateful companions, not of a creature predisposed to fear and abuse.

  As the Baron indulged in his routine as if nothing had occurred, I at last managed to utter something resembling a question. “Did you—know him?”

  “No, no,” said he with a whimsical pattern to his words, “I have never laid eyes on this man before.”

  My host removed one of his rats from their cages, allowing it to scamper along his arm. On instinct, as I looked down upon the carcass near our feet that faced down onto the stone slab, I brought my own arm over the lower portion of my face.

  “We should contact the local constabulary at once,” I said.

  “Edwin,” replied he, “if there is one thing you must do for me, you must not speak of this to any other, and most importantly, not utter one word to the police.”

  A knot entwined my throbbing heart and troubled stomach. “A man is dead here, Baron. You—” I caught myself. “We—were involved. It is our duty to report what has happened. His trespassing and our self-defense are evident! This man may have a family out there; people who will look for him. If we do not report this—”

  My host feigned no interest in my plea, replacing the rat that favored him so dearly back into its cage and saying only, “Should someone come seeking him, it is to our greatest benefit that he never be found.”

  His large hand rested on my shoulder from behind, squeezing my collar with gentle yet convincing grip. “Edwin, there are things that you cannot trust to the hearts of men. They are feeble creatures, you see, ones that do not know the difference between what should be done and what should not.”

  The pool of blood beneath us began pouring outward toward our feet. “What do we—” I stammered, unable to find the phrasing that would articulate the conflict swelling in my mind.

  “ ‘Do’?” the Baron asked, completing my thought. “We are to do nothing. Nothing more than is necessary, of course. This is not a complicated matter. A man intruded upon my home and nearly killed my guest! I say we owe him nothing, not even a burial. The only crime here is that his blood,” he paused, using his boot to move the man’s outstretched arm closer to his body, “has stained the floor of my study. That will not do. It will take considerable work to clean this.”

  Baron von Savanberg began humming an unfamiliar tune as he pranced about the study to make his way to the liquor cabinet. On his way, he stepped over the dead body as if it were a mere lump in the rug. “You look as if you could use a drink,” said he, preparing a concoction and pouring a glass without seeking my approval.

  After filling a glass for himself with a heavier brand, he passed my glass and insisted I drink. “Baron, this is—” The words escaped me with an exasperated message all their own.

  “Tell me something,” said he, downing the considerable contents of his glass in only one swig, “what is it you think is the difference between the right and the wrong? Both just words—words with history and perceived meanings, but words all the same. These words vary in their severity and applicability, no? Can we make such sweeping determinations of one’s actions with the precious little information we have in a given moment? I would say not. What say you?”

  The glass in my hand, while full, felt empty all the same. I had no thirst or appetite of any kind. The Baron guided the glass to my mouth, leaving me little choice but to drink.

  “Baron,” I said with a light air as I finished drinking, “I have to ask you something.”

  With cheer in his demeanor, the Baron replied in turn, saying, “Yes, my friend? What is it?”

  I looked down to the body, resolved to the inevitability of both my question and its answer.

  The Baron smiled.

  My confused state lingered as I was unable to reconcile my previous impression of the Baron with this reality. My host had no qualms of any kind, and the further distanced we were from the event itself, the more at peace he seemed.

  My head began to ache with remorse, confusion, and a litany of related sensations I cannot put to words even now. Something terrible was happening and I was powerless to act without a better understanding of what had brought us to this point.

  Balance became secondary to merely keeping my eyes open. The details now are inexact in my memory, just as they were then, but I recall my weight wobbling beneath me and the Baron placing his hand on my back. He did so with absolute firmness and expectation. I knew in that moment that he had waited by me with that purpose in mind.

  I turned and clutched at his shoulder, placing all my weight upon him.

  “Come now, Edwin,” said he in comfort. “Rest yourself and leave this in my care.”

  CHAPTER IX

  Between these spurts of consciousness, I know not what occurred inside of Castle Savanberg. Something of unimaginable proportions persists
in my imagination to this day, but I dared not speculate on the Baron’s movements then or now. In many ways, the exact means with which he carried out his business was and is best left unknown, only to the mind’s eye and little else.

  The scented fog of the gas lamps left no mystery as to my whereabouts, even before my eyes opened. With a bleary disposition, each of my senses began to return one at a time. The vaulted ceiling, bright lighting, and large gallery window overlooking the garden left no doubt I had awoken in the estate’s vast library.

  My accommodations at the time were modest but comfortable. The couch my back rested against was firm, though the pillow under which my head had settled was remarkably more welcoming. A dull ache began to settle in my head, one that made me feel weary and unstable.

  “You will forgive me,” said a voice behind me as a glass was placed atop the tea table to my side. “You were in such an agitated state that I felt compelled to calm your nerves in whatever manner I could. Surely the rest has done you some good?”