The Duskshire Incident

by Jason Spitz

  I decided to make my own plea to the driver, though I didn't speak his language, and so braced myself against the window frame and started to lean out. As I did, the back wheel on my side gave out entirely, splintering into pieces. The car jerked as it fell on its axle. The door latch gave, and the door flew open ejecting me from the carriage. I was going such a speed, that I rolled along side the road for quite away before finally stopping.

  I lay there for a moment assessing my wounds. I had some small cuts and bruises, but no broken bones. I was lucky, for if I'd fallen out a moment after I did, I would have collided with a massive pine tree that stood only a few feet from me. I stood, leaned against that tree, and looked around. The road ahead was littered with debris: splintered wood and metal pieces. Far off, I saw my travel companions emerging from what was left of the carriage. It took me several minutes to catch up to the them, and they greeted me warmly. The older man conducted me to the front of the wreck where the driver's body lay. We, three, looked down at it grimly, which was all we could do.

  The young man required his leg to be bandaged, which is being done using the curtain from the now derelict carriage. I can see now that my companions are ready to depart.

  Later

  I have left my companions. I hope they are taking care of things with the local authorities. I feel quite useless sitting here in my room not being able to speak with any of the people here. The desk clerk speaks my language, as Mr. Vossen's letters suggested, but he is an odd person. When I told him that there should be a letter waiting for me, he quickly fetched it. But as he was handing it to me, his face sank and he stared at it as if it was some horrible monster. It took him several seconds to come to his senses, after which he handed me the note very slowly, as if considering whether or not he should actually give it to me.

  When I got to my room, I saw that Mr. Vossen had stamped a seal in red wax to close the envelop as a noble would. It was a large 'V' surrounded by symbols that did not make enough of an impression in the wax to make out. Enclosed were instructions on how to get to Vossen Manor. He has prepaid a driver to take me there. By this time tomorrow, I will finally be in the company of my employer.

  May 6, 18__

  The driver, as promised, drove me up to Vossen Manor in an open-air cart. He gave me a blanket to throw over myself, which I was quite grateful for. The manor was high up in the mountains. It took us all day to travel up the winding road. Along the way, there were the ruins of houses so old that the stones had been rounded and worn away. Finally, we came into a small valley surrounded by steep mountains. Among the pine and cedar trees stood an enormous house of gray stone. The ride suddenly became smoother as we entered the paved drive.

  In front on the house, the road formed a circle, in the center of which was a large, empty fountain with moss in its basin. I climbed out, finally at my destination. The driver handed me down my bag, and I reached into my pocket for his tip. By the time I'd reached my hand up to give him the coins, though, he had already started off again.

  I took a moment, there by myself, to look at the manor. There was a central building with a wing branching off from either side. The left wing further branched with another wing. When looking at the furthest wing, I could see the nearby mountains through the windows. The roof and windows seemed long gone from that part of the house. The left wing itself had a few boarded windows. As I was turning my head to see what the right wing was like, I realized that there was a man standing in front of me. I jumped, of course. He apologized in a weak, whispy voice. He seemed to be of bad health, with pale skin and sunken cheeks. I carried my own bag, not wanting to burden him, as he conducted me into the manor.

  The interior of the manor speaks of old wealth that has long past. It has all of the trapping of a grand manor house: fine carpets, tapestries, statuary, and carved woodwork. However, on closer inspection of almost everything, one finds it broken, tattered, or, at least, caked in dust. Mr. Vossen has no shortage of servants, though. I've seen at least a dozen since I've arrived. But they just seem to shuffle around the house. There is an air of mourning about the house, though I don't know why.

  My meeting with Mr. Vossen went well enough. His conviction that he is the rightful heir to the the Dukedom of Chunigary, and that the titles and properties should be transferred to him, is quite strong. He has an avalanche of dusty papers that I now must archive. They have not been well looked after. Most are torn, missing corners, stained, and/or faded. They also seem to have been reposed with no rhyme or reason. I would be surprised if a professional librarian or archivist had ever set foot in this house during its entire history.

  May 7, 18__

  Mr. Vossen was quite vexing today. As I tried to categorize the mountain of papers, ledgers, and books - trying to bring some order to the chaos - he kept checking in on me, very eager to hear of my progress. After the fifth time, I wanted to stand up, look him in the eye, and tell him that if his lineage was so important to him, he should have taken better care of his records. I didn't do that, obviously. He was more than good on his word as far as payment is concerned. He promised fifty shillings a day: an incredible sum to pay for a simple archivist.

  May 9, 18__

  I have finally brought some order to the chaos. It think I will be exhaling dust for the next year or so, but I did it. Finally, I have a concise collection of papers that are relevant to Mr. Vossen's claim. To my astonishment, he is actually descended from Idris Vossen, a man who held the title of Duke of Chunigary 538 years ago. However, I had to tell my Idris Vossen that his namesake held the title under the rule of a different royal family. The dynasty that his family was a part of fell to another, which then fell to the one in place today.

  He did not seem put off by this at all, though. What is he planning to do? The Heraldic College will never recognize his claim, and no court would uphold it if they did.

  Later

  A horrible thing has happened. As I was returning from my bath, I heard a horrible choking noise coming from down the hall. I followed it all the way downstairs and into the entry hall. The servants were crowded around the sickly man who brought me into the castle the other day. By the time I got down the stairs, he'd died. He'd disgorged at least a pint of what looked like ink. I was told by Mr. Vossen, who came down a moment after I did, that that was the medicine the man was taking. He conducted me back upstairs, as I was in my night clothes, and told me not to worry. I do feel sorry for the man, though. Despite his dreadful appearance, I would say he was less than thirty. I've noticed that all of the servants have the same pallid look about them. I wonder if this house is doubling as some sort of asylum or convalescense home.

  May 10, 18__

  Mr. Vossen waved away my inquiry about the servants, if servants they all be, and left me to my work. Perhaps he doesn't want to divulge the nature of their illness for the sake of their privacy.

  I've begun some light restoration work on the some of the papers. They are some of the oldest I've worked with, and I'm trying to take great care, but Mr. Vossen seems to be pressing me to hurry.

  May 11, 18__

  I was putting together a folio of birth and death records when I was called to lunch. We dined, as we usually do, in Mr. Vossen's private parlor. He has a dining room, of course, with wooden pillars that reach up to the ceiling where they break into arches. It could seat at least forty, and the table, chairs, and sideboards are of ancient, finely carved, dark wood. However, the grand hall, which had fed the nobles and royals of the land for hundreds of years, according to Mr. Vossen, sits unused. He said that it felt odd sitting in that large hall by himself. And so, we were sitting in Mr. Vossen's parlor.

  We had just finished our meal and begun to talk over coffee when one of the servants came in. He had the inky, black substance spilled down the front of him and had entered without knocking. He was in an agitated state, or, at least, as much of an aggravated state as his poor health would allow. He spoke to Mr. Vossen in a mumbled v
ersion of their language for a moment. Then Mr. Vossen turned to me and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Cadmore. I must see to something.” And with a little bow, he left. I downed the last gulp of my coffee and stood to leave. Before I did, tough, I took the liberty of walking around the parlor. I had not had the opportunity to really examine it, and it was a fascinating room. It was filled with elegant furniture with elaborate carvings hewn into it. There was a tapestry of a battle which must have been centuries old. The candlesticks were of silver, and there was an elegant clock on the mantelpiece that had gold leafing in the face. The true beauty of these pieces were hidden under layers of dust and tarnish. The entire house was like this: speaking to a vast, but faded, fortune.

  There was one new thing in the entire room. On the desk, there were tickets: some for sea travel, others for rail. They plotted a complete course for ten people to travel to a place called Duskshire back in my own country. I had no idea Mr. Vossen had made travel plans already, and he was due to depart in two weeks. No wonder he is so eager for me to complete my work. But why not go to Northton, or Chunigary?

  Later

  I did not see Mr. Vossen or his servants until dinner time. I decided to go looking for them, so I went to the doorway I always see the servants coming in and out of. I assumed it led to the kitchen, and it did, but there was no one there. I continued through the room and through another doorway which led to a flight of stairs. As I descended, I could hear a horrible gurgling and spitting. Finally I reached a doorway and looked inside. It was a terrible sight. All of the servants were forming a circle. In the center, some of them were holding a man down on a raised stone platform. Mr. Vossen was pouring something down the man's throat. The man was struggling and kicking as he spit up the black liquid that he was being forced to drink.

  I watched, stunned by the horror of the scene, until one of the servant touched Mr. Vossen's arm. Mr. Vossen looked at the servant, who then pointed at me. The entire room turned toward me, save for the man on the table who gasping for breath. The servants seemed rather impassive and unperturbed, but a fury came upon Mr. Vossen's face that seemed to contort the width of his mouth beyond what I thought possible. He started striding toward me with a wicked look in his eyes. Instinctively, I backed into the stairwell and started to climb. He was on me before I could climb more than two steps. With a grip like a vice, he grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back down to his level.

  He demanded of me, “What are you doing here?”.

  I stammered that I was just looking to see where everyone was.

  “Never come down here again,” was his response. He reminded me that he was paying me to sort out his archives, not to go snooping around his house, and then ordered me to my room. I obediently went to my quarters, and now I sit at the desk writing. A few moments after I got here, one of the servants brought up a tray with bread, cheese, and wine. Even in his anger, Mr. Vossen has not neglected me. I suppose I should feel contrite, but no one ever told me that sections of the house were off limits. Also, I can't help but feel disturbed by the scene I was witness to. Probably, this would be explained tomorrow as a matter of administering medicine to someone who didn't want to, but needed to, take it. But that doesn't explain why the man was in traveling clothes. I am going to start hiding this diary.

  May 12, 18__

  I have been feeling queasy lately. My work has suffered as a result, but I can't help it. The strange goings-on in the house and the sight from last night have turned my stomach. I can't wait to take my money and be gone from this crumbling house and the morose, silent staff. There is one thing that I haven't taken advantage of, though. Outside this house is a beautiful pine forest surrounded by awe inspiring mountains which, up until now, I've only seen through the windows. I must get some fresh air.

  Later

  I do, indeed, feel much better. It's just after lunchtime, and I've spent a good portion of the morning hiking around the area. The brisk mountain air, and the amazing backdrop of the snow capped mountains was invigorating. I, at first, skirted the house, which is no easy feat. I went toward the abandoned wing. As I suspected at first glance, it is quite ruined. The lawn is trimmed, but all that is left of the secondary wing that juts forward toward the road is the stone walls. The roof, floor, and interior walls are all gone. I continued around to the back of the house where there were several outbuildings. One of the buildings was another house, but long ruined. There was little left except for some stones from the outer walls and some pillars. Clearly this house was ancient, much more so than the main house. I walked most of the way to the ruins, but stopped when I saw movement inside. It seemed that one of the servants was inside. Filled with curiosity, I went up to an opening where once a window had been. The servant, like the others a young but very wan man, was sweeping the ground inside. But the ground of this ancient ruin was just grass. I watched him for a moment. Like the servants had done since I arrived, he seemed not to notice me. Perhaps this was a symptom of the disease they suffered from? I thought it best not to interfere with him, and went on.

  After looking into the dark windows of a couple of abandoned, crumbling cottages, I came to the entrance of what was obviously a tomb. It looked like any tomb back home: made of dark, weather worn stone with simple pillars. The door was of a dark, banded metal, and it gave way as I approached. One of the servants emerged. He had a toolbox slung over his shoulder with a duster and some rags inside. Having become accustomed to the passive and silent nature of the servants, I simply was going to walk past him. To my surprise, though, he looked directly at me and spoke.

  “This is the master's tomb. Family tomb. The master's family's tomb,” he stammered.

  “Lovely,” I replied with a benign smile.

  With that, I left. Perhaps he thought I was thinking of entering? He did try the door after I started off in order to make sure it was locked. Do people do that in this part of the world? Just walk into tombs?

  I spent some time walking through the pine forest and enjoying the cool breeze before returning to the house. My upset stomach has been relieved, and I can now get to my work with renewed vigor.

  Later

  As I was dining with Mr. Vossen this evening, one of the servants, as he was pouring the coffee, collapsed. I jumped up and pulled the coffee pot away, as is was spilling on the man's leg. I'm sure he'll have some kind of burn from it. I reached up and touched his face. It was cold and clammy. Then Mr. Vossen spoke. His voice was striking for how cool and smooth it was. He waived aside my concerns with vague assurances that the young man would be alright, and he asked one of the servants who had come in, all with unconcerned, almost bored, looks on their faces, to conduct me to my room.

  May 13, 18__

  My work is nearly complete. Mr. Vossen's library is in good order. Some of the books and documents have suffered irreparable damage, but I have done my best to protect them from further deterioration and repose them. I presented Mr. Vossen with a folio containing the documents relevant to his claim on the Dukedom he coveted. He looked them over as I shelved some old tomes which I had to bind in leather bands, as the spines had gone. When he was done, he complimented me. Again, he seemed quite sure of himself, despite the fact that, at least as far as I could see, the documents gave him no claim over the title.

  He even went so far as to say, “Soon the light of the true aristocracy, that the world is so lacking, will burn in the lights of that manor again.”

  I'm afraid he will make quite a fool of himself if he goes to Northton with his claims.

  Later

  I write this in the place I would least expect to be. I am deep withing the Vossen Crypt, several stories under the ground. But I will start at the beginning. I must at least create the chance that someone will know what happened to me by writing it down.

  Earlier, I was in my room. Since my work was more or less over, I was beginning to pack my things. I was eager for this adventure to end. As I was getting on with it, I started feeling
queasy again. I tried opening the window, but it wouldn't budge. The wooden frame had warped with age, and was hopelessly stuck. My stomach turned over. I longed for the fresh mountain air that had revitalized me before.

  Leaving my packing as it was, I put on my coat and went out the back door of the house and out onto the lawn. The cold air provided some relief, but my stomach was still upset. I had taken my diary with me intending to write in it while taking in the fresh air. However, the sun was already setting. Still, I was not used to dusk coming so early owing to the tall mountains all around. Regardless of the approaching night, I set off across the lawn. Since I hadn't gotten a chance to see them properly before, I decided to examine the ruins.

  When I got close, I could see something on the ground inside the crumbled stone walls. The light had grown dim, so I was only a few yards away when I realized that it was one of the servants that was on the ground, his pale skin glowing in the darkening twilight. I rushed up to him. I threw myself down into the cold grass where he lay. I put my hand down on his side, as I meant to shake him awake. But my hand went through the space where I expected the side of his chest to be and landed on something wet. I looked down and saw that there was a large hole where his side should be, and my hand was touching the gore that had spilled out. I pulled my hand back, and I felt one of the man's broken ribs scrape my skin.