by Hunter, Troy
Breaking the distraction caused by the letter in my hands, I look up at the fuming lass in front of me. She’s a pretty thing, I have to admit. Sunflower hair, lily skin, and pansy eyes. She looks like the sort of lass to rip a man’s heart from his chest and feast upon it. If her attitude is any indication, then I’d wager she’s either a fantastic bedder or only good for the horribly intoxicated.
“I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment. My apologies, miss.”
She growls loudly and shakes her fist at me. “This is a busy street, you bloody wanker! There are other people here besides you.” The angry woman then throws her arm out over my shoulder and points at the tavern behind me. “If you’ve got readings more important to you than common decency, then go over there, out of people’s way.” She turns away from me. I roll my eyes and slowly veer toward the right of the plaza, next to the courthouse.
How I hate the people of London. They all carry the same sense of unwarranted self-importance capital dwellers always do. Through my booming career as a geologist, I’ve seen this very same attitude across many cities and cultures.
Dublin.
Athens.
Madrid.
Beijing.
Albany.
They’re all the same, every one of them.
Normally, I’m able to handle the childish behavior of entitled city folk quite well. But not today, I’m afraid. My patience is still worn thin from last night when a certain Lord Bosie Melmoth decided to cross certain boundaries. What those boundaries were…I’ll say when I’m ready.
Or when I’m forced to be ready, given Bosie’s spoiled nature.
For now, I just want to continue reading the letter a random courier unexpectedly handed me out of the blue. It’s one thing to receive mail at my home each morning, but another thing entirely to have the bearer personally approach me on the streets of London. Being from a noble household, it’s always a bit jarring when we receive unexpected meetings from these men. When postmen make their appearance, it’s usually to deliver messages from family friends inviting us to formal get-togethers or from clerks informing us that a close family member has passed away.
In this case, it appears the letter is from a clerk.
However, the family member in question is one I never knew existed.
….and as per our records of one Elias Adelbrecht, we have determined that he possesses only one living heir who is eligible to inherit his forty-acre estate in Stagwood Grove, Yorkshire, a great-nephew by the name of Kenneth Oswin Adelbrecht. If this notice has found you, Mr. Adelbrecht, we urge you to come by our office and sign the needed documents. Once they are signed, you will receive the deed for the estate with complete rights to do as you please with the property. We look forward to speaking with you soon.
-Francesca Delbert, London Beneficiary Services
I chuckle to myself and fold the letter, stuffing it into my front left pocket. It’s rather curious that I’d receive news like this now, of all times. As well as I’m doing in my current position, the funding I’ve been graciously receiving for my research will more than likely be pulled if Lord Bosie Melmoth follows through with his callous threats. If that does happen, then it seems like I’ve at least got the perfect place to relocate and start over with the new year.
More importantly, this estate belonged to a member of the Adelbrecht family. While I personally never met this great-uncle of mine, I can already say with utmost certainty that Miss Delbert didn’t have the entire story on Mister Elias’ life. Us Adelbrechts have a rather long and complicated history. True, all noble houses have their fair share of skeletons in their closets. But us? We’ve got skeletons, severed heads, frozen umbilical cords, vials of blood, and probably quite a few hexes guarding those items.
What I’m trying to say is the Adelbrechts have a history of tinkering with matters of the occult. I’m not referring to hunting for ghosts or some other childish after-dark game, oh no. I’m talking about dark rituals, things that would cause a countrywide witch hunt for my kinfolk if revealed to the general public. And considering this Elias Adelbrecht’s existence was kept a secret from me for all twenty-seven years of my life, I’m assuming he’s guilty of crimes so heinous and diabolical that Sweeney Todd himself would cringe upon hearing about them.
I must confess this news excites me quite a bit, probably more than it should. Despite my knack for playing the social butterfly, I’ve always preferred the company of less judgmental beings such as animals, nature, minerals, and books. People are really only good for having brief conversations with to sate loneliness. Sometimes, they’re good for the occasional primal dance that lasts twenty minutes to an hour before we go our separate ways. If it were my decision, I’d never associate myself with another human being for the rest of my life. But alas, humans are social animals who tend to die faster when they starve themselves of outside communication.
Unfortunately for me, my newfound excitement is quickly stolen once a familiar voice catches my attention.
“Kenneth!”
I roll my eyes for a second time in the span of five minutes and look up to see none other than Lord Bosie Melmoth himself prancing his merry way toward me. As per usual, he’s sporting his favorite black coat with silver slacks and a matching scarf around his neck. His short, dirty blond hair is combed to the side, anything to have nearby light shine off his blemish-free face. He stops in front of me and puts his hands on his hips. I can tell by the mischievous look he’s giving me that he’s awaiting an apology. He’s trying to remind me who pays for my research. In his mind, he did me no wrong with his actions the night before and he aims to put me in my place. But he’s wrong and I won’t let him get what he wants. Not this time.
“What do you want, Bosie? I’m busy here.”
Despite the venom in my voice, the attractive tart smiles widely at me with those lovely green eyes of his. Those damn eyes. They’re always what manage to coax me into his bed. “Oh, come now, my raven-haired scientist. There’s no need to be so grouchy. I just noticed you loitering about in the plaza during my morning stroll and thought I’d say hello.” Bosie takes a step closer to me, leaning in slightly without changing the volume of his speech. “And inquire about when a good time to review some your latest samples would be, of course.”
Ah yes, my “samples”. Also known as Bosie’s public code phrase for anything and everything pertaining to sexual intercourse. Despite being the posh noble he is, he’s a rather insatiable lover with one of the biggest libidos I’ve ever seen in a man. I’m no prudish saint myself, but I’m at least capable of living life without worrying about the next chap I’m going to bed.
“Leave me be. Go collect your samples elsewhere.”
Bosie puffs his bottom lip out and lowers his voice so nobody else can hear him. “Oh, my dearest Kenneth. Don’t tell me you’re still upset about our little squabble last night. It’s just a fight, dearie. All loving couples do it.”
I snort loudly, expression unchanging. “Do all loving couples threaten each other’s livelihood? Do all their arguments involve burning priceless family records that date back to the 14th century?” Bosie lets out a loud, boisterous laugh that manages to snatch the attention of a couple of passersby. My left knuckle starts popping from the tight fist I’m making. This poncy tosser is pushing his luck and I’m not afraid of standing up to snobby nobles. I’ve done it all my life, so why stop now?
“Kenneth! You know well that my actions were justifiable. You spend all your free time with your head in the clouds. You dream and dream of things you do not need, all while ignoring those who care about you.” He points a finger at me. “Your obsession with the past has made you steel-hearted and cruel. I try my best to get you to open up to me, but you just continue to push me away. If I didn’t burn those crumbling parchment pads of yours, you might have never learned your lesson. I did what was best for you.”
“They weren’t crumbling parchment pads, you daft cow,” I bite back, getting in his face. “
They were old medical records dating back to the days of the Black Plague. Joseph Bernard Adelbrecht was a highly esteemed plague doctor and now all his research is gone. Gone!” The curious city folk continue to gasp and whisper amongst each other, seeming to enjoy this little bit of melodrama.
Bosie looks at me for a moment before finally shaking his head slowly, readying himself to say something one never says to an Adelbrecht. “I could have you killed, you know. You know well how strong the ties between the church and British government are.”
I cock an eyebrow and furrow my brow. I know exactly what he’s about to say, but I question his audacity.
“Oh yes, Kenneth. You don’t think I’m aware of the Satanic rituals you take part in every other night? The ones where you shriek in anguish? The ones where you transform into a rabid beast, who’s only slightly less of a dog than you are as a huma…”
Before he can finish his statement, I lunge at him. I take him down to the pavement and serve a series of punches to his perfect face. At this point, the crowd begins shouting amongst themselves. I hear one man demand for a policeman to come and stop the madness. Luckily, I’m able to get a good number of hits on Bosie before someone finally does pull me away. Judging by the gruff tone of voice and strength of his grip, the nameless city man seemed to get his wish.
“That’s enough, sir. You’re coming with me.”
I thrash around in the officer’s hold, trying to get away. “Like hell I am! I’m Kenneth Adelbrecht, son of Frederick Adelbrecht. You know, the man who pays you and your team?”
Taking a moment to process what I just said, the policeman lets go of me and backs away. Meanwhile, Bosie slowly tries to get off the ground whilst spitting out what appears to be a bloody tooth. I can’t help but smirk at my handiwork.
“Consider yourself demonetized, Kenneth Adelbrecht. See if any of your research sees the light of day without my more than generous donations.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh cruelly. “Piss on your donations, Bosie. I’ll find money another way. A way that doesn’t involve having to work naked, so his donor can have material to scrub his knob to.” With one satisfying snot-laden spit to Bosie’s face, I storm away from the crowd and walk to the London Beneficiary Offices.
* * *
Yorkshire.
Out in the Dales, nearly two hundred miles away from London.
Opportunities full of mystery and wonder, living outside the city brings.
I might not be used to this atmosphere, but I already find myself in awe of its splendor.
“This is just what I need,” I say to Boris, my faithful carriage driver of nearly thirty years. “I need to get away from civilization, preferably for good. I’ve always been content being alone with my books, you know this. Everyone in the family has known since I was just a boy. It may sound strange, Boris. I understand that. But people only serve to hold me back and keep me from achieving my goals. I need to be alone for a while.”
Boris responds by groaning before shaking his head. I’m sure he’s exhausted from the long drive. Our steeds are strong and hearty, but they’re pulling the carriage at the high speed of only four miles per hour. If we had denied ourselves any stops, it would have taken us approximately two days to arrive at Stagwood Grove.
But alas, we’re living, breathing creatures who require food and sleep.
So, after four and a half days of travelling, I can understand Boris’s frustration.
“Indeed, sir. I only wish this great-uncle of yours would have chosen an estate closer to home. I’m too old to be driving all the way to the north of England and back. Why not Bedfordshire? That’s only forty or fifty miles away from London.”
“Because there’s nothing in Bedfordshire, Boris. What kind of imbecile would build a mansion in the middle of nowhere?”
Boris sighs and looks at me from the front of the carriage. “Fair point, I suppose. Mister Elias clearly wanted his space, being this far away from his family.”
I grin at the old man before turning my gaze back to the scenery outside. A thin sheet of snow covers the land as we cross over a rickety wooden bridge. Interestingly enough, what appears to be a line of moss forms a trail on the structure, leading up to a faded wooden sign which reads welcome to stagwood grove.
Curious.
Moss typically grows on wood if it’s regularly in shade.
But observation shows me there are no trees towering over this bridge.
Curious, indeed.
“Slow the carriage down, Boris. I think we’ve arrived.” My heart begins to pound with excitement as I notice the giant stone towers off in the distance. It takes a moment for me to take my eyes off them, so I can focus on Elias Adelbrecht’s large castle just below. My jaw drops and a huge smile spreads across my lips. It’s just as I pictured it. Weathered limestone, looming presence, tall enough to house many a secret passage for a curious seeker to explore.
It’s absolutely stunning.
As much as I already love my new home, Boris clearly doesn’t seem to feel the same. “Kenneth, we should leave. Something about this place…it feels unnatural. It feels…evil.” I bite my bottom lip. I know Boris means well and is merely concerned for my safety. But if he thinks for a single, solitary second I’m going to turn away, now I’ve successfully burned all my bridges, and return to the pigsty that is London, then he has another think coming. When a new life awaits with open arms, one doesn’t just turn around, dammit.
“After all that complaining about distance?” I comment, leaning forward to pat his shoulder. “The estate is just ancient. A little maintenance here and there and it’ll look good as new.” I jerk my head to the side, toward the carriage door. “Come now, help me out of this carriage.”
The old man swallows hard and reluctantly exits. He walks around to the main door and opens it slowly, holding it open for me. I quickly climb out, gripping the handle to my one suitcase tightly. Boris closes the door behind me and sighs heavily.
“Kenneth, please think about this. It’s not too late to change your mind and come home.”
I give him a reassuring smile and reach into my coat pocket. “Here’s some money for the trip home, Boris.” I pull out a wad of bills and hand them to the old man. He looks down at his feet, realizing he cannot make me change my mind. After another small sigh, he takes the money and walks around the carriage. He climbs back in and soon rallies the horses to take him back home.
So here I am now, completely alone.
Forever cast away from other people.
At last. At long last!
I cheer silently to myself before turning around to face my new home. My eyes peer above the castle, back at the tall towers. I notice a detail that I somehow missed earlier while I rode in the carriage. One tower, interestingly enough, looks half destroyed, absolutely wrecked. I had to wonder what on Earth Elias was doing that caused a bloody tower, of all things, to collapse? Spell gone wrong? Attacks from seventeenth century lycan hunters?
Another crazy Adelbrecht, it appears.
“Home sweet home.” I take a deep breath and make my way passed the old metal gates. I come across twin oak doors, both blessed with lovely engravings of falling leaves. Bracing myself, I take a quick breath and push the doors open, entering the castle for the first time. Upon entering, I instantly drop my suitcase onto the floor, a loud thud echoing through the halls. Despite the noise, my focus only remains on what my eyes see.
Dear Lord, what a sight this place is.
All my previous worries now seem like a thing of the past.
London, Lord Bosie Melmoth, all of that seems like a distant memory now.
I soon find myself running around the main hall, gasping and cackling like a child witnessing his first snow. How amazing this place is! Despite the dust and cobwebs in every nook and cranny, I find myself lost in the old, delightfully musty scent of history. There’s no telling just how many secrets are locked away in this house.
I rush to an old bookcase a
nd grab a book. Upon reading its title, I see it’s a copy of The Tempest and there appears to be a signature from Shakespeare himself on the front cover. I pull out another book, The Boke of Cokery, also known as the world’s first ever cookbook published entirely in the English language. I’m simply amazed with the collection of old books this estate had to offer, and it’s all mine. All mine! Of course, I’m well aware there’re more than likely pieces of literature consisting of much darker, more obscene themes hidden somewhere in this castle.
Ol’ Elias was an Adelbrecht, after all.
I nod to myself and put the cookbook away. As I turn around, my heart leaps out of my chest as I find myself face to face with not one, but three people staring blankly at me. Judging by their age, it appears they’ve lived here for quite some time. On the far left is an old man wearing denim overalls and a white shirt underneath. To his right is an equally old woman wearing a white gown. And to the far right is a slightly younger looking, albeit still much older man, probably in his late forties or early fifties, with no hair and rags adorning his frail body.
Normally, I’d be appalled at the idea of complete strangers barging into my home uninvited. However, something about these people seems…off. Their bodies look normal enough, but their faces possess an awkward texture. It almost looks like they’re made out of cloth, like scarecrows. And the lifeless, colorless tone to their eyes certainly isn’t helping their case either.
Maybe I’m judging them too harshly, too soon.
I think I’m witnessing the first round of black magick Elias left behind.
“Welcome to the Adelbrecht estate. I am Mister Norris, the groundskeeper.” The older gentlemen then points to the woman and younger man. “This is my wife, Missus Norris. She cooks the meals around here. And this is my son, Young Norris. He keeps the pests out of the house. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.” I cock an eyebrow and look at the family with a feeling I can only describe as a mixture of blatant shock and severe confusion. Their first names are Mister, Missus, and Young. They speak like corpses. They look like corpses.
