I have found (and by “found,” I mean “laboriously constructed”) a fascinating, disturbing document. It is a tragic tale, really, though, of course, if one is feeling callous, one might merely laugh. “What have this young man’s troubles to do with me?” I hear you saying in your unfeeling way. What, indeed? And yet– well, perhaps after you read the whole of this document (which is now available in its entirety, below), you will see that the troubles of this young man may one day engulf and devour us all.
But enough! Away with introductions! ON TO THE HORROR. You may view the horror in Artificial Artifact form, and/or read the text of the document. You’ll find the transcript of the document below the fancy PDF flipbook thing, which is itself below this introduction (if it isn’t there, give it a moment, or try re-loading the page). I would recommend having a squint at the Artificial Artifact first, and then using the text below it to read any bits that are unreadable in the original document.
Garden Party: Hargreaves
flatter Lady Brevis
(graceful compliment dress?)
mention concerns re apparitions to Rev. Dr. Grivesby;
if receptive, cautious broaching of topic EXORCISM
A) in Anglican Church?
B) on the cheap?
bloodstain appeared again (duration 1 hour)
Determine name of curate (ask Lady B.?)
Exorcisms: can curates do them? If so, for how much?
If not, why not?
Kitchenmaid hysterical; won’t say why
Phantom footsteps pursued me all through east wing today
Write note to Lady B., thanking her for sympathy re: hidebound clergy
make special mention of remark that “…such skepticism… ill accords with their Calling and Cloth”
Seek introduction Bishop T.
Something kept whispering into my ear last night. A rapid whisper, and I never could hear quite what it said.
home farm- £6.14s.8d.
articles, stories, misc.- 16s.3d.
Expenditure: £200 at absolute minimum
Write Bishop T.
Be Circumspect. Don’t mention the supernatural. Just express interest in bishops generally, along with a desire to give this particular one lunch.
Mist surrounds the house. Clear elsewhere. Simpson speaks of drains and rising damp. He does not believe it.
Lunch Bishop T.
– have Simpson bring ’84 port up from cellars. Ignore all protests, both about entering cellars under current conditions and about drinking port prematurely.
– would bishop’s exorcism come pretty high? Price-wise?
Tea with Lady B.
-“do you know any arch-bishops or anything?”
-compliment the garden (esp. roses)
-if red, compare to lips
-if not, not
I keep catching glimpses of other places. Gone as soon as perceived.
Convert to Catholicism
Something touched me on the arm; I felt it.
Sir Edwin Brevis, 59, after an illness. Industrialist, philanthropist, investor, statesman. As he liked to remind his many friends, he came from nothing; now, he returns to nothing, having earned millions of pounds in the interim.
Sir Edwin is survived by his wife, Lady Annabelle Brevis.
“I confess that I have ghosts”
(mem.: mix this in with some sins to make the thing seem natural)
Blood everywhere today. It drips from walls, ceiling. Warm to the touch.
Try again with Father Mason
“hello Father! Remarkable thing—meeting you here—by the way… ghosts… could you see way to…”
Something took me by the throat. There was terrible strength in the bony fingers, and when it released me I was half-dead.
Later: my neck is covered in bruises like fingermarks. Somehow, I am surprised that the creature left any.
Abandon all subtlety. Back Father Mason into a corner and ask him, straight out:
“will you perform an exorcism?”
The marks upon my neck burn cold.
Write to agency for new cook, kitchenmaid, housemaid.
Ask for convinced Materialists and those accustomed to ghosts only.
Exorcism Today! For FREE
Burning marks grow intolerably painful.
But Father Mason will bless them afterwards.
Funeral Father Mason
Talk to Dr. Smollett
-“Was it heart failure, or…?”
Couldn’t stick home. Slept at The Bell. Villagers eye me curiously, and whisper of me when they fancy I cannot hear.
They are angry.
There is no silence in this house.
That devil’s touch burns so I can barely think.
I am never alone.
They wouldn’t let me go
I keep seeing them out of the corner of my eye, just glimpses of something darting into cover or merging into shadows. But every room swarms with this covert movement.
Tried to walk down to village today, but was not allowed. Sickness grew as I approached my gate, and I lost consciousness when I was still several yards away. Mocking laughter swelled with sickness and seemed to come to a climax as I fell to the ground.
Someone is screaming in the woods.
Lady B. came by to scold me for
- Converting to Catholicism
- Neglecting her
- Being in a funk generally
Then, I think, something alarmed her, for she left quite hurriedly.
There is a dead poacher in the fringe of woods by the garden. I think his name was Jenkins. His neck is covered in terribly familiar bruises.
I have found the place where they are getting through. There is a secret place beneath the cellar stairs, and when you look at it from the corner of your eye, you can see it. And it can see you.
Why has there been no second attack on me? They killed that poacher fellow very efficiently, and they must know I am rather weak. It is remarkable how ill a few days of constant confinement in a very haunted house can make one.
Thurs. June 1
Must close it.
Plan: send Lady B. Catholic tracts.
She will send Bishop to remonstrate.
Found Simpson in cellar staring into portal and giggling. Butlers should not giggle, or not like that.
Find cellar door key
Simpson broke a china plate today. He dotes on that set, “being a gift from a Royal Personage to your great-grandfather, sir.” But today he broke a plate and didn’t seem to mind. I find this more alarming than many of today’s disturbing supernatural manifestations.
Lunch Bishop T.
Before he gets here:
-prop open chamber below stairs
-leave bell, book, candle in cellar
-light cellar lamps
-figure out how to get him into cellar
Had to lock Simpson in pantry—howling alarmed Bishop
If he got out of cellar, how did he do it?
If he didn’t, where is he?
Bury remains of Bishop in discreet location (within ruined chapel by the West gate?). Plant Yew Tree over him so he stays buried.
*the humming began in the afternoon
There is a screen of darkness between me and the world—I do not know if this is visible to others, or if it is an Ocular Phenomenon, or what.
Write letter to Lady B. thanking her for sending the Bishop. Say he was very persuasive, and when he went away (emphasize that), you were quite convinced.
*I think it is larger today; the humming is certainly louder.
For a full hour today, I thought I was one of Them.
Chief Constable will call afternoon
*almost fills chamber. Humming can be heard from top of cellar steps.
When I fed Simpson today, he screamed at me in a language I’d never heard before; hearing it gave me a queer turn, as if, if I just listened harder—or listened correctly—I’d understand it all right.
GRIM TURN IN MISSING BISHOP CASE
“He didn’t turn up for dinner,” says tearful housekeeper.
CHIEF CONSTABLE CALLS IN CHALMSWORTH OF THE YARD
Chief Const. is a rum old bird. Kept solemnly advising me to get in touch with my solicitor & saying it was a “damned awkward position.” And then I’d say I didn’t know what he meant, and he’d make unbelieving noises at me. We did this for nearly an hour.
Search library for books on portals and the closing thereof. It can’t be all sermons, it simply can’t.
*it isn’t humming—it is singing. Like a choir, a large one, with strange harmonics, and more voices all the time.
I find I can see them quite plainly today. Ghastly, all of them, and many aren’t remotely human. But I seem to have gone numb. I am not afraid.
Inspector Chalmsforth 10 A.M.
-Move Simpson to North Tower; see if feeding him early will quiet him a bit.
-ask Inspector if he knows anyone well up in Phenomena (if he seems friendly)
*Chalmsforth heard it, I think—kept asking me to switch off the gramophone.
Inspector not at all friendly. Tried to take me down to station, only I had “some sort of fit.” He left, muttering of search warrants.
Came to this morning to find I was in the cellar. It has grown in the night. It has quite burst out of the secret chamber, and has sent out filaments into the room. Like a horrible hellish root system, coursing with ghastly light. And when I woke, I was singing in harmony with the terrible choir.
Woke this morning to incredible sense of peace. Why object to having house always full of lovely music? Silly, pettish. It was not conventional, and so I thought it bad. Was a fool. As for the Objulak in the cellar, it is an honour to have such a Visitant.
Inspector came with men and a piece of paper. Search warrant. It let him in, he said, so I did. The men came in, too. I don’t see why a piece of paper should be like a key, unless it is a very powerful piece of paper. Perhaps it has a sign upon it. The Inspector held it before him as if it did. Inspector might mean something like Seer, so perhaps it was as well to let him come in with his slaves.
They can’t hurt me now, anyway.
It was really rather amusing.
They searched the house and were blind to all the really singular things it contained.
Then, the Inspector came to the locked door of the cellar.
“This is locked,” he said. I agreed.
“The key, please, sir,” he said.
“You require a key to get through
that door, then?” I asked.
“Yes. It is locked.”
“Your warrant does not open it, eh?” I said jocularly. “Well, well!” I smiled. That seemed to startle the Inspector. He took a step back.
“My warrant certainly entitles me to search your cellar, sir.” His voice was cold. He was terribly serious. Behind the door I could
hear the Objulak moving restlessly. And they wanted in.
As I said, rather amusing.
“Of course. Here’s the key. No, I shan’t go down with you.” And I watched the Inspector and his slaves descend the cellar steps. Then I gently closed the door behind them and went quietly away.