Part 1
I opened my eyes
Before me, an expansive hallway stretched into obscurity, its depths shrouded in an enigmatic veil. My gaze wandered backward, revealing an open doorway partially obscured by a verdant tapestry of foliage. An irresistible urge compelled me to venture deeper into this dimly lit corridor.
Within, the chamber was adorned with disheveled papers strewn carelessly upon the floor, and sporadic doors adorned the walls, their secrets concealed behind veils of trepidation. I hesitated to explore these enigmatic portals, for my attention was ensnared by a subtle, ethereal glow emanating from the far reaches of the room.
Drawing nearer to this mystic luminescence, I discerned its source—an elevator, dormant yet beckoning. Its intricate array of buttons awaited a touch, and a singular panel seemed to resonate with an inexplicable familiarity. Yielding to an unspoken compulsion, I pressed this arcane symbol, and the elevator embarked on a gradual ascent.
As the contraption ascended, my ears yielded to the pressure, popping gently with the changing altitude. Patience became my companion as the ascent culminated in an abrupt halt. A metallic lattice gate slid open, inviting me into a semi-circular chamber.
The newborn sun, with its incandescent tendrils of golden light, cast a resplendent tableau upon the room’s interior. Positioned at the zenith of the island, this chamber offered a breathtaking panorama of the entire expanse.
Yet, amid this natural splendor, an artificial creation drew my focus—a peculiar contraption resembling a monitor or counter. Its face emitted a subtle, pulsating radiance, bearing the cryptic emblem ‘L-3.’ The chamber, akin to the rest of the facility, bore the weight of abandonment, as though time itself had forsaken this sanctum. With an intrepid heart, I ventured towards this enigmatic apparatus, the world around me descending into obscurity once more.
I wake up in my bed, warm white light basks my bedroom. I blink and shift in bed, rubbing my eyes. I move myself to sit on the edge of my bed. I drink a warm glass of water I prepared the day before, and dress myself. I sit on the chest at the foot of my bed and put on my boots. This takes a while as if they are not on just right, it’s quite uncomfortable.
I grab my glasses and use my handkerchief to wipe them clean, I put them on and head down to the dining room. I take my seat, glance to my left through the semi-wide hallway, and see around 4 women cooking. My gaze is shifted to the doorway as I hear loud coughing as my brother walks into the room. He takes his seat and we sit there in silence.
I break it, “You think you could do payroll today?” He sits there in silence. He coughs before saying “Yeah, sure.”. I hear footsteps to my left as a woman brings 2 silver platters. She places mine down first, and I uncover it as she heads across the table to my brother. Eggs and toast, with bacon on the side. Just like the last 3 days. “When are you people going to make something different, or have you run out of ideas.” She gets nervous and says “Sorry sir, we will do better.” She walks away swiftly as I say “You better.”
I awaken within the confines of my chamber, bathed in the gentle embrace of radiant white light that gracefully caresses the room. With a deliberate blink and a languid shift, I bestir from the confines of my slumbering sanctuary, gently rubbing the veil of drowsiness from my eyes. I gradually ascend to perch upon the edge of my regal resting place, where a glass brimming with tepid liquid, painstakingly prepared in anticipation the previous eve, awaits my parched throat.
Once refreshed and invigorated, I embark upon the ritual of adorning myself with utmost care, meticulously ensuring the snug embrace of my footwear upon my feet, an endeavor that demands a modicum of patience as perfection knows no haste.
With an air of dignified poise, I adorn my sight with spectacles, diligently cleared of any imperfections through the ministrations of a handkerchief. My steps, deliberate and measured, lead me to the hallowed halls of the dining chamber, where a quintet of diligent maids diligently prepares the morning repast.
However, my attentions soon divert towards the chamber’s portal, for the resonant cacophony of my brother’s raucous coughing heralds his entrance. His gaunt visage settles into a seat opposite mine, and an air of silence envelops us like a shroud.
Breaking this solemn stillness, I inquire, my voice resolute, “You think you could do payroll today?” Silence begets his response, only to be interrupted by another bout of coughing, after which he relents, “Yeah, sure.”
My query is accompanied by the soft tread of approaching footsteps, heralding the arrival of a serving maiden bearing two resplendent silver platters. These she sets upon the dining table, my own unveiled first, revealing a lavish offering of scrambled eggs and toast, accompanied by a side of crisp bacon, an unvarying repast for the past triad of days.
With a measured tone, I cast a discerning gaze upon our culinary attendant, prompting her nervous response, “I’ll talk to the others, we shall do better sir.” My rebuke issued in silence, I offer naught but a reticent nod, my expectations firm.
Eddie coughs, and I proceed to consume the victuals set before me. Upon finishing, I vacate the dining room without exchanging further words. Stepping out of the manor, I traverse the picturesque garden and descend the elegant stone staircase, which descends gracefully from the sturdy retention wall on which the manor is resplendently perched. An awaiting carriage stands ready, its chauffeur maintaining a dignified silence.
With a commanding tone, I simply instruct, “Town.” The gears engage, setting us into motion. The grand manor gradually diminishes in my rearview, and my attention is drawn to the distant mountain range, particularly its tallest peak. I could swear I discern some structure, though diminutive in form, it might be rocks or perhaps a rugged rock formation. The vehicle vibrates as we traverse a small bridge spanning a ravine. Alongside the road, centuries-old majestic oak trees form a stately avenue. The evergreen forest flanks the road, its canopy casting shadows that seem to harbor mysterious, shadowy figures due to the play of light and darkness.
At last, we reach a monumental gatehouse, guarded by two vigilant men atop its parapets. My driver sounds the horn, signaling our arrival, and the gatekeepers swing the imposing gates open. We proceed through, and as the gates close with a resonant thud, my gaze sweeps leftward, revealing vast tobacco fields with toiling laborers. This entire expanse is encircled by formidable towers and palisades, symbolizing both the industry and security of this place.
Men armed with rifles maintain a vigilant watch over the toiling laborers, some even mounted on horses as they oversee the expansive field. My gaze is captivated by the sheer vastness of this plantation as we traverse it from one edge to the other. On the opposite side, another gatehouse comes into view, its appearance mirroring the one we passed earlier. It’s evident they were anticipating our arrival. This particular gate leads to a compact area, housing a cluster of modest cabins for our guards.
As the carriage comes to a halt, my driver lights a cigarette, and I disembark. I commence my descent into a narrowing valley flanked by imposing rocky cliffs on either side. Conveniently constructed stairs facilitate the journey, making the descent considerably more manageable.
I pass through a grand gate, its imposing presence designed to either confine the townsfolk within or, perhaps, ward off potential intruders. As I step into the heart of the town, I make my way along the main thoroughfare. After a few strides, the vast expanse of the ocean comes into view, along with the weathered old lighthouse. Though it still serves its purpose, a closer look reveals the signs of age; it could benefit from some much-needed repairs.
Upon entering the post office, I retrieve a ring of keys, ornate and hanging from a chain around my neck. These keys are reserved for a particular lockbox, tailored for my use. I unlock it with a sense of familiarity and retrieve a collection of letters. Subsequently, I make my way to the sheriff’s office.
Inside, I spot Sheriff Charles engrossed in conversation with one of his deputies. He acknowledges my presence and instructs the young deputy to vacate the office, a directive the lad promptly heeds. Taking a seat, Charles follows suit.
“It’s been a while,” he remarks, his voice tinged with recognition.
“I’ve been in Galveston,” I respond, to which he nods.
“Anything of note happening around here?” I inquire further.
He hesitates for a moment, then rises from his chair and opens a small trapdoor. With practiced ease, he descends a ladder into what was once a crawlspace but now serves as a secure underground holding area. On one lengthy wall of the chamber, an arrangement of bars and doors separates the prisoners from the free.
Rays of light filter through the gaps in the floorboards above, and Charles ignites a lantern before approaching one of the cells. “We’ve, uh, apprehended an individual,” he begins, “we found him skulking around the outskirts of our fields.”
“So, they’ve ventured beyond their designated territory?” I query.
“That appears to be the case,” he confirms.
“Damn it all, I thought we had an agreement,” I mutter, frustration etching my voice. I seize the lantern from Charles, directing its light towards the detainee within the cell—a native of the island.
“We had an arrangement,” I remind the man sternly, “what are your people planning?”
The native remains silent, refusing to divulge any information.
“What were you searching for? Why did you breach your established boundaries?” I press further, but still, he maintains his silence.
“No food for a week,” I inform Charles as I stride away, toward the ladder. A chuckle echoes behind me. I pivot to find the native, his visage now adorned with a sly grin. “2 Weeks,” I declare before ascending from the basement, with Charles in tow. I vacate the office without further utterance, proceeding to a modest gazebo situated along the main thoroughfare. Seated on a chair, I recline with my feet resting upon the table, casting my gaze toward the harbor.
Two imposing vessels grace the waters, one bearing my ownership, the Constitution. A resplendent white ship, its crew diligently preparing for the forthcoming voyage to the mainland. Additionally, two smaller vessels are anchored at the port, one belonging to me personally, the other of unknown ownership. The waves collide with the shore, while the gentle breeze, passing through the screened windows of the gazebo, tousles my hair. I shut my eyes briefly, contemplating the intentions of the island’s native inhabitants. A decade of tranquility seemingly coming to an end. The prospect of another conflict, another war, sends shivers down my spine. Was the initial confrontation not sufficiently grueling? I prise my eyes open, inhaling deeply, and vacate the gazebo.
I retraced my steps, ascending those formidable stairs and passing through the imposing gate. Would it soon be a necessity? The driver ignited the engine as I approached, setting off for home. Along the way, I observed my guards herding the field laborers. Back at the manor, I ascended those very steps, traversed the library, and slipped through the concealed bookshelf, progressing up the spiral staircase to reach the observatory. Two stories tall, a spiral staircase hugged by bookshelves, and at its pinnacle, a grand telescope aimed at the cosmos. On the lower level, the one I presently occupied, was a laboratory.
You see, Eddie’s health is failing; tuberculosis has taken hold. Without exception, I return to this lofty chamber each day, driven by the hope of discovering a remedy. Alas, no revelations, no breakthroughs, only a worsening of his condition with each passing day. The walls, thin as they are, betray his incessant coughing. Raindrops commence their gentle descent upon the expansive glass dome just as the sun dips below the horizon. Ten sharp chimes reverberate in rapid succession, signaling the commencement of dinner. I descended, finding Eddie already seated. Two platters adorned the table, bearing succulent steak and creamy mashed potatoes, a personal favorite. Commencing my meal, a glass of wine was expertly poured to my left.
“Payroll’s done been dispatched, and them fields, well, they done flourished like never before, all thanks to them rains pourin’ down,” I drawled, casting a concerned glance at Eddie, whose pallor spoke of more than just a taxing meal as he narrowly avoided choking on a mouthful of food.
“Now them natives, they got me mighty worried,” I continued, not mincing words. “They done wandered off their own land, and we done nabbed one of ‘em. He’s got himself tight-lipped as a steel trap. And wouldn’t ya know it, another one of them missin’ posters is up, them hunters never payin’ heed to our warnin’s ‘bout stayin’ clear of that valley.”
Eddie, his eyes taking on a distant glint, muttered, “Reckon it’s tied to their new leader, the one our scouts spotted ‘bout a month ago. Ever since then, they’ve been actin’ like a rattlesnake in heat.”
“I’m half-inclined to rid us of that mute fella we caught,” I stated in a tone as steady as the rocking of a riverboat, prompting Eddie to respond, “Might as well be a mercy.”
“You fancy a nightcap?” I asked, to which Eddie nodded in agreement. We made our way to the bar, where I pressed a golden button, its glow casting light upon the quarters below where our enslaved workers sought respite.
A man hastened over and inquired, “What’ll you fine gentlemen be havin’ tonight?”
“Just a,” Eddie began, his voice interrupted by a rasping cough, “whiskey,” he concluded. I signaled my concurrence, saying, “I’ll have the same.”
“Will that be all, sirs?” the man inquired.
“Indeed, but do kindly close them storm doors,” I requested.
“Right away,” he acknowledged, departing down the dimly lit corridor. Eddie ignited a cigar, and as the resonant slam of the doors gave way to a softer one, he made his way back to the basement.
“Done been coughin’ up blood lately?” I asked, knowing full well the answer. Eddie tried to conceal it, but the discomfort was evident.
“Naw, not as of late,” he responded.
“Good, good,” I remarked. “So, ‘bout them slaves, it seems we’re beyond the reach of them mainland laws when it comes to governin’ this here plantation.”
“A weight off my shoulders, that is,” I chuckled, provoking another bout of coughing from Eddie.
As I finished my drink and he savored the last embers of his cigar, I remarked, “Well, reckon it’s time for me to hit the hay. Don’t ya stay up too late now,” and he replied, “Just wish for more time…”
I disrobe slowly, each piece of clothing shedding like the layers of a story, revealing the vulnerability beneath. As I finally slip beneath the covers, the softness of the sheets envelops me like a comforting embrace. I sink into the mattress, my body weightless, as if gravity itself has relinquished its hold.
The room’s ambient warmth cocoons me, a soothing lullaby to my senses. My eyelids grow heavy, and I surrender to the gentle pull of slumber. It descends upon me like a soft, velvety curtain, enveloping my consciousness in its tender embrace. The world outside fades away, replaced by the gentle murmur of my own breathing.
In this tranquil interlude between wakefulness and dreams, my thoughts begin to drift, carried away by the gentle current of fatigue. The cares of the day disperse like morning mist, and I succumb to the serenity of sleep, my senses lulled by the rhythmic ebb and flow of my own breath.
I awaken to the melodic cadence of a gentle rainfall, its soothing rhythm dancing upon the shingles and cascading into the eager gutters. It’s a welcome change, this extended wet season, a refreshing departure from the relentless three-year cycle of unpredictable droughts that once tormented our lands.
With deliberate care, I rise from the embrace of my slumber and attire myself, ensuring my boots snugly cradle my feet, a familiar and reassuring ritual. As I descend the staircase, the harmonious hum of servants conversing downstairs greets me, accompanied by the tantalizing aroma of breakfast wafting from the kitchen. I hold out hope for a departure from the routine of the past three days, marked by the predictable trio of eggs, bacon, and toast.
Upon reaching the dining room, I find my brother, Eddie, slouched in his seat, a telltale sign that he’s spent another restless night awake. I gently rouse him from his drowsy state, my inquiry laced with concern. “You been up all night again?” I inquire with a stern undertone. He coughs, the effort to respond evident, “No, merely an early start,” his words, a transparent veil over the truth.
I take my seat as a servant approaches, bearing two gleaming silver platters. Swiftly, I unveil the contents of mine, revealing a welcome departure from culinary repetition—a delicately prepared omelet. To my left, a glass brimming with freshly squeezed orange juice awaits, a burst of vibrant color amidst the subdued morning.
I break the silence with a query, “New shipment come in?” The servant nods in acknowledgment, her steps brisk as she retreats to the kitchen, leaving the tantalizing aroma of anticipation hanging in the air.
I consume the sustenance provided, wasting no time, and promptly embark on my mission. The light morning drizzle has transmuted into a torrential downpour. Alas, no vehicle awaits my arrival, so I proceed to the garages with purpose. From the meticulously arranged keyrack, I retrieve a substantial key, destined for my private conveyance. The engine roars to life, and I navigate the sinuous bends that lead to the straight path toward both field and town.
Beyond the two bridges, beneath the sable canopy of trees, further obscured by the looming nimbus clouds, I hold a singular objective in my mind — to end the life of that indigenous soul, swiftly and ruthlessly. Following a decade-long feud that culminated in an uneasy peace, my antipathy towards them has grown ever stronger.
A horn blast ruptures the heavy patter of raindrops, though its audibility remains fleeting in the midst of this deluge. The gate parts before me, revealing the expanse of those fields where my loyal guards have already commenced their efforts, ensuring the slaves remain sheltered from both illness and the temptation of escape in this reduced visibility.
The second gate, discerning my approach from a considerable distance, swings open with well-timed precision. I park my vehicle and claim an umbrella to shield me from the ceaseless downpour. With the key now safely ensconced within a pocket of my vest, I descend those time-worn stairs, traverse that formidable gate, and make my ingress into the town.
I make my way into the Sheriff’s office, the steady patter of raindrops against the windowpane setting a somber mood. Sheriff Charles acknowledges my arrival with a curt nod. His two deputies huddle in a corner, seeking refuge from the relentless rain. With a firm command, Charles dismisses them to find shelter elsewhere, likely the warmth and camaraderie of the saloon.
“Open the hatch,” I request. Without uttering a word, Charles promptly complies, revealing a dimly lit underground chamber. There, a man who had stirred chaos earlier, now lies in a cell, his fitful slumber undisturbed by our presence. The lantern Charles hands me casts flickering shadows as it dangles from my left hand, swaying gently with each step I take.
The native, still muddy from the skirmish that led to his arrest, gazes up at me with a mixture of bewilderment and defiance. He wears overalls smeared with mud and grime, his boots stained with both the earth’s muck and, I suspect, a hint of blood. The room reverberates with the mournful call of a distant foghorn, a melancholic reminder of the world outside.
I unholster my revolver, the weight of it a familiar comfort in my hand. It’s a weapon I’ve carried daily, yet one that has seen little use until this moment. As the rain outside pours relentlessly, I thumb back the hammer with deliberate intent. Strangely, the native shows no fear; instead, his eyes hold an enigmatic resolve. My finger finds its place on the trigger, and I lock eyes with the captive.
Without hesitation, I squeeze the trigger. The revolver roars to life, the recoil jolting my hand backward. The gunshot rings through the confined space, its deafening report echoing off the stone walls. Yet, outside, the downpour likely muffles the sound. The native’s head snaps backward, a burst of blood spattering against the cell wall, and he slumps, lifeless.
In the eerie silence that follows, I can’t help but wonder why this native met his end with such defiance, even in the face of a loaded gun.
I reholster my weapon, the cold steel sliding smoothly into its leather home, and slowly pivot, my intentions veering towards a prompt retreat from this eerie place. A fleeting thought of seeking solace in the dimly lit saloon flits through my mind like a shadow. Yet, just as my boots begin to carve a path toward the exit, a haunting, mirthful laugh slithers through the air, sending an electric shiver coursing down my spine.
In that moment, time seems to hang suspended, and the world around me narrows into a harrowing tableau. My eyes widen in disbelief as I slowly turn on my heel, every muscle in my body taut with tension. What unfolds before me is nothing short of nightmarish; a grotesque spectacle that defies the laws of nature itself.
The rivulets of crimson, flowing from the gunshot wound that had marred his cheek moments ago, appear to defy gravity and logic. They creep back toward the epicenter of his devastation - a bullet hole nestled ominously in the center of his forehead. A devilish, macabre grin twists upon his face, one that mirrors the malevolent forces at play. Fresh, unblemished flesh stretches and molds itself to obliterate any trace of my previous assault, rendering the notion of a bullet’s violent intrusion a mere illusion.
My gaze darts to the right, where Sheriff Charles stands, his visage a reflection of my own horror, his very being trembling under the weight of this unholy revelation. He, too, witnesses the inexplicable, his trembling lips parting to release an unsettling symphony of laughter, and then, words.
“Your days are numbered, Jackson,” he utters, his voice a twisted melody of impending doom. “You and Edward, he’s sick, isn’t he?” His chuckle, laced with a venomous edge, reverberates in the chamber. “We’re conspiring, plotting something monumental. A reckoning to reclaim what was stolen from us. Our ancestral land shall be ours once more.”
The menacing threats, laden with an ominous certainty, echo like distant thunder in my ears. But my mind, ensnared by the enigma of his miraculous regeneration, remains fixated on a singular, haunting question: “H-how?!”
He leans in, his voice a chilling whisper, recounting a tale more horrifying than any nightmare. “Ah, that,” he begins, his eyes gleaming with a feral intensity. “During the war, your father, Robert… He delved into the darkest recesses of science. He subjected my people to unspeakable experiments, all in the pursuit of victory. One such experiment, a vile concoction that glowed with an unnatural malevolence, coursed through my veins, contorting my body in unimaginable agony. For three interminable hours, I writhed in that wretched room, the very walls bearing witness to my torment. And then, as swiftly as it had begun, the pain subsided.”
His voice grows colder, his gaze locked onto mine. “He entered that room, and without a word, he shot me in the head. I was not as swift as I am now; the transformation had not yet reached its zenith. He deemed me a failed experiment and discarded me into a mass grave, alongside the forsaken remnants of my kin. The heavens wept as I screamed, surrounded by the decaying remnants of my people, swallowed by the earth.”
I stand there, utterly flabbergasted by his words. As he utters his final sentence, a chilling shiver runs down my spine. “Our newfound leader has orchestrated our resurgence, granting us sustenance drawn from your hunters, their very flesh,” he articulates, his tone resolute. “He embodies your essence but magnified, superior in every way. We shall wrest this soil from your grasp, and he shall ascend to your throne. A future of opulence awaits us as we reap the bounties of these hallowed grounds.”
“Who… are you?” I inquire desperately, my voice quivering with unease.
“I’m his second, his general, his right-hand man,” he replies with an air of ominous authority.
Thoughts race through my mind. We’ve captured their leader’s right-hand man, a significant strategic victory for us. However, to ensure our continued prosperity and prevent any further retaliation, we must find a way to neutralize this individual. But how? How can we effectively deal with him? Suddenly, an idea begins to form in my mind, a plan that might just work.
I turn to Sheriff Charles and order him to stay here and keep a close watch over the right-hand man. Meanwhile, I make my way to gather the necessary supplies for my plan.
I exit the Sheriff’s Office with purpose and immediately head to the sawmill, a crucial part of my islandic empire. There, I gather the required materials: sturdy rope and a substantial boulder. Despite the challenge, I manage to load the hefty boulder into a wheelbarrow, and with determination, I make my way to the docks.
The relentless rain pelts down, soaking my hat and drenching my entire being. Undeterred, I load the supplies onto my personal small vessel, which bobs in the rough waters. Once everything is secured, I return to the Sheriff’s Office with a clear mission in mind.
Upon arrival, I instruct the sheriff to unlock the cell. The native prisoner, sensing something amiss, inquires, “What’s going on?” I respond tersely, “You’re going to meet your end.” He begins to resist, but it’s futile against the two of us. Together, we haul him onto the boat, and I confine him in a small, windowless chamber typically used for storing fishing supplies. I secure the lock.
Back in the boat’s cabin, I start the engine, and Sheriff Charles holds on tightly as the rain pelts against the glass windows. The vessel rocks and sways in response to the tumultuous weather. Once I’m certain we’re far enough from the shore, I bring the boat to a halt, ready to put my daring plan into action.
Bracing myself against the unrelenting rain, I open the door to the outside. Raindrops seem to wage a personal war against me, but I refuse to be deterred. I carefully navigate the boat’s side, clutching the railing to avoid being cast into the turbulent sea. My task is daunting, but I don’t waver.
I secure the rope tightly around the hefty rock, ensuring that it won’t budge. At the opposite end, I tie a knot that will cinch even tighter but won’t come undone. Satisfied with my preparations, I return inside the boat, soaked but determined.
Sheriff Charles, an understanding look in his eyes, has been watching the unfolding plan. It’s time to set the wheels in motion. We open the enclosure, revealing the once imposing figure now cowering in a corner, fear etched into his eyes. I turn to Charles, asking, “Do you have your shotgun?” He responds by drawing the weapon from its holster and passing it to me.
With grim resolve, I fire two shots, nearly obliterating half of the native’s head. Charles recoils in shock, and I immediately command him to assist me before the enemy has a chance to regenerate. Together, we grasp his arms and drag him, leaving a gruesome trail of blood in our wake. We transport him to the front of the vessel, where I fasten the loop around his waist and pull it tight. As I watch in morbid fascination, his head begins to reform, bone, muscle, and skin slowly knitting back together.
Once the native’s head is fully restored, he takes in his surroundings, fear and despair washing over him. Sheriff Charles instinctively backs away, and I grip the railing tightly, rain beating down on us as the small vessel rocks violently with the waves.
Breaking the heavy silence, I speak sternly, “Once the rope or rock eventually gives way, most likely not for many decades, you’ll discover that your people never regained control of this land.” He makes a futile attempt to grab me, but I swiftly push the boulder over the edge. The rope cinches even tighter around his waist, and he sputters, “You will fail! You will per—”
His words are abruptly cut off as his head collides with a piece of railing, sending him hurtling off the ship. The rope constricts further, ensuring his grim fate as he’s dragged into the unforgiving waters, condemned to a slow and agonizing death over the course of decades.
Without exchanging a word, Charles and I return to the cabin and navigate the boat back to the island we call home. Once we’ve safely docked the vessel and secured it, we make our way to the saloon, ready to quench our thirst with a well-deserved drink.
“I ain’t reckon we’ll lay eyes on that fella again,” Charles drawls out, his voice as slow as molasses on a cold day. The rain outside begins to ease up, allowing the sun to make its descent on the horizon. I take the last sip of my drink and toss a handful of coins onto the bar. “Much obliged for all your help,” I nod to Charles as I push back my stool and rise. He just tips his hat, lighting up a cigarette with a sly grin.
Heading for home, a bone-deep chill driving me, I’m dead-set on shedding these drenched clothes. The gatehouses, stoic guardians of my fields, stand silent and empty, their timeworn wooden frames groaning in protest as I swing each one shut with a drawn-out creak of rusty hinges. The rain-washed air, cleansed of its burdens, fills my lungs as I close each gate, one after another, the misty scent of wet earth mingling with the tang of iron from the gate latches, all underscored by the distant rumble of thunder fading into the retreating storm.
Back at the manor, I park the car in the garage and head inside, my wet boots thudding on the floorboards. Quick as a whip, I change into something dry, relishing the warmth of fresh clothes. Still feeling the chill in my bones, I light a fire in the living room and fix my gaze on a wood carving adorning the wall. It’s a scene of a forest with a majestic deer and a man on horseback, finely detailed and weathered with age. In the bottom right corner, I notice some letters carved into the wood. R.R, 1829.
Feeling far warmer now, I make my way to the kitchen bar, a solitary refuge at this late hour. It’s a quiet space, devoid of anyone’s presence. I open the small refrigerator concealed beneath the bar and retrieve an ice-cold beer. With a flick of the bottle opener, the golden nectar is set free. I return to my living room, where the earlier chill is now replaced by the welcome warmth of the first sip, a comforting contrast to the cool embrace of the beer.
I sip my beer as night descends, and Eddie, my brother, joins me, a well-worn novel in his hand. Books have always been his solace. “What are you reading?” I inquire, my curiosity piqued. Eddie’s response intrigues me further. “Old journals,” he replies, his eyes gleaming with fascination. “There are tales of a beast, you know. I’ve been reading about it all day long, delving into Native journals and the writings of our ancestors.”
I take another thoughtful sip of beer. “I read Dad’s journal,” I confess, my mind racing with memories of our late father. “But there’s not much in there about the supposed beast, except for a map detailing its supposed territory.” I pause, letting the gravity of the situation sink in. “Maybe that’s why some hunters have gone missing,” Eddie states,
My thoughts return to the cryptic words spoken by the right-hand man earlier: “granting us sustenance drawn from your hunters, their very flesh.” Could it be possible? The implications are unsettling, to say the least. “I don’t think so,”
The room falls into silence, only disrupted by the occasional, subtle coughs that escape from Eddie’s throat, evidence of his efforts to conceal his ailment. It gnaws at me, this disease that has taken root in my brother.
Unable to bear the oppressive silence any longer, I rise from the plush sofa and make my way to my study, nestled within the vast confines of the library. As I settle behind the ancient desk, a piece lovingly crafted by my father, my mind is awash with thoughts. My father, skilled with his hands, had a penchant for hidden secrets and concealed passages. Could there be more to this study than meets the eye?
With a discerning eye, I scan the wooden surfaces of the desk, my fingers tracing along the grain of the wood. A subtle revelation emerges as I discover a section on the left side where the grain flips. My intuition proves correct; pressing it reveals a concealed compartment, housing a leather-bound book. I carefully extract it and shut the secret hatch with a soft click.
Flipping through the aged pages of this cryptic tome, I unearth sketches of the manor, resembling a slightly different version of the place we call home today. My eyes alight upon a section tucked away at the book’s conclusion, one that divulges the existence of secret passages. Much of the content appears to have been removed, leaving me with a sense of frustration.
Muttering a curse under my breath, I persist in my quest to unravel the limited information that remains. My attention hones in on a specific revelation: a concealed escape tunnel concealed within this very room, triggered by the act of pulling a particular black book. It’s a morsel of knowledge I deem invaluable. Furthermore, I note another passage described in the book—a route concealed behind the grand staircase painting.
I proceed up the staircase, climbing the familiar steps as I do each day. My gaze falls upon the three paintings that adorn the wall. To the left, a portrait of my grandfather; in the middle, one of my father; and to the right, a newer addition, a depiction of myself. With a sense of anticipation, I once again examine the tome and prepare to open the concealed passage.
My fingers dance over the right side of the frame, searching for the loose section. As I push it inwards, a subtle click resonates through the space, and the painting swings open, revealing a semi-circular room beyond. I step through the passage, feeling the threshold beneath my boots. The chamber unfolds before me, featuring three grand tapestries. One portrays an island, another a house, and the last, a creature of legend.
The creature depicted is haunting, its stag skull head looming, its body slender and elongated, and its eyes large and hollow, like ominous lanterns. Could this be the legendary beast from the island’s lore? My attention turns to the weapons adorning the walls, muskets intricately designed, sabers gleaming with history, and various antique arms. An ornate case holds a musket, not meant for use but for display, its beauty in its craftsmanship.
In front of the trio of banners stands a waist-high bookshelf, upon which a lectern supports an aged scroll. I approach it, recognizing the writing to be in an unfamiliar language. However, a paper rests beside it, presumably a translation. I begin to read its contents, my eyes scanning the unfamiliar words.
“Our chief fled today,” the script tells of a dire event. “I was among the few who witnessed his sudden escape into the wilderness, moving at an inhuman speed. His visage was pallid, and his stature had grown taller than before. Most disconcerting were the growths sprouting from the sides of his head. He suffered from a gruesome affliction—a hunger for human flesh. We, his council, tried to reason that some consumption of it could be tolerated, but a diet entirely comprised of it would inevitably bring dire consequences. Alas, he would not heed our counsel. I fear that he has been irrevocably transformed into something else—a Wendigo. The years ahead seem ominous, with this newfound threat. The Roamer family has been enough of a burden, and now this.”I step back from the scroll, my mind racing with the implications of these ominous words, and a shiver runs down my spine.
Contemplating the weight of this newfound knowledge, I emerge from the concealed passage, ensuring it’s securely sealed behind me. Regrettably, the journal yields no further secrets of note. I return it to my study desk with a sigh. As the night advances, I find myself drawn to the kitchen. With a profound sense of hunger gnawing at my insides due to missing dinner during my lengthy absence, I prepare a glass of water.
Carrying the glass, I proceed to my bedroom, where I set it down on the nightstand. An inviting warmth emanates from the bath waiting for me, and I gladly immerse myself in its soothing embrace. After my bath, I don my night attire, overcome by exhaustion from the day’s toils. I collapse onto the bed, surrendering to sleep’s embrace, all the while contemplating the enigmatic revelations and uncertainties that the coming days may hold.
I closed the book, my fingers lingering on the weathered leather cover. After securing it with the strap, I studied the intricate sketch of an island, its uncanny resemblance to images I had seen online sending shivers down my spine. Glancing back at the man before me, I hesitated for a moment before asking, “Is this the only journal you have?”
He met my gaze and replied, “No, I have two more books. They’re at home, I can bring the second one in tomorrow if you’re interested.”
I scrutinized his words, evaluating their sincerity. “I’ll be back at 12 o’clock, sharp.”
He nodded silently in response. Leaving the store, I headed home, anticipation building as I looked forward to delving deeper into the mysteries of my lineage, and the plantation the next day.