Date: Thu, 10 Oct 1996 08:06:01 MDT From: Robyn Meta Herrington Subject: SUB:CONTEST: Legacy of Evil Hidey Ho, Happy Halloweeners. Here's another morsel for you to chomp on. Critiques -- and thanks to those who have been -- to ME at rmherrin@acs.ucalgary.ca I will pass cheers and jeers along to the authors (who are, as you know anonymous). ===========================================Robyn LEGACY OF EVIL 2,400 WORDS Wilson frowned as he looked at the message scrawled on the wall: 'THIS PLACE BE ACCURSED OF GOD - TARRY NOT, FOR FEAR OF THY IMMORTAL SOUL!' Muttering something about "superstitious nonsense", the young man stepped through the yawning doorway into the derelict cottage. Once inside, he was immediately assailed by the rank smell of rotting wood and damp plaster. In front of him was a wooden staircase, riddled with decay. To his left was a low doorway into the front parlor. He ducked his head and entered. At first he could see nothing in the room except for a pale glow of daylight from the ivy-covered window. And then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he began to make out the outline of a five-pointed star cut into the stone floor. Two large circles had been drawn around the star, the points of which touched the innermost perimeter. Groups of letters were set in the narrow band between the circles, but Wilson could make no sense of the strange words: 'AGLA, ALEPH, EL, TETRAGRAMMATON.' Against one wall were rows of rotting bookshelves. They were empty but bowed as if they had once carried the weight of many hefty volumes. Wilson was startled by the sudden appearance of a luminous pool of light in the middle of the floor. As he stared in frozen fascination, the brightness grew more solid and began to assume the ghostly outline of a figure. Like the picture on a developing photograph, so details slowly appeared on the hazy form. And soon Wilson found himself face-to-face with a bearded old man in flowing robes. Mystical symbols were outlined on the robes, and in the figure's right hand was a short staff. The crooked smile and the cold, staring eyes held a strange malevolence. But even as the young man looked, the apparition began to quiver and melt away. He stared for a long while in numbed disbelief at the space where the figure had appeared. Then, the spell broken, he uttered a frenzied cry and fled from the room. In the hallway his headlong flight was abruptly halted as he cannoned into a large, shadowy form. An involuntary gasp escaped his lips. "You shouldn't be 'ere, mister," came the gruff voice of the stranger with whom Wilson had collided. He gripped the young man firmly by the arm and led him outside. "You shouldn't be 'ere," the stranger repeated. "'Tis a bad place, an evil place. No-one's been 'ere since old Jim Wiley died." He fingered something around his neck which might have been a crucifix. "I farm this land 'ere next to Wiley's place, and I was working in the field opposite when I saw you. You're not from hereabouts, so I guess you don't know..." "Know what?" "'Tis better not spoken of," came the mysterious reply. "But take it from me, young man, Wiley's place is best left alone. Especially coming up to Halloween!" As Wilson left the cottage and took the path back to Chilford Combe, he looked behind him to where the farmer still stood by the doorway, shaking his head. That same grim advice to stay away from Akron Cottage was to be repeated by everyone Wilson questioned in the village over the next few days, even by the usually helpful and well-informed landlord of the Black Horse Inn where he was staying. Although the local people seemed to accept his story about being a student of folklore from Stratford University on a study tour of the region, they were nonetheless curiously uncommunicative about old Jim Wiley. Wilson thought they might be even openly hostile if they knew the real reason for his visit. He had inherited the cottage from his father, who had been Wiley's nephew and sole heir. But, as far as he could discover, his father had never even visited the site. Years of neglect and exposure to the weather had brought the property to its present ruinous state. And Wilson suspected a certain amount of vandalism by the local inhabitants who - as he was finding out - remembered his great-uncle with only horror and loathing. Wilson had once seen pictures of Jim Wiley on faded family photographs, tucked carefully out of sight behind the fly-leaf of an album. They had been taken before he'd grown whiskers and a beard, and the young man had been struck by the strong resemblance between the two of them. It might have been a picture of himself. He remembered once how an aunt had commented on the resemblance, and immediately been hushed into silence. The subject of his great-uncle, the black sheep of the family, had always been taboo. At last, searching through the newspaper archives in nearby Ashwood St. George, Wilson found what he was looking for. In an issue of the Ashwood Chronicle, dated 31st October 1922, was the following report:- 'Angry villagers from Chilford Combe gathered outside Akron Cottage below Merlin's Wood, where they demanded to see the occupier, Mr. Jim Wiley, whom they accused of Devil-worship, Black Magic and other blasphemous practices. They said he had coerced young Timothy Cleveland into being an unwilling accomplice in his foul deeds. 'Mention was made of the strange disappearance of local livestock, and it was even suggested that they were somehow implicated in the abduction of little Anna Croft, who disappeared last year. Neighbours have complained about the sound of animals in pain and even of human screams from the cottage. But as far as we know, these complaints have never been properly investigated. 'The incident outside Akron Cottage ended when Constable Clinton arrived on the scene. The villagers then dispersed peaceably to their homes. 'It would seem that further investigation by the local authorities is required into the questionable activities of the eccentric Jim Wiley...' From his study of subsequent issues, it appeared to Wilson that 'further investigation' of his great-uncle had never taken place. But he was more interested in the mention of Timothy Cleveland at the beginning of the article. If this accomplice of Wiley's was 'young' in 1923, then perhaps he was still alive. The only other reference of interest was about the old man's death on 22nd November 1938:- 'The body of Jim Wiley was discovered at his cottage yesterday by Timothy Cleveland. The doctor was summoned, but Mr. Wiley was declared officially dead upon his arrival.' No reference was made, however, to the cause of death. Was it by natural causes or something more sinister? An examination of the telephone directory produced a Mr. T. Cleveland at Beeches Farm, Chilford Combe. Was this a relation of that Timothy Cleveland in the Ashwood Chronicle or was this the man himself? There was only one way to find out. It was a familiar figure who opened the door at Beeches Farm. "Mr. Cleveland?" inquired Wilson. "Timothy Cleveland?" "So it's you again," came the sharp response. "I heard you'd been snooping around askin' fool questions about old Jim Wiley." Cleveland shook his head and made clucking noises with his tongue. "You should've taken my advice, young fella. There's no good gonna come from you pokin' yer nose into this business. I don't care if you are a student of folklore or somesuch. There are certain things best left alone. Good day to you!" The door began to close. "Akron Cottage belongs to me," put in Wilson hastily. After a moment of silence, a face peered around the door. "What's that yer say?" "The cottage belongs to me," repeated Wilson. "My property!" "You kin to Jim Wiley?" Wilson nodded. This news came like a mortal blow to Timothy Cleveland. His stiff-backed figure seemed to droop and he suddenly began to look much older, even than his seventy-three years. He peered short-sightedly at his visitor. "Of course, I s...see it now," he croaked, and pointed a boney finger at the young man's face. "There's a m...marked resemblance. Why, if you only had a beard, you'd be the dead spit of old Jim Wiley. Now why didn't I see it before?" Wilson said, "I'm aware of my great-uncle's reputation, you know. Old copies of the Ashwood Chronicle leave little room for doubt. And, of course, I've seen those curious circles on the floor of the cottage. Jim Wiley practiced the black arts. He was a warlock, wasn't he Mr. Cleveland?" The old man looked very tired. "Some folk said he were 'Old Hob' himself!" He sighed. "It all sort of depends on what you believe. Some saw him as a sort of wise man, a scholar seeking after hidden knowledge. He knew a lot of them dark secrets people call occult. He were wise in that way, you know, if you can ever say it's wise to know about such things. Why, he used to do blasphemous sorts of experiments in search of new knowledge. Oh, he had real power all right - the sort of power you get when you meddle too much with forbidden things. You could say he were a warlock maybe, a wizard or a sorcerer. There's lots of them names. He could have used his powers for good, you know, but instead he chose a way of evil..." "And you helped him!" "I was young and foolish in those days, and easily led astray. Jim knew that, an' he talked me into helping him with his infernal experiments." The farmer shook his head sadly. "But it's all a long time ago. I saw the error of my ways and I became a changed man, you know." He crossed himself. "I've followed the ways of righteousness these good many years." "Tell me," asked Wilson, "just how did the old man meet his death in the autumn of '38? The Chronicle recorded his death but gave no details." "I told you I became a changed man. I saw the light. Whatever I did was for the best. The Lord will be my judge." The old farmer's eyes narrowed as he looked at his caller suspiciously. "But why d'you want to know all this? What good does it do to bring up the past, eh? Wiley's dead an' gone. The best thing you can do, young fella, is to get away from this place an' forget all about Akron Cottage. You say it's an inheritance. If you ask me, more like a legacy of evil!" This time, when the door slammed shut, it was final. Wilson heard bolts being drawn on the inside. But what did the old farmer mean when he said whatever he'd done was for the best and that the Lord would be his judge? The newspaper had said nothing about suspicious circumstances surrounding Wiley's death. Had there been a cover-up? Wilson had to leave the village the next day. He'd decided that Akron Cottage should be demolished and the land sold for rebuilding. However, he suspected it would be a very long time before anyone bought the land with its evil reputation. All the arrangements had been left in the hands of an agent in Ashwood St. George, but before going he felt he must visit his property once more. Despite an obvious feeling of apprehension about doing so, he was driven by a strange compulsion. It was a cool halloween evening when the young man approached the derelict cottage below Merlin's Wood for the last time. The sun would soon be below the horizon, and the growing twilight added to the menacing atmosphere of the old house. Stepping through the hall and into the parlour, he approached the faded pentagram inscribed on the floor. Suddenly, as on his first visit, a ghostly figure began to materialize. The face of the long-dead magus held a look of expectancy, even of triumph, as if he had been waiting in almost certain knowledge that the young man would return. The apparition glided across the room towards him. It seemed unable to pass the threshold of the pentagram, but Wilson felt some curious force impelling his own movements, making him stumble forwards over the unseen barrier until he was so close to the figure he could almost feel a cold greyness touching him. A voice suddenly came into his mind. His great-uncle was addressing him in deep and commanding tones, though the pale lips never moved: "I have waited many years for you to answer my summons. Now, at last, I can shed this astral body and assume mortal form once more." His white whiskers and beard quivered and his eyes seemed to glow as his face broke into a ferocious grin of delight. "At last, at last!" he cried, and then started to chant a litany of barbarous words. "Herachio, Geburahel, Ebmisha, Elamos, Dama, Izachel, Edoniel, Bael, Herenobolcule..." At the same time, his left hand traced a sign in the air. Wilson fell to his knees, clutching the sides of his head, trying to shake off a curious sensation as of drowning - as though his mind was being invaded by another consciousness. "Don't fight me," continued the voice. "Resistance is useless. You see, I am much stronger than you. It will be easier if you willingly accept what must be." Then suddenly the oppressive feeling was gone. And so was the ghost of Jim Wiley. The young man scrambled to his feet and looked around. Somehow, he didn't feel the same. "Now the waiting is over," his mind formed the words. "At last I will be avenged against one who betrayed me!" Wilson got onto the bus with a copy of the Ashwood Chronicle tucked under his arm. In it was the news of how neighbours had, that morning, found the battered and lifeless body of Timothy Cleveland. It was thought the farmer had tried to tackle an intruder, who had then panicked and escaped empty-handed. The paper said something about a look of fearful recognition on the old man's face. The police were pursuing inquiries. The young man chuckled to himself as he swung into a nearside seat. He took a deep breath. It felt good. The bus would soon be leaving the outskirts of Ashwood St. George and taking him on to a new life. He stroked his stubbly chin reflectively as he gazed out of the window. He had started to grow a beard. The End. ---------------------------------------------------- -- -------+++++++-------+++++++ +++++++-------+++++++------- Robyn Herrington Operations Manager, Microforms Services University of Calgary, MacKimmie Library Ph: (403)220-6903 http://www.ucalgary.ca/~rmherrin rmherrin@acs.ucalgary.ca -------+++++++-------+++++++--------------+++++++-------+++++++-------