They met once again at sundown, near a great cathedral overlooking the waters of a crystal-white lake. A few people turned up for mass, then they all left as they came, one after the other, each to their own homes and completely oblivious to their future fate.
Melvin observed their passing, as he had done for many centuries. Yet this time it was different. He held the watch in his hand, its slow ticking a dangerous and troublesome noise. This time, he knew, he would be forced to join their fate and face oblivion. His children were dead, and with them died his plan.
"Hello brother." She said, walking towards him, her face hidden by a black umbrella. A few drops began falling down, almost following her arrival.
Melvin sat down on the small bench near the lake, adjusting his hat and behaving like the proper gentleman he was.
"Where is she? Where is the child?"
"Safe." Was her answer.
"We had a deal."
"Not from the moment when you ordered your underling to harm Clara."
"It is rude to lie to your own kin. It was you all along. Ever since the beginning."
"What are you talking about?"
"You used their emotions against me. You whispered in his ear, waking him up early that morning so that he could find his way to the manor. You left the music box for the child to find, knowing that you had no power within my house. But Solomon's mark inscribed on it helped you reach the child and destroy everything I had built." He explained, calmly. "You followed them unseen every step of the way, and led them to find my secret. So please, don't tell me you only intervened at the end."
She put away the umbrella, revealing her darkened expression. Their eyes met and there was no resentment. Only understanding.
"I will hurt you." Melvin said. "If I ever find the girl again, I will enjoy inflicting pain on her. And then I will make her mine, just like I did with Charles. Not because I need her, no. But to hurt you. To hurt you just like you hurt me."
"It was not my intention to destroy them, you know. I have no interest in your plans."
"If that was true then you would have stayed out of them! If only you would know how delicate the process was: choosing the right land to build the house, making sure the blood would survive, that the flows of energy would perfectly coincide with the location; then find the right person with the right desire. Edwin Gottsworth was that person."
"Perhaps you overestimated his desire. I saw something else in him. Something closer to... me."
"You may be right." Melvin smiled and got up. "It wasn't fear that killed them, after all. You know that?"
She remained silent, a sudden understanding cutting through her normally calm and peaceful expression.
"Yes." Melvin nodded. "Yes, indeed."
"I will... make amends."
"Oh, don't pretend to be so innocent. I would be very careful if I were you." He said sternly, then started to walk away.
After a few steps he stopped, then turned around, his eyes once again shining brightly and matching hers in all but colour. "You see, I enjoy spending time with them. With humans. I take great pleasure in understanding their customs, living among them, tasting their wines and, especially, their desires. You were right: if only I could feel this world like they do. But the others? Our brethren? They are not like me or you. And with the end approaching soon, some of them may be getting desperate. Be very careful with who you cross next, sister."
"It will be good to see them all again. This event will bring us back together."
"Or it will tear us all apart, once and for all."
"Then rejoice, brother." She said. "We are not so different from them after all."
M
There was a story to be told but not many that would hear it. When Mortimer returned to London he tried his very best to recount to the world what had happened in that place and how tragically both Edwin and his wife lost their lives. He spent many sleepless nights drowning his nightmares in wine until finally, months later, they relented. The paper published a small article at the bottom of a page about Edwin Gottsworth's disappearance but no mention had been made about the manor or any of the incredible events that transpired. They had blamed it all on the man himself, suggesting he ran away to spend his money in better places and left a mountain of debt to those that couldn't pay it. More drama then emerged surrounding Agatha's family but Mortimer had had enough of it and quietly secluded himself from all the noise. But that was not enough; not for him.
Melvin Gulavies was not a name that was openly discussed and after the first few uncomfortable questions, Mortimer understood that he had deep connections amongst the nobility and that Charles Withersden had not been the only one to fall under his spell. It was a fruitless and dangerous search, he knew. Even if somehow he was able to locate him, he would only risk his own life again. Furthermore, the idea that a creature like Melvin could have infiltrated the highest echelons of society was too disturbing and he thought nothing more of it.
Clara was still on his mind and for the next year he wandered around searching for her or for a young girl dressed in white. He visited numerous shops looking for music boxes of various kind in the hopes that any clue as to her whereabouts might surface. It was all in vain.
Eventually, he decided to muster enough courage to return to that place where the manor stood. Three times, over the course of the next two years, did he tried to locate it, and every time he failed. It was as if the place eluded him completely. There was some land that had been bought by the Withersden family hundreds of years ago, located in a remote area that was not easily reachable. Since it seemed to easily fit the profile, Mortimer started investigating. The elders of local communities and towns were superstitious, saying the land was cursed and very few would go near it. It had been so ever since they remembered, hearing stories from their grandparents.
Life had other plans for him, however, and one thing led to another. Mortimer knew he couldn't keep spending years chasing ghosts and so decided to move on. Over the next five years he moved and lived in Paris, where he had wanted to be and paint for much of his youth. He managed to make a small name for himself and dedicated his time and attention to his art and occasionally to research. He painted many pieces that were exhibited and many others that were not. In that private collection he kept all his memories of that night, disturbing colours and brushstrokes that recreated the nightmarish sights he had seen. It was a way for him to be free of them, to liberate them from the grasp of his mind and lock them away in a room that was never again to be opened. He hoped no one would ever set sight on those paintings so that the future could be free of such terrors.
After five years he decided to return to England one last time. He wrote a letter on the way and put it inside the pocket of a jacket that was all too familiar to him. He had kept it ever since but it was time to be rid of it. Somehow, fate accompanied him throughout his journey and after a long trek he found what he had been searching for.
There were barely any ruins left but he recognised the place. The foul stench no longer permeated the air and the earth closed and buried all the nightmares inside it, leaving only a few dusty and blackened stones above. There were no bodies to be found either, and that was for the best. A shy patch of flowers grew not far away and he heard the sound of birds chirping happily somewhere. Part of him hoped he could find a trace of Clara there, even after all those years. Silently he approached the ruins and was surprised to find one thing that survived the disaster: his painting.
Alongside it, Charles Withersden's burned and ruined image was an ironic last testament to the fall of his family and Mortimer left it there to be forgotten. He hoped no one would remember his name.
Edwin and Agatha were smiling, with young Clara at their side. Part of him wished he could take it along with him, only to keep that memory alive. He picked a few flowers and left them beside it then hung Edwin's jacket nearby. He put his broken watch near the painting and there he left his letter as well.
That was the first and last time he would visit that which ultimately was their grave. He thought it best to leave the painting there. Perhaps one day someone somehow might find it and know nothing of their story and of the tragedy that befell them.
Mortimer's last letter was addressed to Clara.
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September, 1901
Dear Clara,
I write these words knowing they will never reach you. For five long years I have searched for any trace of the young girl I fondly remember. I do not know where you are but I pray that you are happy and smiling. I am sorry I couldn't fulfil Edwin's last request.
Your father was not perfect. He was only human and I loved him for he was more human than others. I loved you like a daughter I could never have and I thought I would be lost without the two of you. I thought I could not bear the loneliness yet here I still am. Somehow I have found the strength within me to continue on and leave this behind. I have to leave you behind, Clara. Those moments we shared together, I will treasure until I am gone.
Your father feared the world and I did too. He feared time would not be kind to men like us, sharing in something that was not permitted. More than anything else, he was afraid to love.
The world has changed and it will keep doing so. I have learned that it is through courage and love that it will keep changing for the better. There are fiends lurking out there in the shadows who would see that courage shattered and men like your father destroyed. Perhaps someday others will rise up against those monsters and defeat them. Until then, we can only do the best we can.
Your mother saved my life in the end. Despite her mistakes I have forgiven her and I hope you can do so as well. Our resentment and hatred only feeds and breeds monsters.
I do not know what the future has in store for me, but I know there is much I do not know. And that, I do not fear anymore.
By losing them, I have somehow found myself.
Thank you for your love, Clara. I will never forget you.
Mortimer James Moor
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THE END