Status: Re-uploaded 29/09/2012. Paperback $15- http://www.lulu.com/shop/tristrum-rees/the-macabre-tales-of-young-edgar-paperback/paperback/product-20248115.html
The Macabre Tales of Young Edgar
Possession
The things Edgar had seen around Whirlpool Manor plagued him as badly as his dreams. He felt marooned on the island of silence he built in his room, while a tide of chaos rose around him on both sides. Noise was beginning to encroach on his pitch-black haven, where all the candles and kerosene lights had been put out. Slowly, the sentient creaking and clicking of the Manor invaded his mind.
He heard his quill scratch on the parchment, and was reminded of the scrabbling bats upstairs. The previous midnight, he had stopped the solemn, old clock, which had reminded him of the emptiness in his first dream, and the unseen, promised perils in his second. Regardless, the ghost of its ticking kept ringing in his ears. It was too late for him to escape the march of time, which guarded him constantly. It was too late now that he knew what seconds were, and what their tiny deaths sounded like.
Like a prisoner in a blackened cell, he wrung his hands and paced back and forth. He threw his cape about his shoulders, hoping that if he twisted and turned enough he might escape its swishing, becoming one with the shadows. He wanted nothing more than relief from his own body, and escape from his own mind. At last, he fell dejectedly into his chair. He hung his head over his desk, facing the parchment that contained his half-formed scribblings as though it were a legally binding document. His eyes implored it for mercy, reading proclamation of a death sentence.
Edgar the prisoner yearned for nothing so badly as escape. With hands like pale insects, he struck a match and held aloft. This, he wished on like a falling star, before he sent it swooping over the desktop horizon to crash in a wax crater and be reborn at the wick.
His work was becoming increasingly onerous, but nevertheless, he only needed one light to work by. He only needed one prayer.
Edgar prayed for a way out.
Instantly, his wish was granted. The angel of insanity slipped off his crumpled cape and laid her soft mantle upon his shoulders. The séance began.
The young man's eyes glazed over, becoming wide like portals through which some suppressed slice of him saw its way out of nightmare. His quill began to turn in his hand, spinning and spewing madly; speaking in tongues.
Though his phantom costume had come apart over the course of the day, it still left some mark on him. Upon returning to his quarters, he had washed the dust from his hair. Now, freshly oiled, its inky spill covered his face, just as he hid his fear beneath another spill of ink. He wrote from the soul, baring all. Each executed stroke was a cut in the paper that leaked black, blasphemous blood.
Every sentence was a sin against science and sanity. The process through which Edgar had his visions, and his stories, was a kind of witchcraft; his investigation of his subject matter defied all that was holy. His neck was concealed by his high collar, and was as rigid as if it had been bolted together. A composite to put Frankenstein to shame, he might have received the electric spark of Hell's most ambitious experiment.
Edgar wrote as the Devil would have conceived of writing, had it been his invention, and not God's, for use in his own diabolical Commandments.
He clutched feverishly at the paper, which was now all that remained of his island. As the tide crept ever higher behind those glassy eyes, he was helpless to fight it. He resisted in the only way he knew, channeling his final strength into his quill's consuming dance; pounding out a rhythm to entreat the gods.
Without knowing that his life both depended on and threatened by his writing, Edgar wrote.
He heard his quill scratch on the parchment, and was reminded of the scrabbling bats upstairs. The previous midnight, he had stopped the solemn, old clock, which had reminded him of the emptiness in his first dream, and the unseen, promised perils in his second. Regardless, the ghost of its ticking kept ringing in his ears. It was too late for him to escape the march of time, which guarded him constantly. It was too late now that he knew what seconds were, and what their tiny deaths sounded like.
Like a prisoner in a blackened cell, he wrung his hands and paced back and forth. He threw his cape about his shoulders, hoping that if he twisted and turned enough he might escape its swishing, becoming one with the shadows. He wanted nothing more than relief from his own body, and escape from his own mind. At last, he fell dejectedly into his chair. He hung his head over his desk, facing the parchment that contained his half-formed scribblings as though it were a legally binding document. His eyes implored it for mercy, reading proclamation of a death sentence.
Edgar the prisoner yearned for nothing so badly as escape. With hands like pale insects, he struck a match and held aloft. This, he wished on like a falling star, before he sent it swooping over the desktop horizon to crash in a wax crater and be reborn at the wick.
His work was becoming increasingly onerous, but nevertheless, he only needed one light to work by. He only needed one prayer.
Edgar prayed for a way out.
Instantly, his wish was granted. The angel of insanity slipped off his crumpled cape and laid her soft mantle upon his shoulders. The séance began.
The young man's eyes glazed over, becoming wide like portals through which some suppressed slice of him saw its way out of nightmare. His quill began to turn in his hand, spinning and spewing madly; speaking in tongues.
Though his phantom costume had come apart over the course of the day, it still left some mark on him. Upon returning to his quarters, he had washed the dust from his hair. Now, freshly oiled, its inky spill covered his face, just as he hid his fear beneath another spill of ink. He wrote from the soul, baring all. Each executed stroke was a cut in the paper that leaked black, blasphemous blood.
Every sentence was a sin against science and sanity. The process through which Edgar had his visions, and his stories, was a kind of witchcraft; his investigation of his subject matter defied all that was holy. His neck was concealed by his high collar, and was as rigid as if it had been bolted together. A composite to put Frankenstein to shame, he might have received the electric spark of Hell's most ambitious experiment.
Edgar wrote as the Devil would have conceived of writing, had it been his invention, and not God's, for use in his own diabolical Commandments.
He clutched feverishly at the paper, which was now all that remained of his island. As the tide crept ever higher behind those glassy eyes, he was helpless to fight it. He resisted in the only way he knew, channeling his final strength into his quill's consuming dance; pounding out a rhythm to entreat the gods.
Without knowing that his life both depended on and threatened by his writing, Edgar wrote.
