'when laid out seeking slumber'

November 1876

AMAN GIVEN TO PATIENCE is William Harvey sitting alone in the attic room. Who studies the pocket watch, squinting at the intricate engraving. He's careful, working his thumbnail along the edge, releasing the delicate catch, popping it open like an oyster shell.

The exact moment passes by uneventful.
He's now of age.
What awakens and correlates with a new moon in Scorpio?
Much too young a man and burdened with troubled thoughts that stalk over time when he needs rest.
Did poet Samuel Flyte speak of that demon in the night - 'All through the night shall an inner voice seek life when laid out seeking slumber. In still moments when dark and yearning, I shall come from shadows to taunt thee.'
William by no means forgotten.
Everything beyond has never forgotten.
Somebody said a curse cast over him, won't make old bones.
He draws in closer.
One finds plenty ready with grim opinion and hinting at a melancholy nature. Who they to pass judgement? He might concede on a point. One might comment a fair observation, considering his wandering amongst ancient gravestones during biting winter mornings. What of it? Bracing it is, invigorating the physique, clearing a weariness in places of solitude, walking amongst the sleeping in death's eternal repose.
Nevertheless, he has slept with them, laid out over table-top tombstones pretending in death, then resurrected. Cursed... Possibly, in somnambulistic wanderings unaware of who overshadows.
He considers himself a smitten romantic, a brooding poetic persona. The truth is, he's a troubled soul. Lost - maybe, seeking solace from the world he cannot understand in its manifestations of brutality.
His tenement room on Melrose Street is dust and webs sparsely furnished for the rent. A place whose ambience seeps and creeps amongst the gloom. If invisible phantoms stand staring within the shadows they'd be eyes for another... years dead. They'd be witnessing a bequest handed down the dynasty, for on this day so mote it be.
A man might give in to superstition, may glimpse other worlds if so inclined. Do cursed souls roam our reality and another dwelling place of foreboding shadows? Much has he to ponder over years, casting a serious countenance that in stillness has him dead as a statue set in stone.
It is what becomes of setting one reason against another. One man's search for sense, over events that leave him bereft. A mind haunted with persistent doubts and questions. For a net casts a veil upon his appearance revealing one who mourns with haunted memories. These private thoughts, seeking balanced opinion, let it be that it is all simple coincidences. To ascertain through reason that nothing of this is supernatural, but a random set of circumstances. The mind seeks to find connections, drawn to look for something that doesn't exist.
Yet, in mind, lives doubt, secrets and vices. It is a curse, unto battle, warding off what seeks to overshadow and reign as a god-man.
The room holds the space.
He did think there might be a sign, akin to something taunting, expressing obvious relish.
William searched straining to hear beyond woeful sounds of life born into poverty. A tortured drunk, somewhere downstairs, wet cough troubling and another singing a lilting lullaby calling on Death to come steal him from the misery. One a bairn, hungry, clinging to its dying mother.
The ticking watch broke the reverie. He opened a silver box. William thoughtful, staring at the syringe.
Across the skylight, the patter of drizzle from a passing shower. Running down it threading rivulet arteries turning a reddish hue as blood from a dead bird mingling with the rain. Unnoticed it was if a face formed at the crisscrossing and bloodied flow across the cracked pane. An evil face... Staring at William slouched over the table.

The Old Pavilion

AT THE END OF ONE MOON PHASE dawns the last of an Autumn's day and the start of Winter's frost. The Old Pavilion is streets distant from the impoverished skulking in alleyways and poverty of the downtown bay area. A building of faded grandeur, suffering groans and creaks of shifting movement. Yet, held together two friends meet, gathered with others, haunting familiar tables, consuming slaughtered beast and fowl in precise ritual etiquette.
They have consumed gossip, yet, one detecting a note of hesitation, time to take the initiative.
"So, what's the secret?" Victoria inquisitive at the silence.
Marie remained thoughtful as she had throughout the meal.
Victoria leaning close. "Has William asked you to marry him?"
She drew back waiting on the reply.
"Father," she admitted. "it's an understatement to say he doesn't care for William."
Marie sighs.
"He's even said, he'll tell him to keep away or have him arrested."
"That seems extreme. I had no idea you father was so set against him. I thought he was just being over protective in his way."
"He's being impossible and cruel about him, doesn't want me to mix with his sort." She lowered her voice. "You ever wish you could be someone else and just run away from your life?"
Victoria reached with a smile. "Sometimes."
She had an idea.
"I think we should leave," proposed Victoria, "you want to be someone else, come, I have a plan."
They complimented the Maitre d' leaving the diners gorging on roast quail, black cherries and wild morels, whilst a stiff and controlled lady sips nectar amongst folk long beyond their best and fearing bedtime.
She had observed the two friends. The lady, a stranger to both diners, one lost in worry, but the other intrigued her, worthy of diversion are those of the craft.

The Priest, Father James, attempted to walk the Old Pavilion grounds. His physician's advice he should consider regular strolls. He bade greetings to those on his path and smiled when Marie and Victoria offered him encouragement. Victoria said she would collect the book soon, as way of a reminder, then continuing down the path with plans in place for their day.
A young man stood out and stared, the priest caught sight of him. Father James wheezed a little, leaning on his walking cane and shuffled along the path. The Old Pavilion was over to the side, the man hadn't moved.
He could have a warming drink at the pavilion, sit a while inside and shelter from the cold.
When Father James caught his breath at the door, he noticed the man move near. The priest looked on him kindly. He offered a smile, none returned. In the quiet, he wore a familiar threatening shadow.
Father James started to move forward.
The lady, a Mrs Bane, who'd been observing Marie and Victoria, approached the main door, on opening it she locked her gaze on the priest. She stood her ground on the porch glaring at him.
Father James recognising the signs. The young man had stepped in, a figure of grey, a feral creature, an acolyte.

Father James was anxious when he returned home. The walk back had exhausted him along with the threat and a burden on his conscience. He opened his journal and wrote. His hand was shaking…
'I have experienced again, intense moments of isolation. Today, my entire essence separated by a hidden force. The re-tuning of nature's frequency, causing body, soul and spirit somehow detached.
My study, home to an unnatural chill, and my movement outside on the streets now anticipating their disciples.
Inside those lost people, unholy masters see through their eyes, speak words, plant lingering stares. For I know their ways, back to source, that place of oblivion. I, hunted, no stranger to Lucifer and his legions…'
He closed the book and had cause to look at the shadows growing in his study. Even this room, his sanctuary, something wanting, from its cover of darkness watching this old exorcist.

of smoke and mirrors

MARIE AND VICTORIA HAD SPENT THE AFTERNOON indulging in a visit to The Grand theatre house. It a welcome distraction, gothic horror and a bloodbath of gore, it matched a need to escape normal life. They had dressed down for the event, hidden their true identities, becoming make believe denizens of the port town.
The town had two theatres. The Palace, long fallen into disrepair and remains forgotten, although from time to time cleared of squatters seeking a place to lie low.
It is a shabby, aged, hard nailed with splintered wood sheets stopping the fallen to enter its domain. Scrawled and splattered blood-red paint warns of DANGER and KEEP OUT.
Lost from the main Parade and blending into side street shadows.
Surveying a proposal is Mrs Bane, with a buckled-back agent holding aloft his lantern. The man expecting something jumping from the shadows as he felt his way along a warren of grim pathways. He about to raise a curtain on years of neglect strewn haphazardly, while lingering in the air the damp smell of a building dying.
"I'd… erm… mind where you tread," advised the agent with a weak and dry voice continuing to edge down the main centre aisle. "Might be a few loose boards, given over to rot…" The dour way he spoke realised, he lifted the drone in his voice. "Although the building is watertight and sound," and adding, "maybe does need some restoration here and there…" His spiel trailed off, stopping to circle the lamp and trying to banish the gloom. He hunched over, set off again leading to the stage.
Mrs Bane said nothing.
They circled a passageway and found stairs, the guide presuming they ran under the stage.
Down below they led to a hidden chamber, a place of convenience.
"This is perfect," remarked Mrs Bane. It was the first bit of emotion she expressed. Her eyes lit up with an intensity.
The lantern flame fading and drawing closer a creeping gloom, and turning upward the agents face, registering a sale forthcoming in Mrs Bane's eyes, it does cross his mind.
Whom of them is doing deals with the devil?

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