Spawn of Man

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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

Cover Art:
Michelle Crocker

http://mlcdesigns4you.weebly.com/

Publisher’s Note:

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

Solstice Publishing -
www.solsticepublishing.com

Copyright 2015 Terry Farricker

SPAWN OF MAN

By Terry Farricker

Dedication

I dedicate this work to the two edges of my life, my wonderful parents Norma and Terry and my beautiful child, Luke, who has given meaning to my existence. The years will pass Luke, but my love for you will not.

Chapter One

1647

Andrew rose from his bed. It was very early and birds had begun to sing in the world beyond his window. But, inside the room, the silence was like the dull thud of a heartbeat, rhythmic and constant. It pounded in his ears and its texture was bitter on his tongue. The mirror still hung in the middle of the small room; the room that Andrew had rented, telling no one of his intent. Andrew knew it would still be there of course, seven feet high, four feet wide and suspended in the air, unsupported. It was as thin as the parchment on the table by Andrew’s bed and its liquid surface rippled with potential. Its fluid nature appeared to flow smoothly from a central point to end prematurely at the ragged edges.

It had hung in this manner since it had first appeared fifteen days ago, fulfilling the prophecy of Andrew’s dreams. The dreams that bade him come to this room.

Andrew moved about his chamber dressing and washing and his reflection similarly busied itself in its mirrored version of the room. Andrew had noticed that his image would occasionally take longer over a particular task than he did himself, as if it was savoring the sensations of the activity. But recently it had taken the initiative and it was Andrew who now mimicked the actions of his likeness, following its lead and adhering to its agenda and assuming the role of the reflection. This morning the image had already completed its ablutions and was now sitting by the small table, waiting for Andrew.

Andrew sat by the table and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The thing that stared back was not a faithful likeness. It was pained, sad and thrown from the recesses of a place of great lament and despair. Andrew had compared this image to his reflection in his two other mirrors and the one seated in front of him now was older and worn. It had aggrieved the mirror image greatly when Andrew had used the other mirrors and it had wailed so terribly that Andrew had destroyed them. He had peered to the sides of the area displayed in the mirror, in order to determine if the symmetry was complete and that the reflection extended proportionately to include the whole room. But to his shock, there was only wet, slime-encrusted rock visible in the mirror beyond the immediate reflection of Andrew’s bed, washbasin, and writing table.

In these last few days, it had become apparent to Andrew that he was producing a book of instructions. There were now diagrams and schematics pouring from his quill that seemed to be concerned with the construction of some form of intricately decorated chair. And there was poetry too and mention of the realms of the dead. Andrew noticed now that the luster had gone from the eyes of his mirror image. It had been replaced with an empty blackness, as if pools of the darkest night had been poured into the barren sockets.

Andrew fought to stay conscious as little devils of nothingness tugged at his eyelids, coaxing him into limbo, and the quill fell limp in his grasp. But he forced himself to look at his reflection one last time. It was almost unrecognizable as Andrew now. Blackness bled and seeped from the eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. It was thick and crawled slowly down the features in the mirror image, like lava down a mountainside. When it reached the table, it slid towards the quill and enveloped it.

Andrew regarded his own hand, the one holding the quill, and he found the same blackness was weaving around his fingers. His free hand touched his lips and when it withdrew, he witnessed the same blackness staining his skin and hanging in loose strands from his mouth. He looked back into the mirror and whispered as the blackness clogged his throat, ‘Dear God. What manner of demon are you? What have you done to me, what have I become?’

And the quill began to write again in his lifeless hand, guided by the blackness as Andrew’s head slumped forward. It wrote remorselessly for the next twelve days. It wrote as Andrew’s body became stiff and maggot infested. It wrote as he crumbled to the floor, only the hand remaining intact, motored by the blackness it was wrapped in. And it continued writing when the mirror phenomenon blinked out of existence. Then it waited as Andrew’s body fell to pieces and turned to dust. And in time, it too perished along with the hand and that little mound of dust was found on the last page of the book, which was eventually discovered by Andrew’s fellow clergymen.

Chapter Two

Death opened his arms in hollow temptation,

And man faltered towards the embrace and found it tasted good.

Death closed his arms and man remembered what it truly meant to live,

And man plotted the means to regain life’s sweet blood.

Translation from Father Andrew’s book.

***

The tall man dressed in black closed the book and smiled to himself.

The dark, empty eyes watched the grey mountains, looked sideways at the ravaged and derelict city, and then back to the book. ‘Coming nearer,’ he croaked through dried and ancient lips. ‘Almost taste it now.’

And he turned his back on the mountains and city and began to walk along the deserted road, the book loose in his talon like fingers.

Chapter Three

1922

Daniel Douglas penned an entry into his journal with an unsteady hand.

‘
June 1, 1922. God have mercy on my soul. I fear this to be the last entry I make in these records of my work. Even now, all may be lost to me. I try tonight to fulfill the promise I made to myself and to my dearly beloved wife, Eve, five long and empty years ago. If I fail, then God has smitten me for the cursed wretch I have become. But I will stand at my judgment and defend my actions as those not of whim or human arrogance. Rather they were a pursuance borne of love for my son and wife and of the terrible grief that love nurtured
.’

Daniel paused, as if he needed to write more, but he was empty of words now and he closed the book, placing it in the drawer of his writing desk and slamming the drawer with finality. He gazed into the heart of the fire and fashioned specters and demons, dancing and leaping in the flames, beckoning him and waiting to welcome him to their breasts. A small whimper from the shadowy recesses of the room broke his muse.

He rose and felt his body protest at how grief had aged him so quickly. He stared into the mirror above the fireplace
and regarded the gaunt, thin figure that leered back at him. The once vibrant, keen blue eyes were dulled now and bereft of hope. He walked over to where his wife Eve lay on her bed in fitful, restless sleep.

She was lost in the midst of troubled dreams, her once active, brilliant mind now lost in a wasteland of confusion and anguish. Like a small boat adrift on a raging, storm-swelled sea, her intellect tossed, thrown and slowly sinking further into oblivion of her own design. The grief of losing her son tore at her like a vicious bird of prey, ripping pieces of her away with each day that passed, as surely as if she were ravaged by a debilitating disease. And Daniel was powerless to help her. Daniel, with all his knowledge and skill in the field of medicine, particularly maladies that affected the mind, was just a spectator, as his dear wife retracted remorselessly into a perpetually twilight world. A world that she alone inhabited and where she was as distant from Daniel now, as their son Frank had been since his death five years ago.

Daniel smoothed an errant lock of Eve’s grey hair from her forehead and bent to kiss her cheek. Her large brown eyes were as shallow as his were, but the ghost of a torment lingered there also, to perpetuate her ordeals.

Daniel spoke softly, almost in a whispered sigh of breath, ‘I will try to put things right tonight my love, I promise. I will try to deliver you from your hell and bring you back to me, dear heart. I will bring our beloved son home or I will perish in the attempt.’

And with that, he left, closing the door softly behind him. Alone in the room, Eve’s eyes flickered almost imperceptibly as the door closed and a single tear found a way to escape from its prison and stain her cheek.

Daniel made his way down the corridor that led from the private quarters he shared with Eve. As he rounded the corner into the asylum proper, he glanced out of the large windows that ran the length of one wall. He could make out the main lawn area at the front of the asylum and in the distance, dimmed by the gloom of an almost spent sunset, were the imposing wrought-iron gates. The name of the facility was worked into their structure, “The Douglas Institute.” He was instantly propelled back through time to the day he had stood with his wife Eve, and their son Frank, and had watched the great gates erected, the summer of 1890.

***

Daniel had been well educated and had become a doctor of medicine at a relatively young age, but his interest had branched off into research, with particular attention to infirmities of the mind. He had met Eve whilst studying and she had impressed him greatly. She was as intense as he was in her pursuance of understanding but she was at a huge disadvantage due to her sex. Both Eve and Daniel were from good families.

Eve’s heritage was old money, and an assured, almost noble character flowed through her manner. Her brown eyes were cunning and as mysterious as magic to Daniel. He was from merchant stock and his father had made money, somewhat dubiously, during the opium wars with China, and that money had financed Daniel’s endeavors. Even though Daniel was confident he was as affluent, intelligent and educated as Eve, he never felt her equal. She was cold, detached, and intent, whereas he committed something of his soul into his work.

However, the more time he spent with Eve, the more he realized her behavior was forged out of necessity. It was a direct response to the fragility of her position in a male dominated society. But Daniel came to know the Eve underneath the ambition and determination and he came to admire her, then love her. Daniel and Eve had married in 1885 when they were both twenty years of age and a year later commissioned the
building of the Douglas Institute. Four years later they had stood on the lawn of the institute, watching the workmen hoist the monolithic iron gates into place. The asylum, located in the remote Cambrian mountain area of Wales, was the ideal location for solitude and the study and treatment of the mentally ill.

Since then, Daniel and Eve had cared for hundreds of patients, most rescued from medieval facilities created to house the insane. But more often than not, they imprisoned unfortunate individuals whose conditions were simply not understood and who were no more deranged than the people who were institutionalizing them. Daniel and Eve had applied their research and, together with the ministrations of a dedicated staff, they had made some amazing leaps in the field of the care and treatment of the mentally ill.

Frank had been born almost a year to the day of the institute’s opening. Their child had grown up at the institute and Eve was constantly concerned that the environment might have an adverse affect on his development. But he was well shielded from any exposure to the patients and seemed oblivious to the nature of the institute. After leaving university, Frank enrolled in officer training college and eventually became a first lieutenant in the infantry. He proved to be a steadfast, honorable young man, tall and with his mother’s intense brown eyes and raven black hair.

Nineteen fourteen brought the specter of a conflict that could throw the whole of Europe into hostilities that some thought would escalate into the greatest theatre of warfare ever seen. A war to end all wars and a mighty confrontation of ideals and systems of government, a resolution of simmering rivalry harbored by the great empires of the world, a war that would define history. And in the shadow of this tumult, Frank received his papers calling him to the western front.

Although Eve was frightened, apprehensive and filled with a dread that choked her spirit, Daniel was overwhelmed with pride for his son. And Frank approached his duty with a boyish sense of adventure, eager to take up arms and crush the enemies of his country. He became impatient and edgy as the armies of Europe began to methodically rumble towards each other, like gargantuan machines clawing up the earth in their impetuous rush towards destruction. And he craved participation and the chance to prove his worth in the heat of battle. When Frank was called, he sat with his parents on the lawn and promised he would return.

Three years later the telegram arrived. The morning sky had been laden with the burden of a snow that would soon be thrown across the mountains like a soft white quilt. And now it hung low, as if peering over the shoulder of Eve to read the telegram. Frank had been killed in action in Belgium. Eve let the telegram slip from her hand, as if she could make the words pass through her fingers and their meaning be no more substantial than ink, watery and smudged now on the dew-jeweled ground. She walked down the steps leading to the main door of the institute and across the lawn. Daniel sat in a window seat sipping tea and reading. He had seen the telegram being delivered, had watched it float to the ground and had watched Eve cross the lawn. It seemed as if the woman were a ghost in the grey, misty morning light, moving as if suspended in air, only the red band in her black hair splitting the monochrome image.

Daniel’s teacup slipped from his grasp as an iron fist curled its cold, hard fingers around his heart. In that instant, he knew his son was dead. The china cup and saucer hit the wooden floor and immediately fragmented, splashing small splinters of porcelain about his feet like white ice. He crushed the pieces underfoot as he hastened to where Eve had been standing seconds ago. As he stooped to retrieve the message, the first flake of snow brushed Eve’s black hair and clung like a delicate petal before dissolving. He read the words as dew merged them together, as if they had been written in tears and not ink.

He looked to where Eve now leaned against one of the old oak trees, tracing her finger delicately across the heart that she and Daniel had carved two summers ago. But something caught his eye, something glimpsed through the space between Eve and the thick barrel of the tree, something standing in the shadows, and only half-illuminated by the morning. Daniel began to walk slowly towards Eve and was sure now that a man lingered there too, an impossibly tall, thin man. The hat worn by the man was touching the lower reaches of the oak’s branches, which was implausible, as they were nearly nine feet high. And he was adorned in nothing but black and was seemingly no more than a skeletal figure in a suit of clothing. Daniel was overcome with a sense of dread and was halted in his tracks momentarily.

‘
No
, my darling child, no, not my Frank, not my little boy!’ Eve wailed.

Daniel stared at Eve, as rooted to the spot as the giant oak. The snow now fell in a constant flurry, dusting the house as if it were sprinkled with fine sugar, and Daniel could make out vague, imprecise forms at the windows, inmates regarding him blankly or feverishly, depending on their condition. Eve was on her knees, her lustrous black hair had fallen forward and covered her face, and the snow had begun to settle on her shoulders, like a comforting blanket wrapped round a small child.

Daniel looked back at Eve and the figure had gone, leaving just her with one palm pressed flat against the heart that was etched into the bark of the tree. He whispered to himself, ‘My God.’

Daniel ran to Eve and knelt with her, holding her shoulders and pleading, ‘My love, Eve, dear God we must be strong for each other now.’

Eve tilted her head up to look at Daniel and the look in her deep, brown eyes terrified him more than the frenzied stare of any lunatic patient he had observed. Strands of wet, black hair were pasted to her face, which had transformed into a pallid mask of sorrow. Her brown irises were forced up, all but concealed by heavily lidded eyes, so that she had a snarling, feral quality to her, like a lion poised to pounce and mutilate.

She hissed in an alien voice, ‘He came for Frank’s soul but he cannot have it, he will not have it.’

‘Who, Eve my darling, who came for Frank’s soul?’

‘The man dressed in black, the tall man, the devil stood by the elm. He will never have my baby’s soul, never!’

Daniel stood and watched the shapes shifting in the windows;
it seemed like he was looking at a house of shadows, an insubstantial place of ghosts and apparitions. And inside his head began a shrieking, as if the phantoms had found a voice to scream their discourse and once the demented noise had begun, it would never again be silent. And the snow continued to fall.

Months went by and Eve became increasingly troubled by Daniel’s obsession with his work. Dissension had begun to infuse their relationship with a bitter flavor. She did not oppose him and she worked as diligently as he did, but a note of discord had been struck. Daniel wanted to encompass criminally insane and psychotically disturbed inmates into their program and admitted a number of these patients into the institute for the purpose of care and study. And whilst Eve coped with the day-to-day management of the institute and caring for the inmates, Daniel buried himself in the dissection of the illness in its most acute manifestations.

Eve protested at the almost clandestine nature of bringing patients in under the cover of night and admitting them straight into a basement on the north side of the asylum. Daniel was the only one with a key to this level and the staff all feared the folly of such an arrangement, believing Daniel to be placing himself in a dangerous position, locked away with psychopathic inmates. There was not even an alarm installed in case of emergencies.

But although his actions seemed irresponsible, Daniel’s intentions were laudable and he fervently believed that if he could comprehend the mechanics of how a mind had become unhinged, he would be on the brink of a great discovery. It seemed to Eve as if Daniel’s dedication began to mirror the terrible obsessions some of his patients were afflicted by. But slowly Eve began to suffer from episodes where she was no more lucid than the inmates she cared for.

***

Brought back to the present by a greeting from one of the orderlies, Daniel stared blankly at the man for a brief moment before returning an acknowledgement.

‘The patients are all locked in their rooms, Mr. Douglas,’ said the orderly.

‘Good, thank you,’ replied Daniel and thought,
And locked inside their manic, dislocated worlds, as detached from reality as we are removed from society.

Daniel accompanied the night orderly back to the reception area in the north wing of the institute. John Miller was a burly fellow of low intelligence, an ex-soldier and veteran of the Boer campaigns in South Africa, intensely loyal and dependable, and Daniel was very fond of him.