Some Victorian horror monstrosity….

Composed to entertain Allycat. Thought about going somewhere with it, but like everything else here : It’s in the dump.

(prose action)

It was October the ninth when I met Alan Barclay. After one of Yeat’s little
gatherings, I found him out on the veranda smoking cheap American tobacco. He
immediately took to me when I mentioned Volkischism, and a mature love of the
old practices.

We spoke for almost four hours that evening, and stood like stone when the sun
awoke. Matters such as the nature of the universe were a common topic of
conversation in those days, and that morning was nothing out of the ordinary.
When I heard that he knew, intimately, Black Annis I felt a kinship. The man
crawled about in the dark, and knew things I yearned to know. It was then that
I realized that Alan Barclay and I would have many more nights like tonight, in
which to discuss what goes on in the wandering world.


Behind the Colfield mansion there is a wide open garden. A specificly designed
arangement of hedgings and reflection pools. It’s been debated as to why the
garden is structured in it’s way. Adept Warren once told me, very matter-of-factly,
that it was in fact a recreation of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, though decididly
less than hanging.

This concept wore on me – this sort of sigil work gaining popularity in the face
of the old ways seemed to be an affront to metaphysical manipulations. Barclay,
however, laughed at the concept of a giant recreation of a very unmystic place
in a fairly boring part of the world. He postulated that it was in fact just an
ordinary garden, though quite ornate. The hauntings here in Colfield were simply
the remnants of the very debauched late family, and had nothing to do with any
imbedded sigil or unfinished spell castings.

It’s worth noting that deep in the heart of this massive garden is what we would
refer to as the Gardener’s House, but in fact is a lone stone column of a building
that housed one of the larger occult libraries outside of the Hamade Vault in
Copenhagen. This is why we were here. Barclay had his eyes set on a certain first
edition, and I attended to strong-arm any undesirable elements he may encounter.

There are no doors on the ground floor of the gardener’s house. It was made abundently
clear when we tried to gain entrance that the steel rung ladder was the only route. No
amount of pounding, or searching for a passage was going to yield another answer. We
ascended the ladder to find that the heavy iron hatch on the roof as left open,
inviting anyone in.

The oddest thing about the gardener’s house were the gaslights. The main building,
and the adjacent lodgings were all still using candle light. This development was an
oddity, as we had been led to believe that the column was much older than the main
manor. From the outside it was evident that no construction on this building had been
attempted in atleast a hundred years. Sir Colefield’s craftiness spoke for itself.

The library was some twenty feet under where we assumed ground level was, and may have
reached out under the entirety of the garden. Barclay remarked that the library was
more of a home than the dwelling upstairs. My only asceratation was that perhaps Sir
Colfield hadn’t disappeared, but was mearly lost within the monstrosity of his
accumulated knowledge.

Where as the crown’s libraries had a tendency to be divided into Fiction, Non-fiction,
and Refrence, Colefield’s library had but mearly six rooms, and one large ante-room. A
glance at the dedication plates outside the entrance to each room revealed that they
were not divided into an easily digestable areas of study, but rather origins of the
mauscripts inside. Killian Colefield’s room of transcribed pagan practices sad dismaly
next to “Barristar Culfold’s Alexandria Room – The Largest Collection of Rescued
Inventory from the Great Library in Alexandria.” I begged Barclay to let me into the
large oak doors marked only with a single word, “Ba’al”.

These things caught my attention, more so than the wandering spirits who made a home
of the place. If they spent their lives collecting these works, than they spent their
eternities enjoying them. The truest example of bizare, though, was the center of the
ante-room. The altar and gore-drains meant nothing, but the glass case was cause for
surprise. There, in the center of this massive monument to dead cultures, sat another
kind of monument. The carefully crafted plate read only “Diana, b. 425 AD -“


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Mike Black is…

A writer, reader, commentator, music lover, art lover, futurist, tech lover, pragmatist, romantic, DepDecoist, and a bastard. Hopefully you enjoy.

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