December 23, 1912. The last entry of Jules Croft:
I must confess that for someone who is about to die, writing in my diary is a most odd notion. But since there is no form of self-defense, no diminutive space on earth in which I can hide that will keep me from this terrible fate, I must do what comes naturally. I must write. Being a man of middle age and a widower of nearly six years, writing gives me the opportunity to converse with my beloved Joan. She never answers me, of course, but I know the spirit of my dearest reads what I write. It comforts me to know that, and I must do what comforts my soul. These few words will be my last comfort . . . in this life and the next.
It is almost midnight—the witching hour. The winds howl outside my home. Their coldness has breached the window I now sit by; they betray the one who is no doubt waiting anxiously in the cold comfort of the dreary shadows outside, counting down the minutes to my doom. At the appropriate time, he will enter and begin searching the many rooms until he finds the only one occupied. That room is my room. And the Devil himself is here to collect on a debt.
There is great debate in theological circles as to what the Devil looks like. Can he take the shape of a mere human, or is he the cloven hoofed and horned monstrosity portrayed in so many pictures? I have seen both sides of him. But even at this very moment, as I hear footsteps slowly clapping on the cobblestone walk below my window and hear the creak of the oak door at the front entrance that I have steadfastly wanted to oil but kept finding other things to occupy my time, I know which form he takes this night. The intruder is not far off; he is eager for what belongs to him, so I must hurry to put on paper what I must say:
This strange story begins one year ago on this very date. I had only been living in my current home a month, having decided that a new house in a new village would help keep my thoughts away from how lonely I'd become since my wife's demise. As I strode down the beech-lined avenue at the edge of the hamlet, which I did daily to take in the crisp air and hopefully meet my new neighbors, I occasioned a peak at the Whitaker House. It was a long-neglected and empty manor house that I most times shaded my eyes from, partly because of its fall into ill-repair, but mostly because it was a large, forbidding structure that looked more akin to a mausoleum than a dwelling. I noticed on this brief glance that the double doors into the great house were ajar. I stood a moment, pondering the notion that the manor had fallen into someone's hands. I must admit, though, that the house looked as uninviting as it ever had, as the snow that would later blanket the drive and clothe the trees now stood suspended in gray banks over it.
There were busy noises from within, so I crossed the cobblestone lane, passed the rusty, iron gates and walked up the immense stairs of the terrace to greet a fellow newcomer to the village.
My ears had heard true; I looked in on busy workmen throughout, painting, washing, sweeping and taking measurements of this thing and that. I asked one nearest the doorway if he was privy to the owner's whereabouts. He only shook his head no and continued with his painting.
Just then, a surprise came from around the corner of the doorway. I took it upon myself to assume by the robe he was wearing that it was one of the monks of Sutherland Abbey, the only religious institution for miles, which one could get to straightway by traversing the moor at the back of the Whitaker House property.
A bright smile emerged from under his flowing, red beard. "Ah, good morning, Mr. Croft. Did I frighten you?" he inquired with a thick Irish lilt.
I was certainly a bit taken back by the abrupt appearance of the portly gentleman but said, "Not at all my good friar. I must ask, though, how you know who I am? I don't recall having met you previously."
"Tidings of newcomers to the village get passed along quickly, and I never forget a face. So, I assumed you were the Mr. Croft I've heard about."
I smiled wryly at him and said, "Could I not have been the new owner of this house?"
"You could," he replied with an awkward grin of his own, "but then you wouldn't have asked that worker, there, where the owner was. So, by deduction, if you aren't the new owner, then you must be the only other recent addition to the village. I must apologize for not having made your acquaintance sooner, but I've been out of town myself for nearly three weeks and have just returned. My name is Father Geoffrey."
We exchanged smiles and a handshake.
I looked beyond his broad shoulders and said, "I hope the new owner doesn't mind a stranger stopping by to pay him a 'good morning'."
The burly priest motioned for me to enter. "Am I to assume, then, that you haven't received an invitation?"
"Invitation? No, sir. Nothing of the sort has made its way to me."
"Well, that is why I am here-to thank the good master of the house for the invitation to dinner and wish him well needed good tidings. Ah, but matters seem to have him elsewhere at the moment, so I've been admiring the renovations."
Of course, I had never seen the manor but from the outside, so I asked if the good friar would take me on a tour as we waited for the new owner to show.
Father Geoffrey took me past the workers to a portion of the house that had either been restored already or needed no work for its splendor to shine through. The banquet hall delighted me particularly with its large, stone-mullioned windows with colorful, quarrel-pane lattices, intricate moldings, and fretwork ceiling. A large, yet-to-be-adorned Christmas tree graced the far corner, next to an immense hearth. The dwelling looked much more inviting within than its exterior would indicate.
From there, we went into a dark-paneled library, whose shelves were, even now, being cleaned and restocked with numerous books-law books and the such, from what my quick glances could make out. At the far end, next to a small fireplace, whose crackling fire brought some much needed warmth to the room, was a low, arched doorway. It seemed from the beginning of my tour that Father Geoffrey purposefully led me to where we now stood.
"Do you know the history of this house?" he inquired of me.
"Just what little I've been given since my arrival," I said. " I know this place has a dark past, devil worship, black masses, nefarious things of that sort. But the true facts surrounding it have been lost, I fear."
The friar smiled at me once more, but it was not a smile of favor. It was a smile of mischief. "Follow me below, and I will tell you the story of its evil past."
Reluctantly, I followed close behind as we made our way down several stone steps. The small room to which the stairs led was obviously much older than the rest of the house. The library, it seemed, was built around it. It had an elaborately carved chimneypiece that went from floor to ceiling, paneling with extraordinary etchings, a dusty but immaculate marble floor and one tiny window, which gave the room its only light.
"This room seems much older than the library above," I said.
Father Geoffrey nodded his confirmation. "I believe the library to be a later addition to mask what was below. Do you know what this room is?" he queried with an odd tone in his voice.
"I must say not," I replied as I studied the place.
The friar pulled on his beard as he said, "Then whatever gossip made its way to you must have been a corruption, for any good story of the place could not have left out this room."
"Please tell me, then. I am all ears."
"As I recall," started the priest, "the house was built by Sir Montrose Whitaker, Earl of Cumberly, in the 1400's. He gained his wealth and power by making a pact with the Devil, for Sir Whitaker was not the most capable of men, physically or mentally. During an uprising in which he had taken part, he fell on a claymore and was mortally wounded. As he lay dying, the Devil came to collect his recompense for the pact. Sir Whitaker pleaded for more time. The Devil healed him and gave him six days to get his affairs in order, at which time he would return. Now, I must say here that Sir Whitaker was married to a fine woman; she was beautiful, loyal to her husband and possessed a cunning not often seen in women. Sir Whitaker reluctantly told her of the pact made many years prior and that the Prince of Darkness himself would be back soon to take his soul. After six days, the Devil returned to the very spot on which we stand to take what was his. Sir Whitaker's wife pleaded unceasingly for mercy on her husband.
"The Devil said, 'I must have recompense for our barter'."
"The wife said, 'Anything but his soul'."
"The Devil, being of the most evil cunning, then said, 'There is one thing that I will take that is not his soul'."
"She said, 'Then it is yours'."
" 'Sign here on this parchment first, so that we are bound that what I want--that is not his soul--is rightfully mine'."
"The wife and Sir Whitaker both signed a large, worn parchment that was written in a language neither could understand. Since it wasn't his soul the Devil was now after, they assumed they could confront whatever he wanted without fear of Sir Whitaker's damnation."
My eyes were as wide as a jack-o-lantern's, and my mouth stood agape. "What, what did the Devil want?" I asked him anxiously.
"He wanted five pounds of flesh," the priest replied.
"My heavens," I said. "There is no way a mortal could deliver such a ware without giving up the ghost."
"Precisely," the friar said. "But the woman, being sly herself, asked, 'Does handing over what you now want nullify all previous deals?' "
" 'Absolutely,' the Devil laughed. 'Give me what I want now, and all other previous barters are voided. It is said as much in the document you signed'."
" 'Very well,' said the wife."
"But as the Devil was about to exact his payment, she then said, 'There is no mention on that document about blood being part of the payment, correct?' "
" 'True,' said the Devil."
"She then smiled and said, 'Then five pounds of flesh you can have, but if one drop of blood is spilled, the contract we signed is no longer valid'. "
I gasped in awe at the woman's trickery.
Father Geoffrey continued, "Having been outwitted by Sir Whitaker's wife, the devil went on his way."
I was astonished by the story. "Certainly, no tale like that was ever passed on to me."
"I would expect not," the priest said. "But the story is not over."
"What else could there be?" I wondered aloud.
"Eventually, Sir Whitaker's evil covenant was found out. A housekeeper, given over to the sin of gossip, had overheard most of the conversation between the couple and the archenemy. Because she had freed him of the pact, Lady Whitaker was set free, but Sir Whitaker was burned at the stake in the village square. Consumption had taken his widow within a few years, and the house, though passed on several times, has not had a stable occupant since that time."
"What had made the owners leave?" I asked.
The priest said, "They say that the Devil comes back to trick them into giving up their souls as recompense for Lady Whitaker's trickery."
"Do you believe such a fantastic story?" I inquired.
"I'm a priest. I've seen many handiworks of the Devil. So, I am inclined to believe in its authenticity."
"I am not one to pass judgement on the supernatural, but I must say, to me it sounds a little far fetched."
The priest gave me a sullen look and replied, "It is possible that the story has been exaggerated over the years but know this: it is verifiable that six times, from that time to this, within one year of this place's occupancy, someone inside this home was found dead. As a religious man, it is my duty, then, to warn the new owner of this house's dreadful curse."
I don't know if the eerie story had sobered my conscience after a delay or if it was the look of utter confidence of the story's authenticity that radiated from the priests bright blue eyes that made me believe. But with little doubt, I finally concluded that the ill events had actually transpired. It was then that I no longer felt comfortable in the old home's embrace.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door at the top of the stairs.
I said, "I am willing to bet that is the master of the house, finally arrived."
Just as I said those words, a young, raven-haired gentleman with a neatly trimmed mustache and beard came down the stairs. A cane with an ornately carved handle was clasped in his right hand, and he used it to help himself down the steps.
"Hello, good sir," Father Geoffrey said cheerfully, seeming to brush aside the very morbid conversation that had just taken place.
The man smiled in return and bowed slightly. When he spoke, the words issued slowly from his mouth with an accent I had never before heard. "Hello. I apologize for my absence. The house is quite large, and I don't get around as well as I once did. I found myself at the end of the south wing when word was sent that company had arrived."
His voice mesmerized me. It sounded not unlike the lower note on a great organ-melodious, yet it had a sense of immense power. And his deep eyes pierced me as he turned and greeted me with the same slight bow as he had done to Father Geoffrey.
I said, "I am Jules Croft, and this is Father Geoffrey. I hope you don't think us too forward, but the good friar took me on a tour of the place, since I am new to the village and haven't had the opportunity to know the home but from the outside."
He waved the statement off with a sweep of his free hand. "I have no ill of that, as I must say that I was doing much the same, myself. I fear it won't be until next mid-summer's eve before I have seen the whole place!"
Father Geoffrey interjected, "I have come at your request, good sir, and I must confess that a dinner is a fine way to christen new life back into this most ancient of homes."
"I am glad that you have accepted my invitation." He then turned to me. And you, Mr. Croft, are here as well for the dinner?"
"I am sorry, but I knew of no dinner or invitation to such. I wandered over when I heard the noises from within while I was out for a stroll."
He smiled and said, "Please, stay and eat with us. I would feel much at ease, knowing that there is at least one more person in my company that knows as little of this quaint town as I do."
I nodded and said, "I'd love to--. I don't believe I caught your name."
His face became flushed with embarrassment, and I must confess that, looking back, its redness seemed uncannily natural on him. "I apologize. My name is Victor. Victor Tragoi."
"Where is your country of birth, if you'll accept my apologies for being so forward?" I queried.
"I am from Carpathia."
Father Geoffrey, ever-pulling his whiskers, said, "I have done some missionary work in that part of the world-Galicia and the area around. Where, exactly, did you live? Maybe I have been there."
Mr. Tragoi only frowned and said, "It is a small village. I am quite sure you have never heard of it."
Though he didn't pry any further, I could tell at the time that there was something quite sobering that Father Geoffrey was pondering silently. By the tension visible on the only skin not hidden by whiskers, I knew that, at some point, this topic would be revisited.
After an awkward moment of silence, Mr. Tragoi offered, "Others will be arriving soon. May I ask that we go above and wait for their arrival? I would hate for everyone to suffer the same impoliteness that I have shown you."
We waited for our host to ascend before we marched up behind him. During that wait, I whispered to the priest, "When will you tell him of the house's curse?"
"The time is not yet right," he said. "He has put much into this dinner, and I will let it play out before warning him. I don't have to tell you that once I have given caution, it is all I can do. The choice will be his to make whether he stays or goes."
I shuddered as we walked up the stairway back to the library above. "If what you say is indeed true, and this house is cursed, as it truly seems, I pray that he heeds your warning."
"I am praying the very same, even as we speak."
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