It's been two days since my last entry. I had expected copying the letter I'd left Isabella to be hard, but not like that. I should have known better. Father told me in one of his letters that Isabella had kept my note on her nightstand to look at every night before she went to bed. I had made her a promise that she had hoped I'd be able to keep, in spite of all the news that came back from the front lines. I had always been able to keep my promises to her. No matter what the odds were, I always found a way to fulfill them. Which was probably why she was still clutching it in her hand that December night when...
Anyway, I felt compelled to enter the old grounds. I did not go inside the building itself, I rarely do these days. Maybe it's seeing how time has and has not touched the interior. Oh, the wallpaper has faded and peeled in many places. Yet, a lot of the furnishings are still there, untouched, preserved by yellowed sheets that have accumulated layers of dust. On the shelves sit figurines and books, untouched and forgotten. As if waiting for someone to brush away the cobwebs and clean them off to they can be admired once again.
The portraits still hang in the gallery beneath dust cloths, their colors preserved and vibrant thanks to being spared and denied the light. Forgotten and unappreciated works of art by some of the most skilled painters of their time.
Why has no one ever gone inside and tried to steal any of the these forgotten treasures, I do not know. Perhaps, some of the rumors of the place being haunted have a ring to truth to them? I wouldn't put it past some of my 'nephews and nieces' to have come up with story of the place being inhabited by spirits. They probably even played a few tricks to help reinforce the idea. Heaven knows the number of times they've begged me to claim my old homestead and live here permanently, so I can be close to them. Generation after generation have made this plea, and I always refuse.
Not that the idea isn't tempting. But as I pointed out in my last entry, the longer I stay in one place, eventually tongues wag and trouble follows. I couldn't bear the idea of the place and all the things within, being destroyed. I know time will eventually take its final toll, which is why I helped Brian's father create the museum forty years ago. My goal was to slowly remove the more valuable and treasured items from here and transfer them into the museum for safe-keeping. Yet, every time I go inside the old place, I cannot bring myself to remove even a simple knick-knack. It always feels like someone is glaring down at me with disapproval.
I did not enter the house, that night. Instead I walked the overgrown path towards the family plot which sits a back in the trees behind the house. There was once a little chapel as well, but that fell during the 'Night of Fire', along with my parents and our servants. Again, another story, for another time.
The family plot is surrounded by a wrought iron fence which is only a few years old. The original had long fell into disrepair and I'd had it replaced, with a new one that still had the old world look to it. Oddly enough, the new gate creaked like its predecessor. I could have had it fixed, but the sound seemed appropriate somehow.
So when I heard it groaning in the distance I new we had visitors. Normally, it would be one of my extended family, but not at three in the morning. Besides, I'd already caught a whiff of smoke in the air. No, these were most likely unwelcome guests. And as the only liv... still walking member of the household, it was up to me to greet them.
My footsteps become silent, even thought I'm walking over layers of dried leaves from autumns long past. Not only do I make no sound, there are no imprints to mark my passing. I'm still not sure how I manage this little trick, it just seems to happen whenever I go into stealth mode. Even after one hundred and fifty years, there are questions I have yet to answer about my condition.
I turn the corner and see three figures entering my family's resting place. Young would-be toughs. I've seen countless numbers of them over the years. The costumes may change, but the attitudes and arrogance is always the same. I'm tempted to wait and get an idea of what kind of mischief they intend to get up to. But I already hear the rattle of a spray paint can coming from one of their pockets, while another starts brandishing a crowbar. The third kicks an old white stone I know so well. It belonged to William, our butler. It strikes me as disrespectful to see someone of African descent violating the grave of one of his own kind.
I decide to make my presence known. "If you're not here to pay your respects, I suggest you take yourselves elsewhere and find some other form of enjoyment," I say loudly.
I won't bother repeating the profanity they shoot in my direction. Needless to say, it was followed with threats against my person if I didn't start running. Naturally, I did not retreat. I merely stood my ground and repeated my request in the form of a warning this time.
The one with crowbar was the first to start walking towards me. He was white, about sixteen, with all the swagger and arrogance of someone who'd watched way too many 'Gangsta' films. I kind of felt sorry for him, which is probably why I didn't kick the living shit out him like I wanted. Yes, I do curse and swear with the best of them. However, I was also raised to be a gentleman and as such I refrain from using unnecessary violence when a simple scare can be far more effective.
He was about twenty feet from me when I smile at him, put my hands in my pocket, and then and look down at the bottom of the jacket I'm wearing. It goes all the way to the ground, similar to the style of coats back in my day. It's a style I've always been partial to and have kept using throughout the years. Though I make sure the cut and collar are always in keeping with whatever the 'modern day' trends are of the time.
In this case, my coat has what's called a Mandarin or Banded collar, which I leave unbuttoned as is the custom these days.
I glance up at him and smile. This enrages him and he gets even more angry, which pleases me. Anger can be your worst enemy sometimes. While it may give you an adrenaline rush and maybe add a bit more to your punches, it can also make you careless. He obviously has not noticed the movement taking place at my feet.
He soon does though. The first dog head slips out from beneath my coat when he's just ten feet away and growls. That catches his attention.
It throws him for a second and then he laughs, "Oh you got a dog, huh? You think he's going to stop me from cracking your fucking skull open? You a dead man, you here me?"
Then the second head emerges from the folds of cloth at my feet. His blustering begins to waiver as the two hounds emerge. Both are black with heads the size of beachballs, with bodies to match. I decide then to make their eyes glow red, a little something I picked up from the countless movies I've seen over the years. It may seem trite, but the effect they have are always impressive.
As he takes his first few steps backwards, I can see his friends coming out of the gate looking worried. There's just something about seeing something that looks like a Pitbull, but is the size of a Great Dane that is really off putting to people.
Tough guy yells as the first dog lunges for him. He takes a step back and tries to hit it with the crowbar. He connects and the dog's head splits in two. For a moment he thinks he's won, then realizes that each half is now shaping and becoming whole. Now he's dealing with an angry two-headed beast.
Unfortunately, I can smell the urine running down his legs as he screams like a girl and flees. His buddies are already far ahead of him, chased by the second hound which had silently shot past Mr. Crowbar before he could blink.
Once I'm satisfied that they've had enough I retract my pets. I've not moved an inch from where I'm standing, with good reason. Thanks to the darkness, none of the trio noticed the long black lines stretching from beneath my coat, across the ground and all the way to where the dogs should have hind quarters. As the canine figures distort and stretch back beneath my coat, I sigh. I could've easily shape-shifted into the form of a huge wolf, but that would start rumors. And as you know I abhor those.
After my 'pets' are back in their proper place and I can feel my legs again, I enter the family plot and right the headstone. I'm relieved to see that it hasn't broken, or even cracked. I was worried, considering its the original stone and fragile. Eventually, I'll have to replace it, but not yet. Maybe in another few decades, but for now it's still quite legible and beautiful in a weathered sort of way.
I check on the other graves, none of them were harmed. I got here just in time. But the flowers have been trampled, plus there are a few looking rather wilted. I know what needs to be done. As sacrilegious as it sounds, I slowly walk over each grave. As the tails of my coat pass over them, the flowers are looking strong and healthy once more.
Satisfied with my handiwork, I take a final look around. There's no one near. I can even hear the trio still running, they're at least a mile and half away. Good.
I knew they wouldn't be back, but I checked on things last night and stayed in the shadows until I sensed the dawn coming. I intend to do the same tonight. Brian is insisting on coming with me this time. He wants to keep me company and go over some of the other letters I have to transcribe. I think he's going to bring his laptop with him in case the mood to type strikes me.
If he offers to do it for me I'll decline. Those letters and journal pages tell just a part of the story, only I can fill in the other sections. No matter how hard or difficult I may find it at times, it needs to be done.
I can see it's almost nine now, I've been here for over an hour already and Brian is looking antsy. He wants to read what I've typed, which I will let him do. He's a good man, just like his father and grandfather and so on all the way back to his great-great-great grandfather, the first Brian Weston. Or rather I should say Captain Weston, hero, and childhood friend.
I'll probably speak more of him in my next entry, since the next letters will begin mentioning my military service.