An Untold Text (cont.)

Otherworldly creatures born of unholy practices. Slumbering children snatched away from unsuspecting parents, only to be murdered in a most vicious manner bordering cannibalism. My stomach turned at the very thought and I dashed to the window, flinging it open before retching down to the street below. How fortunate I was that no one had been walking beneath, and even more fortunate that none saw my vulgar display.

Behind me, Madeline stirred in my bed, a sleepy voice drifting to me, " Are you alright?"

" Yes," I said, crossing the room to grab a handkerchief from my desk. I dabbed my lips and poured myself some tepid water from a pitcher I kept next to my desk, " I'm fine, my dear. A bit of an upset stomach, that is all."

" You're working yourself ill, darling. Come to bed," she said, her eyes still closed and her voice rapidly losing the battle with sleep.

" Momentarily, my dear," I said. I waited until her breathing became deep once more, then sat to continue my work. I took deep breath to steel my nerves and looked at the next line.

I had made it nearly halfway through the book by the time I looked up and saw the silver lining of dawn beginning to creep across the eastern sky and sillouette the rooftops of the city. My eyes were dry and my vision had begun to blur. I sat back, groaning softly as I tried to stretch the muscles of my neck and back which had been held in a hunched poise for so long. I felt terrible, my mind full of the horrid descriptions the author had delved in to. I was still at a loss as to the nature of this text. Surely it could not be truth, but the facts I had drawn from it pointed to little else. The thought send a shiver through me and I felt my stomach turn once more, though I managed to pacify the nauseating feeling.

As I undressed and climbed into bed with Madeline, I realized I would need to speak with Mister Irewood directly and discover how it was he had come into possession of the book.

* * * *

Lennox Central Station was a bustling hub at six o' clock in the evening as my train came to a halt and I descended onto the platform. Wives welcomed home husbands; parents greeted their children who were returning from holiday at the homes of their countryside relatives; businessmen were coming and going, some returning from their jobs in other cities, some leaving for important business trips; a cluster of soldiers even stood together, transferring to whatever post their orders dictated.

I had done my best to clean up and look suitable to meet Mister Irewood, having shaven that morning and donned a clean pair of dark gray trousers, a white, collarless shirt and had Madeline brush up my bowler. My coat was draped over one arm, the other hanging by my side and holding my attache case in which the book sat safely. I also had packed the manuscripts I had used for translating the text. I had completed it on my train ride and felt a shudder run up my spine as I stood on the platform, remembering the final half of the book.

I drew from my pocket a small scrap of paper which I had torn from the wrapping the book had come to me in. On it was the return address. I had not sent a telegram to Mister Irewood, as the urgency to speak with him seemed to drive at me more and more the longer I remained in possession of his book. Such a fantastic story, true or not, was hard to push from your mind when you had been exposed to so few examples. Certainly, I had never read one of such macabre nature and dark detail. Any civilized folk would have turned away from it as soon as they had come upon the first example of a child being murdered, especially in such brutal and evil ways. The hundred notes that had been sent to me did not give me that option, however. I was paid to translate a text and translate it I did.

Or was there another reason? As I crossed the platform towards the stairs to take me down to the street, I suddenly was hit with a thought that nearly took the air from my lungs. I must have had a queer expression painted on my face, for I noticed several people turn to stare at me. I forced myself to keep walking, despite the dark cloud I felt looming over me. I could have simply returned the book and the money, apologizing for my inability to stomach the context, but the thought of such had not even crossed my mind. A morbid fascination had driven me to continue, to learn the fate of the author and this Lamia he wrote of. I had read over the scenes of gore with a growing ease, my sensibilities becoming desensitized to their horrific nature.

A carriage outside of the station took me along Bellingham Avenue until turning right onto Collings Lane. Ten minutes later we turned onto Carde Lane and from there it was a five minute ride until we came to a halt outside of a rather luxurious building. I climbed out of the carriage, paid the driver, then found myself standing at a waist-high iron gate. It was opened, revealing a stone walkway with rose bushes running along either side. Brick steps climbed up to a large pair of dark red doors with stained glass windows. Such estates were not found around Bentley Square, which in contrast was a hodgepodge of lower and lower-middle class apartments. These were more like the cushioned suites and homes of Galleyville and Vendenshire. I momentarily thought how sorely out of place one dressed such as I must have looked, but the thought was fleeting as I remembered why I had come here. I walked between the roses and climbed the steps. I grasped the large brass knocker and struck it several times on the plate it rested against. Several moments passed before I saw the distorted shape of a maid through the stained glass window. As the door creaked open, I was greeted by a slender woman, with strands of dirty blonde hair hanging down from her maids cap. She only opened the door enough to allow her head to poke out and addressed me in an almost snappish fashion, no doubt due to my appearance.

" May I help you?"

I touched the brim of my hat in a slight display of courtesy and replied, " yes, ma'am, I was hoping Mister Jonathan Irewood would be available."

Her face hardened ever so slightly as she looked me over, " and who are you?"

" Pardon my poor manners, miss, my name is -"

" It's alright, Miss Pinkerton," came a man's voice from somewhere beyond her, " let him in. He's an associate of mine."

She glanced back then stepped back, swinging the door inward and politely bowing her head. I touched my brim again before taking my hat off and stepping inside. The foyer had hardwood floors with a beautiful dark blue carpet running the length and ending at the doorway to the next room. The walls were white and free of any soil, homage to the strict attention of the staff charged with the estates cleanliness. Paintings and portraits adorned the walls, no doubt the latter being members of Mr. Irewood's ancestry. I realized, as I looked about, that there was not a hint of dust or dirt to be seen, a striking difference to the shanty-like building I lived in.
To my left a set of stairs ascended to the next floor with cut outs in the wall displaying a rich collection of vases and as I moved closer to inspect them, I saw the owner of the voice descending the steps.