The Journal of Aubrey Wren

Aubrey's Journal
12/09/2011

Well the birthday present (this journal) from Liz is coming in handy, I've got a doozy of a story and I don't trust computers (I'm old school) hopefully at some point I'll be able to use this as part of my novel.

Here's the low down. Harper (the boss) wanted a piece on an up and coming MP. He's young, charismatic and intelligent (the candidate not my boss) and no one has anything on him.

Well, I say no one. I might have found something hidden away.

It appears he was involved in a car accident when he was younger and his girlfriend of the time (who was in the car) vanished without a trace.

The story was buried it seems, so it's only right that I un-bury it.

It's a two man job, so my colleague is helping me out (luckily he grew up in the same area as the candidate) I don't understand why he's stuck in a low level newspaper for a local town as that kid has talent, real talent.

Well when this is released I'll be taking him out of that job and into the lime light! I owe him that much anyway.

So I'm currently sitting in my room in Port Isaac, Cornwall. It seems that the parents of that poor missing girl are both dead, and her only living relative is her grandmother who lives near here. I'm in Port Isaac investigating this lead whilst my colleague goes to try and find some more info where he's at. Hopefully he'll turn up something useful.

It's pouring it down with rain here tonight, thank god I got decent accommodation. Notes on their dinner will follow forthwith.

Should probably get Liz a gift whilst I'm here.

The Call

Two

The harsh tone of Leonid’s home phone pierced the silence that was draped over his house since his son died. Leonid awoke where he’d fallen asleep, at his desk. But the room wasn’t right, it wasn’t supposed to be an office or a study, it was Max’s room. Where was Max? He wondered, and then the gauze of sleep lifted and the reality of his situation flowed over him like a river of fire.

Leonid noticed his desk drawer was open, and the bottle was empty. Kasha would leave him for sure if she knew about this, but luckily that wouldn’t be a problem with her away at the moment. Which brought him to the question as to who was calling his house phone?

He took the bottle from the desk and his mug, and stood up, nearly stumbling as he did so, thanks to the rush of blood to his head coupled with the alcohol he’d partaken of, creating a kaleidoscopic haze that was both beautiful and confusing at the same time. Taking a moment to steady himself, he left the room, and as he did, he saw in the corner of his eye, his son Max playing with his toys. A single tear fell down Leonid’s face as he exited the room that once contained the one thing in the world Leonid had ever really loved.

The house was dark, and no amount of light could shed the emptiness Leonid felt whilst walking through it. The joy had been sucked from the house and replaced with an oppressive presence that you could almost taste it in the air. This once happy family home was a constant reminder of death and disappointment.

The phone still warbled through the house, at an almost supernatural level of volume. Leonid put the bottle and mug onto a small tale in the hall, and then he reached over to the incessant phone and silenced the noise by placing the receiver next to his ear.

“Hello?” He murmured to the caller

“Mr. Pall, it’s Sebastian Faulkner here from Foley Lodge.”

Leonid tried to focus on what the man had said, and searched his foggy memory as to why he should know this man. He was drawing a blank and the caller sensed this.

“I’ve not actually spoken to you personally Mr. Pall, but I have spoken to your wife about your condition”

“My condition?” Leonid spat the words down the phone, angered that his wife had raised their problems to people outside of their marriage.

“Yes, I hope I’ve not caught you at a bad time, I was just confirming that you received the plane tickets”

Leonid wondered if he was still dreaming, looked around and saw a large envelope on the mat by his front door.

“I’m sorry” Leonid continued “but, I have no idea of who you are or what you want or why I’d be flying anywhere”

There was a pause for a moment, and then the caller spoke up

“Mr. Pall, Foley Lodge is a place where artists who have lost their spark, come to recuperate. A creative mind is a dangerous mind if not cared for. Couple this with a drinking problem and you’re really in trouble. The tickets were paid for by your wife, who was so concerned for your well being that she paid out several thousand pounds for your stay with us, which would only be for a fortnight by the way.”

Meddling bitch, Leonid thought.

“I’m doing fine as I am thank you.” Leonid lied.

“Really?” there was a different tone in the caller’s voice, something unsettling about it. “Mr. Pall, you see your dead son don’t you?”

Leonid, never told his wife about the phantom figure that he often saw in the corner of his eye, the real reason that he moved his office into his sons old room. There was no way the caller could know, no way.

“Who are you?” Leonid asked again

“Sebastian Faulkner. I do understand this must be difficult for you, I would have thought your wife would have mentioned all of this. Mr. Pall, we can help you. Just read the literature we sent along with the plane ticket and if you’re not convinced then don’t come. But if I were you, Mr. Pall, if I was in your condition, I’d get out of that house now.”

Leonid put the receiver down, and moved in a daze to the envelope on the floor. Why hadn’t Kasha said anything to him about all this? Things had been worse than tough on their marriage since the accident, and Leonid had fallen out of love with her, this was true, but they always talked about things.

He picked up the envelope and went back to the study; there on the blank page that sat in his typewriter were the words

Don’t go Daddy

Leonid couldn’t breathe for a moment. Then decidedly he turned around; left his son’s old bedroom, proceeded out of his front door, and left his house for the last time.

The Writer

One

A crisp clean white page stared at Leonid Pall from the metal framework of his Remington Typewriter. If Leonid didn’t know any better, he could swear the page was mocking him in his father’s voice. “Your last play was awful, what gives you the right to waste more paper on your worthless musings?”

Leonid opened the drawer of the sturdy desk he used in his office, reached in, pulled out a bottle of Scotland’s finest, unscrewed the cap and poured the amber liquid into the mug that was a permanent resident of his desk. Placing the bottle back in the drawer, for fear of draining it dry, he looked back at the page and sighed.

It didn’t used to be this hard, when he was younger, the ideas flowed like water, and everyone said he was destined for great things. Everyone was right, and great things did happen to Leonid Pall; he had written twelve plays so far, with the first seven being of exceptional quality and performed on a regular basis to high commercial success. However, one particular bad thing had happened to Leonid Pall, the worst thing that could have happened, and the most pain a person can endure; outliving their own child.

Leonid blamed himself everyday for his son’s death, after all, if Leonid had of been sober that night, his brother wouldn’t have had to drive the car. After the accident, and to this day Leonid told his wife that he didn’t remember much from the crash except that their son died instantly and didn’t suffer. That however, was a lie.

Leonid remembered everything as if it had happened moments ago, his brother swerving to miss something on the road, then the deafening silence and weightlessness that he experienced when the car veered off the cliff. Then even the alcohol couldn’t subdue the pain that shot through Leonid’s body, as the car crumpled in on them all.

Leonid had been in the back of the car, and once the car had stopped, wedged in a rock at the bottom of a ravine, he was able to force open the door and managed to crawl away from the wreck to catch his breath, and get his bearings. For the briefest of moments, Leonid focused on the pain in his left arm and had forgotten about his family in the car. Suddenly, he thought of them, and as he sat there on the cool ground, cradling his arm, he could just make out his son’s voice calling to him, before fire engulfed the car, burning Leonid’s brother and son alive. To this day, Leonid could hear their screams when he was alone.

After the accident, Leonid’s creative side suffered. The drama’s he was known for were a confused mess and each play Leonid submitted was worse than the last. His last play, the twelfth one, had just been put on at the Loki Theatre, and was a terrible production. Pall had lost all faith he had in his writing ability, and now he spent his days staring at the page that was in his typewriter.

Leonid stared at the page and picked up his mug. He wouldn’t get any work done today, not with the dark thoughts that swam around his head. He looked at the liquid as he swilled it around in the mug, and wondered what his wife would say if she saw him drinking again. He had promised after all to stop, but he’d promised a lot of things the past few years and with that thought in his mind he raised the mug to his lips and embraced the cloudy nothingness that would follow.

Depatment 14 Personnel #3: Frederick ?????

Frederick for all accounts is a normal mid 20’s man; he has the same aspirations as anyone his age, except he has one problem. He is the ward of Edward Lobe, and as a result of this, is taken along with Lobe on all his antics. It seems that Lobe has taken it on himself to teach Frederick all about monster hunting, but it would seem through the tales I have heard, that Frederick is the one who has kept Lobe out of harms way. As for his surname? Your guess is as good as mine, I've found nothing on record even hinting at his last name!

No one knows how Frederick came into the care of Lobe, there are tales that Frederick is actually Lobe’s nephew, one tale states that Lobe won Frederick in a game of cards! The one that most people go with is that Frederick was in the wrong place at the wrong time and Lobe came and saved the day.

The Validity of any of this is at question, due to the fact that Department 14's personnel records are terrible!!

Reverse Vampires!

Everyone has heard of Vampires, but have you ever heard about a Reverse Vampire?

When I first encountered one in Zagreb, I thought that it was a joke, but no. These creatures exsist, albeit in a lesser known capacity than their night-life loving brothers.

Reverse Vampires are exactly what they sound like. They love Garlic, are devoulty religious creatures, are always looking at themselves in mirrors and walk about in the day and sleep at night. Oh and moonlight kills them. They do however still feed on blood, that part is un-changed. So they're pretty similar to the French...

I was in a group of 4 hunters, who were looking for a Wendigo but due to some strange weather paterns, we had lost it. So we went to a Zagreb fun-fair, which is about as fun as you'd expect... except this one had a Reverse Vampire running it. He killed the others one by one and I barely got out with my life thanks to the fact I had just eaten some Polo's I bought from a gas station as apparantly they can't stand minty freshness.

So how do you kill a Reverse Vampire? Stake through the heart, same way as you'd kill a regular vampire or tie them up and wait for the moon to come out. Reverse Vampires aren't as well know, but they are as deadly, they've got super strength, speed and can walk in the day. Good luck if you find one!

Department 14 Personnel #2: Edward Lobe

The first entry to this blog was a poem written about Edward Lobe by an anonymous source. I have found several stories about Edward Lobe and his hapless ward Frederick in the vaults of Department 14 and will be sharing them with you over the months ahead.

His personnel file is written in a strange language that I have yet to decipher, so all I have at the moment are snippets of information that I’ve gathered from the various stories I’ve collected about him.

Lobe knows his stuff, being a published author of various occult related texts, and he also works as a Professor of History at Huetown University. I called them for an interview about Lobe, but they refused to give me anymore information due to confidentiality.

I mentioned Lobe’s ward, Frederick. In all the stories, Frederick is at Lobe’s side, albeit not always willingly and I will be covering what I have on Frederick in a later post, so watch this space.

He also seems quite a sympathetic character, choosing to ask questions first, then some more questions, then attempt negotiations, then shoot as a very last result, even his first book titled “Werewolves are humans too” spoke about how we should look after these mystical monstrosities as oppose to killing them. Personally I think he’s crazy.

The Legend of Hell House

In the history of haunted houses, there are some particularly gruesome ones. One particularly nasty one in England is Hell House.

The story goes that about 50 years ago, a woman called Mary Claudette got engaged to a Moray McLardy (who I have on record as being a member of some kind of cult which I'm looking into) They prepared to get married, but as Mary didn't have any other family members and it was traditional for the brides side to pay for the wedding, she sold her house to pay for it. The wedding day came and McLardy didn't show up, Mary was heartbroken and homeless.

The only clothes she had was her wedding dress and even the Church of Ecstatic Jubilation, where they were due to be wed, closed the door on her. With no where else to go, Mary wandered the streets and simply vanished!

No one knows how she died, but three years later the haunting of her old house began and has continued to this very day. The locals renamed her old home to Hell House. Legend has it that when you enter Hell House, the doors lock and you have till dawn before you are killed by a “Bride”.

Although it is literally a deathtrap for those who enter, it has had lots of different owners, due to savvy estate agents who have neglected to tell their victims that although it’s a good deal for a two bedroom semi-detached property, the occupants will die if they enter the house.

So be cautious, and remember to outright ask any estate agent you ever buy off of, if the house you are buying is built on an Indian burial ground, or is haunted, or if it has got a good broadband connection.