Post by Mog on Jan 15, 2011 16:59:27 GMT -5
A LETTER FROM DAVID MORRISON TO ROBERT POTTS
Robert,
First off, I remember well enough your intimations that I should hold off on explanations of my findings until my return to America so that you could hear them first hand, but to be frank my friend what I’ve found is of such a pressing interest that I doubt even someone of your stubbornness could hold off from telling another. Allow me to lay out the events since our parting in chronological order for the sake of having it written somewhere (I really should follow your advice and keep a journal). As you’ll remember well enough, I set off only a few weeks ago (the 17th May, should you pass this letter on to anyone unfamiliar with me) to the northernmost reaches of the English countryside after receiving a letter informing me that I had inherited a certain manor house there from a distant and recently deceased Uncle. As the two of us discussed, while I had considered simply selling on the property from America and having done with it there and then, the somewhat odd manner of my Uncle’s death and the unsettling rumors surrounding the manor’s (and it’s owners) history left me feeling that such legends were definitely worth a follow up. It was thusly that I set off for the practically mystical Markism Manor.
Now that I have a moment between settings, I must admit I absolutely loathe the English countryside. I’ve no doubt you’ll throw a small righteous fit over this, but we can’t all be “with nature,” as you so meaninglessly put it. City folk belong amongst the towering metal palm trees and the unrecognizable mesh of a thousand different foods, all of them bad for both the body and the palette! But, I’m sure I can save my zeal for another time, I’ve yet to describe my arrival at Markism manor. After setting up lodgings (in what you would call a ‘quaint’ little hotel) I set straight off for the manor as the evening of the 18th fell. In tow was an agent of the firm in charge of transferring the house to my name who spent the entire trip flashing a scathing look at me, the kind only women have mastery over, expressing very clearly that she had immensely important business to take care of wherever she comes from (most likely London itself, the firm’s based there) and that I had better decide whether or not I wanted the house fast. The second and only other soul joining me on my magical mystery tour was a police officer tasked with keeping an eye on me during my time in the house. After the bodies were discovered in the manor the police had everything cordoned off and were still conducting searches within the house during the time of my arrival. As the closest family member to this Uncle still alive (though I'd never even met the man or heard of him before said letter) I am within my rights to enter the house while the investigation is ongoing, though judging from the presence of my blue-clad escort I’m restricted when it comes to touching anything, walking anywhere or breathing out.
The house, to put it nicely, was in a state of disrepair beyond all hope, it seemed my long lost Uncle was a firm believer in DIY by procrastination. Several of the windows were smashed to fragments, masses of vines crawled up the walls of the house and whole chunks of mortar had fallen from the brickwork onto the unkempt grass. As for the acres around the house Robert, well to be perfectly honest I felt like I’d stepped from the modern world into Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Crossing the threshold into the house I noticed a thin layer of dust on absolutely everything, fingerprints imprinted onto doorknobs, footprints crisscrossing all over the floor, with every step I was finding more and more evidence supporting the theory that my Uncle was something of a Heathcliff.
There was nothing of real interest in any of the rooms I subsequently explored, the Estate Agent chatting away like a parakeet, the Officer silently nodding to any of his counterparts we passed going about their business with various tools of a forensic nature. It was only when we reached the scene of the incident revolving around Uncle Heathcliff and the others (I daren’t use ‘crime’ or ‘suicide’ to describe such a mystery for fear of confusing myself) that my curiosity was piqued. As the letter informed me Robert, the bodies were found inside one of the houses larger halls. It was indeed a grand room, easiest to describe by asking you to picture a small ballroom. Large crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, magnificent curtains of crimson draped around the walls. Also, perhaps more peculiarly, this particular room had no signs of dust or shoddy ownership at all, in fact it was perfectly easy to see my own face reflected in the ballroom floor. However, these likely trivial notes would be made mentally by me only much later, as upon my entry all my attention was seized by quite a scene before me. There, behind the yellow police tape and the photographer, lay the while chalk outlines of where both my Uncle and the others were found. At this point the Estate Agent “came over all faint” and had to be escorted for some fresh air by my other companion, giving me comparative freedom to investigate the scene further. The bodies seemed to have fallen from the top of a great marble staircase at the other end of the room, as their chalk outlines now littered aforementioned staircase drunkenly. From my position, I could also see a few pools of what was most likely blood in certain places down the stairwell. Make of that what you will Robert, I shan’t make assumptions yet until I can be more certain. Right now it may seem like a simple attack and robbery or something of that sort, but I’ve yet to tell you of my latest discovery, one that presents a plethora of entirely more grisly explanations of what could have happened.
A week after my comings and goings to the house began; I was exploring a hallway adjacent to the scene of the incident when, by chance, I stumbled upon what seemed to be a library. Pulling out books at random all seemed perfectly normal until at one point a slip of paper fell from one of the books I unceremoniously tugged at. Bending down to pick up the sliver of paper I noticed that what I thought was a bookmark had a scrawl of writing across it, reading as follows: “Μεγάλη κόκκινη σφαίρα.” Though this may seem unimportant, you should note that this text was written in what I later found out to be blood (it’s astounding what these forensics specialists leave lying around). Not only that, but the book it fell from also had dried droplets of blood on seemingly random pages! Unfortunately, as you know, I barely have even the faintest grasp of French, so my hopes of translating this sentence (or even discovering what language it’s written in) are, for the moment, grim. It could also be that this isn’t a language, but in fact some secretive code. My explanation as to why it would be in code is simple: the book the slip fell from. Upon examining the book I discovered it to be a tome on some kind of religion by the name of ‘Markism.’ It’s very unlikely that this is a mere coincidence; the house is for some reason named after this religion (or vice versa). I am beginning to get a nagging suspicion that this religion is not only related to the name of the manor, but also to the deaths of my Uncle and the others. Why? Because the diagrams and images I’ve seen while glancing through this book are of an unnerving nature to say the least Robert. Again, unfortunately for me the slip of paper slipped from the book and I have no idea what page it marked, or perhaps it would be more appropriate to say what secrets it hinted toward. What is this religion, this Markism? What did this Uncle of mine have to do with it? And how does it all tie in to the sudden deaths in the house?
These are questions I hope to answer by reading this book more thoroughly in the coming days Robert, after which I intend to delve deeper into this manor. That’s why I’m planning on staying here for a few weeks longer. Now I don’t want you to think I’m turning into some kind of private investigator, I simply find all this curious and, honestly, enthralling. To conclude, I’d like to humbly request if you could do a little scouring for information on the manor or perhaps this Markism back in America, for someone who enjoys these occult legends and eerie myths I find it quite odd that I’ve never heard of this supposed religion.
Feel free to write to me should you find anything, you know the address. Give Jessica my regards,
David.
Robert,
First off, I remember well enough your intimations that I should hold off on explanations of my findings until my return to America so that you could hear them first hand, but to be frank my friend what I’ve found is of such a pressing interest that I doubt even someone of your stubbornness could hold off from telling another. Allow me to lay out the events since our parting in chronological order for the sake of having it written somewhere (I really should follow your advice and keep a journal). As you’ll remember well enough, I set off only a few weeks ago (the 17th May, should you pass this letter on to anyone unfamiliar with me) to the northernmost reaches of the English countryside after receiving a letter informing me that I had inherited a certain manor house there from a distant and recently deceased Uncle. As the two of us discussed, while I had considered simply selling on the property from America and having done with it there and then, the somewhat odd manner of my Uncle’s death and the unsettling rumors surrounding the manor’s (and it’s owners) history left me feeling that such legends were definitely worth a follow up. It was thusly that I set off for the practically mystical Markism Manor.
Now that I have a moment between settings, I must admit I absolutely loathe the English countryside. I’ve no doubt you’ll throw a small righteous fit over this, but we can’t all be “with nature,” as you so meaninglessly put it. City folk belong amongst the towering metal palm trees and the unrecognizable mesh of a thousand different foods, all of them bad for both the body and the palette! But, I’m sure I can save my zeal for another time, I’ve yet to describe my arrival at Markism manor. After setting up lodgings (in what you would call a ‘quaint’ little hotel) I set straight off for the manor as the evening of the 18th fell. In tow was an agent of the firm in charge of transferring the house to my name who spent the entire trip flashing a scathing look at me, the kind only women have mastery over, expressing very clearly that she had immensely important business to take care of wherever she comes from (most likely London itself, the firm’s based there) and that I had better decide whether or not I wanted the house fast. The second and only other soul joining me on my magical mystery tour was a police officer tasked with keeping an eye on me during my time in the house. After the bodies were discovered in the manor the police had everything cordoned off and were still conducting searches within the house during the time of my arrival. As the closest family member to this Uncle still alive (though I'd never even met the man or heard of him before said letter) I am within my rights to enter the house while the investigation is ongoing, though judging from the presence of my blue-clad escort I’m restricted when it comes to touching anything, walking anywhere or breathing out.
The house, to put it nicely, was in a state of disrepair beyond all hope, it seemed my long lost Uncle was a firm believer in DIY by procrastination. Several of the windows were smashed to fragments, masses of vines crawled up the walls of the house and whole chunks of mortar had fallen from the brickwork onto the unkempt grass. As for the acres around the house Robert, well to be perfectly honest I felt like I’d stepped from the modern world into Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Crossing the threshold into the house I noticed a thin layer of dust on absolutely everything, fingerprints imprinted onto doorknobs, footprints crisscrossing all over the floor, with every step I was finding more and more evidence supporting the theory that my Uncle was something of a Heathcliff.
There was nothing of real interest in any of the rooms I subsequently explored, the Estate Agent chatting away like a parakeet, the Officer silently nodding to any of his counterparts we passed going about their business with various tools of a forensic nature. It was only when we reached the scene of the incident revolving around Uncle Heathcliff and the others (I daren’t use ‘crime’ or ‘suicide’ to describe such a mystery for fear of confusing myself) that my curiosity was piqued. As the letter informed me Robert, the bodies were found inside one of the houses larger halls. It was indeed a grand room, easiest to describe by asking you to picture a small ballroom. Large crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, magnificent curtains of crimson draped around the walls. Also, perhaps more peculiarly, this particular room had no signs of dust or shoddy ownership at all, in fact it was perfectly easy to see my own face reflected in the ballroom floor. However, these likely trivial notes would be made mentally by me only much later, as upon my entry all my attention was seized by quite a scene before me. There, behind the yellow police tape and the photographer, lay the while chalk outlines of where both my Uncle and the others were found. At this point the Estate Agent “came over all faint” and had to be escorted for some fresh air by my other companion, giving me comparative freedom to investigate the scene further. The bodies seemed to have fallen from the top of a great marble staircase at the other end of the room, as their chalk outlines now littered aforementioned staircase drunkenly. From my position, I could also see a few pools of what was most likely blood in certain places down the stairwell. Make of that what you will Robert, I shan’t make assumptions yet until I can be more certain. Right now it may seem like a simple attack and robbery or something of that sort, but I’ve yet to tell you of my latest discovery, one that presents a plethora of entirely more grisly explanations of what could have happened.
A week after my comings and goings to the house began; I was exploring a hallway adjacent to the scene of the incident when, by chance, I stumbled upon what seemed to be a library. Pulling out books at random all seemed perfectly normal until at one point a slip of paper fell from one of the books I unceremoniously tugged at. Bending down to pick up the sliver of paper I noticed that what I thought was a bookmark had a scrawl of writing across it, reading as follows: “Μεγάλη κόκκινη σφαίρα.” Though this may seem unimportant, you should note that this text was written in what I later found out to be blood (it’s astounding what these forensics specialists leave lying around). Not only that, but the book it fell from also had dried droplets of blood on seemingly random pages! Unfortunately, as you know, I barely have even the faintest grasp of French, so my hopes of translating this sentence (or even discovering what language it’s written in) are, for the moment, grim. It could also be that this isn’t a language, but in fact some secretive code. My explanation as to why it would be in code is simple: the book the slip fell from. Upon examining the book I discovered it to be a tome on some kind of religion by the name of ‘Markism.’ It’s very unlikely that this is a mere coincidence; the house is for some reason named after this religion (or vice versa). I am beginning to get a nagging suspicion that this religion is not only related to the name of the manor, but also to the deaths of my Uncle and the others. Why? Because the diagrams and images I’ve seen while glancing through this book are of an unnerving nature to say the least Robert. Again, unfortunately for me the slip of paper slipped from the book and I have no idea what page it marked, or perhaps it would be more appropriate to say what secrets it hinted toward. What is this religion, this Markism? What did this Uncle of mine have to do with it? And how does it all tie in to the sudden deaths in the house?
These are questions I hope to answer by reading this book more thoroughly in the coming days Robert, after which I intend to delve deeper into this manor. That’s why I’m planning on staying here for a few weeks longer. Now I don’t want you to think I’m turning into some kind of private investigator, I simply find all this curious and, honestly, enthralling. To conclude, I’d like to humbly request if you could do a little scouring for information on the manor or perhaps this Markism back in America, for someone who enjoys these occult legends and eerie myths I find it quite odd that I’ve never heard of this supposed religion.
Feel free to write to me should you find anything, you know the address. Give Jessica my regards,
David.
