An Infernal Love

Mortensen Castle, November 11th, Journal of Dr David Wenham


7 a.m.

it is or so the heavily ornamented grand-father clock on the mantelpiece tells me. I can hardly believe that I am up and about again but in spite of the journey’s hardships I feel wonderfully rested. I have yet to meet Sir Mortensen or any of the servants he must surely employ, and with every minute ticking away on the two gilded fingers of the clock my anticipation grows. Somehow I cannot help but be anxious to meet the owner of this castle.

The room’s furnishings are lovely, a heavy oak table stands beneath an arched window of carved stone at the northern wall, its stony roses mirroring the elaborate floral ornaments that are also carved into the legs and the back of the chair. Even the bulky four-poster bed has the same pattern of florals cut into them. The floor is not covered with rugs and carpets as is often seen these days but with a single fur, that seems to have come from a boar. It lies in front of the bed.
A washing basin and a jug with water are standing upon another desk in the far corner of the room. Nut the door opens and a servant bids me come to the great hall for breakfast. I cannot help but look forward to meeting my so far very generous host.

Same day, 1p.m.

I now have the whole afternoon before me to spend by myself as Sir Mortensen has excused himself for the remainder of the day, claiming that he had important business matters which might require his attention till late into the night.
After we had broken our fats, Sir Mortensen and I spent the whole morning and our lunch deep in conversation, which helped to answer many of my earlier questions and yet the whole thing becomes more and more mysterious as even more questions arise still.

As it turned out Sir Mortensen does not require my services for himself bit for a most unfortunate subject of his, who is succumbing to an unknown illness. To my disappointment I have not seen the man yet but Sir Mortensen has promised to introduce me this evening, if his business allows. I am more curios to meet the afore mentioned individual than ever. Sir Mortensen has generously allowed me to have a look at his library and read whatever book takes my fancy. I will surely take him up on that offer, as my room provides no other distraction than my journal to me.

Same day, 3.30p.m.

I am now sitting in the library. It is a huge room with a wonderful row of windows on the eastern wall that go from the floor to the very ceiling of the room. Like the windows in my chamber they are decorated with carved roses. The floor is covered with one enormous carpet, which is already worn threadbare round the big teak table that stands in the middle of the room. Teak! I wonder where he obtained such a treasure!
Just like in my room the table and the carpet are decorated with the same roses that also frame the windows. There are two doors to the library – one on the western and one on the northern wall and one is barely able to see the black rigged stones of the walls because where there are no windows or doors they are hung with large tapestries and long bookshelves.

I have already spent quite some time browsing through Sir Mortensen’s books and must admit that I find them interesting – in a rather disturbing way. Some of the shelves contain historical books of all kinds. Books on the fall of Rome, the invasion of England by the Romans, the Vikings, the Saxons, the Normans and so on. There are also some books in Latin and Greek - I have found Tacitus, Ovid, Sallust, Caesar, Plinius, Seneca, Aristotle and the Emperor Constantine as well as the Confessions of Augustus. All these books seem to be well cared for and well read. It would seem that Sir Mortensen is a highly educated man if he has indeed read all these books and he becomes – if nothing else – more and more intriguing to me.

And yet I am beginning to feel a distant inkling of fear for in some of the shelves, in a darkened corner of the room I found books of an unspeakable nature. Books that defied every ounce of faith and religion, books which should never exist, books which actually seemed to describe things of unnatural nature, books of heresy. But alas, I shall say no more of them, for I dared not look into them and I cannot know if these are truly Sir Mortensen’s books or if he only inherited them, for such books are often passed on through generations.

I am really looking forward to spending the evening with him. And yet I wonder. Which illness is there that a man like Sir Mortensen cannot identify? And will I be able to find a cure? But alas, time has flown by and here comes a servant to lead me to the dinner table. It is the same servant who came to tell me that breakfast was served this morning. I am beginning to doubt that there are any servants in this castle, except foe the man-servant, the driver and maybe a cook. But the driver – judging by his looks, or what little I remember of them – may very well have been Sir Mortensen himself. But why would such a noble gentleman pose as a peasant? And why would he have only two servants to do his bidding? The valet bides me come again. Food calls. I shall end the entry for this day when I am in my room again, preparing myself for the night.

Same day, 11.47p.m.

What an evening it has been! My mind still reels with all the things I saw! The horror of it! My mind refuses to believe what I have seen this eve and I know that what I am writing will seem like madness to me if I read it again later. And yet I cannot help but go on with what I started the moment I first read Mortensen’s letter a week ago. If only I knew what his involvement in all this is! For he must be involved somehow – it is impossible that he should not. But I am drifting off. Should start with what happened after dinner tonight.

After dinner Sir Mortensen led me through the castle, which is all in all rather impressive in spite of the roses carved into every single doorway and window, to a small chamber in the eastern wing, where I had not been before.

The windows there showed me that we were high above the ground, facing into the direction of the North York Moors, or the Swamp as the locals call it. A little fire was burning in the chamber, its flames dancing merrily in the little fireplace as they threw a soft red-golden light across the room. The only furniture in there was a bed and it was obvious that the room had not been cleaned for quite some time. I shuddered as the man’s lonely gaze met mine. And though I knew that it was only reasonable to isolate a man with an unknown sickness I felt a profound sympathy for him. He looked positively forlorn in that bed.

He was tall and thin, with a high forehead, close-cropped white hair and lively ice-blue eyes, that seemed to change their shade of colour as they followed my every move. The strangest thing was that he completely ignored Sir Mortensen, which I considered to be very rude indeed.
“I shall leave you to your examinations.” Sir Mortensen said. “But whatever you do, doctor, and no matter what he tells you, do not release him.” I remember frowning as I watched the knight silently retreat. When I turned back to the bed I suddenly noticed the chains around the man’s ankles and wrists. It was as though a veil had been lifted from my eyes, for I simply did not recall seeing these very visible chains before. And I do not recall to now either.

They were long enough to allow him to sit up and move around on the bed, but they appeared to be made of heavy iron and certainly looked strong enough to keep a much younger and stranger man prisoner. “Who are you?” I asked finally, deciding that getting to know the patient would be the best course of action. I staggered backwards. Clamping my hands over my ears as hollow labouring laughter suddenly filled my room. Laughter of a kind I had never heard before. I have heard many kinds of laughter but this one had an unearthly ring to it.

“And why,” the man on the bed asked between gasps for breath, “do you deem yourself worthy of knowing my name?” “I am a doctor.” I replied shakily. “Sir Mortensen sent for me to find out what ails you.”
“Ails me?” he spat “I am not ailing! There is no illness in me!” He had sat up in the bed and was now staring at me, his blue eyes unblinking in the light of the dancing flames. “And,” he whispered conspiratorially, beckoning for me to come closer. Hesitantly I obeyed.
“Sir Mortensen doesn’t want me to become myself again. He is not interested in my fate.” He said with conviction and I saw that he truly believed what he was saying. “He doesn’t understand what I am.” the old man continued. “He has created another demon but he can’t understand what I am and because of that he fears me. He will ask you to kill me.” “No.” I whispered, shaking my head in denial. I could not believe that a man like Sir Mortensen should be capable of such a thing! I leaned even closer as his voice gradually quietened to a whisper. “But who are you, that a knight like Sir Mortensen should fear you?” I tried again. “I am Ian McKellen.” The old man said and laid back, resting his head against the pillows.

And that was al he said. No matter how much I questioned and coaxed him, he would not speak again but instead suffered silently through all examinations I put him through.
I had just finished them and was thinking of trying to get him to speak again when the door suddenly opened and Sir Mortensen came in. He led me wordlessly back to my room, only when we had arrived there did he speak to me again. He told me that he would see me again in the morning, at breakfast, and that he would very much like to hear my first theories about the patient’s – Ian’s – illness then. Numbly I nodded, too tired to really do anything else but agree with him.

I wanted to go to bed but once again the howling of the wolves kept me awake and so I am writing this entry instead now.
And the old man’s words seem to echo in my mind. Questions over questions. What did Ian mean when he said that Sir Mortensen had created another demon? Why does he think that he’s a demon I the first place? Could the illness be affecting his brain? But if he were, who would Sir Mortensen have to be to be able to create a demon? Why are there only two servants? And why are there so many wolves living so close to the castle? And just what is the illness from which Mr McKellen obviously suffers?

My head is spinning and all these questions are making my headache worse. I shall try to sleep in spite of the howling wolves. If I can. Strange – I have had this headache ever since Ian first looked me directly into the eye.


Tbc…