An Infernal Love

Chapter 3/?

Mortensen Castle, November 12th 1798, Journal of Dr David Wenham

7 a.m.

I cannot believe that I have woken this early again. Sir Mortensen does not seem to be up yet and so far I have not seen the servant today either. I do not know when but at some point during the wee hours I must have fallen asleep. The howling of the wolves stayed with me throughout the night and even though they seem to be gone now, an echo of their howling still lingers on the wind and I doubt that they have strayed far from the castle now.

It is a mystery to me that they seem to be drawn to this castle. I have finished my notes about the illness of Mr McKellen and am now somewhat convinces that he suffers from loss of blood though I am at a total loss to explain what should have caused his condition. I could not find any wound upon him so it must have something to do with his diet.

Sir Mortensen, however, has assured me that Mr McKellen takes enough nourishment and has recently developed a taste for red meat, which should aid the production of red blood-cells. These facts are most puzzling since red meat should have been enough to cure him from his disease. He also shows some signs of being anaemic but I have no idea how to treat him at the moment.

I also wonder about his connection with Sir Mortensen. They are not related by blood, that much is obvious. It was also most obvious that he sought to avoid Mr McKellen as much as possible. Perhaps the old man was right when he said that Sir Mortensen was afraid of him. But why? Surely there is no danger in a man as old as Ian McKellen? He seemed to be around sixty, at least. Just another fact that does not add up with the strong irons holding him. I wonder why Sir Mortensen thinks them necessary?

But enough of that, I shall trouble myself with that later, when I’m with Sir Mortensen. For now the memory of the wolves is still too near, is etched vividly into my mind. The sun is just rising outside, a fiery globe in a crimson sky. A red sun rises. I think there is an old saying that a red sun in the morning means that blood has been spilt during the night. But whose blood? And where? Mayhap the wolves have found a victim yestereve. Lord be with me if I ever am to meet them again.

It is already 7.50 a.m. and the servant has still not shown up. If we ate at Sir Mortensen’s usual breakfast time yesterday, then he is already late. And Sir Mortensen did promise to spend the morning meal with me. The room is still just as lovely as it was yesterday but somehow I am incapable of appreciating its beauty anymore. With every second I stay here the whole situation becomes stranger still and I feel even more out of place that ever before. This is all so far from the things I know. I have to go, there is somebody knocking on my door.

Same day, 10.30 a.m.

I am in my room again and all I know is that I want to get out and as far away from this place as possible. And I fear that Sir Mortensen suspects as much, since he was rather distant and aloof this morning. He cut me short when I tried to discuss Mr McKellen’s strange illness and barely spoke a word during the whole meal. Why? The strange disease Mr McKellen suffers from was his reason for summoning me. Why does he reject my ideas about them without even hearing what I might have to say? He said we could talk about Mr McKellen this evening. Why this renewed delay? The ticking of the heavily ornamented grandfather clock is starting to get on my nerves. The strange quiet which echoes through this castle during the daylight hours is starting to get to me, too. And I am starting to feel the strain of the night.

Upon waking come morning, I feel rested and restored but during the day strange bits and pieces of memory surface, memories of tossing around, of lingering insomnia and howling wolves, of icy blue eyes staring into mine, burning straight to the back of my skull, till my head seems to explode. I seem to recall whispering voices, talking to me of things I do not dare to write down, lest they become real. I have never been more afraid and yet I feel a strange calm as though something or someone has a gently soothing influence on me, that forces my fear to still, whether I want it to or not.

I cannot stay in this room anymore! The walls seem to be closing in on me in this thunderous quiet. Something wicked this way comes. He’s almost here! I cannot stay! I cannot!

Same day, 3p.m

Four and a half hours have passed since I last wrote into this book and so many things have changed! My bout of panic has passed, even though it took me almost two hours to calm down. After my last entry I jumped up, clutching my journal close to my chest as I stormed out of the room. It was a nightmare. The walls flew past me, stony barriers of twisted obsidian, each and every doorway and window framed by exactly the same stone roses. My footsteps echoed hollowly through the dry air and it seemed as though I was not moving forward at all.

I ran against the doors I passed, pulling and pushing on and against them in a vain attempt to open them. They were locked! All of them, except for one, the door to the library. My room and the library are the only unlocked ones! I am a prisoner here now! I cannot get out! There’s no way left for me, now! Oh Lord, if I ever needed your guidance then in these hours! Be with me Lord, I beg you!

I have decided to hide my distress from Sir Mortensen, since I do not want to rouse his suspicion. Why? Why is he keeping me prisoner here? Was he afraid that I might leave here? But why should he? And how could he have known that I wanted to escape from his castle in the first place?

It always seems as if he knows my feelings and fears before I know them myself. But that is not possible unless he were really reading my thoughts in some way. And even that does not explain the anxiety I experienced when I ran out of my room. What did I mean?
Something wicked this way comes. He’s almost here! I cannot stay! I cannot!
Why did I write that? What – or rather who – was coming? I feel as though I know it and yet I am unable to name it. But what would be enough to evoke such a fear within me?

When I returned to my room after finding that the library was the only place I could go to, the sheets of paper with my notes about Mr McKellen’s illness and the letter I wrote to my secretary yesterday had disappeared. I am totally cut off from the world outside and absolutely at Sir Mortensen’s mercy. Heaven help me!

What does he want with me? I cannot be of any use to him, except for guessing at the source of Mr McKellen’s illness, so why should he keep me here by force? What does he want me for? Or do I assume too much, when I think that I am in some way useful to him? What if I am not? No, I must not think that way. He has summoned me and he has treated me well so far. I must mean something to him. For if I did not, then why should he keep me here? Why should he keep me alive? Why? A shudder runs through me. Footsteps are coming and once again apprehension rises within me. I have to hide this journal. Have to keep it safely away from him!

Same day, 11.17p.m

I am barely able to write since my hand is shaking so badly. I cannot believe what has happened. The footsteps I heard coming were indeed announcing the arrival of Sir Mortensen. I wonder why he returned so early. We spent the whole afternoon and evening together and he did his best to assure me that my fears are unfounded. I don’t know why I thought that the doors were locked but it seems no more but a distant impression now.

I know – nay, feel – that something happened today while I was with Sir Mortensen but my memory of the day with him is shrouded in mist. I see everything through a haze and cannot even say how I feel about the man. His presence still intrigues me and I know something important happened today but I cannot say what. I am absolutely confused. I do not even know what I think about him! I have no real memory of what happened today and the wolves outside are unsettling me again. I will try to sleep, maybe I shall regain my memory over night.

Tbc…