The Face We Saw At Sea
London, England
1813
My name is Eustace Adams, and I make this statement of my own free will. I believe myself to be of sound mind, and yet, there are many things I hope to recount in this testimony that will cast that into considerable doubt. I am no Scientist, and though I count myself a man of reason, there is little in the bounds of this written account I may do to thoroughly prove the veracity of what I will say, and so my trust must be placed entirely in whomever finds and reads this immediately following the death I know awaits me.
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My Lily took sick in the autumn of 1802, and dearest Sada and I were quite at a loss with what to do. There had been pockets of the Flu throughout London that summer, and we kept her abed as long as we thought sensible. Poor Sada never left her side and was in and out throughout the night with compresses to burn out the fever. When the delirium set in, we started to fear it may be the Jail Fever they’d been reporting down at Newgate. That’s when Sada suggested we take her out of London, perhaps down to my brother Jasper on the coast.
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I initially declined; I had far too much editing to complete, and I wanted to be available in London to hand the manuscript directly to Matthew Warhurst himself so printing could begin immediately. But poor Lily, she had a darkness about her now. She found it increasingly difficult to keep down any food, and she was too weak to respond to either of us.
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“She needs this, Eustace,” Sada pleaded one evening, her face cast in shadow by the dimly burning candles that illuminated my writing desk. I relented, knowing what she truly meant was ‘I need this.’
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***
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It had felt like the right thing to do. Particularly when the carriage had rounded a bend and the sea had reared into view. Lily sat up, bolt upright and gazed out at it. She’d seen the sea once before when she was very small, but I doubt she would have remembered it. I wish I had listened to her more closely that day, as her eyes widened at the vast expanse of blue. I don’t know what I would have done differently, but something about her wide sickly grin should have told me something. It should have sounded an alarm in my heart. But I merely laughed as she turned her head to me and said, “Why is it whispering, father?”
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***
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Her death was sudden, and I think the shock of it led to much of what followed. She’s seemed improving in our first few days at Jasper’s. The sight of the sea from Jasper’s porch seemed to give her the strength to walk again, but we noticed she stayed up too late most nights, sitting by the back door which opened into a small private beach surrounded on all sides by steep dunes and thin spears of pampas grass.
It was Sada who found her early one morning. The image of it seems burned into my memory like a brand. Sada stood in the water, drenched and pale, as she cradled a small body, wrapped in white linen, and hummed and spluttered in mad, desperate denial.
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***
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It is with another surge of regret, reader, that I tell you that Edgar Tywin found his way into my life at the same time as the bottle did. You see, I had taken to spending my evening hours at the Fountain, and my wife, dear Sada, allowed me my solitude. I found out later that it had been my brother Jasper who had suggested I seek the company of Edgar, and Sada had reached out to him by means of a letter.
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So, when he approached me in that lowly public house on one blisteringly cold November evening, I had assumed it was a chance encounter, which, somehow, made me fall even more desperately to Edgar’s charm. I had been so long without the touch of another. I could not bear the usual comfort I once had sought in Sada’s beautiful eyes, for it was the same comfort I often found in Lily’s. The only glimpse of happiness I could hope to attain was somewhere so devoid of Lily, I could imagine I inhabited a world in which her, and her death, did not exist.
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Edgar is a man rather hard to explain. From our first conversation, I could not escape the immense comfort I felt in his presence. We sat together alone, in a small booth in a darkened corner, his dark eyes glowing with the candlelight, and spoke our way well past the lock in. In that discussion alone, I had revealed to him my heartache and the death of my daughter, and a number of other closely kept secrets I would have resolutely taken to the grave. And he in turn wasted no time in recounting the hurts he had endured; the loss of his first wife in their first year of marriage to an unknown malady of the heart; how quickly he had met his second wife, who had cruelly squandered much of his families considerable fortune before fleeing the country, and his more recent squabble with his family, who had disapproved of certain moral choices he had made.
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I pressed him on this latter point as much as he would permit me, but he told me little, other than his father, a respected clergyman, had denounced him after his founding of “The Society”, citing its heretical nature.
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Whether through pity, my wife or brother’s suggestion or some other force unknown, Edgar took it upon himself to invite me to one of their meetings, stating it would be preferable to demonstrate the work of the organisation, rather than explain it. They met only once a month, and the date varied, but Edgar informed me to expect a small letter by post over the coming days.
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I am a God fearing man, dear reader, but something of this Society intrigued me. As much as it shames me to admit, there dwells in me, as I fear may do in the heart of every man, a hidden desire to pursue the taboo and the shameful, and within my breast, such a beast dwelt, and at the merest mention of this society, its nose was sniffing the air.
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***
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The card came not two days later. A small envelope, sealed with a curious emblem I did not recognise, but that looked like a Heron sitting in a crescent moon. Inside which, was placed a single card, no larger than bank note, stating simply,
The Malborough Hotel
11pm
By invitation only.
Memorise:
Though mystery is a darkened night,
Curiosity is candlelight.
***
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The hotel sat on a dreary road that overlooked the sea, and though the place looked derelict, I could see some light trickling out through the boarded windows. The road was otherwise empty, giving the hotel the odd impression of being a kind of squat-looking lighthouse, peering out into the wide expanse of endless black rolling waves.
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From the moment I entered, I was led down a long corridor and asked to don a long black rob, and a mask shaped in the likeness of a Heron. Men arrived in short bursts and flurries after that, all robed and masked as I was, but ironically complaining of rather mundane things, like poor weather and sloppy hotels.
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Edgar was awaiting me in the adjoining room. He took me in that familiar embrace that seemed to linger, and he graced a masked kiss upon my cheek as we parted, stating how thrilled he was that I was there. The room looked like what had once been an old billiards room, but the tables and chairs had been swept to the side, and a circle of chairs had been made, around which we gathered, under the light of a single chandelier that hung from the ceiling.
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The meeting began with a few pleasantries, and ground rules were explained, mostly reminders on the importance of discretion. By that point, I had nearly decided to leave.
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Then, the magic began.
First, a man named Horace stepped into the circle, holding what appeared to be a cage covered with black cloth. He pulled off the cloth to reveal the body of a small dead bird; perhaps a blue mockingbird. It was quite dead, and he went to great lengths to prove it; poking it, shaking the cage, picking it out with one hand and holding it aloft. Then, he placed the birdcage down, and pulled a small book and several strange objects from under his cloak, placing them in a certain order in a circle around the cage. The objects, from what I could see in the dim light, were a pocket watch, some kind of orchid, a metal spoon, a coin, and a vial of a strange liquid I couldn’t fathom the nature of, and a knife. He placed the book before him, and began to chant, and with the knife, drew blood from his extended thumb. The blood fell and landed on the bird, and from the moment it had done so, the candlelight dimmed. Something about the room became suddenly uncomfortable and sickly, like I was coming down with some kind of fever, and the air in the room began to feel dense and hot.
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The next sound was a chirping.
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The room erupted into a generous applause, and Horace stood, bowed, and shook hands with several of the other members. My eyes remained fixed on the bird, which now leapt vivaciously against the bars of its cage, its eyes meeting mine. I fancied I saw pain there.
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***
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I saw many miraculous things in that room, which no doubt my reader will try to explain away. Tricks of the light perhaps, or some work of deception concealed behind those cloaks. Or perhaps I had been drugged. Believe me, all of these theories I too have attempted to convince myself of. In fact, by March of 1803, I was close to concluding that these peculiar evenings were indeed a design of my grief-stricken imagination, and by attending them, I was condemning an already sick and eroding mind to further torment.
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But Edgar insisted. I must come to this last one – this last meeting, and if I was not made whole again by what he had to show me, then he gave me leave to turn my back on the Society for good. His eyes bore down my resolve that morning as we shared breakfast, and thus, regrettably, I relented.
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***
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We met far later on that fateful evening, at an abandoned boathouse about half a mile south of a small town called Pagham. The boathouse sat on the edge of a small river that opened up into the ocean, and apart from this single structure, all that could be seen was a vast stretch of marshland, and the shadow of a distant church to the West. A small, tired looking sloop vessel, rigged and ready for sail, sat in the boathouse before us. Edgar spoke of his excitement about this project, to which he had devoted many years of study, but stressed the importance of silence from the moment we left the shores, until we returned.
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The journey seemed to last an eternity. We all obeyed Edgar’s command loyally, and as a result, the vessel was locked in a stony, uncomfortable silence, and each of us, standing or seated on the deck, found ourselves craning our ears against the moaning wind, or the hiss of waves as they broke against the hull.
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I knew I wasn’t imagining it, then. Clear as the scent of salt on the air, her voice was there. Edgar placed a hand upon my shoulder.
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“I hear it too,” he whispered, and I could hear the smile on his lips, “But I hear my Elizabeth. They whisper to us, Eustace. Don’t shut them out.”
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The boat was halted about an hour into our voyage, and the sails were drawn in. I could see no further than about ten metres in any direction. The sea, like rolling black glass, yawned wide beneath us, and it felt like the tiny boat was suspended in a dark void. The space around us could have been anywhere at night. A pitch black field, or a cold dark room.
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Taking the lantern, and placing a finger against his lips, Edgar headed to the ship’s bow, beckoning us to follow him, holding his lantern high so it’s light trickled out over the water’s surface. Gasps erupted from the crowd around me, their hands pointing wildly at the surface of the ocean, and as I followed their trembling outstretched arms, the blood in my veins turned deathly cold.
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A pallid face, larger than the very boat we stood on, gazed up at us from several metres below, suspended in the ocean’s depths like a large sunken portrait. Though it was cast in an uneven shadow, in seemed unmistakably human, despite the pallor of its drawn skin, which clung so tightly to the bone beneath, it appeared emaciated.
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A man shrieked, and the moment he did so, the face’s eyes darted to where the noise had come from. Without warning, a wave crashed into the side of the vessel, and our knees collectively buckled under the sudden movement. We fell quite silent after that, and the anger that had swept across the sunken face, disappeared, and waves about us calmed. Edgar’s eyes met mine.
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“Eustace,” he said, softly, “It is time. Step forward.”
I found myself obeying, and the pair of black eyes beneath the waves met my gaze, unblinking.
“Father…”
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The face’s lips had not moved, but I knew where the voice had come from. I felt my breaths rasp from my throat, and gripped the railings tighter, my hands turned numb from the icy wind. The face twisted, almost imperceptibly, cocking itself to the side. It looked like pity.
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From somewhere behind the face, something moved. The light from Edgar’s lantern was too dim to be sure, but it appeared to have been a tail, or tentacle.
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“Call her,” Edgar whispered to me, “Face your grief.”
“Lily.”
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Something moved again, but this time it came closer. A long tendril, like that of some large squid, slithered around the face, and snaked its way towards me. The tip of it stopped about half a metre below the ocean’s surface, and I took an instinctive step back. Edgar’s arms held me.
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“Watch closely,” he said.
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The tip of the tendril began to swell violently; it became bulbous and round, like metal bubbling under intense heat, but after a moment, it began to take shape. Even before her features could properly assemble, I knew who it was. I heard a gasp escape my lips. I wanted to tear myself free, to fling myself from the edge and back onto the boat and shut my eyes against it. Oh, God, reader, if only I had not looked. If only I had never set foot on that boat, or gone to that first meeting, or locked eyes with Edgar Tywin. But all was too late.
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Her ghost spoke to me as I wept, and the large pale face gazed unpityingly. Her white dress and dark hair coiling around her body as she gazed up, an expression of sadness, fear and confusion twisting her pale face. I cannot bear to recount what she said to me, though I remember it with a piercing clarity. She told me she was cold and asked where she was. She asked why she could feel me, but not see me. She called and screeched beneath the waves, asking if she had gone something wrong or bad, and if this was hell, and when would I come to keep her warm. All the while, Edgar held me as I thrashed against him, whispering softly to me.
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“Let it consume you, love,” he said, gripping me tighter, “And you will overcome it.”
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My knees buckled and I fell towards the railings, as the ghost of her sunk backwards into the ocean, and I felt Edgar’s hands pulling me backwards, as I wept and shivered and whimpered into the night air.
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***
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I do not remember the journey back, nor do I recall seeing Edgar again after that. My next strong memory is the trip I took with Jasper to purchase that dingy, and how baffled Jasper was that I should take such a sudden interest in sailing. I taught myself to sail it in a week, getting up early and returning late. I remember Sada telling me she was leaving, but I don’t remember why, or even the last time I saw her.
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The subsequent days were spent sleeping, and conserving my energy for the night, when I would make for that boathouse in Pagham, and set off on my nightly voyage. Every day of it was a kind of torture, but I tell you now, reader, that even now, I lack the power to resist.
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I tried. I tried to leave the seaside, to return to London, but I only made it as far as the coach, before breaking down into gasping sobs by the roadside.
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I know that the Face is waiting for me to join her, and though the thought of that bottomless grave fills me with dread, I know I will do it. It is when, rather than if. Please, do not come for me. And if you do, do not come at night.
Consider this a warning, to those who may seek it; do not heed the whispers that come from the ocean.
It is a cold death that awaits me, let it not be yours.
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END