Rumpling his dyed, platinum-blonde hair (formerly a very uninteresting brown through and through), Tom realized his life-long dream was finally complete. To start, Tom’s full title was ‘Alias Tom, the Spectrological Photographer Extraordinaire,’ legally changed from ‘Tom Farrell, the underpaid High School graduate’ the day he turned twenty-one less than twenty-four hours ago.
He had moved away from his mother, he had grown tall, he owned his own, if shitty, residence; was in possession of an ideally mysterious job, and his girlfriend out stocked Jessica Alba in every physical aspect in addition to being happily uninterested in a long term relationship. Also, he was getting a raise.
All in all, this good turn of event had caused Tom—excuse me, Alias—to actually answer his boss for a change.
“ALIAS!” His slave master crowed (several of the pillars and workers alike shivered in fear), “GET YOUR SORRY LIFE-FORM IN HERE, YOU STILL-BREATHING PILE OF DISCONTENTMENT!”
Mr. Robert Coswell had believed himself legally dead for twenty-seven years, and had in fact thrown a temper tantrum when it had passed ‘thirteen’ years of being in so devoid-of-life a state. He was perfectly ordinary. He had brown hair, pale skin, bright blue eyes—and he was short. Very short. The only truly remarkable thing about Coswell was the fact he was still alive—or, ah, among us—after so many years of shouting for such long periods of time, still breathing after the massive amounts of illegal drugs he inhaled like pop rocks, and still single after the high-rise of his salary.
“HURRY IT UP, YOU POINTLESS THORN IN THE SIDE OF JESUS’ LEFT THIGH! I DON’T HAVE ALL DAY!”
Then again, thought Tom, maybe not.
“Yes, sir?” He inquired respectfully.
“ABOUT TIME YOU SHOWED UP!” He snarled.
He had moved away from his mother, he had grown tall, he owned his own, if shitty, residence; was in possession of an ideally mysterious job, and his girlfriend out stocked Jessica Alba in every physical aspect in addition to being happily uninterested in a long term relationship. Also, he was getting a raise.
All in all, this good turn of event had caused Tom—excuse me, Alias—to actually answer his boss for a change.
“ALIAS!” His slave master crowed (several of the pillars and workers alike shivered in fear), “GET YOUR SORRY LIFE-FORM IN HERE, YOU STILL-BREATHING PILE OF DISCONTENTMENT!”
Mr. Robert Coswell had believed himself legally dead for twenty-seven years, and had in fact thrown a temper tantrum when it had passed ‘thirteen’ years of being in so devoid-of-life a state. He was perfectly ordinary. He had brown hair, pale skin, bright blue eyes—and he was short. Very short. The only truly remarkable thing about Coswell was the fact he was still alive—or, ah, among us—after so many years of shouting for such long periods of time, still breathing after the massive amounts of illegal drugs he inhaled like pop rocks, and still single after the high-rise of his salary.
“HURRY IT UP, YOU POINTLESS THORN IN THE SIDE OF JESUS’ LEFT THIGH! I DON’T HAVE ALL DAY!”
Then again, thought Tom, maybe not.
“Yes, sir?” He inquired respectfully.
“ABOUT TIME YOU SHOWED UP!” He snarled.
Suddenly Coswell glided, graceful as a cough-ridden ballerina, to his chair, sank down, and smiled the most handsome smile ever seen.
Tom knew he was in trouble.
“Shut the door,” he twittered, almost kindly, flipping his hand like a stereotypical cheerleader. Reaching into a drawer labeled ‘’Happy’’, he withdrew a handful of glitter and did then proceed to fling it into the air; the low-hanging fan spreading it around like a cheap form of toxic gas. Tom coughed helpfully; Tom did as he was told.
“Sir?” He repeated. Coswell fluttered his strangely-long eyelashes.
“Be a darling and run out to seven-and-main, would you?” The employer required in an alarmingly tone-correct falsetto; “The house is just a darling setting, and it would be nice—“
He stopped mid-sentence. Some of the glitter convalescing off the fan fell onto his dark-blue suit sleeve.
Reaching into another drawer, this one labeled ‘mysterious’, he withdrew a pair of sunglasses smothered in fake blood, clapped together his hands—and the lights went out.
“—it would be nice,” whispered Coswell, his voice somehow coming from everywhere, “If you went to check it out.”
Tom swallowed normally.
“Of course, sir,” he said, “Anything for you, Mr. Coswell, Sir.”
The aforementioned Coswell clapped his hands again, the lights came on, and somehow the sunglasses were nowhere to be seen.
Tom knew he was in trouble.
“Shut the door,” he twittered, almost kindly, flipping his hand like a stereotypical cheerleader. Reaching into a drawer labeled ‘’Happy’’, he withdrew a handful of glitter and did then proceed to fling it into the air; the low-hanging fan spreading it around like a cheap form of toxic gas. Tom coughed helpfully; Tom did as he was told.
“Sir?” He repeated. Coswell fluttered his strangely-long eyelashes.
“Be a darling and run out to seven-and-main, would you?” The employer required in an alarmingly tone-correct falsetto; “The house is just a darling setting, and it would be nice—“
He stopped mid-sentence. Some of the glitter convalescing off the fan fell onto his dark-blue suit sleeve.
Reaching into another drawer, this one labeled ‘mysterious’, he withdrew a pair of sunglasses smothered in fake blood, clapped together his hands—and the lights went out.
“—it would be nice,” whispered Coswell, his voice somehow coming from everywhere, “If you went to check it out.”
Tom swallowed normally.
“Of course, sir,” he said, “Anything for you, Mr. Coswell, Sir.”
The aforementioned Coswell clapped his hands again, the lights came on, and somehow the sunglasses were nowhere to be seen.
“WELL BE QUICK ABOUT IT, YOU POOR EXCUSE FOR A TONGUE DEPRESSOR!”
With a sigh of resignation, Tom set himself to the task.
***
The residence of the ancient and most noble family of Blackwell was nothing less than enchanting. At least, Tom reasoned, it must have been, once. He could almost imagine the rusty lattice polished, the dead ivy pieces—not brown and cracking—but alive, creeping flourishingly over the greenhouse and the house itself—the burgundy-colored paint fresh, not peeling and scratched at the bottom—could imagine picnics in stunning livery upon the surely well-groomed lawn….
Tom looked at the dirty windows and blinked exactly twice. What was he doing here?
He wondered.
Alias walked to the door, only to discover another remnant of well-groomed wealth now past; a fine door of Cherry-wood with a solid silver (and rather gruesome) gargoyle-shaped knocker.
Tom knocked. Once, twice, three times. Glancing impatiently at his watch, he reached for the doorbell, which sounded with a doldrums’ boom.
And the door opened.
“Aaaaaaah! You have come for a reading, yes!” Squawked the opener with a certainty that reminded Tom very much of a hungry grandma, “So wonderful! I’ve been expecting you for days!”
“Um….” Said Tom, staring with confusion and shock at her ragged Fortune-teller costume, complete with blue-feathered turban. The feather bobbled as she spoke.
“Of course! Of course you have!” she straightened her broad shoulders. “-I- am Madame Bacteria, the greatest teller of the tells in the entire great planes of existence!”
Tom wondered if she knew that the word ‘Bacteria’ had nothing to do with the mystical world in anyway shape or form. Also, she was fat.
“My name is Alias Tom,” he said, “and I’m actually here for a Photograph--“
“Autographs!” she gave a wink with just enough gusto to convince Tom she had entirely the wrong idea regarding his opening statement. “Of course! TAAAAESHA!” Bacteria screamed through the doorway this last, turning back to Tom with a smile that would frighten a Crocodile. She smelled like coffee. “Tea?”
***
Tom did not like Tea.
“Perhaps you misunderstood me,” Alias began in his most professional voice, “I’m a Spectrological photographer.” Bacteria blinked confusedly.
“What?”
“I take pictures of Ghosts,” he said calmly.
“G-ghosts!” Tom, who had expected this strange—and borderline insane—woman to be rather excited, looked instead like she desired to run to the supermarket, buy some matches, and burn down the house. “Don’t let them g-get me!”
Tom sighed.
“Look, Ma’am,” he chided, “You’re being an idiot. If you’re really a Psychic, as your sign implies, you should know that most ghosts have a message, a problem, something to go about—“
Bacteria ran.
Looking at the door, Tom finished his Tea.
At this point a cat —a black cat with great, golden eyes— prowled into the room. It curled up around Tom’s feet, it purred a calamity, and did proceed to lick his shoe.
Tom liked cats.
“Hello, cat,” he said cheerfully, “seen any ghosts?” The cat stared at him pointedly, letting out a long, doleful crowl.
And a girl came into the room.
“Edvard!” She snapped, “You know our rules on visitors!”
“Speaking of Visitors,” said Tom, “Who’re you?” He scratched the cats’ left ear.
“My name is
“I’m here to take pictures of the Ghosts, and any information if you have it,” he said, deciding to trust her. She nodded.
“I suppose you’re the underling of the dog, Coswell,” said
“He’s called six or seven Times, but my mother always answers the phone, and you’ve seen her reaction, so—“ her voice lowered in volume “—I know exactly where to find them, but not much of their story.”
Tom withdrew a small legal pad and a pen that had the ‘Ghostbusters’ symbol on it.
“Try,” he said.
***
Tom walked into the Piano room of the Blackwell house two minutes before midnight.
“Hello?” He whispered, almost dramatically, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’ve heard a little about your story, and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind sharing it with me like you did Taesha?”
There was no reply.
“Please?”
Tom surveyed his environment. The Piano room was lit by the moon, the beams bouncing off the fine, black instrument to light the huge glass windows that made up the walls.
Suddenly—
“Hello,” said a translucent, beautiful woman dressed in thirties’ attire, “I believe I’m your ghost?”
“I believe so,” replied Tom, surprised she had come out this easily and slightly delighted nevertheless, “Just to be sure—not that I think you a fraud, miss, but you understand, it’s an old house—but you are Mrs. Delia Blackwood?”
“Delia?” she answered, surprised, and a little color came back into her form; so in appearance it seemed she was almost solid, “No one has called me Delia since I was a toddler, dear. It’s Dray.” Tom nodded politely.
“Right. Sorry about that. So, Mrs.—ah—Dray… if you don’t mind me asking… why are you still with us today?“
Dray sighed, brushing a semi-solid lock of curly, honey-colored hair from her face. “’With us?’ What a sad phrase. Pray, before we begin, enlighten me of the story knowledge you already have, sir.”
Tom slowly pulled out his legal pad, handed it to Mrs. Blackwood.
She opened it, and it was very strange to see the yellow pallor of the paper against that almost-there hand.
“’Subject one Mrs. Delia Blackwood, dead at thirty-one on May first, nineteen thirty nine. Mrs. Blackwood has been making benign appearances early in the morning from the period of exactly ten years following her death. Circumstances of Death unknown. Family holds memorial yearly on the same-day mark…’” she read aloud, her voice smooth as wind over a fresh coat of ice on a lake.
Dray handed back the legal pad. “Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “You know even less than I thought. You would like to hear the tale?” Her eyes glanced at the piano with a longing Tom knew he was too young to understand.
“Play for me,” he said, without really knowing why.
Sinking her docile-looking form onto the silver-edged bench, she played. She played harmonies and scales and notes and breaths and magic—she played things Tom didn’t have a name but could guess, like True Love and Death and a terrible, terrible loneliness—and when she stopped, Tom realized he’d been holding his breath.
What’s more, Dray was solid. True, there were still things about her that looked dead, like her corpse blue lips, her un-trembling fingers (for it was cold in the glass Piano Room), and so on.
But she was there.
“I have not,” Mrs. Blackwood said, “Been able to play since...”
“The music was your passion,” he said idly, surprised that not everyone had taken a similar course in college—was Spectrology around in the thirties? He wondered—“it grounded you, it kept you sane. It can still ground you and keep you sane, because your love for it has not diminished.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense.” Dray seemed trapped in her own little world, but Tom was the best, and he knew how to stop her from staying there.
“Mrs. Blackwood? The story?”
Dray’s piercing green eyes stared at him. Then, to Tom’s evident delight, she began to speak again, still smooth, but now with a haunting accent of a French Gypsy—“when I was young, when the world was good, was clean, it was in the nature of the time to treat that cleanliness as a dirty thing. I was alive in the roaring twenties, did you know that? And I had been taught to be a wild, unstoppable thing, to challenge the ways, to doubt the stable and rejoice in the unjust.” She paused.
“But they were wrong,” pressed Tom. Typical enough story, at least, he thought. Girl disregards parents’ advice and ends up with a baby instead of a bob. I should, perhaps, be taking pictures now?
“Yes!” She snarled, “Yes, they were wrong. I was happy to be married, to keep my hair long; to wear olden-time dresses, to glide and speak in good English. I rejoiced in my strong, handsome husband, my beautiful house, my delicate little boy…”
“But your death,” Tom pushed again, “what about your death? I mean, how did you die?”
Dray flickered in and out of solidity. For a minute, Tom feared he would lose her altogether, but her hand clung to the piano and she was again human.
“Poison,” she whispered. “My husband…” Tom leaned forward.
“Yes?”
“My husband was strong and handsome, Tom. But he was also mad. He believed himself a vampire, believed that the more human blood he drank, he would stay young, would be young, lively, strong and vigorous again—and oh, how he desired that vigor…” She trailed off into silence slowly and without warning. Just as Tom readied himself to ask her to proceed, she went on:
“It was only me at first,” said the ghost, strangely resigned to this horrifying tale and even pulling over her v-neck dress a smidgin to reveal a myriad of wounds, “But when he went for our baby…”
Thunder smashed itself against the earth; the Blackwood house shook in the beginnings of a storm.
“No one could know. That I should disgrace the honorable and anciently pure line of the Blackwood would be the most terrible scandal, and the crowd in which Jacob and I stood was the most awful one for scandals… By personal pride, being impromptu-ly kicked from that circle would have been the end to me. An end to the future of my son. And so I said nothing; I coaxed his teeth to my neck, to drink my blood—to keep this insanity quiet as long as I could…”
She stopped.
“Well?” Said Tom, rather breathlessly, as he was still an amateur, “How does it end?”
“He still wanted the child,” she said. “He poisoned me—and now I am dead. And so is my son…”
“He ate him?” Alias said disgustedly, with a wave of hatred rising in him, “He ate your son?”
Dray began to weep. “B-bones and all,” she sobbed, “Not even the bones…” Mrs. Blackwell’s beautiful eyes looked at him pleadingly, her very soul open to his gaze. “Please,” she said. “My baby. Where is my baby? I know he’s dead—but he’s somewhere, somewhere in this house…”
“He’s buried in the backyard, probably—near the graveyard, I think?” said Tom. “
“I am sure my Edvard would hide from you,” she said. “He was clever for a toddler. Cleverer than most adults—saner than his… father...”
And was gone.
“Dray?”
No reply.
“I’ll bring him to you,” he promised, furious at this terrible story, this damnable husband, “I’ll bring him as soon as I can!”
Ghostly echoes of the piano masterpiece played by this awe-inspiring housewife stayed with him for the rest of the night.
***
The hour was late. Above, the heavens twinkled, whispering their secrets through the shining of the stars. The grass was soft and green, mostly, though a few dead bristles had come with the frost that morning. It was warm, decadently so.
Behind Tom and Tae, the house of Blackwell loomed protectively.
It would, for a date, wedding, or rock band, be a perfect setting. However, Tom found it a rather objectionable setting for the looking of a ghostling child. Then again, is any place reasonable for the looking towards so terrible a thing?
“His name,” Tom whispered toTay , “What was his name?”
“Edvard,” she crooned softly, “Edvard Blackwood, are you with us?”
“Lord Edvard!” Whispered Tom pointedly, “Edvard, we’ve spoken to your mother. Come out, please?”
The cat called Edvard prowled from the trees—and suddenly it was a baby which crawled from behind the retreating tree line of the forests which surrounded the manor.
“Hello,” it said in a grown adult’s voice, a strong, male voice. Tom shivered.
“You’re Edvard?” He asked.
“Yes, I am he,” replied the child. It was disconcerting to see so large a voice from so small a body, even after meeting Mr. Coswell.
“Ah,” said Tom, though slightly shaken from this baby; this baby of the ghostly blood-red eyes and dead-like skin. Pieces of his arm were missing. His gaze was fiercely terrible—yet somehow naïve—and above all, angry. Horribly, horribly angry.
It would, for a date, wedding, or rock band, be a perfect setting. However, Tom found it a rather objectionable setting for the looking of a ghostling child. Then again, is any place reasonable for the looking towards so terrible a thing?
“His name,” Tom whispered to
“Edvard,” she crooned softly, “Edvard Blackwood, are you with us?”
“Lord Edvard!” Whispered Tom pointedly, “Edvard, we’ve spoken to your mother. Come out, please?”
The cat called Edvard prowled from the trees—and suddenly it was a baby which crawled from behind the retreating tree line of the forests which surrounded the manor.
“Hello,” it said in a grown adult’s voice, a strong, male voice. Tom shivered.
“You’re Edvard?” He asked.
“Yes, I am he,” replied the child. It was disconcerting to see so large a voice from so small a body, even after meeting Mr. Coswell.
“Ah,” said Tom, though slightly shaken from this baby; this baby of the ghostly blood-red eyes and dead-like skin. Pieces of his arm were missing. His gaze was fiercely terrible—yet somehow naïve—and above all, angry. Horribly, horribly angry.
Tom stepped away, and, after a glance at a wide-eyed Taesha, took a deep breath. “Your mother is looking for you,” he said softly, his eyes downcast. “She’s waiting in the house.”
“Hmmmm. My mother.” Edvard’s voice dripped with distain. “I have heard this ploy before,” he said, and though it sounded calm; the voice was thick, forceful, and nearly British in tone; so unlike the smooth caresses of his mother’s voice. “Give me a reason,” continued the ghost, “to believe you, sir.”
“Believe him?” said Taesha, slightly frightened but still with that determined warble with which all who knew her were accustomed; “He’s a Spectrological photographer, for Christ’s sake!”
“You will be,” said Edvard with a huge, fanged smile, “Silent.”
And Taesha turned to stone.
It began up her legs, her waist, her arms; and by her chest she was screaming—and then a statue, frozen forever in a grimace, the breath and sound lost to the age of the stone.
Noticing the triumphant leer of Edvard, Tom made it a point to barely look at her.
“Lord Blackwood,” he said. “Is there any reason you have to disbelieve my motion to reunite you with your mother?”
The baby hesitated. Tom could see his bright red eyes puzzling, thinking, reasoning, contemplating; the gears in his head turning faster than rabbits could breed.
What on earth was he so afraid of? Wondered Tom.
“The real Lord Blackwood,” continued Edvard, “is also looking for my mother, Tom Farrell.”
Tom started. “What?”
“He hung himself,” continued Edvard. “Ironic, is it not, that my father’s death was by suicide—not out of longing for his beloved”—here, a very un-baby-like sneer spread across his face—“but only after he had read those books on immortality? Oh, I doubt your not-so diligent research could lead to the countless hours, the illegitimate Faustian bargains; the prayers to upsidedown crosses…”
He stopped.
“And then,” said the former heir, his voice creeping upward in tone, “of course, there’s always the fact that he murdered me. Oh, it took me years to come to grasp with that, to realize what had happened to my mother—“
Suddenly, the ground shook, the trees burst into a bright purple flame which was horribly hot—somehow, bones surrounded Tom and Edvard (and of course whatever Taesha could, at this point, be realistically called).
“YOUR INSOLENCE SHALL BE PUNISHED.” The flames came of the words, and even sounded like flames; flickering and sharp—terrible.
“Father,” whispered Edvard. “Run, Tom! Leave the girl.”
Tom looked at Taesha’s stone-walled form, imagined running his fingers through her hair as she whispered to him.
“I can’t,” he replied.
So perhaps Tom was interested in a long-distance relationship, after all.
“Sunlight will reveal her,” pleaded Edvard, “go!”
“TOO LATE… Son.” And from the flames, emerged Mr. Robert Coswell.
"And thank you so much," Said his falsetto voice, "For coming this far! Tee-hee!" Before vanishing— and somehow there came a handsome, ripped gentlemen dressed in a fine suit of Armani; red like blood and shining like immortalized fear. His black waves of shoulder-length hair were bound in an expensive-looking ribbon—and Mr. Coswell's body, frozen on the ground, did not move a single muscle.
“....And bringing me straight to him. My son. May I introduce myself? I am.. Lord Blackwood. Lord Jacobus Blackwood.” Said the ghost pleasantly. “And who might you be?”
“I am here,” said Tom, “to take your Son.”
"No!"
Without warning, the ghost leapt at him, tearing, scratching, biting; and horrible gashes appeared in Tom’s shoulders, his arms, his chest—
but the sun had begun to rise.
“TOM!” Screamed Taesha, her stone prison smashing in glowing gold and blue pieces and then leaping upon the not-so ghost, pushing him away—
the cemetery ground opened.
“The sun!” Cried Edvard gleefully, “My father cannot abide the sun by the conditions of his passing. He must cross! He must enter the light!”
Thousands of grey, yellow, blue, and red sickly-looking hands emerged, pulling him down even as he struggled in vain against those secrets whispered in Hell.
Down, down, down…
“Good morning,” Tom said finally, breaking the silence, holding the fallen Taesha in his arms—and somehow, no trace of the Lord Blackwell remained; no tombstone cracked, no grass blade bent…
“Take me to my mother, please,” said the boy. “I want to go home.”
***
“Edvard!” Cried Mrs. Blackwood, taking the baby in her arms. “You’ve come back!” She turned to tom in delight. “Thank you, so much… so… so much…”
She took her son’s hand.
“Come,” she said. “We have to go.”
There was a bright light, and they were gone.
Silence.
“Sunlight will reveal her,” pleaded Edvard, “go!”
“TOO LATE… Son.” And from the flames, emerged Mr. Robert Coswell.
"And thank you so much," Said his falsetto voice, "For coming this far! Tee-hee!" Before vanishing— and somehow there came a handsome, ripped gentlemen dressed in a fine suit of Armani; red like blood and shining like immortalized fear. His black waves of shoulder-length hair were bound in an expensive-looking ribbon—and Mr. Coswell's body, frozen on the ground, did not move a single muscle.
“....And bringing me straight to him. My son. May I introduce myself? I am.. Lord Blackwood. Lord Jacobus Blackwood.” Said the ghost pleasantly. “And who might you be?”
“I am here,” said Tom, “to take your Son.”
"No!"
Without warning, the ghost leapt at him, tearing, scratching, biting; and horrible gashes appeared in Tom’s shoulders, his arms, his chest—
but the sun had begun to rise.
“TOM!” Screamed Taesha, her stone prison smashing in glowing gold and blue pieces and then leaping upon the not-so ghost, pushing him away—
the cemetery ground opened.
“The sun!” Cried Edvard gleefully, “My father cannot abide the sun by the conditions of his passing. He must cross! He must enter the light!”
Thousands of grey, yellow, blue, and red sickly-looking hands emerged, pulling him down even as he struggled in vain against those secrets whispered in Hell.
Down, down, down…
“Good morning,” Tom said finally, breaking the silence, holding the fallen Taesha in his arms—and somehow, no trace of the Lord Blackwell remained; no tombstone cracked, no grass blade bent…
“Take me to my mother, please,” said the boy. “I want to go home.”
***
“Edvard!” Cried Mrs. Blackwood, taking the baby in her arms. “You’ve come back!” She turned to tom in delight. “Thank you, so much… so… so much…”
She took her son’s hand.
“Come,” she said. “We have to go.”
There was a bright light, and they were gone.
Silence.
“Would you like to stay the night?” Asked Taesha.
Setting down his camera, Tom pressed his lips to hers.
***
“So in short, Mr. Coswell,” finished Tom shakily, half expecting the Lord to emerge again from his pathetic, unwashed body; “I cannot give you pictures. I can only tell you what happened, that I sent them on and they are safe together, that I—“
“NEVER ASSUME, TOM FARELL,” came the horrible voice of Jacobus Blackwood, “I WILL BE BACK.” Mr. Coswell blinked sleepily, as though he had recently taken a wonderful nap.
“Tom?” He asked, again in the falstetto. A different color glitter came off the fan.
Tom lay motionless on the floor, and was, upon awaking, declared certifiably insane—except at nights, when he lay with his wife, with his wife called Taesha whose mother had once been a psychic—
And at the Blackwood manor, there are nights when occasionally a mysterious yellow-eyed cat will yeowl…
“NEVER ASSUME, TOM FARELL,” came the horrible voice of Jacobus Blackwood, “I WILL BE BACK.” Mr. Coswell blinked sleepily, as though he had recently taken a wonderful nap.
“Tom?” He asked, again in the falstetto. A different color glitter came off the fan.
Tom lay motionless on the floor, and was, upon awaking, declared certifiably insane—except at nights, when he lay with his wife, with his wife called Taesha whose mother had once been a psychic—
And at the Blackwood manor, there are nights when occasionally a mysterious yellow-eyed cat will yeowl…
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