The Enigma of Dr. Edward Gray (III of III)

6

The Room

For the second time that week, Inspector James Morgan and Alan Stafford found themselves in the study of Dr. Edward Gray.

Their lamp lights cast moving shadows in the room, creating what looked like some sort of macabre dance. The carpet was still stained. Stafford was at first astonished at the absence of the body of the Doctor, but then he realized this was a rather foolish thought on his part. It had so been burned into his memory, the picture of the room with the gruesome remains of the body, that he expected it to last that way physically as well.

Inspector Morgan had a look of determination on his face. He took a chair and placed it beneath the clock that hung on the wall. He then climbed on top of the chair and began fiddling with the clock, feeling its sides. Finally, to the surprise of Stafford, he smashed it.

“What are you doing?” Stafford hissed. But then he gasped as the Inspector reached into an alcove hidden behind where the clock was fixed and pulled out some dusty manuscripts.

He stepped down and put the volumes down on the desk. This is what he had gleaned from the now-stolen notes: the location of these additional texts. He was in the midst of wiping the cover of the top book, when he heard a gun cock behind him.

It was that of Alan Stafford.

“Give it up, Inspector. And don’t bother; I’d emptied your gun before we even got here.”

Morgan turned around. He did not know what to think. The terror was evident on his face.

“Alan! Have you gone mad?” He asked angrily.

“Inspector Morgan, in the name of the Queen, I arrest you for the murder of Dr. Edward Gray.”

Morgan opened his mouth to speak, but Stafford cut in. “Not a word from you. I know everything,” he said in a low voice. “It was you from the very start.

“Don't be stupid now-”

But then Stafford hit the Inspector on his head with his pistol and brought him down to his knees.

“I started at the beginning.” He explained. “Why had you been so keen to get involved, and ultimately head the Investigation? Everyone, of course, thought you were emotionally attached, being such a close friend of Dr, Gray.

“However, when I talked to Mrs. Moore the day after the murder, I learned that it had been ages since you had ever visited his residence, as opposed to what you told Wilkins. In fact, the only time he had mentioned you to her had been in cold stead. You were definitely no friend.

“That piqued my curiosity. So I thought again. Why would you be so interested in this case? The only direct consequence of you heading it would be you having possession of the documents which Dr. Gray had, in his study.

“I reckoned I had to do a bit of snooping on those papers myself, especially since you wouldn’t permit anyone else to see them. So after the night at the graveyard, I broke into your house and stole your case files. I was the thief.

“I took to the countryside, planning on being stationed for the whole day at my family home. I had another bout of reasoning on the way there as well. Why would you want Dr. Gray’s documents, when you were such an experienced investigator of the paranormal yourself? Surely you would have known more than some gentleman who had seemingly fallen into the Occult by accident.

“And that was when it struck me. You hadn’t taken his material to study it at all. It was to hide evidence. As I would discover, the hand in which the letter was written - incidentally, also in your possession - was different from every one of Dr. Gray’s notes.

“The letter was thus a fake, Inspector. You were the one who had written it, and your message on my door today confirmed that. I also understood why you went to such lengths to make sure I was the one to have written all your observational notes so far.”

His voice was raised now. “The letter scared off most of the policemen, and went a long way in ensuring the case being handled by you. Since you were the one to have penned it, even describing the false circumstances regarding the death, I can only assume that you had carried out Dr. Gray’s horrific murder yourself.

“I think I have most of the pieces in order. Dr. Gray was no crazy ritualist; you had him set up after killing him. Being in charge of the case, you would be above suspicion, and could even make the investigations go nowhere leading the Scotland Yard through false trails. That’s what your ‘lead’ to the cemetery was, wasn't it?

“You could have killed and buried me perhaps, reporting that I was taken by a ghast. And the Yard would have believed your every word. On hindsight, and with a tinge of irony, I say it was the appearance of the daemon that saved my life; it was unexpected and therefore confounded your scheme to get rid of me.

“But back to where we were: now that you led the case, you had access to the victim’s resources as and when you pleased.

“The only thing I have missing is the reason; your motive. Perhaps you really did want his texts for something. I’ll guess you wanted to study it so you could learn of the location of where he kept more of his…well, it looks like manuscripts. In his books, I’m guessing he had to have some sort of reference to where he had kept all of these. And that’s what you had come for tonight.”

“That leads us to the final Question. What is in those manuscripts?”

7

The Final Question

(From the Journal of Alan Stafford)

“…I held Morgan at gunpoint. I had figured out the mystery, he had retrieved the final piece of the puzzle, and so I had made my move.

“What was in those manuscripts?” I asked Morgan.

He sneered at me. “You must be daft, Stafford.”

Suddenly, I heard the floorboards creak from behind the door to the study, and footsteps outside. Who was at the door? My attention was directed there a slight moment; in a frantic burst of force, Morgan got up and, pushing my right arm, plunged something sharp into my left shoulder. I released a shot but having my hand shoved, it missed him. He brought me down to the ground, with all of his weight driving his knife into my flesh. I let out a roar of pain as I struggled to free myself from his hold, but the dagger kept me pinned down.

“You shouldn’t have got involved in this, Stafford,” He muttered. I was certain I could see a glint of madness in his eyes.

I knew I couldn’t keep relenting for much longer; I thought I was losing consciousness as he twisted the blade, making it enter fresh depths of my shoulder.

And then the door to the study opened.

I wasn't able to see clearly at the time, with my head feeling dizzy and my eyes swimming, but I remember Morgan turning to the direction of the door.

The effect it had on him was colossal. His face turned white, and his eyes - He began shaking his head. “No, No…” He repeated.

He scrambled along the floor, away from whatever had come through the door.

I regained a slight bit of my bearings, and looked up at the source of Morgan’s horror.

My blood turned cold.

Surely, it couldn’t be - the same man I had seen with my own eyes, his heart torn out of his body, in this very room. And yet, here he was living, breathing. Walking.

Dr. Edward Gray.

He had a majestic air to him, and he was taller than I’d expected him to be in real life. His body radiated a strange aura.

His eyes glanced around the study. I was certain he was looking for Morgan. His slow footsteps, deliberately ignoring me all the while, took him to Morgan.

The Inspector sat cowering in the darkest corner of the room, terrorized by the sight of the spectre. Gray uttered a bestial growl and lunged for the Inspector’s neck. I heard a sickening crack of Morgan’s bones as both men rolled onto the ground. As they wrestled each other, a flash struck the room, and both disappeared down into the ground with a green flame.

The room was still a little hazy to me, and I stayed on the ground for a while watching the eerie flame burn. I blinked my eyes.

I reckon it was ages before I started breathing. And then I sat up and excruciatingly removed the dagger from my body. My mind raced back to what had happened over the last few minutes.

The place soon became extremely smoky; I realized the fire had still been burning, and had spread to the curtains and drapery. It would only take moments for the house to go down.

Drawing my last reserves of energy, I heaved myself up, picked the manuscripts from the desk - the only evidence I had now of the whole uncanny affair - and crashed out of the window. I watched the house go up in flames as I sat on the pavement.

On the other side of the street, I saw the spectre standing, silently observing his old residence.

I could have sworn he gave me a grim smile, before turning around and walking into an alleyway. I knew better than to follow him…”

Epilogue

(From the Journal of Alan Stafford)

“…And that was the last I saw of Dr. Edward Gray.

I would later find out that Gray, though the victim of a frame-up, was not completely detached from occult practices. The final question I had put forth to James Morgan gave me a jolting answer. The texts of the Doctor which had been hidden in the alcove of the study contain detailed notes regarding alchemy.

Alchemy! It had never struck me that Dr. Gray was in pursuit of the ultimate transformation from imperfect to everlasting; the quest for the only two absolutes: Gold and Immortality.

The manuscripts of Dr. Edward Gray are impressively concise. They have been passed down the centuries, which each practitioner enhancing the prior’s knowledge. Even as I write now, I feel myself being drawn to the archaic world it opens up to me.

It is not hard to see its lust which would have driven any person. It was for this that the respectable Inspector Morgan had built the elaborate ploy and committed such a vicious murder. At this point, however, I can only assume.

Perhaps they had been old friends whose acquaintance had gone sour. Perhaps the Inspector, through his dealings, had got wind of the doctor’s activities, and required a cover up to obtain the other’s research for himself./Or perhaps it might have even been the case where the Doctor might have pushed Morgan over the edge in some way, with the latter responding in the most cold-blooded of ways.

I made a full report of all the things that had come to pass, and submitted my account of this whole affair to The Chief of Operations the following day. No doubt, he had been stunned when I told him my experiences; the reappearances of the Doctor, the death of my superior, and even more so, his involvement.

17 Moreau Street became, once again, the subject of Scotland Yard’s close Inspection. But I doubt there is anything left there to find. The spectre of Doctor Edward Gray has ensured we will never unearth any more of his secrets.

The next day, the Chief called me in to his office. I walked in hesitantly.

“Well young man”, I recall him saying, “You’ve done quite a fair bit on this case, haven’t you?”

I remember not having said anything to this, though.

 “Recent events have opened our eyes. And now - how can I put it? - I believe we need a new Chief of the Division of Extraordinary and Paranormal Investigations. You seem to be the right man.”

If I had been pleasantly surprised (as indeed I was) I did not show it.

“I - I’ll think about it, Sir” I told him and made my way out.

The next day, however, my resignation letter was on his desk. This case has shaken me up quite a bit, and I dare say my thrill-seeking days have come to a self-imposed end.

As for my shoulder, my doctor tells me it should heal in a few months. The coming weeks shall be quite uneventful for me…”

The Orange Jumpsuit - Part 1

The sickening clang of the metal bars running into their sockets, echoed across the long, dim corridor. Over the last few months , i had grown to despise the sound of the rusted locks that slid noisily out of their hatches. And that was not all. It was the stench of sterilization, the dull glow of the tube-lights, the choking heat of the cells and the soft screams of the inmates, that drew out the nausea.

Death row was not a pleasant place.

But i had to do it. I had to go there, ever so often.

The guard dipped his head slightly, acknowledging my presence. "Mornin' Trey."

God, it was way too often. I tried to ignore his smile. Theres no way i was gonna let myself become a regular here. I was gonna make sure i get done with all of this before the year ends.

I had to.

I did not have this in mind, when i passed my bar exam. I did not have this in mind when i decided to pursue law. And i definitely did not have this in mind when i told my dad, "Daddy, I can remember things well."

My brother, on the other hand, was sure from the very beginning.

"I want to be rich!" He gurgled, smiling gleefuly. He slapped his tiny palms together and rocked around in his comfy safety seat. A smile, very much like my own. In fact, we were completely identical.

You see we were born within twenty minutes of each other. He was first though.

He was always first.

First to speak, first to walk, first in class, first in college. Heck he was even first in finishing dinner. The moment he finished college, he was scooped up by a massive corporation, shiny credentials and everything. He was made a partner within 6 years. We all wondered what made him rise up the ladder so fast. He always mumbled something about adapting to the flow etc etc.

Thats my brother, always quiet, head on his shoulders. Always seems to know what hes doing, to the extent that we didn't even have to know the details. To the extent that i would have to ask him what i needed to do to get to where i wanted. To the extent that i felt like he had it all.

And here i was, walking down a dimly lit corridor in the Arizona Death Row facility. A corridor that led to a conference room, where the lawyers met their doomed clients. A corridor that led to where my brother sat, hands and legs, bound.

You see, by massive corporation, i meant, a pharmaceutical company. A company that had the whole board of directors integrated into their very own drug scandal. My brother seemed to have uncovered the insidious web of drug related associations the company had with minor distributors all along the west coast. And being the entrepreneur that he was, he readily 'adapted to the flow'. He was instructed to oversee a large number of their operations and handle the deals. To put it in plain terms. He had become a drug dealer.

And drug dealers, do drug deals. And drug deals, eventually, go bad.

After 6 years of hauling in cash for the company, they deserted him when a meeting with a Cuban 'businessman' turned hostile. He was consequently charged for the murder of 5 men. There was already a pile of incriminating evidence built against him , courtesy of the board, who had made sure to use him as a fall back in case anything ever went wrong with their dealings.

For the first time in the ten years since his passing. I was relieved that dad wasn't around to see this. When i heard about it, everything that i had heard or seen my brother do, seemed to become tainted by the stigma of drugs and murder. It was like seeing your god, dethroned and humiliated, severed from all his heavenly powers and thrust into the pits of Tartarus.

The last rusted door banged shut behind me, pulling me out of my sombre reverie. I glanced around the room, eyes adjusting to the sudden change in light. The dull white lights of the tube-lights were replaced by the natural light from outside. This was probably one of the few rooms in the facility that even had any windows. The softer yellow light from outside filtered through the blinds and illuminated the figure that sat calmly at the end of the table.

My Brother. The class topper. The director. The murderer.

His eyes flitted between the table top and my face before it resumed its gaze at the windows. As if he was absorbing all the sunlight he could before he was back in his cell.

"Mornin' Trey." He said blandly.

"Morning Dom. How have you been."

Dominic peeled his eyes away from the blinds for a second to examine the look on My face. Almost as if he needed to check whether I was serious in asking the question. The pained expression that probably lined my eyes and lips reassured him. He turned back to the light.

"I've been better."

"Everything will be alright Dom."

Silence.

The Orange Jumpsuit - Part 2

I tried to ignore his desolate expression, his sunken bloodshot eyes and his messy hair. I tried to ignore the bright orange suit that covered him from neck to toe, a stark contradiction to the morbid melancholy of the death row. It was like a sick joke played on every inmate, a hysterical clown announcing the doom of each murderer or rapist.

For my brother, it was his Sanbenito. The material form to the taint that had now defined his life.

I cleared my throat, and shuffled the papers in my hands, trying to look purposeful with my visit.

"I looked into the original employment letters and the letters that the Board had sent you before you found out."
He nodded slightly. "And?"

"They seem pretty clean."

He grunted. "I told you, they've got it all covered. Their plan B is as perfect as A."

I winced at the bitterness with which he said "perfect" and decided to go back to staring at my papers.

"Even if we could prove their involvement and reduce the blame for the drug scandal, i would still be here. I would still die."

"We could plead guilty to the rest and appeal for life imprisonment." I said. But the intended tone of hope was destroyed by the hopelessness of the statement itself.

He sighed and got to his feet, taking tiny strides, as far as the chains allowed him.

"Trey, i killed those people. No matter what i do, i'm still guilty as hell. The evidence is too legit, and you know it. So why are you even doing this." His voice was trembling.

I looked away, unable to bear his gaze. I stopped fumbling with the papers, and just dropped them weakly to the table.

He was right. No matter how much i wanted to believe that Dom was innocent and that he was set up, i wasn't fooling anybody. And i definitely couldn't fool a jury.

He began pacing up and down the room behind me. There was silence, save for the dull thud of his feet and the soft clinking of his chains.

"So what now." I heard his shaky voice behind me.

I didn't reply. I didn't know what to say. I never knew what to say. It was always him who did the guiding. Always him who told me in his calm voice that what i was doing was wrong. He seemed so righteous in everything he said. And now here he was asking for my guidance, in his desperate tones. I did not have the power to handle such a reversal of roles.

I heard the clinging stop suddenly.

"I don't want to die Trey."

But he said it in an oddly calm, dispassionate voice. Almost like the old days.

I did not look back. Instead i simply focused on a particular speck of dirt that had settled itself onto the papers on the desk. All i managed to say was. "I know."

Then i heard a sudden shuffle of feet behind me, the chains making a loud clang. Before i could turn around, i felt a sharp pain at the back of my head. My eyes watered as i blacked out and fell limp onto the table.

******************

I batted my eyelids as i regained consciousness. My head felt like it got hit by a truck. I groaned as i raised my temple off the dusty wood and blinked at the sunlight. So it was still morning.

The throbbing on the back of my head made me wince with pain. He hit me!

I glanced around the room and noticed the figure at the end of the table through blurred vision.

It was Dom, looking down at me. He was moving very quickly, putting on some clothes. I blinked again. I recognized the 60 dollar suit that i had bought a six years ago in celebration of passing that bar.
I breathed in heavily, frantically looking at my arms and legs. Orange, everywhere.

The Sanbenito had been passed on. My hands had the weight of the chains bearing me down to the table. I realized what he had done and tried to shout out.

"Wha..what are you doing!"

Dominic strode up to the table and bent closer. He bore a pained expression, but he moved with a calculated ease. He removed my watch and clasped it onto his own hand.

"I'm sorry Trey. I really am." He whispered as he ran his hands through his hair, straightening the stray curls that fell on his forehead. "But everything is going to be alright." He said, patting me on my sore head.

I tried to stand up, but my heavy head pulled me down.

"HEY! DOM! Don't do this!"

"DOM! Are you CRAZY?!".

I yelled as loud as i could. At least maybe the guard would hear me. "DOMINIC!"

But the metal door clanged shut behind him.

I heard another open behind me, revealing a burly guard. He walked up to me and grabbed my arms, dragging me to my feet. I struggled at first, trying to mumble out a protest.

But all seemed to fall on deaf ears. He simply forced me to the door and pushed me into another tube-light lit corridor. This can't be happening.

My eyes adjusted to the dim lit corridors that had always sickened me. I couldn't stop breathing heavily as i stared at the orange taint that had now taken over my body.

This cannot be happening!

But it was. I was quietly escorted into my, Dom's, cell and left to my own screaming. I ran to the barred door and banged at it with my free hands, cringing as my smooth skin collided with the rough metal around the bar. I don't belong here!

"I'm Trey! Trey Castelino! You've got the WRONG GUY!" My terrified voice reverberated around the tiny cell, and i realised that i was alone now.

Nothing worked. As i found out a few hours later. "I" had been shouting the very same thing for almost a whole week now. And now I was the one with the robe of shame, the one thing that differentiated me and Dom. I was alone.

Dead or Alive

Something I wrote a looooong time ago, for this contest on an online game of mine, never submitted it but here it is. Won't really have any relevance to anyone who hasn't played the game but I decided to throw it on here anyway. Enjoy(or not, as your prerogative goes)


First we kill them, then we raise them.
That was the creed of the Undead Legion. They were an unstoppable force, for with every enemy they killed, the Legion grew.
This battalion of Lord Zamorak's army was led by General Vazerka, or as he was more commonly known, the Bloodspiller. He was perhaps the most fearsome thing not alive on the face of Gielinor. And as he surveyed the bloodstained battlefield, the Bloodspiller knew it.
As he strode across the battlefield, a fleeing soldier, driven insane by the horrors he had witnessed, his cheeks caked with the blood of his brethren, ventured into the Vazerka's path, and as he beheld the horrifying sight of Vazerka's 7 foot tall skeletal body, wielding a flaming battleaxe, his eyes widened in terror.
Needless to say, it was the last thing he ever saw.
As he walked on, Vazerka mused, “My warriors do not bleed. I may have just delivered justice. How ironic."
He paused as he saw a mounted knight lead a small company of soldiers towards him. Vazerka smiled, as they surrounded him on all sides. The knight leading them said, “Die in the name of Saradomin foul creature!” As his allies growled their assent, Vazerka said, “I see the light now, I repent for my sins, will Saradomin forgive me?” The knight's face twisted with rage and he charged, swinging his longsword. Vazerka, his grin never wavering said, " I thought not." and swatted the human's sword aside with his bony forearm and plunged his battleaxe deep into the knight's neck, killing him instantly.
As the knight's body slumped down to the ground, Vazerka inspected his steed. He was a handsome specimen; white coat, lovely brown eyes. He looked around, the soldiers were standing stock still, astonished that their leader had been dispatched with such careless ease. He said to them, “You mind if I take him? A man's feet tire after a century or two." They did not respond. "I'll take that as a yes".
He mounted the horse and drew upon the power granted to him by Lord Zamorak himself.
The horse's eyes went from brown to black, black as dark as night. His beautiful white coat withered and the flesh underneath shriveled and burnt away, exposing his bones to the night. Vazerka looked to the soldiers again "Thanks.” He grinned once again, and as he did so the soldiers felt a chill around their hearts and they knew then, that death incarnate was smiling at them. They dropped their weapons and fled.
As the ghastly mount beneath him snorted, Vazerka patted his back and said, "Easy boy. We've got a lot of work to do."
His skeletal mount whinnied. Vazerka smiled and said, "I know, I enjoy it too."

The Raven Song

The journey from Therinsford to Carvahall was long and tiring. I kicked my heels into Sticks, urging the tired beast into a gallop. I could see a dim outline of the village of Carvahall. I got down from the horse, tied it to a nearby tree and made my way into the town. The absence of sound or movement in the village gave the entire village an eerie feeling. As I approached Morns tavern the silence was eaten up by loud voices, laughter, songs. I was early.


***

I entered the tavern and found a seat in the far corner, Tara, the innkeepers wife, came up to me and took my order. I noticed a sign of surprise on her face. Strangers were uncommon in Carvahall at this time of the year.

I saw him, he sat at a stool in the middle of the room.

I patiently waited pretending to have fallen asleep, I knew he would not start this early into the night.

***

The cheers woke me up. Id fallen asleep after all. There was quite a crowd in the middle of the tavern. It had begun.

***

As soon as he opened his mouth, I knew I was right. I had found him. But I wouldnt interupt him. I would wait.
"You lot, are the lucky few." he said ."Not many have heard this one, The raven song. My death would be iminent anywhere else in the empire for even mentioning her name." He stood up, raised his voice and began just as the lady served me bread-It was many, many a year ago
In a place not so far away
There was born a maiden
Whose name, I shall not say.

She was to be loved, by all and one
Atleast thats what they did say
And so grew that maiden
In that place not so far away.

One day there did come a man
Whose name I shall not say
And he took this maiden
To a land far, far away.

This man was arrogant and angry
He was such throughout the day
But so deeply in love was the maiden
That against him nothing she would say

She did give birth to a boy
A boy whose name I shall not say
She was forbidden from seeing him
She would cry for him everyday

This maiden was forced to do things
She would kill, slaughter and slay
And even though she hated it
She would not disobey.


Then came a day
A day much like today....

***

He stopped the song abruptly. I looked at him from the corner of my eye. He stared at me. I turned to face him and noticed his eyes, they showed recognition. He remembered me! My place in history was set now. The Varden would be reward me greatly. I had found him. The weilder of Undbitr, The bane of Morzan, Our last and only hope- Brom.