Chapter 3: A Chance Encounter - Part 2

The exchange was very brief, and there was little in the way of actual speech. Ellis mentioned that it was a beautiful day, and that he needed to cross the river. The man held his hand out for payment and wordlessly nodded, issuing nothing but a grunt of acceptance as Ellis placed the golden coins in his hand. The man placed the coin in his mouth (or at least that was what Ellis believed to be happening as the man’s hand disappeared into the dark of his hood, holding the coin at the ready) and when he made a curt nod and withdrew the coin from the hood, Ellis smiled awkwardly and nodded back.

“Right, then. Glad it tastes just like real gold.” In the back of his head, Ellis just hoped that the man didn’t get any sort of sickness from putting the money in his mouth. After all, it had come from a brothel, and God only knew where it had been. Immediately afterward, Ellis just hoped that the man could not see the disgust etched on his face when he thought of the coins previous whereabouts.

The ferryman’s arms were muscled—that you could still tell—but the skin seemed to sag off of the muscle tissue with age, creating a rather strange juxtaposition. Ellis quickly averted his gaze and allowed the man to go about his business, rowing the boat across the River. It wouldn’t take all that long, but it would give him some time to continue reviewing the journal. By the time that they hit the other bank, he had made it through nearly three quarters of the book, and he was almost certain that he knew where he was going. As long as he found the small signs in the woods along the way. It was almost as if Marsilio’s journal had been penned for the sake alone of hiding the directions to the asylum, like he knew that they would condemn the place and remove all records.

He hopped off of the boat and onto the shore, and he thanked the ferryman once more, finding little surprise in the lack of a response. As the boat began its inch-by-inch journey back across the water, Ellis made his way up the large hill that led to the riverbank, letting the breeze roll through his hair as he took a deep breath and let the moment hover around him for a bit before he continued. He crested the hill and looked over it into the thick forests that surrounded this side of the Avon. The Mill was nestled into the trees, though the wooden giants were fading around the facility as they were cut and processed—a sound, Ellis noticed, that was not being issued forth from the massive complex. He furrowed his brows as he looked the place over, trying to spot the workers going about their business. He knew that it had been pretty close to noon, and that the workers were likely lounging around back, eating the sandwiches their wives had made them, or drinking their “coffee”.

He began to walk past the building and into the woods that lay all around it. He headed due East, and just as the journal had led him to believe, the forest thinned slightly in one particular area and began to trail off into the woods. He walked slowly at first, reveling in the sun on his back and the scent of wildflowers the light breeze carried through the air. It had been a long time since he had the chance to stop and relax—to appreciate the world that he worked tirelessly to protect. But, in those brief moments that he could feel the beauty of the landscape around him, he reminded himself of why he did it. Of why he chose to lead the life that he did.

When he was young, it was all about being the strong, grizzled man that his father had been. He could remember when his dad would come home after a long hunt, and they (much to his mother’s dismay) would sit together at the dinner table and talk about Christopher Carter’s incredible adventures. There was no name that rang quite as loud in the halls of the Crusaders of the Lord as Christopher Carter’s, the man was a legend. However, every legend eventually comes to a close, and it was no different for his father.

The man came back from one of his hunts changed. His strong arms hung at his sides like over-boiled asparagus, and his back was hunched and tired. He flopped down onto the table bench, and when Ellis asked him for another story, the man placed a hand on his son’s head and stared off into the dark shadows where the candlelight could not reach.

“Do not follow in my shoes, Ellis. You’re a fine young man, and you’ve got a brilliant head on your shoulders. I was like you, once. I believed I was invincible. Hell, so did everyone else. But, the day comes when you must face the truth. This line of work is not a career, nor is it an adventure. It is a hobby that instead of investing your time into, you watch as it takes more and more of it away from you. Until you have nothing left.”

“What’re you talking about, Dad? You’re not even fifty yet! You’ve got more life left in you than half the blighters in Britain!” His father laughed heartily at this. It was the last time that Ellis would ever hear him laugh again.

“Aye, I may have fewer years beneath my belt than some, son, but time does not wait for our years to pass. Not when you do what I do. If you walk the road I walk, death will come for you when it pleases, and no later than that.”

“Then stop! You’ve done more than anyone in the Lords! You’re a hero! You don’t need to go anymore. Stay with us!”

“It’s not as simple as that, Ellis, m’boy. When you are a man, you will understand. When you begin to walk a path, you are bound to walk it until it ends, no matter where that end may be. It’s your duty as a man to see your choices through to the bitter end. Where my path takes me may be the end of my life, and I have to know that you will be here to take care of your mother. There are dark forces conspiring against me now, and they plan to come for my head.”

Ellis’ lip quivered, and as he faced his father, his fist balling at his sides as he stood from the table. “Shut up!” he screamed, tears welling in his eyes. “If they come, then we’ll kill ‘em! We’ll kill all of them!” The tears began rolling from his cheeks in fat liquid balls. “Just stay here, and we can do it together,” he pled, his voice quieting as he fought his hardest to contain his sobs.

“I wish I could, boy. You will never understand just how much. But, I can’t put you and your Mum in danger. Now, promise me you’ll keep her safe. Promise me that you will stay away from this nonsense. Live a good life, and die an old, happy man with children of your own. Maybe even one named Christopher, no?” Christopher tried to smile as he jested, leaning forward to pull his son into a hug.

Ellis slapped away his hands and turned on his heel, running away and slamming his bedroom door behind him. Hurt shone in Christopher’s one good eye, and he wiped a tear from it as he adjusted the black eye patch that hung over his right eye. Ellis could hear angry words and tears throughout the night, and when he woke the next morning, his father was gone. He never saw him again, and he never forgave him for taking away his hero. For the last vision of his immortal savior to be one of weakness.

Everything Ellis had done from that moment on had been to protect his family. He bid his mother adieu and he sailed across the ocean to Rome, where he stayed for several years in training to become a Crusader of the Lord. His recommendation lay within his blood, and he had no problems gaining entry into the organization. When he returned home, he found an empty home, and a soulless note that explained that his mother had taken a heavy fever and died in the winter of 1521.

It took some time before he could forgive God for taking her from him, and while he was doing His work, none-the-less. But, after his grieving had ended, Ellis threw himself into his work more ferociously than he ever had, and after gaining a name for himself within the Crusaders, he had been brought back to Britain. It had been a few years since he had re-inhabited his old home, and begun to report to Raimey, but Bristol never could feel quite like home again.

Ellis sighed as he walked through the woods, finding himself backtracking over the last paragraph of Marsilio’s journal over and over again, reading a line and being consumed by his thoughts before re-reading it and realizing he had been glazing over the page once again. The path before him was thin and serpentine as it wound through the woods. Most of it had been erased by age, but with a sharp eye and a little bit of luck you could find your way along it still. He never truly knew for sure if the journal had led him astray until he spotted the creek lazily bubbling down the hilly terrain, flowing constantly toward the Avon in whatever meandering way it might find.

The bridge that the journal had described was made of moss covered stone, and it was wide enough for a horse and a cart if you were lucky. From here-on-in it would be simple. He knew for sure he was on the right trail, and as long as his eyes were able to keep up, he would be able to find his way to the asylum in no time. However, something was still bothering him, and he returned to the journal, reading the last paragraph once more.

Their dead eyes never seem to close. They live in both this world and the next, with their feet already in the grave. These patients are without cure, and I fear that they are being called by Him to return to paradise, but they are being kept here by some ungodly force. The asylum is a tomb for the living dead. Their cries can be heard echoing the halls at night, as they slip into eternity. Beneath my journal, I sleep, and I hope that those who wake me will be doing so to take me from this place forever. I fear if I am not freed, I shall need to escape on my own with this pen of silver sheathed in my heart.

The asylum is a tomb for the living dead? Did he know? How could he have? But there it was. It caught him every time he read it, and he could not help but wonder. Was this place a home for the damned even before recent years? Did this Marsilio Ficino catch a glimpse of the vampire menace that hovered over their world? What else might be hidden in this ‘tomb’?

Ellis’ steps fell faster as he moved onward toward the asylum. An urgency gripped at his heart, and he wanted nothing more than to be done with this errand so that he could return to Bristol and drown himself in women and pints. Perhaps he could find a woman stupid enough to wed him and start a family of his own—as selfish as he knew that was. He, however, was not his father. He would protect his family until the day he died.

By the time that he had reached the old, forgotten asylum, the sun was hanging lower in the sky. The warmth of it had already begun to fade, leaving a chill seeping into his skin and the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. The weeds grew through the pathway that led to the front doors of the institution so heavily that it seemed like a green carpeting more than a gravel walkway. The courtyard fountain had long since ceased operation, the child angel perched with its mouth open in a wordless plea, where water once spewed from without cease. Its arm was outstretched, reaching for the setting sun that was slowly falling behind one of the corners of the building. He would give it an hour and a half tops before night had fallen. The putrid water within the base of the sculpted marvel was now nothing more than a breeding ground for insects and disease, and Ellis could almost taste the acrid scent as he walked by the fountain.

The doors to the asylum seemed to be stitched together by the moss that nearly coated them from top to bottom, and when Ellis wrenched them open, they seemed to scream in protest. The sound echoed deep within the asylum, and it made even Ellis take pause as he listened for anyone (or anything) who may have heard him entering the building. He breathed a sigh of relief and entered into the building, taking a careful first step so that he could analyze his surroundings as best he could in the lightless interior, holding the door open with one hand while reaching into his pocket with another to fetch his matches and the pilfered pack of cigarettes.

He slid the half smoked cigarette from the library out of the pack and regarded the malformed, odorous stump with disgust before he put it into his mouth and let the door slide shut behind him. His hands fumbled for a moment, as he tried to find his matches, and when he finally opened the tin and struck the match he was face to face with his worst nightmare. He cried out in shock, leaping backwards into the front doors and knocking them off of their hinges, sending him rolling head over heels into the front pathway once again, light blasting through the now destroyed front doors.

Ellis shot back up to his feet and he brushed himself off, removing the dust from his tattered old jacket and walking back up the stairs, making an inventory of his minor bumps and bruises that he had received. The only way to know what you were capable of was to keep a constant mindfulness on the state of your body. He took a deep breath as he walked back up to the doors and he narrowed his eyes as he glared through the tangled locks of crimson hair.

“After I exterminate the bloodsuckers and form an ever-lasting world peace…you’re next,” Ellis stated venomously as he motioned with two fingers beneath his eyes that he was watching the spider hanging in its intricately crafted web.

At the very least he could be sure that there was nobody else lurking about, else they would have most certainly heard him by now. The front desk was backed by a large office that could only be entered through a side door, and it was there that he could see the security station, where he would find the keys he needed to begin doing his rounds. He knew that his contact was supposed to be inside this eerie monster somewhere, but he had no idea where to begin. Keys, though, seemed like a spectacularly logical first step.

The unlit cigarette hung from his mouth, and the burnt tip still emitted its intensely unsatisfying scent as Ellis strode through the now well-lit room. He could taste the ash in his mouth before he had even taken a drag and it made him feel sick to his stomach. He spat the butt out, letting it roll off into the dark corners. Maybe one of those eight-legged bastards would find it and choke to death. The thought of it brought a smile to his lips.

As the asylum was a large building to attempt to light with candles alone, it became rather peculiar as to the lack of windows on the outside of the structure. Ellis stroked his chin as he walked to the side door of the main office, pushing the rusted gate open with a gruff shove. He found a couple of half-melted candles in the office, and he immediately picked them up and placed them on top of the front desk so he would not forget them, lighting a single candle with another of his matches before strolling into the security station. He had to raise a hand to his face, covering his nose from a foul scent, working its way from the likely unemptied washrooms that had been sitting for decades somewhere within this hellhole. There were empty hooks that lined a single cork board where the keys should have been, but as he glanced around the back room he realized very quickly that this wasn’t going to be as simple as he had wanted it to be.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, flexing his hands and concentrating as he looked, trying to pick up any sorts of clues that might lead him to where he needed to go. His green eyes worked furiously as the peered through the candlelight, scouring every nook and cranny of the room before he saw the crack in the wooden floor. To the untrained eye, it would seem to be a failure on the carpenter’s behalf—a board merely set too far from the others—but as Ellis followed the crack’s path, he noticed the pattern and he quickly shoved a desk aside, wanting nothing more than to leave this acrid dungeon. He hadn’t thought that he would ever find a place on Earth that smelt worse than the lower end of Piss Paths, but this one took the cake. He leaned down and wrenched the trap door open, pulling it up and immediately feeling the moisture of the room below and catching the scent of foul decay.

He knew immediately that aside from their bodily waste, there were at least ten bodies in the hollow below. Bile rose in his throat as he stepped back from the door and he tried his best to swallow it down as he reached back into his jacket for the pack of cigarettes. His candle flickered in the dim light, but the darkness swallowed everything beneath the hole in the floor. He lit his cigarette, taking a deep, harsh, drag before he moved closer to the hellish entry once more. He grabbed an extra two cigarettes, stuffing one of them up each of his nostrils, leaving them dangling from his. He felt foolish, but he could only hope it would help diminish the smell of death.