Little star, little star,
Upon that dark night,
Hidden by Artemis,
Your passing kiss, my plight,
Lands on my face,
Like the claws of a demon
Or the lips of a lover,
Or the grasp of a daemon,
Little star, little star,
You hide your nature,
From that great creator,
You put me in peril,
101 reasons to fear the devil.
_______
"Go around back."
"Yes, sir."
________
"Good day, detective. Mr. George Albrecht will see you shortly; he is pleasantly surprised at your intrusion."
The household manager walked Detective Roland in. The manager was draped in a classy business suit with white gloves and meticulously combed hair. Roland slowly walked into the oval foyer. His gait steady and unassuming, his narrow eyes constantly scanning the walls. He glanced at the walls adorned with depictions of suggestive paintings. Positions of nude, delightful men, and alluring women crept around the marble columns—clearly inspired by classical architecture—which stretched tall like Atlas for the enormous weight of the marble ceiling. However, Roland could not help but note the arousing faces of the individuals on the wall were dismantled by the looks of incorrigible terror that contorted their features, as if their very being was alight with the spark of destruction, and their essence was ravaged by agony. The ribbons of silk that draped the columns gave a bohemian atmosphere, contrasted with the beautiful, crying faces induced a disturbed premonition.
Roland stood silently, waiting for the master of the house. George Albrecht strode into the foyer with the household manager at his heels.
"I apologize, detective. We usually introduce our guests in the grand foyer," George said.
"However, you snuck in, detective," he added quirkily.
"I apologize for my intrusion, Mr. Albrecht. I was sent by the lieutenant to ensure sponsorship for the investigation," Roland responded.
"Oh, my dear, yes, how could I stop my egregious funding into finding that terrible murderer who took the lives of those… cyprians… or as your assistant calls them… whores."
Roland's deadpan emotionless face twitched momentarily. The room descended into a palpable silence.
"Do you like my son's painting?" George unexpectedly asked.
"It is… interesting."
"It is beautiful. My first son painted it. He now studies at the Academy of Fine Arts in Nuremberg."
"Oh, Sir, congratulations. I'm sure your other boys are doing just as well?"
"Other boy, singular, detective. But he is doing very well."
Roland frowned.
"Sir, your name is on the birth certificate of three boys, not two."
"Oh, is that so, that's unfortunate."
The ring of a clock disrupted their awkward conversation. It was a grandfather clock, gold-plated moon dial with hands of silver, pointed currently at the Roman numeral twelve. George looked back at the manager.
"Prepare the food, add some Kohlrabi and some fish." As the manager shuffled off to get a meal ready, Roland was curious and could not help but ask.
"Sir, the meal is for whom?"
"Oh, just feeding the pigs. Quite a lavish lifestyle they live, right?"
"You know you shouldn't feed pigs fish, Sir."
"Hmm… they'll be fine."
________
"Why me?" Amelia sighed.
She sneaked around the back of the manor while Detective Roland, her father, distracted George. She had climbed the spiked fence, only thanks to her younger days as an acrobat. It had taken her a while, but she finally managed to reach the lawn surrounding the house. As she was sneaking past the perfectly cut garden, she noticed movement in a window well from the basement of the house and a wet dripping sound. Amelia dropped to the ground to avoid discovery and crawled to the latched window well.
When Amelia reached the window well, she was frozen in absolute horror. Feces decorated the cobblestone walls of the basement. Some sick person had used defecation to create stick figures of people with clearly accentuated genitals and large smiling faces in a disgusting brown color. The dung had dried, but new painting had been created and the wet excrement dripped down the walls. Yet, Amelia's face contorted even more when she saw a figure.
What in God's name?! she thought in horror.
Amongst all the horrid paintings, a figure sat. Its posture was hunched, its head was an amalgamation of skin and tumor-like growths, whilst it sat at its executive oak wood desk, its long spindly fingers wrote on a piece of parchment. Surrounding it were hundreds of pieces of parchment, all using the same ink; blood. The figure, occasionally while writing, would bite into the tip of its finger, place it back on the parchment, and continue writing. It was a nauseating sight. This thing was abhorrent and ugly.
After seeing the figure, Amelia did not need to deduce the origin of the feces that decorated the walls. She could smell the stench of the room from outside. It was revolting. Suddenly, like the chime of death, a clock bell rang. The hunched figure looked up from its letters. Just to see Amelia's head hide beneath the window. Its face was unpalatable, its eyes were covered, its folds of skin drooled down its head, like wisps of grass, its hair stuck in small patches, its hideous face bore long, deep scars etched into bone, wounds that would never heal. Even now, blood still dripped from the injuries. The figure stared silently for a while, saying nothing.
Footsteps echoed through the decrepit hallways as a series of locks were undone. Amelia lay by the window when a man, draped in a classy business suit with white gloves and meticulously combed hair, entered the basement. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the figure, his hands clutching a basket of unknown goods.
"Young Master, time for lunch," the hunched figure said nothing, but the man, unfazed, approached, grasped its head, and led it into the adjoining room. It made no resistance, letting its body drag across the cold floor, except for the steady gaze fixed upon Amelia at the window. Soon, the room filled with the sound of eating.
As soon as the man left, Amelia opened the window latch and descended into the basement. The repulsive stench of years of neglect assaulted her senses. She hurried to the desk, seizing the last letter the fiend had written in blood, along with a watch and some birth certificates strewn across the surface. Quickly, she exited through the window, scaling down the painted walls.
_______
"That's quite humorous, Detective Roland. You should attend some of my parties. You'd be a joy to have around," George smirked.
"Thank you, George. It's a pleasure, I'll surely come again."
Roland was interrupted as the doors suddenly flew open, and a young man rushed in.
"Detective Roland, there's been an incident at the station. We need you there immediately."
"Oh no, what happened?" George stood up, a concerned look on his face.
"There's been another murder," the young man stated grimly.
"Oh no, Roland, you should go!" George worriedly exclaimed. He expression was one of panic, but his eye were glazed and emotionless.
Roland nodded and rose to leave.
"Before you go, Roland, my sponsorship comes with the condition that I'm exempt from your investigative jurisdiction," George smiled. His eyes still holding that vacant look.
Roland hesitated, then left with the young man without saying a word. George leered.
_______
The figure made its way to the executive wood desk, gazing upon it pensively. Picking up the parchment, it inscribed its next letter in blood.
_____
To Threnody Albrecht, 25/04/1871
Regarding your Methuselah's syndrome,
The weight and pressures of age whittle down the appearance of your peers, and the contours of their skin act as canals that let the river of memories flow like an irresistible flood into that great ocean that forms the soul. That water of memories will reflect the indefinable destiny that awaits them, but you see no reflection in yourself.
Yet, as you witness your kin degrade to bones, you bear no scars of the weary life you have lived; no powder-white hair displays the infinite wisdom you possess, nor a frail stature composed of bones whittling like flowers. Instead, you shine like a flickering beacon in a graveyard of memories. Your youthful figure will hunch over, your slender fingers caressing the gravestones of your memories, and you will weep and mourn at your agelessness.
You will not experience the ephemeral moments of age but the extenuated, slow road your body will take until its decrepit state with rotting bones is all that remains of you. You will live the end of your lifetime in a perpetual stage of decomposition; a rotting face and corroded mind will not reflect the universe of memories you will have experienced. You will not have a gentle smile or a peaceful end. But when you go, you will find equality in peace.
Signed, The Shadow Son