|
|
Post by James on Apr 9, 2012 0:56:56 GMT -5
Wednesday 1st March, 1899
I did begin to think for the first time that this journal would lie naked and ashamed for an entire week in my present state of stagnation. After the documented previous failures (see 24th February of this year), I have began to fear that my experiments concerning the properties of Mr Edison’s light bulb will find nothing new to record. It seems that unlike Newton who stood upon the shoulders of giants, I am merely confined to be hidden within the shadows of them. I still must profess, though, to the unshakable feeling that this new invention is unsettling. There seems something wholly unnatural in its being.
Regardless of this current defeat, I have found my spirits buoyed over the last couple of hours. It was by chance (after the fifth light bulb had flickered to an early grave) that I found myself walking aimlessly through the streets of our glorious capital. Shortly after midday, I found myself marching swiftly down Chancery Lane and headfirst into the path of my former tutor, Dr Kenneth Seymour. After apologising profusely, returning back to old habits of my days at Magdalen College, Dr Seymour invited me to lunch with him at his club. I must confess my current situation with money is just as austere as my new ideas in scientific research, and hence I jumped at the chance for a luncheon that would usually be far out of reach for me.
Dr Seymour is apparently in no such financial troubles of my own, supplementing his already far from modest income with a shrewd eye in the financial markets in the capital. Over a particularly well cooked meal, which included a type of pale fish that I have yet to hear of, Dr Seymour regaled me with a story of how he has become the majority stockholder in an assured profit-making industry. While I felt embarrassed at the lack of stories that I could repeat to him, I perceived a sense that my former tutor was merely happy for the company. Indeed, by the end of the meal he had offered me an opportunity to invest in his latest endeavour. If I can find the income for such a venture then I daren’t think about the returns I could make within a year. Money would never be a concern again. I left the meal with an assurance from Dr Seymour that he would wait for me to raise the investment required and once more I find myself indebted for his kindness. I can only hope that dear brother will be willing to offer me a loan.
James Phillimore
The most peculiar thing has happened as I have written this entry. The five light bulbs that I have experimented on today have seemed to resurrect themselves from the lifeless state that they had entered early this morning. Despite not being connected to a source of energy, each of them flickered into life one by one for the smallest moment of a second. I must profess that I am most startled by this current development and I shall suspect that I will forego bed tonight to discover the cause for this unexpected turn of events.
|
|
|
|
Post by James on Apr 9, 2012 4:47:16 GMT -5
Thursday 2nd March, 1899
Elizabeth Barrett Browning said that one should “measure not the work until the day's out and the labour done.” I feel safe to record today’s event, the moon now standing tall above the buildings despite the labour still being incomplete. Mrs Browning must have had neatly stacked pages of poems upon her desk at the end of each day. My desk is covered in shards of broken glass and strips of metal. I am still baffled by the mystery of the flickering light bulbs. I have been outmanoeuvred like Lord Chelmsford at the Battle of Isandlwana. Even now my brain is alight with a thousand theories, each scrambling over the other for my attention.
As I prophesised, I stayed up most of last night’s cold and chilly hours. My head did not touch a pillow until well after five in the morning. For the entire night, the light bulbs continued to flicker on and off despite being nowhere connected to a power source. Like a surgeon upon one of Her Majesty’s ships, I operated upon the glass casing of the bulb; it still flickered and illuminated the room for a second. I moved into the bathroom and submerged a bulb under water. It still lighted up in its eerie way. Indeed, the only way I managed to stop the mysterious light was to hammer one of the bulb until it became nothing more than a fine dust.
I theorised that perhaps a small electrical charge might be able to sustain itself sufficiently within the bulb, a ghost of its former self, which could occasionally flicker into life. However, I have long since disregarded this speculative view. Since the sun rose, its light flooding between the curtains of my window; the bulbs have not turned on once. Even when I replaced them back into their lamps and gave them a moment to be flooded with power, as soon as the bulb was removed it died in an instant. I have spent at least fifteen hours on the mystery and I am still no closer to an answer. Everything, though, points to what the spirit of my soul cries out… these inventions are unnatural. Perhaps God never intended for us to master the power of electricity.
I will write tomorrow to the leading scientists and inventors in this field; I wish to know if they have experienced this same oddity as I. Meanwhile, I must also find the time to write to Francis to inquire about the loan. I do not wish to keep Dr Seymour waiting.
And as I write these words, the bulbs are flickering into life once more. I fear some cosmic evil is afoot.
James Phillimore
|
|
|
|
Post by James on Apr 9, 2012 5:15:10 GMT -5
Friday 3rd March, 1899
I fear that I will not be able to read these words in later years. My hands are badly shaking and they can hardly grip the pen. The ink is illuminated by the harsh, ungodly glow of the evil bulbs. I have tried to write away from them. I moved to the kitchen with a calming candlelight, and yet as soon as I left the bulbs I grew fearful of what I could not see. Were they only flickering in my presence? Were they capable of knowing when I was near? Could they smell my fear? A man of science, such as myself, should find these questions to be absurd and yet my hands still shake as badly as when I first met the beautiful Miss Burnen.
There must be a small part of my brain still functioning logically for I believe I can pinpoint this irrational behaviour to my lack of sleep. Once more, I spent a night investigating those cursed light bulbs. And once more it was in vain. When the sun finally rose and the bulbs moved like an animal into their hibernated state, I had more questions than I began with. The bulbs would flicker without discrimination of where in the house they were kept. The light that they gave off would grow a little brighter with each passing hour. I destroyed another bulb and found that a hammer was still capable of turning the light off truly. I found comfort in that single fact. When I awoke, the sun high in the sky, I felt a little calmer than I had in the harsh arms of the night.
With my mind clearer, I wrote to the various scientists that I knew would be interested in this discovery (and several who would not). I also prepared a letter to Francis. I made sure to begin with the pleasantries about his family and work before moving onto the subject of the loan. I cannot see why he would deny me of this one request. I have never asked of anything from him before. With any luck, and I do not profess to processing a large quantity of that substance; I shall be able to repay him within a few months.
The walk to the post office did me well and by the time I returned to my home, I found myself in higher spirits than I have been for a long time. My research could potentially introduce me to the high rising names of my field. Meanwhile, my financial problems might soon be a thing of a past. Those thoughts led me to take an extra glass of brandy with my dinner. I, perhaps, now regret that decision. No sooner than the liquid pass my lips than the light show began once more. Only this time it was far stronger than I have ever seen before. Long shadows were being thrown across the walls and for a heart-stopping second I thought I observed a twitching upon one of these spectres.
I would destroy all the bulbs now and rid myself of this suffocating nightmare and yet I cannot bring myself to do it. The bulbs are devilry; I am sure. They are also my first real discovery in the field of science. No one before has reported such a thing. If I were to destroy the bulbs, I would have no proof. And if I was unable to recreate such an occurrence, God forbid, I do not wish to speculate on how far my already mediocre stock would plummet in the community. I would be ruined.
No. My path is resolutely set. I must spend another night of investigation. I daren’t sleep; I can hardly pull my eyes away from the bulbs for a second. I will allow myself a few minutes to read several pages from the Bible before I return to my work. So help me God.
James Phillimore
|
|
|
|
Post by Kaez on Apr 9, 2012 12:22:05 GMT -5
Holy balls did I enjoy this.
Submit this for 'King of the Recluse'. It applies completely.
|
|
Allya
Senior Scribe
My Little Monster!
Posts: 2,271
|
Post by Allya on Apr 9, 2012 13:56:15 GMT -5
Now, now don't encourage him. Then I'd have to get off my lazy butt and write something!
|
|
Allya
Senior Scribe
My Little Monster!
Posts: 2,271
|
Post by Allya on Apr 9, 2012 14:34:39 GMT -5
I liked this a lot as well. My only nitpicky thing was that I felt you used "must confess" or similar phrases a bit too much.
|
|
|
|
Post by Kaez on Apr 9, 2012 14:52:30 GMT -5
I liked this a lot as well. My only nitpicky thing was that I felt you used "must confess" or similar phrases a bit too much. Yeah, the stylistic approach was slightly -overdone-. Which is better than underdone, but still not ideal. |
|
|
|
Post by James on Apr 9, 2012 15:25:16 GMT -5
I liked this a lot as well. My only nitpicky thing was that I felt you used "must confess" or similar phrases a bit too much. Yeah, the stylistic approach was slightly -overdone-. Which is better than underdone, but still not ideal. Yeah, I'm still trying to get the balance right. I think there's probably four more parts left to write, so hopefully I get rolling with the style. However, I'm little concerned at how the next bit is going to work. I really like what I have so far and I'm worried that what's coming next might ruin it a little bit. ... You'll see. Soon. Edit: Oh, and thanks you guys for commenting! |
|
|
|
Post by James on Apr 9, 2012 17:55:53 GMT -5
Friday 4th March, 1899
I come to these pages early today and my heart soars. For several hours last night, the bulbs grew brighter and the shadows darker and then without due warning they fell away in lifelessness once more. Once the darkness returned and I duly lit a far more wholesome candle, I returned to bed and gained precious hours of refreshing sleep. By the morning, the bulbs still inactive, I could hardly believe at how I had let my nerves became frayed in the coldness of the previous night. It was a mere, childhood fancy. I bought into my own nightmares. One cannot completely rule out that the muttered prayer from Psalms 121:5-8 of the King’s Bible did not grant me a spiritual peace of mind, but largely the praise must go to the rational and scientific mind that feels replenished after a good night’s sleep.
I allowed myself a glass of brandy with my breakfast before I found myself once more wandering down Chancery Lane to meet Dr Seymour. I explained that I should have the money for investment presently; for which he was utterly delighted to hear. Also, over another splendid luncheon, I narrated the story of the flickering bulbs. It eased my remaining anxiety to tell another soul about my plight. Dr Seymour was both in awe of the new scientific development and also dismissive of my actions last night. He agrees that I should rest more routinely when conducting experiments and I can hardly question my former tutor’s logic.
He has insisted that I should leave my experiment for the night and attend the theatre with his wife and himself. I almost excused myself from the engagement, the play in question tonight being a work written by the ever disappointing Pinero, but it would be in bad taste to reject such an invitation from both a former mentor and a future business partner. Instead, I shall merely grit my teeth through Trelawney with the ‘Wells’ and play along with the façade of the theatre. And Dr Seymour is ever correct that a night away from my experiment would certainly have great therapeutic values. Even now, I still find myself glancing at the bulbs that rest upon the desk. All of them are still thankfully lifeless.
Now, I shall move on quickly for dreary March clouds are beginning to settle over the city and I fear I may not outrun the incoming rains.
James Phillimore
|
|
|
|
Post by James on Apr 11, 2012 1:15:44 GMT -5
Curse the scratching of my pen! With every sound that it makes, my nerves twitch and my hairs stand on end. Oh, I wish I could stop but I must write what I see. If I cannot make it to the door, an outcome that would doom me for eternity, then there must be some written account of what has transpired. While my hands are shaking and the sweat from my brow stings my eyes, my brain has never seemed sharper. Fear acts like a stone upon the blade. My mind is alight with theories and ideas. And still I do not know what do!
I had left for the theatre when the heavens did open and the rain began to fell. I was hardly out of the front door and decided to return to my wretched umbrella. Its siren song has now left me trapped in this hellish nightmare. I wish I had let the rain wash me of my sins! Instead, I returned indoors and with my hand wrapped around the handle of the umbrella, my mind wandered back to the theatre. It was then I noticed the glowing coming from my study. My breath caught in my throat. Again, I was a fool! I should have turned, run; flee from my house as fast as I could. But no, I moved slowly towards the door.
The bulbs were alight, burning with some dark and treacherous passion. The room was illuminated; every detail clearly visible in what should have been blackness. The umbrella fell from my hand and I rushed to the desk. Read my words carefully, I beg of you, I implore you; for I plucked at one of the bulb and the flesh fell away from my fingers. The wretched glass burnt me to the bone and as my finger came away in agony, the shadows upon the walls began to twitch. For God sake! Do not touch the bulbs!
It took my pain addled brain several moments to realise there was nothing casting those shadows. Christ, they were beastly silhouettes! Tall and towering, the shadows rose all the way to the roof. Ungainly, twisted limbs spouted off at will in directions I cannot describe. And they moved! They came closer! The shadows began to free themselves from the wall and move towards me. I wish I could write that my courage did not flee me and instead I met this new ordeal with my scientific method. I did not. Fluids left my body and I ran. Ran as fast as I could. But my mind collaborated with these horrible beings. I did not run to the door, alas, I chose the stairs. I fled upstairs. And now I crouch in a darkened room, my pen scurrying across the page, desperately trying to silence my breathing.
I can hear creaking on the stairs. The things are moving closer for me; they are hunting me. I have to try and reach the door. I have to try. If I do not return, I can only hope that this journal will be read and the bulbs will be destroyed. They must be destroyed.
They must!
|
|
|
|
Post by James on Apr 11, 2012 21:34:34 GMT -5
DO NOT DESTROY THE BULBS.
My chest is on fire and my throat is raw. I must take a moment to rest and it feels prudent to record my final minutes alive. Yes, alive. For I truly believe now that I will not escape this ordeal with my life. The creatures are searching the rooms for me now; they know that I am here with them. They heard my hand rattled against the handle of the front door, desperately trying to free the lock that I had not touched myself. It would not budge and when the footsteps began to increase in volume, I had no choice but to flee.
It is curious that I did not notice the change in my surroundings until I had bounded up the stairs. I could theorise on drugs or perhaps on the new field of radiation that is being discovered. The bulbs might be letting off some substance that is addling with my mind. Or there is something far worse than hell and eternal damnation that is waiting for us in the shadows. I do not know. That is why it is crucial that you do not destroy the bulbs in my study. They must be investigated by a mind far stronger than my own. We must know the answer to the mystery that my journal has proposed. For goodness sake, do not touch them, though. And do not destroy them. The bulbs must remain safe.
But yes, as I ran up the stairs and away from the door, the walls began to change. They lost their colour; they became lifeless and grey. Occasionally, a substance would ooze from between the cracks. At first, my skin going cold, I thought it might have been blood. I moved closer, however, and running one of my undamaged fingers against the liquid it felt too cold and too thick to be blood. I would propose that it was some type of slime, colourless and scentless. I would have studied this new find in closer detail but I must confess that upon hearing the stairs creak once more, I sprinted down the never-ending corridor of grey walls.
As my legs began to solidify like the suffocating concrete around me, every step issuing a new painful ache; doors began to appear upon either side of the corridor. You will allow me a moment of pride when I narrate that I did not mindlessly run through the first door. Even in my sense of heightened fear, my brain knew that such an action would cause my doom. Instead, I chose to run further and further, till the doors numbered into the three-digits before I grappled for a handle and flung the wooden barrier open.
And now here I am, sitting in some bedroom in the middle of hell. It is as colourless as the corridor outside. Ooze still works it way out from tiny cracks in the wall. Beside overly large cobwebs, which make shudder to think of the size of their creators, there is a small metal bed. It reminds me of photographs I once saw of a mental hospital in the Home Counties. Do not worry, my mind is not ruined enough to be unaware of the irony of that.
I calculate that I do not have much time left. I cannot know how fast these creatures can travel, but they will have to search all of the rooms before mine and that will take precious time. But it will not take forever. They will arrive soon. So you will allow me the courtesy of some final words:
Brother, I am sorry for allowing our relationship to fall into disrepair. But you married, Miss Burnen, and only with impending death can I forgive you for that. I hope that you may forgive my soul for any transgressions I have committed.
To my brethren in the scientific community, read these words carefully. The bulbs must be studied. For the sake of humanity, you must come to understand what has happened in my rooms tonight. Do not touch the wretched things, though. I fear that may be the action that is required to unleash these strange creatures. But you must study them, you must! If you do not find this journal or the bulbs then I fear what will happen. The creatures might free themselves across the globe from whatever prison they find themselves in. Dear God, what if the creatures know this? What if they try to hide the bulbs from you?
I must go out and recover them for you. Place the bulbs with this journal and make sure both are safe and away from their prying eyes. I will go now while my body still has strength and my mind clarity.
|
|
|
|
Post by James on Apr 12, 2012 23:01:26 GMT -5
Cold. Burning. Fingers and bones. Glass against the palm. Gone. Footsteps. Fire. Freezing. The bulbs. The bulbs.
The bulbs are safe. You will find them inside my chest cavity. I believe between the fifth and eight ribs on my right side. Safe there. They have the most fascinating ability to burn quite quickly through both flesh and burn.
Fingers burn. They’re so cold. Pen hard to grip. It rattles between my middle and index intermediate phalanges. The distals are gone. Shivering. Brain feels sluggish, like the slime that is now pouring from the wall. It is spreading across the floor. Getting closer.
I theorise that the ooze theorise that the ooze serves as some sort of universal barrier. A placenta between worlds, if you prefer. Yes, yes, I quite believe I’m in a different universe. It’s only explanation I can provide.
God please, pain. And footsteps. The creatures are getting closer. They are hideous. No, no. I must remain scientifically objective. And footsteps. The creatures are getting closer. Their skin is grey and translucent. Almost do not look real. One arm twice as long as the other. Hairless but covered in slime like the walls. Hunchback. One arm is double the length of the other. Face is compressed. Nose and mouth seem to merge into one single opening. Slits reveal horrible black eyes. I daren’t think about the skin. Grey and translucent, can’t be real.
Please, my father thou art in heaven. They are getting closer.
No. Listen. LISTEN!
I will cling to the journal. The bulbs are safe inside me. They burn. So cold. If I should ever return to the mortal world, please, free me of their torment. But for goodness sake do not touch them! Study them. Investigate. Experiment. Do not let these creatures loose on the world.
Daren’t run. It might upset the bulbs. They are inside of me, you see. Burn so cold. The creatures have seen me. They know I am here. They come. As does the slime that now touches my skin. Pouring over me. So cold.
Dr Seymour. So sorry about investment. I shan’t be available to invest the money. The arms, you see, they’re uneven. One is far longer than the other. They burn so cold.
James Phillimore
|
|
|
|
Post by James on Apr 12, 2012 23:28:25 GMT -5
The Inspector stood within the middle of the study of Mr James Phillimore, his eyes flickering between the various scientific instruments that were sitting inside the room. As he gently placed the journal of the missing man upon the desk, he cursed his luck that he would be on duty when the eminent business man, Dr Kenneth Seymour, came to enquire about the disappearance of his friend. Upon a description of Mr Phillimore and his personality, the Inspector had felt confident that the man had merely forgotten his engagement and was wrapped in some scientific study that the Inspector would not understand.
It took only an hour for him to realise that was not the case. Mr Phillimore’s house was deserted except for a journal and three light bulbs sitting in the centre of the man’s study. Furthermore, several neighbours had spotted him leaving his house at the correct time to attend the theatre. He had made several steps down the road before they attested to witnessing him running back inside, presumably to get an umbrella they had added. No one saw the scientist leave his house again and, indeed, the door was locked from the inside. Yet, Mr Phillmore was nowhere to be found within his home.
No, the Inspector thought as he rubbed at his brow, this was not going to be an easy case. And if the newspapers found out about the journal that was left behind then it would become a national sensation. Every sane and insane man in Britain would rush to Mr Phillimore’s house to see the evidence. Discreetly pocketing the journal, the Inspector moved slowly over to the light bulbs that still sat patiently in the middle of the room. For the merest second, he bent forward to pick them off the floor and then his hand retreated back. There was no need to touch them yet. He would have a fit if they had been moved before he arrived and the Inspector had decided with a certain sense of dread that his help was definitely needed.
“Constable,” the Inspector said, turning to the man just outside the door of the study. “Send a wire for me.”
“Where should I wire for, sir?”
“Where do you think,” the Inspector snapped, moving away from the bulbs. It felt as if they were watching him. “221B.”
THE END
|
|
|
|
Post by James on Apr 12, 2012 23:29:43 GMT -5
I would love some thoughts on this by the way. I know at least two people were enjoying it before the real craziness started. Did the feel of the piece carry on?
Do people think this is worth shopping around a few places to see if there's any interest in publishing? Obviously with some work done first.
|
|
