I S The Rector House

Author's Notes:

"What? A revison?" you might say. Well, yeah, because I have to admit that the last one was hurried for the big October contest and I foolishly posted it without polish and critical consultation. However, due to an interest in making this one shine, more than my past work, I decided it was about time I did this one right. (At least, in my opinion.)

The original concept came about when a friend of mine, C.D. Allen, and I discussed writing a horror story together, except with two different endings. One that I'd make up and one he made up. Well, during the polish, I did have to tweak the beginning and middle parts to fit my ending better, but, trust me, it was for the better.

If you have read the last version of my post (and liked it), please consider rereading this one. You should find it worth it. Especially since the ending changed and the story is much more clearer (ie., you won't have to read it more than once to put the main points of the story together.) For those of you who didn't like it, most probably due to the story's problems, please read it and let me know if I did a lot better this time.

Three more quick things and I'll let you get to the story. First off, this is a gothic story, not a Goth story. It heavily uses elements that you'd find if you were to read "The Count of Ontario", "Dracula", or "The House of Usher". The added acceptions are that it is more modern in, perhaps, graphic details here and there. Secondly, I need to thank

C.D. Allen

for help designing my story and with revisions on plot structure; I also need to thank

Kev

, who had the guts to tell me that "Rector House" was a great story, and then proceeded to critique it with a sharp, industrial eye that makes me jealous. They both made me work hard and, hopefully you'll agree, pulled better stuff out of me.

Last, but not least, please vote and leave comments. I love 'em and I learn from them--and I'm not afraid of criticisms.

Oh! And let me save some people the trouble: while this story does have erotic overtones and some sexually explicit scenes, this story was not meant to be a "quicky" for wack-off sessions. It has plot and lots of it, so unless you don't mind appreciating story or dredging for the sex, I'd go find another story to read.

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PROLUSIO

Herein I serve to the public, a parchment that I've found (Boston, Massachusetts, circa 1894) on the Rector House and the phenomena therein. With Dr. Jen Miller's assistance in analysis of the contemporary urban legends regarding the Rector House and review of the recorded paranormal events that have been garnished from eye witnesses, I have found it best to first give warning that the ruins that stand on Neville Square's south-west corner are still active. Resonant forces there do not go dormant and are active at all times of the day. This is not a place to go ghost-hunting—not only for the danger of it's current physical condition, but because this place is aggressive,

dark

and not to be taken as jest.

As to the parchment and it's finding, let me first say that I had permission to investigate and analyze the estate's grounds, given by the Boston City Historic Association, who now "owns" it. [I put

owns

in quotes due to the fact that the Rector House has fallen victim to the Rector family's burgeoning expansion; that is, the inheritance of the Rector House has fallen to too many of these family members and it would be impossible to gather them all together in order to liquidate the property.] Luckily, in the dawn of 1930's, the remaindermen of the Rector House placed it in the usually capable hands of the Boston City Trust, whom, thereafter, failed to sell or otherwise occupy the property. When the Trust funded the Boston City Historic Association, the Rector House was deeded to the Association. Through them, I was able to put together an investigation of the house—all the right forms in all the right places. Red tape and malice may be all that fortifies the ruins.

The parchment was a secret between the beloved Benjamin Rector, the mortician and the the gravediggers that placed it in his hands at the moment of his internment. Benjamin Rector's body was placed into a mahogany coffin and locked in the family crypt on the estate grounds, where I found him. Tight in his grip, to my grotesque shock, this parchment still lurked, awaiting my discovery.

But, as I opened the parchment, I realized that it was Benjamin's own account of the house he inherited and his father, the infamous Samuel Rector, only one month after the dreadful proceedings that took place. While I did not at first understand why he would leave a written account to such things—surely those who would read it would think him mad—I realized that the words were a key to the gate of Samuel's mind. This was profound, for the psyche is a grand mystery mélange and the criminal mind its darkest subterranean shadow.

One final note, if you would please, since the parchment was obviously written in haste, I have rewritten it and added a few modern touches to make it more understandable. I hope you will agree that this was a fastidious choice.

I. FORMIDILOSUS MOESTITIA: WHEN THE DOLL WEEPS

I studied in England for most of my life, never knowing who my parents were or why they left me to the boarding schools without so much as a visit or a letter. When I heard my teachers whisper regarding me, behind doors or thin walls, I often heard them refer to my parents as Benji's Financiers. When I asked one of them—Mrs. Hinterman—who these Financiers were, she sheepishly told me that "...they are your parents, of course."

Of course.

"And what are their names?" I said.

She shrugged and said: "Only the Principal knows who they are, which is why your parents are referred to in such a way. And he has made an accordance with your parents to keep it confidential. Why? I cannot say. We're only sure that they are Americans."

"And how do you know that?"

"Checks, Benji! They come without a return address, but they're always stamped with the U.S. logo. Do you think us daft?"

"No, Ma'am. I was just wondering," I said.

After applying and being accepted to Oxford, I learned soon after that my tuition was payed by these mysterious benefactors of mine. By this time I had already banished any thoughts about trying to find them. If they didn't want to know me, I didn't want to know them.

I concerned myself mostly with studies, becoming a suitor to a Miss Anabelle Garnier before my junior year of my undergraduate's. She was an upper class lady of the social circles while I remained as yet mere bourgeois, but we fell in love, established in the civilized pursuits of moral behavior and complacent duties of the society around us; though, I must confess, I had personal moments of yearning that was difficult to rein in, especially when thinking about Anabelle.

Although my frustrations sometimes embittered me, for Anabelle's nineteenth birthday I took her to Folly Bridge, where I planned to propose engagement. It was dusk, warm in May with a cool breeze, the red and yellows of the descending sun painting the waters below us. Majestic.

I took my knee and one of her dainty hands, kissing it and looking up at her with a serious (if not a bit goofy expression as I tried to stop laughing from my own shyness) and asked her to marry me. Her pretty mouth opened, touched with only a humble dab of blackberry gloss, and she smiled as the shock sorted itself through her mind into an answer that would never be given—

For just past Anabelle, I saw a woman with long, untidy hair looking at me with the saddest eyes, dressed in rags like an unfed urchin, and she bounded towards the side of the bridge.

"No!" I cried, interrupting Anabelle and I tried to catch the mudlark before she was able to make the edge. However noble my hopes, my attempt remained defeated: she jumped and fell without a sound until the waters splashed and burbled for her.

Anabelle went to call on the police and I watched the woman's body rise from below and and smooth along down the river. I raced from the bridge, attempting to follow, but lost her as the trees and brambles forbade me. Damning my luck, I returned to the road as the police arrived and showed them where I lost the body.

After taking Anabelle home, the proposal spoiled, I returned to my own apartment and was visited by police well into the night. They had pulled the body from the river: a woman just two years my senior, and she had a watered-down letter in one of her pockets. The police said that under the circumstances they felt that I should read the letter. It did not explain her reason for suicide, so it was rather unimportant to them and their case (as clear cut as it was).

I wondered why the police would let me read it and I was about to ask them when my eye caught the first line written—

to me deer brothher Benjahmen,

I stopped out of shock and the policeman tipped his hat at me, told me to have a good evening and abandoned my doorstep. Shutting my apartment door I turned around and fumbled the letter in front of me, so that I could read what it had to say—

Mom is dead now and dad is no better. he did not know that you are alive beecuz mom said that you was dead and he beleevs her evan now. I am happy to see you are alive and good, we all are. But now i must tell you abowt dad beecuz we at home are very scared of him. your full name is Benjamin Fillip Rector and you have 4 sisters, names are Judeth, Emma, Linn and my name is Margret. Sins dad dos not know abowt you we cannot send you money anymor thats why im telling you this.

Dad is, no!, mayby i tell yuw win i see you. I cannot rite abowt this, i do not know the write words. Mayby you can come bak with me to Boston.

love,

M.

I reread the letter, taking a seat on my couch, making sure that I was reading everything correctly, beginning to feel a heavy heart for my lost sister. She cared about me and died right there in front of me. What would have made her jump off the bridge? How damnable was my life to have lost a sister just before knowing she existed?

The letter said I had more sisters. And my father was still alive, though by the sound of it, close to death, himself. If I was going to meet my family, now was the time to do it, before all was lost.

I realized that it was one o'clock and I forgot to wind my watch. Once again time had given me a gift, a small window of opportunity. I began to pack my bags and gather the money I was keeping for my marriage to Anabelle. Sorry enough, upon sun up, I even returned the ring for some cushion and by the end of the week I had secured passage to America.

Before leaving I wrote a letter to Anabelle, telling her that I would understand if she found another suitor, but I had to visit my family before I lost the chance. Yes, I told her I'd return for her, but I really didn't know if I'd be able to. With the proper papers, needing a place when I got there and having to feed myself, I knew that I might never return.

-----

I took a ship to New York, not knowing how I was going to find my family, since the letter wasn't in an addressed envelope (pursuant to the attempt at delivering it personally). The only thing I could do is find the person in charge of my family's money. Before leaving England I found a teacher who thought of me as a man with sure potential and was rather fond of me. Despite great personal risk to his job—and I thank him for it—he secreted himself into the principal's office while the man was away and looked through my financial records. Luckily his attempt was successful and he was able to scrawl down the name for me and pass it on during his lunch break.

So this was the only veridical information that I had toward my goal.

After leaving New York by coach, I finally made it to Boston and found my way to an accountant by the name of Edwin M. Crawford. I kept my mind off what would happen if he failed to benefit me with the information I sought: my mind was clear and my nerves were calm as I walked into his office and came straight out with the truth of what I needed.

Edwin was a husky man, balding, with scar lines down both his cheeks as if he had—at one point or another—been raked by a disgruntled bear. His irritated eyes seemed to shudder a lot in their sockets as he spoke and he rubbed them often, which he only began to do when I asked my questions. (Perhaps a nervous tick?)

But he came out with the answer: Neville Square—the place of my birth. Rubbing his eyes, he said: "But be warned, Mr. Rector. Your father doesn't know that you are alive. There's a very good reason for that."

"And what would that be?" I said.

"How am I supposed to know? These sorts of reasons are not for my bother. They are family secrets... And

none

of my business. I just do what I'm told and only given enough information so that I can do my job reasonably and responsibly."

"Will you tell him of my arrival?"

"Oh no. None of my business, you see."

"Then perhaps you can, at least, give me directions where I can hire a room for a few nights?"

Edwin nodded and began flipping through some papers he had on his desk. Then he pulled out a blank sheet and wrote a name and address down.

"Go here. The pay is reasonable and the food is delicious," Edwin said.

So that was my next stop. A worn, large place on the south-west side of town, near Neville (I imagined at the time) by only a few blocks. The place was kept warm, even though the trees had already begun to turn and the nights bit harsh. To people around Boston it was known as

The Comfort

, but, in truth, it's proper name was

The Good Samirit-Inn

. It's owners were jovial Christians who loved to preach during supper and always seemed to be studying your character. And mine, apparently, was dark.

"Troubles, then?" Mrs. Renate said, taking my plate and giving me a warm look (not a smile, but nothing near negative).

"Yes. I lost a sister and I am going home for the first time in my life," I said, realizing how strange my accent was to everybody. Especially after I had told them that I was, indeed, an American.

"A sister, you say? How sad. Were you very close to her?" Mr. Renate said, staying at the supper table and looking me over.

"No. I never knew her. She just jumped from a bridge while attempting to visit me. I shouldn't say I know why, but when it happened I learned that I did have a family here in Boston," I said.

"Strange story, Mister...?"

I held out a hand and said: "Benjamin Rector, Sir."

And once

Rector

came out of my mouth I wished that I hadn't said it. The Renates went white and their daughter, Katrina, dropped a glass as I had everyone's immediate attention. They reacted as if they left the door open for the Devil and the Devil was here to give them a very important message: God has abandoned them.

"Sir?" I said, apprehensive that I had offended them with my very presence.

"S-Sorry," Mr. Renate said, breaking out of his shock enough to roll his tongue. "I, uh, I'm just surprised that a Rector now comes here out of all places. Um, Honey, would you mind taking Katrina into the kitchen. I'm sure there's much work to do."

"Yes Sir," Mrs. Renate said, frightened enough to become defensive and spirit her daughter away to the kitchen

"Have I offended you?" I said, more curious by the second.

"No, no. Just, you know, frightened of the sudden attention of Master Rector, Sir. He never before took any notice of us."

"Nor has he now," I said. "I haven't met my father. He is not aware of my arrival," I said. I explained to him the events of the last several days and he listened, becoming more relieved as the story ended. But then he drew in a sharp breath.

"Sir," he said, "If what you say is true, then you do not know of the events one month ago."

"What events?" I said. It had been a little over a week ago that my sister's wet note came to my hands, so was this event the real reason why my sister came to find me?

"Nobody knows the whole story, but your father grew ill soon after your mother's death. Upon the third day he was bed-ridden and close to coma. Your sisters all fled from the Rector House and scattered, save one. Her name is Margret. Soon after that one of their servants died in a heinous, grotesque fashion that is still unexplained. The police couldn't prove what happened and nobody was arrested, but they say that Margret has gone mad with her father's fury."

I couldn't believe the innkeeper. How could my family be upon so much ruin with so much money and power at their disposal? These had to be just rumors. And why then would Margret come all the way to Oxford to find me if she were at our father's side?

"You mother was so different, though. She had an expertise, an artistic ability to fashion some of the most wondrous dolls," Mr. Renate said, almost as an afterthought. He took a sip of his tea, seemingly savoring what he tasted.

"My mother?" I said. "What do you know of her?"

"Not much. In fact, that was it. Her doll-making was legendary around these parts. They made her famous, brought in some good money I hear, but nothing more than that. I wonder, however, how one so beautiful could survive your father's devilry."

This angered me, though I didn't know my father, didn't know him for the good or bad.

"We had one of her dolls. Katrina desired it, but, when we heard about your mother's death, it seemed horrible to keep it. It had memories of them, the Rectors, and their horrors. The doll was better served with people that had no memories, no knowledge of the damnation spread by your father!"

I wouldn't listen to this anymore, and I noticed my watch had stopped on one, so I began to wind it.

"I must get some sleep," I said.

Then Mr. Renate clamped a hand on my wrist, holding my hand down as his castigating eyes stared into mine. I was too stunned to take my hand, frozen by his sudden severity: "But you don't even know about the Rector curse. How could you? You have never been home."

I pulled my hand away and said: "I will be going home shortly after dawn. I suppose I shall discover all I need to know on the morrow. Good night."

Before I could make my way out of the room, to free myself from the innkeeper's intensity, he shouted: "They're idiots and the grim smiles through every one of them!"

I wouldn't know what he was referring to until later, when all of it started making it's way into my conscious. For that night, I dreamed about Margret, my poor sister, who leapt from the bridge to her death. And I wept in my sleep.

II. LUX PUTEULANUS: LIGHTS OF A GRIM COLOR

Describing the Rector House is like interpreting an abstract nightmare, constructed by man and twisted into a something of a darker nature. Neville Square is mostly a misnomer, a quirky explanative for the wooded grounds and it's position on the far corner of the city. Only gravel roads lead to the Square and the House stood amongst rotten trees. The Rector House wasn't old or ruinous, but it did have a distinct presence of the Old World. To explain this feeling further would be a journal of emotion, tinctured only with the negligence of the moral.

The House must have been twice as old as I was at the time of my arrival. New by most standards, but distinguished by it's multi-architectural style: it began as high Victorian Queen Anne with bay windows, balconies, a turret with a conical roof, porches and an abundance of decorative details combined in unique form. It was also very similar to what I've heard referred to as Colonial Revival. "House" was a term used lightly, for the Rector House was more of a large manse—a giant in the trees, sturdy and inauspicious, haunting to the soul.