The Blackheart Curse - Chapter Two
Mat is plucked from a mortal life where his memories are vague and distant, and emerges in a chaotic existence where his few precious memories are those from his future.
Janet crossed the room without instruction or invitation and sat silently in the corner. Her actions still seemed stiff, trance-like, as if she were following some kind of inaudible bidding from one of the two strange men.
"Can I get you any refreshments, Mr Reynolds, Smith asked, pausing for a moment from leafing through a large leather-bound folder on the desk in front of him.
"No! I'm fine."
"Very well. Then we'll proceed with the business at hand." Smith shuffled in the plush office chair, as if preparing himself for a long and drawn out process of revelations from the pages contained in the folder before him.
Mat settled himself into a rather less extravagant seat facing the desk. "What the hell is happening here? Is this some kind of sick joke?"
Smith laughed loudly, his booming laughter echoed around the entire house, causing Mat's ears to ring and ache from the sudden onslaught of punishing decibels. "I can assure you Mr Reynolds, this is no joke". The big man took in a sharp breath of air, a vane effort to compose himself and settling back into a demeanor more befitting his self disciplined, official status.
"Then get on with it! If not, we're leaving right now," Mat past a glance towards Janet, looking for her approval at his suggestion of an hasty exit. A nervous lump blocked his throat when he saw her, still imprisoned in a trance. "What have you done to her?" he raged, his nervousness instantly manifesting into anger.
"I suggest you relax Mr Reynolds. What I am about to disclose to you will change your life beyond your wildest expectations."
Mat began to lift himself from his seat. Fueled with anger, and instilled with a sudden fear that tore at his every nerve. Whatever curiosity had simmered inside him had quickly been quelled by the overwhelming desire to leave.
"Sit down!" Smith roared, emphasizing his outrage by smashing a clenched fist onto the desk.
Any hope or intention of escape was ripped from him in that instant. An overwhelming compulsion to look into the face of the man sitting before him left Mat pressed into the back of his seat, as if invisible chains of cold, unbreakable steel had shackled him there. Free of painful thought and fully capable of agonizing observation, yet robbed of movement, Mat was a secure and reluctant prisoner of Smith and his strangely silent associate, Mr Meadows.
"It's no use fighting it, Mr Reynolds. You may feel my actions are a little extreme, though I assure you neither you or Miss Baxter will come to any harm."
"What is going on?" Mat pleaded, his voice began to break and quiver from the sudden, overwhelming helplessness that had suddenly overtaken him. "What do you want from us?"
Once again Smith laughed. "My dear Mr Reynolds. It is not what we want from you. It is more a case of what 'you' want from us."
"You're crazy!" Mat snapped in angry reply. "We don't want anything from anyone."
"You came here driven by greed and wild ambition. Eager to receive the fruits of your late aunts legacy, and so it shall be, Mr Reynolds. So it shall be!"
Any semblance of calmness that might have prevailed during the preceding chaos soon vanished. Gradually the light washing in from outside the massive windows on two of the studies outer walls began to dim. An increasing darkness draped the room and its inhabitants. Only the amber glow from a solitary lamp on the desk pierced the eventual blackness and an eerie silence filled the room.
Even the two well-dressed captures stood in speechless apprehension for a moment before retiring into a dark corner and focusing their attention towards the heavy oak door.
A crack of deafening thunder boomed outside the house and the room instantly filled with a blinding flash of light. More by instinct than fear, Mat leapt to his feet, realizing at once that he was free from the paralyzing bonds.
Smith and Meadows made no attempt to restrain their reluctant guest when he bounded clumsily across the room to the aid of his companion.
"Janet! ... Come on let's get out of here."
She responded to his determined effort to drag her to her feet, obviously free of her trance. Her eyes stared past him into the darkness beyond. No more was her expression blank of emotion, mercifully bestowed upon her in her previous trance, she now stood, rigid with horror, speechless and terrified. A state clearly indicated by her ashen complexion.
After slowly turning in the direction of Janet's stare, Mat shared the horror of seeing the form of a tall shadowy female figure, draped in the blackest of ankle length dresses.
"No! This can't be happening!" The words fell from Mat's lips. "You're dead!"
Slowly the figure stepped into the room. The lamplight illuminated the face of a woman of some thirty years of age and the fine clothes of someone of refined and privileged status.
Astonishment, amazement, and shock seemed to have combined together and dulled any overriding fear that may have lingered in Mat's mind. Despite recalling the image of the distinguished, yet aged lady his Aunt Lady Margaret Benson had been on his last visit, when he was naught but a two-year old boy, he had no doubt that, although bizarrely many years younger in appearance, he was looking at the same person. Even more bizarrely, at thirty years old, she was in fact, two whole years his junior.
"You look so shocked my dear!" the figure exclaimed. "I never believed you would desert me. I always knew you would return one day."
Like the prisoner of a convincingly realistic nightmare, imprisoned in the chaotic confines of his own imagination, Mat closed his eyes for a long forceful moment, hoping beyond all hope that he would re-emerge into the comforting world of the wakeful and alert.
Alas, it was not to be.
When Mat's eyes opened his gaze searched for some form of reference, some object to instill some kind of comforting familiarity that would ignite maybe the smallest glimmer of recollection and penetrate the impenetrable fog of confusion that clouded his mind.
Try as he might he was totally devoid of memories, be they from a long distant past, or from recent moments there was nothing he could recall.
Was this the result of some devastating illness? Amnesia perhaps? Thought after thought echoed through the prevailing blackness. Was he awake and conscious, or maybe, the unwitting prisoner of a terrifying dream, from which he should seek escape, neither seemed an assuring option.
Left on the brink of insanity, instinct and blind desperation steered him towards reluctant acceptance. Trusting the things he could see, hear and touch, he decided, was his only salvation. As alien as it might seem, this was the only reality he could cling to. His flimsy hope of survival depended on this.
"Where am I?" came the first words from his trembling lips. "Who am I?"
With a sympathetic smile the woman replied; "My dearest husband. You are at home, and are quite well and safe."
"Home?"
"Lexton Hall, my dear. You are at Lexton Hall."
"Then for the sake of my sanity, please tell me who I am." He pleaded, his voice broken by re-emerging panic.
"My dear. You are William Sabastian Ingram, the first Earl of Blackheart, and I am your beloved wife of twenty-three years, Lady Margaret Ingram."
"Why can't I remember?"
"That my love, I feel I can not answer." Tears began to well in Lady Margaret's eyes. "You have traveled far and fought many battles in the name of our beloved king, King Charles ll. The latter of which you barely survived."
"I don't remember!"
"You will my dearest. Given time, and the good grace of our savor. You will recover fully and eventually remember all. For now, you must rest and recoup your strength."
"Can I get you any refreshments, Mr Reynolds, Smith asked, pausing for a moment from leafing through a large leather-bound folder on the desk in front of him.
"No! I'm fine."
"Very well. Then we'll proceed with the business at hand." Smith shuffled in the plush office chair, as if preparing himself for a long and drawn out process of revelations from the pages contained in the folder before him.
Mat settled himself into a rather less extravagant seat facing the desk. "What the hell is happening here? Is this some kind of sick joke?"
Smith laughed loudly, his booming laughter echoed around the entire house, causing Mat's ears to ring and ache from the sudden onslaught of punishing decibels. "I can assure you Mr Reynolds, this is no joke". The big man took in a sharp breath of air, a vane effort to compose himself and settling back into a demeanor more befitting his self disciplined, official status.
"Then get on with it! If not, we're leaving right now," Mat past a glance towards Janet, looking for her approval at his suggestion of an hasty exit. A nervous lump blocked his throat when he saw her, still imprisoned in a trance. "What have you done to her?" he raged, his nervousness instantly manifesting into anger.
"I suggest you relax Mr Reynolds. What I am about to disclose to you will change your life beyond your wildest expectations."
Mat began to lift himself from his seat. Fueled with anger, and instilled with a sudden fear that tore at his every nerve. Whatever curiosity had simmered inside him had quickly been quelled by the overwhelming desire to leave.
"Sit down!" Smith roared, emphasizing his outrage by smashing a clenched fist onto the desk.
Any hope or intention of escape was ripped from him in that instant. An overwhelming compulsion to look into the face of the man sitting before him left Mat pressed into the back of his seat, as if invisible chains of cold, unbreakable steel had shackled him there. Free of painful thought and fully capable of agonizing observation, yet robbed of movement, Mat was a secure and reluctant prisoner of Smith and his strangely silent associate, Mr Meadows.
"It's no use fighting it, Mr Reynolds. You may feel my actions are a little extreme, though I assure you neither you or Miss Baxter will come to any harm."
"What is going on?" Mat pleaded, his voice began to break and quiver from the sudden, overwhelming helplessness that had suddenly overtaken him. "What do you want from us?"
Once again Smith laughed. "My dear Mr Reynolds. It is not what we want from you. It is more a case of what 'you' want from us."
"You're crazy!" Mat snapped in angry reply. "We don't want anything from anyone."
"You came here driven by greed and wild ambition. Eager to receive the fruits of your late aunts legacy, and so it shall be, Mr Reynolds. So it shall be!"
Any semblance of calmness that might have prevailed during the preceding chaos soon vanished. Gradually the light washing in from outside the massive windows on two of the studies outer walls began to dim. An increasing darkness draped the room and its inhabitants. Only the amber glow from a solitary lamp on the desk pierced the eventual blackness and an eerie silence filled the room.
Even the two well-dressed captures stood in speechless apprehension for a moment before retiring into a dark corner and focusing their attention towards the heavy oak door.
A crack of deafening thunder boomed outside the house and the room instantly filled with a blinding flash of light. More by instinct than fear, Mat leapt to his feet, realizing at once that he was free from the paralyzing bonds.
Smith and Meadows made no attempt to restrain their reluctant guest when he bounded clumsily across the room to the aid of his companion.
"Janet! ... Come on let's get out of here."
She responded to his determined effort to drag her to her feet, obviously free of her trance. Her eyes stared past him into the darkness beyond. No more was her expression blank of emotion, mercifully bestowed upon her in her previous trance, she now stood, rigid with horror, speechless and terrified. A state clearly indicated by her ashen complexion.
After slowly turning in the direction of Janet's stare, Mat shared the horror of seeing the form of a tall shadowy female figure, draped in the blackest of ankle length dresses.
"No! This can't be happening!" The words fell from Mat's lips. "You're dead!"
Slowly the figure stepped into the room. The lamplight illuminated the face of a woman of some thirty years of age and the fine clothes of someone of refined and privileged status.
Astonishment, amazement, and shock seemed to have combined together and dulled any overriding fear that may have lingered in Mat's mind. Despite recalling the image of the distinguished, yet aged lady his Aunt Lady Margaret Benson had been on his last visit, when he was naught but a two-year old boy, he had no doubt that, although bizarrely many years younger in appearance, he was looking at the same person. Even more bizarrely, at thirty years old, she was in fact, two whole years his junior.
"You look so shocked my dear!" the figure exclaimed. "I never believed you would desert me. I always knew you would return one day."
Like the prisoner of a convincingly realistic nightmare, imprisoned in the chaotic confines of his own imagination, Mat closed his eyes for a long forceful moment, hoping beyond all hope that he would re-emerge into the comforting world of the wakeful and alert.
Alas, it was not to be.
When Mat's eyes opened his gaze searched for some form of reference, some object to instill some kind of comforting familiarity that would ignite maybe the smallest glimmer of recollection and penetrate the impenetrable fog of confusion that clouded his mind.
Try as he might he was totally devoid of memories, be they from a long distant past, or from recent moments there was nothing he could recall.
Was this the result of some devastating illness? Amnesia perhaps? Thought after thought echoed through the prevailing blackness. Was he awake and conscious, or maybe, the unwitting prisoner of a terrifying dream, from which he should seek escape, neither seemed an assuring option.
Left on the brink of insanity, instinct and blind desperation steered him towards reluctant acceptance. Trusting the things he could see, hear and touch, he decided, was his only salvation. As alien as it might seem, this was the only reality he could cling to. His flimsy hope of survival depended on this.
"Where am I?" came the first words from his trembling lips. "Who am I?"
With a sympathetic smile the woman replied; "My dearest husband. You are at home, and are quite well and safe."
"Home?"
"Lexton Hall, my dear. You are at Lexton Hall."
"Then for the sake of my sanity, please tell me who I am." He pleaded, his voice broken by re-emerging panic.
"My dear. You are William Sabastian Ingram, the first Earl of Blackheart, and I am your beloved wife of twenty-three years, Lady Margaret Ingram."
"Why can't I remember?"
"That my love, I feel I can not answer." Tears began to well in Lady Margaret's eyes. "You have traveled far and fought many battles in the name of our beloved king, King Charles ll. The latter of which you barely survived."
"I don't remember!"
"You will my dearest. Given time, and the good grace of our savor. You will recover fully and eventually remember all. For now, you must rest and recoup your strength."
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