VengeanceVengeanceThere would be a house. Not just any house, no, but one that would have taken months of pain-staking research by the location manager to find. Grand. That would be it's first criteria. Stone, the second. Next of course would be the customary crenellations, not too many, but just enough to give a fearsome impression. The list could go on, but the main specifications have been noted. The house would be on a hill. Say in Scotland, or Wales. The time evening, darkness having descended on the area. The moon would be making fleeting appearances from behind clouds, probably at dramatic moments, preferably with a howling wolf sound. Started recently would be a storm, the wind would 'banshee' past the microphone, the lightning would shock the film to whiteness. But in the lull between light and noise all would be heard would be a constant moan from the air orchestrated with the rhythm of rain; the only sight, the house mainly in shadow from the dull glow of a distant, partially covered, moon.
Suddenly a flash. The house, previously just a residence, is now a source of all evil in the area, the light showing the powerful teeth of the roof, the harsh stone face and sharp reflections from the window eyes. A monster. But the dark, or near dark returns. The thunder echoes in the valley down below.
But again, the light. As the brightness fades the scene is different. It's a room.
A variety of easy chairs hold the excessive weights of several rich bankers, a slightly podgy doctor, a fit Lord, and the skeletal frame of a undertaker. The latter of which sits in largest of the seats, staring at his port that has been swilling round in his glass for several minutes. A thick smell of cigars fills the room, and from a man near the fire a plume of smoke rises unnoticedly upwards, before a candle, flickering in a slight draft shows the ghostly apparition clearly. The undertaker, finally deciding the drink is not going to harm him too much, takes a tentative sip. He smiles a crooked unnatural smile. The Lord speaks 'are we all here?' The doctor, the most uncomfortable of them all, shifts in uneasy anxiety, before saying, 'I think not.'
A banker, one of the newest members of the group elucidates on the statement. 'The entrant has not arrived.'
Then, on cue, the sound of knuckle on wood is heard reverberating round the plush interior. There is a pause, not noticeable, because nothing was happening before, but it was there. Then, in a faint whisper, the undertaker whispers 'one, two, three, four...' the numbers cease at thirty four, now he speaks aloud, 'enter.'
The door eases it's way open, slowly creaking in the process. A figure stands in the doorway, his face more pronounced due to the kind of lighting available. Suddenly the view changes, the room is seen from the entrants view, the scene appear ridiculous, yet the boy stands firm.
'Come in, close the door.' The boy walks forward, we see the back of his head as he enters. Stepping to one side, he nudges the door closed while still facing the men. With the camera now outside the room, we see the door closing slowly, as it does so, the shimmering light of candles illuminates the gold lettering on the door... 'The Harwood Club'
Or at least this is how some over-ambitious, untalented director would do it. A classic use of cliché, that any serious professional would avoid. He (or she) decides that using the angle of entertainment rather than reality to show the scenes is more appropriate to the story. Perhaps some would agree. Maybe I would do so, at times, but... not this time.
The Harwood Club, like so many of it's ilk was almost dying out by the 1950's, no-one longed for the brethren of like minds, the society whose members have little in common, save one small detail. The love of stories. Tales of their likes had often been told, seldom in a good light, the people often evil, two-faced professionals that only allow a macabre love of horror and ghost stories to reveal itself during their meetings. It was for this reason the decline occurred. It's sad really to think how many great story tellers were lost due to this negative-image portrayed by the unhelpful, commercial tabloid media. But what can we do. The damage has been done. But I digress. This is the story of the entrance to one of the most exclusive clubs of it's kind. Admission as always, is by approval of the current members, given with reference to a story told by the entrant, it has to be innovative, original and interesting, the grizzly horrific details are generally fortunate by-products.
Summer, sun not yet set, but still late in the evening. All in all, quite a pleasant day. Inside a castle, curtains drawn, air conditioning on full, and a fire blazing, a tape plays a memory of a storm, a variety of ten smartly dressed professionals await the knock at the door. It arrives. The leader, an undertaker, pauses for thirty five seconds before saying 'enter'. A young man, compared to the rest, apparently the new doctor, enters, closing the door behind him. 'Do sit,' says one of the men. 'You know the requirements, I assume,' the undertaker stated.
He nodded.
'Then lets begin.'
For the first time the entrant spoke. 'October, 1979, Arimar, Pennsylvania, early morning. The thunderous rain of the previous night lies heavy on the road, a torrent sprays as a truck drives through. Headlights glancing through window panes, as it moves away the calm stillness of the night returns. Dark clouds move over the moon like some silent creature. And the shadows take control.
'In the distance an alleyway, the faint glow of a street light illuminates the eyes of a cat, scratching at a copy of yesterdays paper, a claw tears through a picture of a mutilated body, a headline beside it, partially distorted by the scraping says - RAVEN'S FOURTH VICT. The story is unreadable. The cat hisses, then runs off, some phantasm having scared it's strong nerves.
'A man. Rushing though the night, a black trench coat tailing behind him. The moon returns. The light fights back. The man hides in the alley. He waits. A bin and some boxes cloak his intent. From a building at the end of the alley a man exits, his coat pulled high up over his ears sheltering against the wind. He darts down the alley, an unknown rendezvous with death awaits.
'Suddenly a knife flashes, white light shimmers round the alley. Then the blade is dull, a bleak liquid shrouds it. A body lies limp, dead on the floor, a pool of black blood trickles towards the sewerage system of the city. There was no scream, no sound. Death in an instant. But not the end. Reaching into a pocket, removing a jar, the trench-coated man opens it and takes out a disinfectant covered scalpel. No frantic surge of activity, no sudden macabre stabs. No. Instead the painstaking removal of the intestines, and their careful arrangement. A number. '5'. Then the final touch. A spoon is taken from the jar, inserted into the eye sockets and with a squelch to make even the bravest man cringe, the left eye is lifted out. With the scalpel he cut the optic nerve. Placing the eye on the mans chest, he removed the other eye in a similar fashion. Putting five silver coins in each socket, he replaced the eyes. With a cloth, he wiped round the face, cleaning the blood away. So the body lay, the macabre act completed. The 'Raven' replaced the implements into the jar. Screwed the lid shut and shook it. In the dim glow of the street light he saw the clouds of blood move off. Cleaning themselves. Then with a run he was gone.
'Morning. The body is found. A boon for journalism. Hell for the rest. The police have no clues, no weapon, no idea, or so the papers say. An intuitive officer has examined the coins. Though there are no fingerprints - it seems gloves were worn - there is a trace of thread, caught on a rough edge of it. Black fibres. The forensic labs receive them. They decide they are of a black heavy trench coat. Of little help. The pathologist offers no further developments, same M.O. as before, is all he can say. No further information is forthcoming. The day proceeds and ends depressingly.
'Next morning a note and key arrives. 'The End' it says on the paper. The key, on examination, belongs to a train station locker. Inside it, the contents are simply a jar of disinfectant containing a scalpel and a spoon. And a cloth bag with thirty silver coins. A quick bit of mental arithmetic is performed by the policeman. 2+4+6+8+10=30. A total of thirty silver coins in the bodies. Remembering days of Sunday School, Judas springs to mind. Over the next hour ideas flutter through the officers mind. Betrayal. The killer feels betrayed by someone or something. The victims, police inspector, lawyer, doctor, former mayor, lab technician. All connected to... Who? Nowhere did it make sense. No-one could possibly feel betrayed by all those people. What about the scalpel. The precision of the intestine removal. The eyes. It fitted one occupation. But it didn't make sense. Then he remembered. The redundancies. The pathology lab was making redundancies. The police pathologist was doing it. In the sudden surge of excitement and adrenalin, the policeman organised a squad to surround the pathologists house. But he slipped out. Over the roof. Down an alley. Through a street. Over a road. Only four or five officers kept up. They reached a building. A fire escape led up, a clattering of metal indicated he was above them. They clambered upwards. Soon, at the top. They saw him. On the edge of the roof. He couldn't have been more than thirty five. His blond hair blew in the wind. And his eyes, evil, they shone in the moonlight. 'Don't come any closer,' he shouted. They didn't. They surrounded him. Guns drawn, rather pointlessly. He stepped nearer the edge, his feet half over, but still facing the officers. With a sudden laugh he shouted. 'This is where the dreams begin.' Leaning back, he fell.
'It was afterwards that they found out about the rituals, the satanism, the belief in vengeance, even after death. And the thoughts in the officers' minds of those words. A constant paranoia remained. It was a year to the day afterwards that the first event occurred. They were all still policemen. Together. It was a drugs bust. Someone mentioned the significance of the date, and the others remembered, they were on edge. One of them saw a gun and fired, the shot was returned. And again, until it finished, two of the five dead and the criminals escaped.
'A further two years later on a quiet country road, one of the officers was driving his family for a picnic, when, in the middle of the road he saw him. The Raven. He was alive. Whether he swerved to avoid or hit him, is irrelevant, suffice to say the tree they crashed into was solid enough, and death was instantaneous. After the event no cause of the accident could be found, the coroner said he must have swerved to avoid some animal. Perhaps he was right?
'This compounded the paranoia of the remaining two. One refused to go out, the other took every risk possible, to live life to the full, before vengeance was cast down on him. And constantly he was waiting. The 'accident' happened while skiing. Thinking a route was safe he followed a fellow skier down the slope, as he passed him, he saw a face, a familiar face. The Raven. With a scream he crashed over a cliff face. And so one remained. As the anniversary of the event moved ever closer, the edginess increased. In everything he saw danger, he left the oven on, the Raven must have done it. A knife fell on the floor, the Raven threw it.
'The evil lived so much in him, that he went to church constantly to forget and remove the evil of the Raven. And then he decided. If he was killed by evil as an act of vengeance damnation was sure to follow. And with a bizarre delusionary form of logic, shot himself.
'The dreams began. The dreams ended. Paranoia killed them. Vengeance was his.'
A murmur of conversation started, from all but one. The undertaker asked the entrant to leave while discussions occurred. Which he willingly did.
A journalist in the corner spoke aloud first. 'An interesting story. And true. When I was researching my story for entrance I came across it in the city records. And as it is one hundred percent true. With the exception of the town - it happened here by the way - I feel I must be against his entrance.' The conversation started in earnest. A general disapproval was the opinion. Telling of a true story showed no imagination and consequently no possible chance of entrance to the club.
The undertaker spoke again. 'So we're agreed, no admission? Good. Somebody call him in.' The journalist walked to the door, and opened it. A wind blew through the doorway. Standing there was he. His blond hair blew in the wind. And his eyes, evil, they shone in the light. 'This is where the dreams begin. Vengeance shall be mine. Again.' With a flicker of the mind the man vanished.
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Page last updated on 12th November 1998
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