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The Fall of Silas Galloway By Dan Weatherer
Narration by Jesse Cornett
Silas Galloway found life thus far most rewarding. His work provided more than enough in the
way of coin to fund his increasingly lavish taste and extravagant lifestyle. A modest,
yet exquisitely furnished country manor, set deep within the rolling hills of Somerset,
was his to call home and provided the ideal backdrop to host his latest business venture.
Personal wealth, however, was no longer the prime motivator for Silas. That had been surpassed
by the craving for the intoxicating sense of reverence he seemed to generate whenever
he performed. Adoration was his new drug of choice. The bulk of his clientele was grief-stricken
people having usually suffered a recent loss. They were also generally blessed with deep
pockets. In their eyes he held all the answers. The payment of a few sovereigns mattered little
when Silas was able to grant an audience with the deceased.
Silas Galloway was, however, a fraud. His ability to communicate with the spirit world
was a mere parlour trick. He could no more speak to the dead than he could walk on water.
The idea had struck him in earnest one winter morning, long before he found his fortunes.
Walking familiar streets, stomach empty, the previous night's cold still chilling his bones,
he happened upon a funeral procession. A widow attired in black, and overcome with grief,
had fainted directly at his feet. Clumsily, he had gathered her up and slapped her face
gently in order to rouse her. The funeral party had drawn to a halt and gasped at the
apparent assault taking place upon the woman. Yet, no one had rushed to her aid.
Wearily she had opened her eyes. Silas had seen her reason and sense of duty was quickly
restored. "I am dreadfully sorry..." She had paused,
searching carefully for her next words. "Sir, I am quite out of sorts today, for my husband
was taken from me not three nights ago." Tears had welled in her eyes, and she trembled
as grief took hold once more. "Your husband must have truly been a great
man, for all these folk have come to pay their respects!" Silas had motioned towards the
surrounding mourners. "However, my Lady, I believe although he has passed from this mortal
plane, he will continue to watch over you for the rest of your days."
Surprised, for he was unsure as to why he had found words of comfort so easily forthcoming,
Silas had blushed and nodded a farewell to the woman. A gentle smile had flashed across
her lips, and she reached for his hand, leaving a gold sovereign upon his upturned palm.
"For your kind words," she had whispered, and with that she turned to retake her place
behind her husband's coffin. A whip lashed loudly and the horses had resumed
their trot towards the cemetery. Slowly, the idea of trading comfort for coin
had begun to take shape, and over time he honed his technique into a fine art. With
some basic showmanship and a warm manner, he became one of the regions finest and most
respected mediums. What had begun as an innocent gesture of kindness was quickly replaced with
the necessity to lie and cheat for as much coin possible, as tastes of the elegant and
exotic took hold.
*
Silas discussed at length the possibility of using one of the famous 'Talking Boards'
that were popular with mediums and spiritualists over in the United States. It was at great
personal expense that Silas procured one of the first Ouija Boards to enter Great Britain.
Lady Martha Appleby, her daughter Marcy, and Sir Henry Lloyd, were due to arrive at his
parlour shortly. The Lady was positively overjoyed at the idea of using the new device.
The board sat positioned in the centre of the grand oak table, each letter elegantly
styled, with the planchette set aside awaiting the touch of the inquisitive. Scattered candlelight
completed the mood, allowing enough illumination to fall over the table but shrouding the remainder
of the drawing room in an uneven darkness. A storm was developing off to the South, which
would further add to the ambience of the evening. A sizeable amount of gold was already promised
to Silas and he was confident that the scene would produce more.
*
The wine grew warm, and the polite small talk faded. An expectant hush befell the drawing
room as all eyes turned towards the small wooden board. Each placed a finger onto the
planchette, eagerly waiting for communication to be established.
"Are there any spirit persons among us who wish to make themselves known?" asked Silas
aloud. A deafening silence followed. "Ask again, please," requested Lady Appleby,
shifting in her seat. "If there is anybody with us now that wishes
to communicate, please step forward." The sound of wood scraping wood came from
the board. All eyes watched as the small planchette edge its way towards 'YES.'
Lady Appleby clapped. "He's doing that, are you not?" demanded Sir
Henry. Silas swallowed hard. He was not exerting
any notable pressure upon the object. Indeed it was his plan to move it himself but only
upon the third time of asking. Building suspense was all part of his act.
"Uh...no," he replied. "'Tis the erm..." He paused, his usual veneer of calm failing him
somewhat. "It is a nameless spirit," he assured them.
Sir Henry looked little in the way of convinced. Silas continued: "Are you male or female,
spirit?" The planchette made its way towards the number
six. The group exchanged puzzled looks as the piece moved towards the number one and
then returned back to six. "Six...one...six...What kind of answer is
that?" asked young Marcy. "I am most confused!" All eyes locked on Silas.
"Well, my lady, one can only assume our initial question is rather frivolous to this particular
spirit. I suggest we continue in order to gather as much information as we possibly
can." Sir Henry scoffed dismissively and was met
with a disapproving look from Lady Appleby. For years, Silas had led his clients into
a merry dance, filling their heads and hearts with messages from the silent spirits. He
felt little in the way of remorse for taking payment so deceitfully, for his customers
all returned home happy. "Do you have a message for us, oh spirit?"
Silas continued, adding a little dramatic flair to the proceedings.
Again the planchette followed the familiar pattern of crossing six, one, and six.
Sir Henry pulled his hand away angrily. "'Tis a lie. He plays us for fools in the hope of
keeping us here long into the night. A hunger for coin, is it not?"
The ladies removed their fingers abruptly, leaving a bewildered Silas touching the now
motionless wooden tool. "Of course not! I have merely opened the gates
of communication to the other side. It is not I who decides what the spirits have to
say!" "Then prove it for us, kind sir," mocked Sir
Henry. "Ask the next question without the touch of any upon that blasted thing. If it
moves, I will pay for this whole charade myself...twice over!"
Ordinarily this sort of challenge would require the use of one of his more dramatic parlour
tricks. However he knew he was not the one dictating the movement of the planchette,
and he was fairly confident that neither were any of his guests. Ignoring the feeling of
unease that crept into his belly, he decided to take Sir Henry up on his boast.
"Six, one, six means nothing to us here, oh spirit. Do you have anything useful to tell?"
Silas asked, his eyes meeting Sir Henry's glare.
The planchette began to rotate, gathering speed with each revolution until a faint high-pitched
whistle emanated from the centre of the board. "Oh my!" shrieked young Marcy.
"Make it stop," begged Lady Appleby, her hands covering her ears.
The whistle increased in volume and pitch until it was barely audible, becoming a painful
sensation that drilled its way into his skull. Marcy cried and Lady Appleby mouthed something
incoherent. Sir Henry merely sat transfixed, eyes locked on the madness unfolding before
them. There was a loud crack and Sir Henry spilled
backwards from his chair, screaming. The whirling wooden tool was gone. Sir Henry staggered
to his feet, the left side of his face a mass of blood, wood, and gore--the planchette embedded
firmly into his eye socket. In a rage, he tore it from his eye with a sickening squelch,
grabbed the wooden board and broke it across his knee.
"God damn you Silas, and your parlour tricks. I will see that you pay for this!"
Spattered with blood, Marcy fled from the room screaming. Clutching his face and taking
a weeping Lady Appleby by the arm, Sir Henry turned his back to Silas.
"I...I'm sorry," offered Silas, but the dark edge of the room took them from sight.
*
The days that followed were filled with an air of unease and anxiousness, the nights
even more so. Something lingered in the air still, something born unto the mortal realm
on that wretched night, and there it dwelt alongside Silas. The air in the house hung
heavy with dread. Food quickly spoiled, plant life wilted in a matter of hours, and guests
frequented the house less and less. Yet, Silas pushed the strange occurrences
to the back of his mind. When questioned about the strong odour of sulphur that permeated
the property, he pointed to poor sanitation and heavy rainfall. When the incessant scratching
sounds were queried, he laid the blame on a particularly severe infestation of rats.
Harder to explain still was the reoccurring 'six, one, six' that appeared etched into
furniture, daubed on walls, and lay cut into Silas' own flesh.
As days blurred into nights and weeks passed with no sign of the mysterious activity ceasing,
Silas became increasingly frail. Sleep seldom granted him reprieve, his dreams were haunted
by screams of pain. Visions of hellish creatures scrabbled towards his naked frame night after
restless night, and he could no longer tell nightmare from reality.
Sunlight offered little retreat. Increasingly desperate whispers in unknown tongues filled
his head. Several voices clamoured for his attention, yet all he could think of was those
damn numbers. His world was crumbling and his sanity hung by mere threads.
For a man previously so stout in his belief that the afterlife was myth, Silas realised
that his personal life had become a terrifying case study into the existence of evil beyond
the mortal plain.
Silas' associate and only remaining friend, Joseph Whyte, requested a small public demonstration
of Silas's skills after discovering how far he had fallen in health and morale. He told
Silas that he deemed it necessary to get away from the confines of the increasingly dilapidated
house, and the terrible influence it seemed to hold over him.
One week later, Silas feebly picked his way through the gathered throng, towards the piled
wooden crates that doubled as a makeshift stage. The Last Turnpike tavern had served
the residents of Beechwood since the late 1700's and on that rain sodden night, most
of the village congregated in its vast cellar for the highly anticipated public return.
The air hung with the smell of wet clothes and stale beer. A hush fell upon the crowd
as Silas took his place before them. "Thank you, one and all, for sharing the spirits
with me tonight," Silas said aloud, a slight waver in his voice, receiving a few appreciative
nods from the crowd. "Indeed, it has been too long since I last communed with the deceased.
I..." he paused, not sure how to explain the terrors that enforced his absence, feeling
an unnatural breath, cold and rank on the back of his neck. He flinched, startling a
few closest to him. There was a noticeable darkening within the cellar and some shuffled
nervously as Silas continued. "Lest we forget, that we, the living, have
ultimate mastery over the dead!" The sound of tearing cotton echoed just before
Silas let out a piercing cry, falling to his knees.
Strips of red darkened his back and merged into one sopping blotch.
Silas screamed again as his shirt tore once more, strips of flesh flapped wetly across
his lacerated back. The patrons fled as Silas' back opened into
a bloody canvas worked upon by unseen claws. Mustering what little resolve that remained,
Silas stood up and stumbled, crashing back to the stone floor. The few remaining onlookers
backed away hurriedly as Silas pushed up the stairs and into the unforgiving rainfall.
Joseph Whyte remained within the cellar, frozen with a mixture of fear and intrigue. He alone
had witnessed the spectral attack in its entirety, his eyes now fixed on the blood that glistened
across the crates. Pushing disbelief aside, he hurried out of
the deserted tavern after Silas. Although the rain lashed heavily at the cobbles,
Joseph was still able to make out the trail of blood leading toward the barber's quarters
further along the street. The door sat ajar, broken and stained. A scream of anguish rang
from within the darkness of the building. Joseph raised his lamp and moved into the
gloom of the barbershop. Another cry from deep within the shop echoed
through the corridor. Razorblades and scissors shimmered in the lamplight as Joseph made
his way deeper into the darkness. Something wet and rubbery caught under his
heel. He reached down and peeled it off his shoe.
"Stay the hell away from me!" Silas screamed, then let out a cry of suffering that rattled
Joseph to his very core. The lamp illuminated a cowering Silas holding
a razor, already halfway through the cartilage of his left ear. The side of his face a gushing
mask of red. "I can still hear them! Make them stop! Make
them stop! Make them stop!" he wailed, continuing to work the razor through cartilage.
Dread overcame Joseph as he looked at whatever he had stepped on. A severed ear fell from
his trembling hand. Silas held a freshly removed body part up
to the lamp, grinning pathetically. "I can still hear them," he cried. "I can
still hear them."
Dr. Ratherford was proud of his patients. He believed in the quality of mental distress.
His beloved Arlington Asylum elevated his practice from a mere hospital for the mentally
disturbed into a pioneering centre of psychological research. His interest was heightened at the
news of a patient's arrival, one who demonstrated signs of demonic possession. Nonsense, of
course, but another prized research subject never the less. And one he was eager to get
his metaphorical teeth into, considering how many doctors had given up on the man, transferring
him from institution to institution. The patient's cell lay on the deepest floor
of Arlington Asylum, a necessity for some of the more vocal and dangerous.
"This is Mr. Galloway," said one of the burly orderlies. "You may want to be careful with
him, Dr. Ratherford," he added, unbolting the thick iron door.
Silas, curled into a tight ball in the corner of his cell, frantically chewed at his wrist.
A small pool of blood formed at his side where he rocked back and forth, eyes fixed at nothing.
The walls were coated in excrement and the numbers "six, one, six" were daubed onto the
dull grey brickwork. The smell of faeces and copper hung heavily in the air.
"Treat his wounds and restrain him," Dr. Ratherford said. "I recommend heavy sedation. If I deem
him as unfit for study, as I suspect he may well be, we'll arrange for a lobotomy."
The orderlies nodded. Silas continued to suckle greedily at his
wrist, his eyes appearing empty. He shook as though his head rang with a never ending
chorus of the damned.