🐋 𝖋𝖎𝖙𝖟𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖎𝖆𝖒

I am now quite certain that I am not the only one who is able to see these changes. Recently, I have spent time frequenting the Taxidermist Shop of Mr. Bargarran, a rather mysterious man who I have yet to fully comprehend. Yet, I do have the sense that he is also attempting to discover something of me. Just this afternoon, I visited him in search of feathers for my Ball ensemble but was greeted by a much more intriguing proposal.

When I arrived and made my request, the elusive Mr. Bargarran ushered me into his back office, where he beckoned me to sit at his desk. He placed a pestle and mortar before me, which we used together to concoct a bubbling mixture of powder and water. Then, slipping out the back door of his shop, we traveled out into the hinterland of forest just beyond the King James Sanatorium. There, amidst the trees and debris, stood a taxidermy deer in repose, staring ahead blankly into the wood. To my surprise, Mr. Bargarran then poured the mixture into the mouth of the dead creature, which somehow was able to consume it. He then turned to me, with a sinister grin upon his face, and ushered me back to the shop, which was now adorned with a magnificent, feathered collar for my use, along with a horned headpiece.

Now, I return never flitting. Still, I'm sitting. Still, I'm sitting, patiently awaiting the rap of the summons on my chamber door.

I shall keep you abreast of all developments on the night of All Hallow's Eve.

Yours,

When last I stood in the ballroom, it was just as the music was climbing and lights rising, and I found myself in the corner of the room, in the arms of The Boy.

He called out to me, and he spun me about, my cape swirling behind me. I felt his joy in that moment, but what's more, I felt complicit in what was to come.

Later that evening, I followed another witch through a secret passage that led out to the mortuary, and before the witches, I heeded the call of our Mistress. Hecate stood alone in her bar when I found it, when it revealed itself to me. You see, while the entrance is always in the same place, it is often concealed. She must call to you herself, as she called to me that first night, and nightly since.

She always stands in the same place, her arms outstretched toward the door, calling the ghosts to her. I arrive first, and I pay homage to her. Then, the witches follow. They writhe to the music she creates, Dionysian ecstasy taking over them.

They do not see me, shrouded in black, but she does. She smiles as we see the Boy turned on by his coven. They strip him as he calls out for help, struggling and attempting to refuse. He never remembers this part, though I have seen it many times. He vanishes behind the bar as the ill-fated man arrives.

It takes Macbeth the longest to find us, but he is instantly overcome by the power that lives within her bar. The two that appear as women to him quickly seduce him into the orgiastic rites. Hecate looks to me, winking as she summons the last one.

The Boy emerges in a new form, more creature than before. He is Black Phillip, his strong body covered in blood. She calls me to sit with her as Macbeth is brought in by him, just in time for the Bald witch to birth a monstrous baby, always stillborn. The final witch, she who is the most seductive of the three, she nurses the poor dead thing, for this is part of the ritual.

Finally, as Macbeth is brought into the fold by all three of the coven, and he rises above the heads of the ghosts, she creates the final prophecy. As he looks down to the three, the Boy is beast no more, and he holds up a tiny tree.

Burnam Wood will come.

To create this prophecy takes incredible strength, and it nearly drains her, but she is triumphant.

Macbeth leaves, and the witches scatter to the winds, blessed by Hecate.

Then arrives the girl Agnes, who searches for Hecate. She thinks that she is coming of her own volition to confront my mistress, but she has played into our hands. Soon she drinks Hecate's potion, and is quickly shedding a tear she tries so hard to resist. My Mistress is swift, and harvests her tear needed to begin the spell again.

Outside the bar, her familiar waits. He is the extension of her power, and, ironically enough, is how I first came to the service of my Mistress. He took me into a secret room, and told me that he knew what I was.

"You are like me," he said.

Alas, that is a tale for another day.

She feeds the tear to him, and he is off to fulfill his duty. Then, she turns to me, and it is my turn to aid her. She brings me into her inner sanctum, a warmly plush room of velvet drapes and cushioned seats.

She has a note for me to deliver.

"Can I trust you?" she asks. She always asks, for it is in the affirmation of her question that I pledge my service to her.

I leave through the underpass, beneath the very station that I first arrived at oh so long ago. How long, however, is a fact I cannot yet remember.

I enter the hotel alongside the ill-fated Lady Macduff. The poor woman, she is always so panicked. Would that I could reach out and comfort her, but she cannot see me. Or, she chooses not to.

The Porter and I have become quite well acquainted since that first day he checked me into the suite reserved for the Artist in Residence. Sometimes he remembers me, sometimes he does not, but I always remember where to find him.

He is in the luggage room, writing his letter. When I arrive, there is fear in his eyes. He does not fear me, but what I represent to him. We are both in her service, though he is far less willing than I am.

The words she wrote to him are always the same, but he is always terrified. I am his last chance at a reprieve, but that is not why I am here. I am here to take the boat he has made, and in the moment our eyes lock and he sails the boat into my hand, it is done.

And it all begins again.

It always begins again, just as she intends.

Yours,

I considered for a moment, quite confused. You see, dear reader, I had made a minor career for myself writing dark little books for children during my days just out of Oxford. My first, Anti-Hero, followed a boy who became king, only to be murdered by his best friend and lover. My next, The Loneliest Whale, was a retelling of the Jonah myth of sorts, largely populated by creatures of the deep. They were enough of a triumphant success that I was driven out of polite society and declared insane by my mortified family. I was quite sure my words and drawings had vanished fully formed into obscurity, yet it was reassuring to see that they had made it to this area, where the Mysterious H had taken a liking to them.

I was reminded of my intention of coming to this place and vowed that Gallow Green would serve as inspiration for whatever came forth from my pen next. However, I was unsure that parading about the Moors in a Mourning gown would be well received by anyone other than H, whoever they were, and resolved to dress as I normally would, draping my overcoat over my shoulders for good measure.

Even during the day, light seemed unable to penetrate into the halls of the McKittrick, and my journey down to the lobby was one of much confusion as I stumbled through darkened hallways and rattled at locked doors. I somehow was able to arrive at the main lobby and, finding no one at the front desk, took notice of the sign sat adjacent to the check-in book.

Breakfast Now Being Served.

I rounded the corner, and found myself in an elegantly decorated dining room, fully furnished for a clientele that, apart from my own self, did not seem to exist. As I sat at one of the many empty tables, I noticed that the far end of the room was adorned by yet another taxidermy creation, this time of a Deer emerging from an enormous pile of salt. Perhaps to the everyday person, this would be a disturbing sight, yet the ominous frivolity of it aroused within me a certain revelry. This place, somehow, seemed to have sprung fully formed from my imagination.

Quite suddenly, a tray was wheeled out and breakfast placed before me by a silent housekeeper, dressed undistinguished in black. So professionally silent was she that I did not even notice her until she appeared by my side to add milk to my tea. Just as quickly as she arrived, she was gone, and I set about enjoying the breakfast placed before me.

Looking about, I noticed that the cubby holes adjacent to me were decorated with silverware fashioned together into crosses, all mounted upon smaller mounds of salt. "How Venetian," I thought, taking a sip of tea.

At that moment, I heard the faintest hint of music emanating from off in the distance, and I rose from my seat. Peering around the corner wall, I looked directly into the lobby, and for the first time, was confronted by the reality of the residents.

Three figures sat about a table just before the front desk, dressed in elegant evening attire, even at this point in the morning. Two were women, one with long, flowing hair while the other had a tight set of curls. The third was a boy, and while he was certainly past the age of manhood, he had a charmingly youthful quality that made him seem far younger. His eyes were heavy with black makeup, heightening the visibility of his pupils as they darted back and forth about the room, until suddenly, they stopped. All three turned in my direction, holding out their hands, beckoning.

For a moment, I thought they had seen me, until a tall figure entered the room just past me. He had a strong frame about him, and pitch-black hair. He had a companion, who hung back as the other moved closer and closer to the three figures, but I did not take enough notice of him, and soon the second man was gone.

The Tall Man arrived at the trio's table, and as he was about to sit with them, they snatched at his hand. Quite suddenly, the room was engulfed by a flurry of movement, with each of the three figures pulling at the Tall Man as music strained from the front desk radio.

I'll never smile again

Until I smile at you

I'll never laugh again

What good would it do?

For tears would fill my eyes

My heart would realize

That our romance is through

Within my heart

I know I will never start

To smile again

Until I smile at you

As the quartet twisted and entangled about each other, I noticed a familiar face beyond the chaos; the Porter, hidden just out of sight, adjacent to the front desk. He glowered bitterly at the ensuing chaos but did not seem shocked by it. Instead of fright or fear, behind his eyes was an emptiness, a curious air of sadness. So potent was this that the entire scene suddenly took on in me a great desolation, and a grief in my own heart.

How can I explain it, dear reader? I cannot, but I remember it as I felt it, as surely as I heard the words in my own ears echoing.

"Hail Macbeth."

"Hail to thee, Thane of Glamis."

"Hail Macbeth, that shalt be King, hereafter."

A horrifically confused understanding took a hold of me.

The Tall Man, who I now knew to be Macbeth, tore away, fleeing back past me from whence he came, and I took no notice of him, so confounded by questions I was.

When I stepped off the train the day before, I had a sense that this place was profoundly literary, but it seemed I had found myself in a world where reality was not real, as if living inside of a tragedy. It could not possibly be real, and yet...

The three witches, for I now knew they must be the Weird Sisters, split off in their separate ways. Only the Boy Witch remained in the lobby. The Porter quickly approached him, and I noticed for the first time that the Boy was crying quite aggressively. The Porter went to dry his tears, but the Boy pushed him away.

Then, he came to me. He pushed a handkerchief into my hand, and I found myself drying his tears.

"Thank you," he whispered to me, and he was off.

I was soon lost in thought, visions of witches and warriors filling the space in my head, as suddenly I perceived the mourning gown left in my wardrobe. The ways of this world were so murky to me, and yet, I had the most profound understanding that I was being asked to don a costume and take on a role within it. The choice was not mine. I must take it.

Yours,

I first arrived in Glamis Forfar following an extended stay in the Kingsland Ward of London, where, despite the best intentions of the staff there, I'd found myself completely and utterly mad. Upon my release, I had decided to make my way back to my family's estate in the upper part of Scottland. However, I changed my plans after being advised by a gentleman I met on the train to book myself into an extended stay at the McKittrick Hotel.

"It's a far-flung part of the world," he advised me, "and they don't get too many visitors."

"I suppose there is nothing much to see," I replied.

"It all depends on what you mean by nothing."

The train station was little more than a platform, raised overlooking the village of Gallow Green. It was a lush evening, just the faintest hint of a chill on the breeze, lightly fluttering my capelet. I lowered my hat to shield my eyes from the sunset, dipping just behind the enormity of the hotel looming before me.

Stepping down from the platform, I crossed a disused high street, and down a series of steps. I would later come to know that the train station was built atop what used to be called Gallow's Hill, which had been the sight of many witch hangings some years before. I was rather sympathetic to the poor souls lost there. Doubtless that in such a place as this, with its eerie woods, sudden fogs, moaning winds, and lonely houses, I may still today find myself looked at askance. Once upon a time, I may have even been branded as a witch, myself.

Descending to the hotel entrance, I passed a patio upon which several empty chairs and tables sat, largely overgrown by brush and vegetation. A sign advertised the Manderley Bar within the hotel, opened nightly, and I resolved to investigate it once I had settled in.

Before entering the hotel, I turned back to see the remainder of my surroundings. It seemed the village was off to my left, as a series of closely knit buildings sat, laced together by once manicured trees. Off to the right sat a building slightly smaller than the hotel, with the ivy wrapped brick of the facade fading into the forest it sat before. It was far enough away that I couldn't make out the sign indicating the purpose of such a place.

As I observed, I noticed I had not been, as I assumed, the only person to exit the train. A young woman was walking with resolved trepidation into the village, wrapped in a tartan capelet and carrying with her a suitcase. It seemed this little town had some life in it yet.

The lobby of the hotel was dimly lit, even at this hour of the early evening, and much of the furniture was covered by dust sheets. Yet, a Porter sat behind the front desk, engaged so deeply in a paper folding exercise that he did not notice me until I rang the bell upon the desk.

It was such a quiet, dusty place that the bell's ring echoed throughout the entire space, hanging sharp in the air. The Porter instantly looked up, staring me dead in the eye.

"I've been waiting for you. I had begun to think you might not come." He spoke in a monotone voice that somehow conveyed a majority of feeling.

"I don't believe I have a reservation," I said, knowing full well that I had never heard of the place until I began my journey, "but I'd like to book a suite for an extended stay."

The Porter pointed down to the sign in book, and I was quite shocked to see my own name, written next to today's date.

"We've been closed for quite some time, due to unfortunate circumstances, but we are pleased to welcome you," the Porter intoned.

"Am I the only guest?"

"We have some long-term residents you are likely to meet, and the locals tend to pass through regularly."

"Come, you're not going to start telling me strange tales of ghosts in lonely houses, are you?"

"No, I am not."

I sensed for the first time something behind those blankly expressionistic eyes, something akin to fear. I had no inclination, however, whether that was fear of me or for me.

"I'm likely to be here quite some time," I said, changing the topic of conversation as I scribbled down my signature, "I have some writing to do, and I was advised that this may be the best place to find inspiration and solitude."

"Certainly, sir, I don't believe we've ever had a writer in residence, but there are many... creatives in the area. Your key." He slid an ancient looking brass key across the desk, attached to which was a playing card.

"Do you have any identification for us to keep on file?" he asked.

I opened my bag, looking for my passport or personal papers. In my haste, I removed a Tarot card that had been sitting within my bag. The devil.

"That will do perfectly fine," the Porter smoothly spoke, taking the card from the table where I had absentmindedly placed it.

I slowly closed my bag.

"Please, leave your luggage with me, I will transport it to your suite. James is waiting in the elevator to escort you. The Manderley Bar will be open this evening, and a grand ball is soon to follow. Do not hesitate to visit me at the front desk, should you require anything at all, and do enjoy your stay." With that, he swept out from behind the desk, took my suitcase and leatherbound black satchel, and was just as quickly gone into the darkness behind a heavy black curtain.

Off in an even darker corner of the room, a tall and severely handsome man emerged.

"Do come in," he cooed with the low voice of a bird of prey.

I entered, discovering he had stepped out of a cleverly obscured elevator, as vast and empty as the lobby had been.

"Welcome to the McKittrick Hotel. I have just a few words of advice for your stay."

His eyes stared intensely into my own as he spoke, but unlike the Porter, from whom I experienced a sense of overwhelming dread, this man seemed to emanate a sinister glee in my presence.

"This place is a mystery, but it is yours to solve during your stay. Should you encounter any of our residents, recall that fortune favors the bold."

The door opened onto an atrium containing a table upon which sat a taxidermy eagle, frozen in perpetual attack.

"Your suite is at the end of the hall," he said as I exited, and before I could turn back for clarification, the door had slid silently shut.

Before too long, I had found my way to my suite, a room of remarkable excess and comfort, lushly furnished in red velvet. I found myself so weary from the day's adventures that I resolved to settle in for an evening's sleep. Turning on the room's radio, I allowed myself to drift off to the crooning of the melancholy tune that echoed from within.

Every night about this time

Memories haunt me

Wondering too

Who’s dancing with you

Every night about this time

I slept so soundly on that first night, encased behind the heavy curtains of the four-poster bed, oblivious to the rest of the world's goings on. Had I awoken and glanced out to take in the view of the Gallow Green night, I would have seen the figure in a long red dress walking down the High Street toward the town, only to stop as she passed the hotel, looking directly up at my window.

Yours,