Dear Reader,

          Do not read on, for this is a script that is not meant to be read. I’m sorry to say that the script you are holding is frightfully disturbing. It tells a ghastly tale about myself and my wife. A tale that begins with death and ends with death, containing nothing but misery and woe in between. One might say I am a magnet for misfortune and others would say I bring it upon myself. It is my last desire to write down the unpleasant tale, but there is nothing stopping you from putting this script down, walking away and never having to worry about such horror.

You have been warned,

Daniel.

This story starts in the morning. And what a morning it was, often how you feel in the morning reflects the rest of your day. And as I stared around at the dismal surroundings, the dreary clouds hanging in the crisp morning air as the wind charged directly at me drying my lips and only adding to my discontent, I realised that my day was not going to be enjoyable at all. A faint mist was creeping in from the direction of the coast, its tendrils spreading slowly towards us reminding me of some ghostly sea monster. As we stood and waited I turned my attention to the austere landscape that lay before me; it was unfriendly, unpleasant, and unnaturally flat. My eyes scanned the horizon noticing the only break in the otherwise level skyline was of the old ruin of Kendlewick Castle, standing out alarmingly. The only sign that civilisation had once conquered this unforgiving land. The morbid marsh spread out before me like a vast ocean, an ugly cancer on the pristine countryside. Its bottomless, murky waters that seemed to have remained undisturbed for hundreds of years sat there, unmoving. Who knew what abominable atrocities lay beneath those sinister waters?

I turned to Horace, my face a picture of stony determination. The old man appeared somewhat apprehensive and slightly queasy; he kept wringing his cap in his hands. “How much longer do we wait?” I demanded, impatient to start our search. The barman glanced up at the distant sun and turned to look back along the road leading into Kendlewick. “Not much longer Mr Daniel, sir. I know yer wantin’ t’get moving, but the doctor was adamant he join us,” Horace replied, failing to meet my eye almost like a child who had just received a severe telling off.

No sooner had Horace spoken when the sound of a horse’s hooves could be heard coming from further down the road. In unison my companion and I turned to face the approaching cart as it loomed into view. The cart ground to a halt several yards short of where we stood and a tall elderly man climbed down. Dr Benedict Jones was a sullen man. His face, wrinkled with age, seemed to be permanently frowning, as if life had been one big disappointment. He had a crop of snow white hair and piercing blue eyes that gave the impression of a man of extreme intelligence. Everything about him was immaculate and deliberate, the last person I would imagine wading through a marsh no matter what reason.

“My apologies for my lateness gentlemen, I was detained at the House,” he said reaching forward and shaking my hand, “how do you do? You must be Mr Woodgate.”

“It is finally nice to meet you in person Doctor,” I remarked.

“Likewise. Well let us not waste time on pleasantries we have a job to do!”

“Thank you doctor, I hope our search turns out something. Charlotte is out there somewhere and we must do something to help her,” I spoke more to myself than my companions. At those words we turned with grim faces and waded out into the marsh, to seek my deceased wife.

Some experiences in life can be pleasurable, whilst others are less so. I can inform you that wading through a marsh on a cold winter morning is definitely one of the less pleasurable. With each step, my boots sank into the muddy wet ground, and each step brought a sucking sound as I picked my foot up again. With each step, the muddy imprint of my foot quickly filled with water and I realised that the traces of our passing would soon be gone, covered in a new layer of mud and slime.

As we crossed further and further into the wilderness, the fog grew thicker and thicker and the light started to fade. According to my pocket watch it was only just past ten o’clock in the morning but it got to such a point that Horace had to light a lamp for us to be able to continue. “Damn weather,” Horace cursed, he was becoming more and more agitated the further we ventured into the marsh, “We’re not making no progress, we should return to Kendlewick an’ come back with more ‘elp.”

We halted our thus far unsuccessful search and decided to rest on what appeared to be somewhat less boggy ground and decide our next move. “No one from the village will assist us; they are all terrified to come within a mile of this place. Especially after what happened to misters Cole and Flint,” mused Dr Jones, he stopped and stared in to a particularly large pool of grimy water. The fog now completely enclosed us in a timeless microcosm separated from civilisation.

“Beggin’ yer pardon sirs…” Horace trailed off into silence, his gaze appeared to be some way beyond where I was standing and slightly to the left. I turned to see what had seized the attention of the anxious man and screamed. There she was, gliding through the air towards us from across the deep fog. A strange silvery glow resonated from her as she came to a halt some distance away amongst the reeds.

To my right I heard a sudden splash and spun around just in time to witness Dr Jones’ white hair disappear beneath the brown, filthy water. I watched in horror as the rippling water slowly returned to its unmoving state as if nothing had disturbed its surface for decades. “The… the doctor… where did the doctor go?” cried Horace the terror in his voice was only seconded to the fear on his face. “Where did he go?” Horace turned wide eyed staring at me without seeing. “WHERE?” he bellowed, “WHERE?” Turning Horace ran, with complete disregard for his surroundings. I could only watch, speechless as the usually quiet barman ran shouting like a lunatic pelting towards the road. He managed several frantic strides before stumbling and falling down into the cold mud, there was a moment of silence and then I heard Horace scream. He continued to scream and scream and would not let up, getting more fearful with each cry. He began to thrash around beating his legs with his fists as hard as he could manage. At first I thought the man had given in to madness, but when I looked again I saw what had made the poor man panic. A hand, no, many hands. Rising out of the mud and grasping on to Horace and refusing to release him, the poor man was in hysterics yet I continued to watch, appalled. What happened next I will never forget, it is burnt into my memory and will haunt me to my last breath. Horace still screaming and thrashing was dragged beneath the mud to join whatever foul creatures saw fit to take him there. But what will stay with me forever is the desperate, pleading look Horace gave me as head slipped from view. I could look no more; I turned away from where Horace had been lying only moments ago and stared at the glowing figure of my wife.

It is a curious thing, to face death. We all know that our time in the world is limited, eventually our tiny, tiny hearts will beat their last and our eyes will close to that endless sleep that is eternity, never to wake. Yet it still comes as a surprise, even when it happens to someone we love. But now as I stood here staring at the foul apparition that I had once been bound to in holy matrimony, I saw not my wife. I saw only evil, felt only hatred. To my alarm Charlotte began gliding silently towards me; a wicked smile distorted her once beautiful face. The closer she came, the less she looked like my wife. Her once golden hair was a dull mousy colour that hung from her, limp and lifeless like her eyes. From a distance her white gown looked spotless but from so close I could make out mud splatters and rips in the once pristine fabric. Charlotte paused, only a few feet away from where I remained, rooted to the spot with a fearful fixation.

“Charlotte?” I croaked my voice barely audible above the shrill wind, which was picking up and evermore desperately violent. It is impossible for me to portray the fear I felt in the short time that passed. As I stood there shaking, eyes fixated upon my wife, she remained deathly still, we stared at each other for a long time. She raised a cold, grey hand hesitating just short of my left cheek, her clammy fingers stretched out.

Then, all of a sudden, her beauty returned in full force making my breath catch in my throat. There she was, my Charlotte. Smiling lovingly down at me. She opened her mouth, I leaned forward desperate to hear her soothing voice telling me it was all going to be alright that we could return home and forget the dire and terrible occurrences of the last few hours. Needless to say that is not what happened, when Charlotte opened her mouth it was not words she spoke.

She simply screamed…