I.
If you are reading this, it means the time has come. The time to know the truth about everything.
First, apologetically, I must confess that I am entirely aware of the, let's say, mysterious circumstances to which you have received these words. I understand how, to you, they may seem to be beyond the bounds of possibility. But, if I am to be completely honest, I've known of these matters all along (it is only because of your current disposition that I wish to assure you now). Indeed, I have written this for you. And only you.
To this end, all I can say is this: Do not stop- continue your search for knowledge, for it is not insanity that discourages you, my friend, it is conviction. Many people will no doubtedly persist in their persecution, saying your writings are nothing more than figments of your imagination, but, alas, what you are about to read is the definitive point of exposition. Truthfully, if any part of the story appears perplexing or questionable, it is only because the nature of these things lends itself as such. I admit that there is certainly an air of impossibility to my account, but not one word has been exaggerated, not one word has been embellished. Everything that has transpired is truth. Yes, even I am a testament to its validity.
But I am not an unreasonable person. Evidence is clearly needed to establish realities and, from our conversations, I can ascertain a forthcoming sense of confusion on your part. If I were in your position, I'd feel exactly as you do, which makes proving my story so much more difficult. Having said that, I will now start from the beginning.
My name is Lewis, born September 23, 1901, to two loving parents in London, England. My childhood, like most children, was quiet and fair due to my parents' adequate rearing. Unlike most children, however, it was also full of disturbing religiosity. Perhaps because of the atrocities brought about by the Great War, my mother and father knew nothing more than ancient traditions and unwavering piety to the Church. Unfortunately, any questions I had regarding faith or even the existence of God were immediately squelched by credulity. As you can imagine, my propensity towards them waned naturally and I gravitated towards the only truths that made sense (Although, admittedly, this, in itself, did not deter me from the belief in a Supreme Being). Yet, it was during this time that I found refuge in the fond relationship I had with my grandfather. It was his avidity and persistence for truth that inspired me to carefully seek out knowledge for myself. As such, while I lived in the small city of Painswick, England, I eventually became an instructor of Biology.
Painswick, though, was not where I gained my education. Formally, I learned at the University of Cambridge, the very institution of renown scientists such as Alfred North Whitehead and Francis Crick, who are, in my opinion, some of the greatest minds in the field of Life Sciences. Personally, Life Sciences are the only focus, apart from the physical sciences, that I hold to be of upmost importance. Which is more than I can say about the prevailing opinion in Painswick. Undoubtedly, a truth I came to appreciate there is that life in a small town is no place for progressive minds. Extending one's knowledge of the world can only be accomplished as long as there is continued advancement. Like yourself, I'm sure, I believe every young man feels the need to experience life, unadulterated by the constraints of societal rules and management. So, at a relatively young age, I became quite an accomplished traveler. I learned from various experts from all around the world, Egypt, Australia, the Galapagos Islands, and others like it, gaining an extensive knowledge far beyond that of Biology, but of different cultures, languages, and traditions.
It was during these adventurous 'studies' abroad (one of my last trips to a foreign land in fact) that I met a man named Richard Drumlins. I was on the edge of a cliff, searching for the Angelica archangelica, a native flower of Norway, prized for its digestive medicinal uses. Nevertheless, on this particular excursion, I reached too far and lost my footing, which caused myself to topple over the side. Only by grabbing hold of a jutted rock mass did I narrowly escape a swift death. In those perilous moments, I thought I was going to die on that ledge, if not by starvation, then definitely by a lack of endurance. But it was in those dire moments that Richard Drumlins appeared, as if from nowhere, and saved me.
It was a very curious circumstance, but, then again, he was a curious man, with an even curiously obsessive background. During most of the duration of our friendship, I knew not completely of where he came from, nor what he was before our first encounter. To my knowledge, he was a traveler, like myself, partially due to the fact that he was unattached to any existing family (Although, he once told me that he wished to meet them again, which was a statement I found most puzzling). He was familiar with my name, or at least that of my grandfather's, and had an extensive knowledge of different sorts of eclectic oddities. These included things such as the Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek languages, certain ancient oriental customs, both the physical and life sciences, and various religious philosophies. All in all, it was quite an impressive list of acquired talents that both garnered my respect and inadequacy as a professional. Despite my eventual understanding of this, however, I must say, throughout my initial acquaintance with the man, I never fully comprehended the finer points of his life which could have explained his unfamiliar and quirky sensibility. From that serendipitous meeting onward, it was obvious that he had a hunger for a very specific type of knowledge. And, of all the strange obsessions Richard consumed his time with, the most intriguing was that of angels.
It was one of the initial topics he chose to discuss with me all those many years ago. He often spoke about a house in London that once belonged to his great grandfather. A house inhabited by, what he referred to as, the Weeping Angels. At first, I dismissed his obsession as nothing more than a trifling waste of time, for I had heard of those haunting fables before. You see, my grandfather tried to scare me as a child with those same stories, and my familiarity on the subject drew from those particular memories. Still, it aroused a sense of curiosity within me, beckoning me to question him further.
Surprisingly, to Richard, the Weeping Angels were not fables and stories to scare little children. To him, they were real. He spoke quite convincingly about the subject- how they are as old as the universe itself, that nobody knows where they came from and nobody knows quite what they are. The so-called 'Lonely Assassins' or the 'Loneliest Beings in the Universe'. It was all very strange to me indeed, because, despite my doubts, by all assessments, his confidence about their validity was genuine. Richard spoke with such certitude, he made it seem as though they could be those terrifying, other worldly creatures from beyond our solar system... but I thought it best not to entertain such farfetched notions.
Eventually, Richard admitted the story to be almost folklore, spread about by a woman who claimed to have experienced the horrors of the Angels herself. Much like any legends of old, though, he was sure that the stories were based in some sort of truth. This was somehow a vital aspect to his belief. He said that the legends of the Weeping Angels were too frightful, too horrible, to be just stories. You see, his fixation rested upon, not exposing the tales as falsehoods, but on the reconciliation of both fact and fiction.
Once, during a particularly heated argument, Richard provided the greatest proof of evidence any educated person could give, which changed the course of our friendship from that point on. My memory of that noteworthy night is one I will not soon forget. We had just set up lodging on the outskirts of a forgotten forrest, eagerly grasping at dry timber for the warmth of firelight. As it happened often, the subject of the Weeping Angels made its way into our conversation and my opinion on the matter had staunchly remained on the side of reason, while his was immovably on the side of emotion. It appeared that there was no room for any other side in the argument. We must have argued for hours. By then, the Moon had been covered by an inauspicious group of clouds. The only source of illumination was our fire which warped the shadows of night into terrible daggers that stabbed into the blackness. And even though my surroundings had been hidden behind the thickened veil, I was still able to see Richard's face. And Richard was at his limit.
"You already know the Angels exist!" he groaned. "How can you still disagree?!"
"You are mistaken, Richard," I retorted. "Any notions about their existence are based purely on children's stories and fables."
With a disgruntled sigh, he threw his hands up. "Fine!"
At first, it seemed as if he had given up, that my statement had enough air of finality he could no longer argue his point. But, immediately, he grabbed his traveling pack and began thrashing through it, evidently with a specific purpose, which caused me to wonder what exactly it was that he was looking for. Like a mad man, his search was characterized by whispered complaints and exasperated murmurs. An unexpected sense of alarm crept into my chest when, after a considerable amount of time and wait, he smiled and pulled out a series of photographs. My apprehension heightened as he silently handed them to me one at a time.
As I viewed each image individually, it became clear to me that the idea of being reasonable seemed incompatible with truth. These were the photographs of his great grandfather's house, the house he recounted about often. These were the photographs of the four statues locked in the basement, the statues of which were the basis for what he believed in. These were the photographs he used to irrevocably prove his point. Richard was indeed consumed by the idea that he could find the truth behind the stories, that he could find other statues like the ones in his photographs... the images of which I wish I could forget, for seeing them was the start of my obsession with the legend.
Regrettably, I must inform you that I am not in possession of these photographs. I understand how they could assuredly act as proof for my account, but it is better that they are gone. The images held within are some of the most petrifying sights I have ever laid my eyes upon. According to ancient scrolls and scriptures, angels are expected to be messengers and public servants, helpers to those who did the will of God. But these were not at all the angels described in those antiquated texts. Their faces were most dreadful, forever locked in a state of merciless voracity. A blank emptiness filled their pitiless eyes, their mouths were unnaturally held agape and brimming with razor like fangs, and twisted arms held claws like that of an unrelenting monster. I shudder to think of what becomes of the poor souls who might face such creatures... I apologize for my rudeness. I will most definitely try to keep on track with my account.