The following writing is entirely fictitious. Any similarity to any person
living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional except where
noted in the cast and crew credits. All celebrities are impersonated and no
celebrity has endorsed any aspect of this writing.
Has anyone even played this game?
The following document is completely fictitious. It is based on the story line and game Clive Barker's Undying distributed by EA Games Inc. All characters are the property of the said famous author and director and game distributor.
What follows is the story of Aaron Covenant, second eldest son of the Covenant family of an Eastern Irish upper crust society. This is his story, the story of his siblings, and the events that occur before, during, and post World War One.
Eternal Autumn: Aaron's Sanctuary
Autumn fades with the coming of December, when its time for all dark leaves
and trees to turn black and dead, when the grass is brown and decaying, laid down by the blowing of the harsh winds that signal the coming of the
Norther blowing down from the Dutch Islands, when all of East Ireland experiences a snow, then nothing but cold wind and dark sky for the three
months until April, when the sun shines and the leaves return.
But in the mind of a young man in his mid twenties, an artist in his prime, it is eternally autumn. To him, it is his only season, his only time, and in his mind, it is eternally autumn. From the moment he was birthed to the very present moment in which he walks through the world on silent feet over mossy forest floors, it is eternally autumn. In his flesh is the breeze,
the sun, the sky, the colors and the view
Of an Eternal Autumn.
"Can you describe only what you can see? As the bonds of flesh are broken,
the world becomes apparent."
--Aaron Covenant from Clive Barker's Undying
One Man's Flesh is Another Man's Canvas
On any given day, at any given time, there is something odd, paranormal, or just enigmatic floating about the halls and the much trodden grounds of the extensive Covenant Estate, just off the coast of Eastern Ireland. Visitors to the Estate are few and far between, but of those who visit, the view is something to see, and sometimes terrible to dwell on: The Estate consists of the big house, various smaller dwellings, its own forests and coves, beaches and islands and its own monastery. The big house sits just in the middle of the Estate. The monastery and crypts lie to the east. To the north east is the cove, now known to the locals as Pirate Cove, to the south is the forest, to the north is the Green house and to the west is the island of the Standing Stones, an ancient monolith guarded by ancient priests with ancient powers. And at any given day, at any given time, a young man with red hair and a round face can be seen stalking about the premises as if searching for something. In one arm he carries a box of paints, brushes and a palette, and in the other a large canvas or two, and with these two possessions in tow, he lumbers about in either a sense of longing or anger. This red headed young man with the hard mouth and blue eyes longs for the perfect specimen, a specimen of the purest kind, that no one has ever laid eyes on save him alone. On most occasions he cannot find what he searches for, and so returns to his studio, thrusts his paints and canvases down on the floor, throws himself down on an expensive green velvet divan and puts his head in his hands. In a few hours he stands up, picks up his paints and canvas and returns to stalking the grounds. His twin sister would glance out the window at him and shake her red head in wonder. That had been last year, before she died. Today, this day, right now, Aaron Covenant, second eldest son of Evaline and Joseph Covenant is stalking the woods, and searching, always searching.
He came to his stopping point about a mile and a half from the house. For hours he had been walking aimlessly, searching.for what? He set his box down and his canvas, and with a groan lowered himself to a sitting position on a fallen tree. He sighed and wiped the sweat from his brow and then the dirt from his sleeves. Of all places to wear his favorite suit, the forest was the worst. I wonder, Aaron thought, is it worth all this trouble just to paint a picture? Of course, Aaron always had a justifiable answer: Because it is my calling. When his brothers and sisters asked him that same question, he always answered them in the same way, and they would always roll their eyes and walk away. At which point Aaron would take on a sort of childish defensiveness and angrily put his fist through the canvas in front of him. Trifle hitting compared to his little brother, Ambrose's, hitting problem. Even when they were little, Aaron could walk down the hallway of their Dublin public school and see his own little brother bloodying some other boys face. If it was worth it for Lizbeth to trek all the way to the family mausoleum just to read a book, then its worth it to me to run my arse off over the country side to paint a picture, he reasoned. Then he remembered that his baby sister, little Lizbeth, was dead and he sighed again. He leaned over and picked up one of the canvases. With a tired groan he stood and propped it against the fallen tree. Once again, in his mind, he recapped his family's decay: first his sister Lizbeth, died of a wasting disease, then Ambrose had run away, leaving their dead father. It was just Aaron, Bethany (barricaded in her greenhouse where he never saw her) and his oldest brother, Jeremiah, now, and he was dying of a dozen different cancers. He sat on the ground and pulled his box of paints over to him. He opened them up and began mixing colors. One of the brushes was made of rough goat hair. He dipped it in the dark purple, almost a rich violet and painted the scenery of his newest piece. In an hour he was ready to begin shading with the second darkest purple he had and black for the sky. In the end the sky was purple and violet layers and black clouds. He sat back a little and smiled at it. This one was going to be comparable to his favorite piece, The Limbs of War. His followers liked that one because they thought he was commenting on the war, but in all actuality, this vision of the limbs on the ground, the faces with the eyes staring heavenward, the barbs of shrapnel coming out of skulls and torsos, had come to Aaron in a dream one night. The next day he was urged to go out onto the bluffs and paint a picture of the pirate galleons coming into the cove. Aaron thought about that one with a wry smile while he painted the focal point of this picture. His youngest brother, Ambrose, had ridden out to the cove, waving unenthusiastically at Aaron as he rode by. The day Aaron painted Limbs of War was also the day that his twin sister, Bethany, had invited Count Otto Keisinger over and barricaded themselves in the green house to the west of the manor. It was the same day that Lizbeth had fainted in the kitchen and started foaming at the mouth from a wasting disease that killed her only a few years after it had been detected. But enough of memories. His painting-after only an hour or two-was finished. He picked it up and leaned it against another tree, in the breeze, hoping to dry it faster so that he could put the paint finish on it. He leaned his back against the fallen tree and reached into his box of paints. He extracted a bottle of Spanish wine and pulled the cork out with his teeth. He spat it into the distance and took a long pull on the bottle. He swallowed and sighed, at peace. After he'd drained half the bottle, he leaned his head against the tree and fell fast asleep.
In his dreams, he looked back upon his life, as if sleep itself could conjure memories he'd locked away for so long. In his mind, behind his eyes the trees and the leaves turned brown and red and yellow. The sky turned purple and the manor leered at him in the distance. His mind's eye rolled towards the manor as if floating of its own volition. The doors to the main hall opened and he entered. He went in, past the grand stair case leading to the upstairs, to the doors in the foyer. He took the one to the right, went in through a pair of guest rooms, to the garden room in the north wing, took the stairs to his brother, Jeremiah's, rooms, exited into the North Wing proper and there, went past his sister, Lizbeth's, chambers. The eye stopped for a moment and he saw something, something hideous.
Lying in her bed, Lizbeth, his baby sister, was writhing in pain. Her face was withered and haggard. Her eyes were sunken, but still so blue, like his own. They begged for life. She reached for his hand. "Aaron, brother," she whispered. Aaron took her hand and kissed it, "Lizbeth, How do you feel?" Lizbeth shook her head, "Not well. I can't even smile, brother." "Rest now, Lizbeth. The doctors will put you back on your feet," he assured her. He smiled despite his own good sense. Lizbeth knew she was dying, and in his heart, Aaron knew it too. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked. "Open the window?" she asked. Aaron shook his head, "The nurses don't want you to catch a chill." Lizbeth usually had a very short fuse. She could be calm and flaccid one second, and spitting and cussing the next like a sailor. Now, she barely had strength to frown. "That's not even the half of my worries, Aaron," she explained. The older man shrugged, let go of her hand, and opened the windows. The autumn air carried a few red leaves in from the garden. He leaned out the window and smelled the air. Autumn always smelled so sweet to him. "Listen, Lizbeth, you can hear the monks singing over on the island," he said. Lizbeth knew that, but she smiled anyway, "Its beautiful." Aaron returned to her side and sat next to her. He took her hand again, "Shall I paint something for you, sister?" She smiled weakly, thought brighter than before, "Oh, Aaron, would you?" "Shall I start it now?" he asked. The sudden urge to paint something came upon him quickly, as it was wont to do. "Of course," she said, "I want to see it right away." Aaron kissed her hand, then her cheek, and left her room. The eye in his mind backed out of the room and moved down the hall, past Ambrose's room, the playroom, to his own studio. The door opened before the eye, and it floated in. As it entered, it beheld the sight of Aaron painting something. The sky was purple, as it normally was in his paintings. The focal point of the painting was a stone statue with the body of a man sitting on a throne and the head of a bird, much like the ancient Egyptian sarcophaguses. The hands were long bloody tines of pitchforks. The creature appeared calm and flaccid, but could at any moment impale some unfortunate with those pitchfork hands. The young man stood back a little and smiled. He had just put the paint finish on it when a scream came from the direction of Lizbeth's quarters. He ran into the hallway. The eye followed him. A servant was standing out in the hallway. Ambrose and Jeremiah came in at the exact moment he did. Ambrose threw Aaron aside and barged into Lizbeth's room. The girl lay in her bed, lifeless as stone. Aaron came in behind him. Ambrose's eyes widened, then narrowed. He and Lizbeth had been moderately close in childhood, though in recent years she had grown to despise her brother's hateful attitude. She even bit him on one occasion. It was a wonder he hadn't taken her head off then, and now he stood absolutely motionless and shocked. Jeremiah came in slowly behind Aaron. For a few months, he'd been ill off and on. He was still a little weak from his last battle with the grippe. He leaned on the door jamb behind his brothers. The eye could see him. It looked at him, then returned to Aaron. They could still hear the nurse screaming in the hallway. It was Eliza. Eliza had looked after Lizbeth since the girl was a baby. She sobbed into her hand uncontrollably. Jeremiah glanced at her, wanting to shake her to pieces, but he remained calm and still. "Someone should tell Bethany," he whispered. "I'll tell her," Ambrose replied. He turned on his heel and left. Aaron followed him down the hall as far as his studio and went inside. The picture was sitting on the easel, ready to be shown to his little sister, but now there would be no need. He glanced at it and tilted his head. He knew why he'd painted it now, why he'd had the urge to run and make her something, and he knew what he would call it. "Lizbeth's Bird of Prey" Aaron went over to the window and looked out over the Estate. He saw Ambrose riding his grey stallion over to the cottage at a fast clip. He could see masts of galleons has they sailed into port. He followed Ambrose's retreating horse, and then watched for his return. Bethany, Aaron's twin sister, riding astride the stallion, rode double behind her little brother at a full gallop back to the house. Aaron turned from the window and strode back to the painting. He picked it up, wrapped it in brown paper and put it in his dresser. He walked quickly back down the hallway. Jeremiah was still standing outside Lizbeth's door, though he'd closed it against the onlookers and crying servants. Aaron came and stood next to him. "Has anyone told Father?" he asked. "I have no idea," Aaron said, "Should one of us tell him?" "I can't do it," Jeremiah said. Aaron, seeing his older brother was in dire distress, went down the hallway to his father's study. He wasn't there, so the eye and Aaron moved down into the main hall and opened the library door. Joseph was standing on a tall ladder. Aaron knocked and entered. "Father?" he asked. He thought his voice, perhaps, sounded like he was still ten years old instead of twenty three. "What is it, Aaron?" he asked, a little louder than he would have liked without looking up at him. "Its Lizbeth sir," he said quietly. Joseph snapped the book shut and climbed quickly off the ladder. He went to stand in front of his son. "What about Lizbeth?" he asked. "She's passed sir," Aaron said. He hung his head a little and waited for his father's reaction. Joseph walked past his son and climbed the stairs two at a time. As he rounded the corner at the head of the stairs, he heard a woman scream. Bethany ran out of the room and fell into her father's arms. Joseph handed her over to Jeremiah and the two of them sat down on the bench that the servants had vacated as soon as the master of the house had appeared. Aaron reappeared and sat next to Bethany. Ambrose stood across from them, leaning against the wall. He peered around the door jamb and watched their father lean over Lizbeth, brush the hair out of her face, and sob. Even when they were little, Joseph treated them all equally, even Lizbeth, but Jeremiah and the twins always knew that something always separated father and daughter, and that something was that his wife-their mother-had died birthing her. It had always lain between the two, but Joseph never let it change the way he felt about his daughter. The eye turned to Bethany again. She was calmed now. Her chest had stopped heaving. She stood up and went to stand beside her little brother. Ambrose eyed her, as if she were standing too close for him for comfort. As if he couldn't stand to smell her or feel her bodily heat, he moved off a pace and stood before a picture of an earlier Covenant. This one had gone insane and withered before her family's eyes. The eye followed the wall back to Joseph, who came out of Lizbeth's room and shut the door behind him. "We must see to her placement in the family mausoleum." His children made no movements. He looked from Ambrose to Bethany, to Jeremiah and Aaron. Joseph's shoulders sagged. "Come, my children, she will rest in peace at last." As they moved slowly to the direction to the stairs, a sound of thumping boots could be heard ascending the stairs. A head, then shoulders appeared, first in the shadows, then in plain view. Count Otto Keisinger leaned on the wall and crossed his arms, glaring at Bethany. "Where did you go? I return from Dublin this morning to discover you missing after I told you to stay put," he said coldly. Bethany moved to contradict him, but Joseph cut him off. He stepped ahead of his remaining children and met Otto Keisinger eye to eye. The eye focused closely on the master of the house. "My Lord, though you have recently returned from the city, I cannot excuse your words. I will have you know that my youngest has just passed from us, and we grieve deeply. Bethany was summoned from the cottage to pay her respects to her sister. You are a guest in my house, but I am master here, not you, nor any man of your station. As a courtesy to my daughter, I allow you to remain, that is all." Aaron eyed his siblings and then Keisinger. No one talked to the Count like that. Joseph must have taken leave of his senses for in his bereavement. The eye shifted between Ambrose-now the youngest again-and Jeremiah, who glanced at each other in a rare moment of agreement. Both of them despised Keisinger and hoped Joseph would throw him off the Estate for good, but Bethany still had use for him, and it kept her away from the manor for a while. Speaking of Bethany, the eye shifted to her and watched with some amusement as she hiked up her velvet skirts and riding cloak and rushed past her father and Keisinger. She hated them, all of them. She put her hood up on her cloak and flung the foyer door wide, running out into the autumn night. The eye returned to the family on the stairs. Otto Keisinger's face was flushed with anger and resentment, but he bowed and turned away from Joseph. Aaron crossed his arms and followed him to the door. He knew Keisinger hated him, and angering him further was just what Aaron felt like doing in his present state. The Count slammed the door in his face and Aaron grunted. Joseph came down the stairs and in a cool voice commanded: "Ambrose, my young hellion, see to it that he does not return ever to this manor." Ambrose nodded and went through the front door. Aaron hoped it would be brutal. "Aaron, run to the chapel in the east wing and fetch Father O'Leary. We will arrange for her funeral tomorrow." Aaron nodded. Joseph turned to Jeremiah, and in a much kinder tone: "Son, will you see to the servants as they prepare her body?" "Yes sir." Aaron's stomach turned over in jealousy. Jeremiah: Father always treated him with a certain measure of compassion. His first born who was now ailing was now the favored child. Aaron shook his head as he headed for the chapel in the east wing. Father O'Leary was kneeling before the alter, saying a prayer quietly. Aaron approached, followed by the eye, and waited for him to finish. Father O'Leary glanced up and got to his feet, "Aaron, good of you to come. Word of death travels fast. Poor Lizbeth. I was just saying a prayer so that the Lord might welcome her with open arms." Indeed, news of death did travel fast. Aaron smiled, "Father requests your presence, Your Grace. He wants to arrange the funeral for tomorrow." "I will accompany you," the clergyman said. He straitened his habit and put his hands in his sleeves. Aaron led the way back to Lizbeth's rooms. Joseph was waiting outside her door. He nodded to his son. "Aaron, will you assist Jeremiah?" Aaron nodded and moved away from them, entering Lizbeth's living quarters for the last time. Jeremiah was going through her clothes, picking out a specific outfit for the viewing. Eliza pushed him aside. "Silly boy," she sobbed, "You let me handle this Jeremiah. You go stand out of the way like a good boy." Jeremiah gave her a glare and sat down on Lizbeth's divan with a ragged sigh. Aaron stood in the doorway separating the living quarters and her bedroom, his hand on the door jamb, his stomach turning over and over. He resolved never to return here. He would never show anyone his new painting, he would never paint again, never.
Aaron jumped a little and awoke with a start. How long had he been asleep? He rubbed his face and looked at the empty bottle lying next to him. He tossed it into the woods with a grunt. He stood up quickly and had to grab the tree to keep from falling down again. He'd never paint again, never. Aaron remembered that. He looked at the painting next to him and sighed. He'd been kidding himself then. He hadn't even thought about his silent vow until now. His followers would enjoy this one too. The sun was warm on Aaron's face. His red hair was aflame with it. He was comfortable enough to fall back to sleep in just a few moments.
For three years Aaron didn't paint. He didn't want to. He didn't feel it. He did, however, feel a profound urge to gamble. In Ireland, there was only one thing a man of high class wanted to bet on. The annual horse races of Kildare were the prime meeting places of upper crust Irish society, of which there was little. The Covenants had the largest estate in the area. Most of the other estates, much smaller that the Covenant plot, were owned and maintained by British families. Even in 1919, the British still considered their former Irish subjects heathens. Joseph Covenant had always regarded his children as better than any British brood. At school, the children were in close contact with some British students. Ambrose beat up a number of them. Aaron didn't prefer them nor did he hate them. None of them made many friends, much less friends with British children, who were taught to treat their classmates as minorities. Aaron, now twenty-six, stood with his bets in one hand and a pair of field glasses in the other. As his horses crossed the finish line, each of them a succession of losers, the Irishman hung his head and tossed his tickets in the air. They floated away on autumn breeze.
Aaron shifted in his sleep, grunted, and became still again.
Bethany hated his gambling. He had gambled away most of his inheritance before their father had died. In the October of 1919, Ambrose-that little hellion-had reported to Jeremiah that Joseph was dead. He'd found him in the games room, bled to death from a gaping contusion in his head. Ambrose claimed he had fallen. Jeremiah, Aaron, and Bethany stood by while Ambrose delivered his statement to Constable Tempelrig. Ambrose's hands shook. Well they should, for a boy who had killed his own father. The next day, he was gone. His room was emptied of everything. It confirmed Jeremiah's own suspicion that Ambrose had killed their father. There was nothing left the remaining siblings could do. He was already gone.
A few days after Ambrose's disappearance, Jeremiah announced to them that he was enlisting in the ranks of young Irish men engaged in the Great War between Britain and Germany. Aaron and Bethany watched him leave on horseback. Keisinger was there as well, standing next to Bethany. Aaron glanced at him and growled. His glare could have melted steel. How he hated Otto Keisinger for bringing his dark arts and curses to the Estate. But Aaron held his temper and rather than putting out Keisinger's eyes with his fingers and envoking the wrath of a man of status, he retreated to his studio and tore it apart. Later he couldn't remember any of his anger, nor why his studio was in ruins, but his servants cleaned it post haste and in utter confusion. Aaron's head pounded the tree that was his pillow, but he paid it no mind.
Three years after Jeremiah ran away, after their father's death and Ambrose's consequential disappearance, Aaron and Bethany were certain that they were the last Covenants. They hadn't heard from Jeremiah for months, though Bethany wrote him countless letters behind Aaron's back. One day, on the last month of the third year, in mid-December, Aaron- in a blind rage (the drink and the loss of money and lack of painting had left him in a state of melancholy and rage)-went through the mail, and discovered an out going letter to Jeremiah on the Western front of France. He opened it read it to himself, his hands shaking in destructive rage:
Jeremiah,
Brother, Aaron becomes more and more depressed and angry everyday. He is becoming more of a burden on himself and on the family. I fear for his health and our Estate. His creditors are over every day. I cannot make them leave. They will not listen to me because I am not the master of the house. I wish you were here so that you could fix this.
Your sister,
Bethany Aaron crumpled the letter and burned it.
In a few weeks, when no answer from Jeremiah seemed forthcoming, Bethany called her brother into her study at the Manor and relayed her feelings to him. "Aaron, have you heard aught from Jeremiah or Ambrose?" she asked. Aaron was passive and quiet for a time, and he could tell that Bethany was weary of it. Her back was rigid and her demeanor was cautious. "I have not," Aaron, now twenty-nine, replied. He was under the impression that Bethany had been keeping up with Jeremiah. He recalled that day when he'd found her letter to her, but he'd let that go with the coming of the irrepressible urge to paint something. He'd broken his own vow never to paint again without even knowing it. Bethany held her hands up in defeat, "Then we are the only Covenants left. Wouldn't you agree, Brother?" Aaron shook his head, "We have no idea where Ambrose is, and don't you suppose the army would inform us of Jeremiah's death. He's a commanding officer. They have an obligation." Bethany tossed her head, "Ambrose is a disgrace on our family and doesn't even deserve his share. Neither do you, but you're here and he's not. Besides, the second he steps back on this property I shall have him arrested-" "Our own brother?" Aaron asked incredulously. "Yes, our own brother," she said without stopping, "He's a wanted man. He killed our father, do you not remember?" Aaron became defensive of the young man gone horribly wrong, "There was no proof that he did anything of the kind." Bethany snorted, "Then why would he leave?" "Because, sister, he had ambitions to be a pirate from early on," Aaron threw back, "He was just waiting for the right time before he made his escape from this place." Aaron wondered why he'd never done the same. "And what of Jeremiah?" Bethany asked. "What of him. He'll be back," Aaron said. "Aaron, we haven't heard from him in three years. He's not coming home. We are the last. Its time we divided up the will," Bethany said, rather decisively. "I don't believe it." Bethany put up her hands, "What can I do to make you see? Ambrose and Jeremiah are both cowards. They ran away when we needed them most." Aaron wondered what had possessed him to stay. "Its time, Brother," she said softly. Aaron sighed and nodded, "Just another week. Wait just another week, Bethany. If we do not here from Jeremiah within that time, I will agree to go over the will." Bethany sighed and smiled.
The corner of Aaron's lips turned down in his sleep. He twitched a little and grew still.
Two days later, on the eve of the Sabbath day, Bethany stormed into the studio as Aaron was putting the finishing touches on one of his paintings. He jumped so hard as the door came open with a crash that his brush smeared a great blue streak across the canvas. Aaron glanced at Bethany, his blue eyes wide, and he glanced at the canvas again, a small whimper escaping his lips. "Bethany, look at what you-" "Never mind that, look at this!" She thrust a piece of paper before him. It was written in Jeremiah's scrawl. In his state of angst, he read the letter calmly. It was decidedly from Jeremiah, writing to say that he was coming home from the war. His heart leaped, but Bethany was in a rage. "What curse is this?" she yelled. Aaron smiled, "Our brother is coming home, Bethany. Aren't you in the least bit happy?" Bethany sat down on his couch and sighed. She put her face in her hands and barked a laugh, "I suppose so." "We can split up the will properly when he gets home. I'll be much happier for some company," Aaron said. He glanced back at his ruined painting and sighed. "Did you see what you did to my picture?" he asked. Bethany glanced up quickly, "Enough of your pictures, your fake worlds, your little Eternal Autumn or whatever that is! Its all fake! Think of it, Aaron!" "Think of what, Bethany?" he yelled back, "That our brother has come home to put to rights everything that I've done?" His ire was rising. Bethany could tell she was about to get into a dangerous situation. So he'd found the letter she had written to Jeremiah, and even the eldest brother had apologized for not concerning himself with the problem of Aaron when it started a few years ago. That line had stuck in front of Aaron's eyes, as if it had been burned into them. She closed her eyes, "This is all your fault!" "What is my fault? I don't even know what I've done!" "You made us wait. We could have split the will straight down the middle if we hadn't waited for him. We could have had it all!" "No, you and Keisinger could have had it all!" Aaron yelled at her. He'd thrust his paints down and had his hands clenched at his sides. "How dare you!" she screamed, coming to her feet, "You don't know anything about that!" "I know how you spurn him, gleaning every bit of information from him until you've used him up. I know you!" Aaron pointed an accusing finger at her. "You do not know what you're saying! How dare you accuse me!" Aaron wouldn't hear anymore of it, and he feared the prying ears of the servants, who were ever present to eavesdrop and report to the other scrubbing low-lifes. But Bethany was not finished. "I should get it all anyway. Jeremiah walked out on me. You have been gambling for the better part of six years. I couldn't trust you not to bet your inheritance on the horses and beat the British lords you find it so convenient to lose to! I deserve it all." She was bending forward at the waist, her eyes ablaze with all the greed of her and Keisinger combined. Aaron could sense her deep longing to be rid of Jeremiah, him, and Keisinger. She'd never have it, he'd see her dead before then. Aaron couldn't take it anymore. A silver candelabra lay close to hand, six feet tall and four feet across, dripping with eighteen tall tapers. He turned, and with his right arm flung the twenty pound candelabra at his twin sister's head. She ducked to avoid it, but the white, hot wax splashed in her hair. She screamed and grabbed at her scalp. Her hair fell out of its bun and into her eyes. She glared at him and snarled. Aaron watched her storm out of the room, muttering to herself, her hair in her eyes that burned with all the hatred of her kin.
Two days later, Jeremiah returned to find Bethany locked in the greenhouse with Keisinger and Aaron silently barricaded in his studio..
Aaron jerked awake as an image of Bethany flashed before his eyes, only she wasn't Bethany. It was Bethany, but she was changed, and she smelled of pine and rotting compost. Aaron shook his head and sat up. He leaned one arm and stared at his painting adoringly. He wondered what he would call it. It was the first time he'd ever painted something that didn't have a name. Maybe, it was too strange, to real to name. Perhaps it was time for an "Untitled". He picked himself up off the ground and stretched his arms to the sky. He glanced up and almost expected it to be purple. He picked up the picture and wrapped it in the brown butcher paper he'd brought in the box. He turned it over in his hands lovingly. He tucked it under his arm and began walking. The woods were silent for a change, and if he'd thought about it, he would have noted that when the woods are quiet, it usually isn't in reverence to you. But as Aaron trudged along-lost in thought and day dreams rather than anger or depression-the woods did not stir, didn't breathe. He never looked back. The rope took him completely by surprise as it wrapped around his neck with liquid motion. The Aaron's hands came up to defend himself, but he could not pull the rope from his throat. The strangler, though, was not intent on the kill. As Aaron collapsed to the ground, the rope released, leaving the young man unconscious rather than dead.
.He woke in a large, cold room, chained to a large alter. Standing, just beyond the shadows lingered two figures. Aaron turned his head. Bethany came forward a little, and behind her, slipping his arms around her, was Keisinger. Aaron had not seen her since their argument and Jeremiah's return. He hadn't even heard her final words to him as she stormed out of his studio. "My vengeance will be swift brother, but your suffering will linger." A rat jumped up on the stone alter and began nibbling at his pants leg. Aaron tried to kick it away, but the chains did not yield. What was to be his suffering? Chained to the alter until death, to eaten alive by the rats and vermin? He began to shake. He glanced up at Bethany who smiled at him sadistically and clutched Keisinger's hands to her abdomen. She stared her twin in the eye. "I told you not to speak of things which you did not know. Now, no one will ever find you again." She started laughing. Keisinger's wicked chuckled hung in the air next to her blood curdling giggling.
Aaron began to scream.
Has anyone even played this game?
The following document is completely fictitious. It is based on the story line and game Clive Barker's Undying distributed by EA Games Inc. All characters are the property of the said famous author and director and game distributor.
What follows is the story of Aaron Covenant, second eldest son of the Covenant family of an Eastern Irish upper crust society. This is his story, the story of his siblings, and the events that occur before, during, and post World War One.
Eternal Autumn: Aaron's Sanctuary
Autumn fades with the coming of December, when its time for all dark leaves
and trees to turn black and dead, when the grass is brown and decaying, laid down by the blowing of the harsh winds that signal the coming of the
Norther blowing down from the Dutch Islands, when all of East Ireland experiences a snow, then nothing but cold wind and dark sky for the three
months until April, when the sun shines and the leaves return.
But in the mind of a young man in his mid twenties, an artist in his prime, it is eternally autumn. To him, it is his only season, his only time, and in his mind, it is eternally autumn. From the moment he was birthed to the very present moment in which he walks through the world on silent feet over mossy forest floors, it is eternally autumn. In his flesh is the breeze,
the sun, the sky, the colors and the view
Of an Eternal Autumn.
"Can you describe only what you can see? As the bonds of flesh are broken,
the world becomes apparent."
--Aaron Covenant from Clive Barker's Undying
One Man's Flesh is Another Man's Canvas
On any given day, at any given time, there is something odd, paranormal, or just enigmatic floating about the halls and the much trodden grounds of the extensive Covenant Estate, just off the coast of Eastern Ireland. Visitors to the Estate are few and far between, but of those who visit, the view is something to see, and sometimes terrible to dwell on: The Estate consists of the big house, various smaller dwellings, its own forests and coves, beaches and islands and its own monastery. The big house sits just in the middle of the Estate. The monastery and crypts lie to the east. To the north east is the cove, now known to the locals as Pirate Cove, to the south is the forest, to the north is the Green house and to the west is the island of the Standing Stones, an ancient monolith guarded by ancient priests with ancient powers. And at any given day, at any given time, a young man with red hair and a round face can be seen stalking about the premises as if searching for something. In one arm he carries a box of paints, brushes and a palette, and in the other a large canvas or two, and with these two possessions in tow, he lumbers about in either a sense of longing or anger. This red headed young man with the hard mouth and blue eyes longs for the perfect specimen, a specimen of the purest kind, that no one has ever laid eyes on save him alone. On most occasions he cannot find what he searches for, and so returns to his studio, thrusts his paints and canvases down on the floor, throws himself down on an expensive green velvet divan and puts his head in his hands. In a few hours he stands up, picks up his paints and canvas and returns to stalking the grounds. His twin sister would glance out the window at him and shake her red head in wonder. That had been last year, before she died. Today, this day, right now, Aaron Covenant, second eldest son of Evaline and Joseph Covenant is stalking the woods, and searching, always searching.
He came to his stopping point about a mile and a half from the house. For hours he had been walking aimlessly, searching.for what? He set his box down and his canvas, and with a groan lowered himself to a sitting position on a fallen tree. He sighed and wiped the sweat from his brow and then the dirt from his sleeves. Of all places to wear his favorite suit, the forest was the worst. I wonder, Aaron thought, is it worth all this trouble just to paint a picture? Of course, Aaron always had a justifiable answer: Because it is my calling. When his brothers and sisters asked him that same question, he always answered them in the same way, and they would always roll their eyes and walk away. At which point Aaron would take on a sort of childish defensiveness and angrily put his fist through the canvas in front of him. Trifle hitting compared to his little brother, Ambrose's, hitting problem. Even when they were little, Aaron could walk down the hallway of their Dublin public school and see his own little brother bloodying some other boys face. If it was worth it for Lizbeth to trek all the way to the family mausoleum just to read a book, then its worth it to me to run my arse off over the country side to paint a picture, he reasoned. Then he remembered that his baby sister, little Lizbeth, was dead and he sighed again. He leaned over and picked up one of the canvases. With a tired groan he stood and propped it against the fallen tree. Once again, in his mind, he recapped his family's decay: first his sister Lizbeth, died of a wasting disease, then Ambrose had run away, leaving their dead father. It was just Aaron, Bethany (barricaded in her greenhouse where he never saw her) and his oldest brother, Jeremiah, now, and he was dying of a dozen different cancers. He sat on the ground and pulled his box of paints over to him. He opened them up and began mixing colors. One of the brushes was made of rough goat hair. He dipped it in the dark purple, almost a rich violet and painted the scenery of his newest piece. In an hour he was ready to begin shading with the second darkest purple he had and black for the sky. In the end the sky was purple and violet layers and black clouds. He sat back a little and smiled at it. This one was going to be comparable to his favorite piece, The Limbs of War. His followers liked that one because they thought he was commenting on the war, but in all actuality, this vision of the limbs on the ground, the faces with the eyes staring heavenward, the barbs of shrapnel coming out of skulls and torsos, had come to Aaron in a dream one night. The next day he was urged to go out onto the bluffs and paint a picture of the pirate galleons coming into the cove. Aaron thought about that one with a wry smile while he painted the focal point of this picture. His youngest brother, Ambrose, had ridden out to the cove, waving unenthusiastically at Aaron as he rode by. The day Aaron painted Limbs of War was also the day that his twin sister, Bethany, had invited Count Otto Keisinger over and barricaded themselves in the green house to the west of the manor. It was the same day that Lizbeth had fainted in the kitchen and started foaming at the mouth from a wasting disease that killed her only a few years after it had been detected. But enough of memories. His painting-after only an hour or two-was finished. He picked it up and leaned it against another tree, in the breeze, hoping to dry it faster so that he could put the paint finish on it. He leaned his back against the fallen tree and reached into his box of paints. He extracted a bottle of Spanish wine and pulled the cork out with his teeth. He spat it into the distance and took a long pull on the bottle. He swallowed and sighed, at peace. After he'd drained half the bottle, he leaned his head against the tree and fell fast asleep.
In his dreams, he looked back upon his life, as if sleep itself could conjure memories he'd locked away for so long. In his mind, behind his eyes the trees and the leaves turned brown and red and yellow. The sky turned purple and the manor leered at him in the distance. His mind's eye rolled towards the manor as if floating of its own volition. The doors to the main hall opened and he entered. He went in, past the grand stair case leading to the upstairs, to the doors in the foyer. He took the one to the right, went in through a pair of guest rooms, to the garden room in the north wing, took the stairs to his brother, Jeremiah's, rooms, exited into the North Wing proper and there, went past his sister, Lizbeth's, chambers. The eye stopped for a moment and he saw something, something hideous.
Lying in her bed, Lizbeth, his baby sister, was writhing in pain. Her face was withered and haggard. Her eyes were sunken, but still so blue, like his own. They begged for life. She reached for his hand. "Aaron, brother," she whispered. Aaron took her hand and kissed it, "Lizbeth, How do you feel?" Lizbeth shook her head, "Not well. I can't even smile, brother." "Rest now, Lizbeth. The doctors will put you back on your feet," he assured her. He smiled despite his own good sense. Lizbeth knew she was dying, and in his heart, Aaron knew it too. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked. "Open the window?" she asked. Aaron shook his head, "The nurses don't want you to catch a chill." Lizbeth usually had a very short fuse. She could be calm and flaccid one second, and spitting and cussing the next like a sailor. Now, she barely had strength to frown. "That's not even the half of my worries, Aaron," she explained. The older man shrugged, let go of her hand, and opened the windows. The autumn air carried a few red leaves in from the garden. He leaned out the window and smelled the air. Autumn always smelled so sweet to him. "Listen, Lizbeth, you can hear the monks singing over on the island," he said. Lizbeth knew that, but she smiled anyway, "Its beautiful." Aaron returned to her side and sat next to her. He took her hand again, "Shall I paint something for you, sister?" She smiled weakly, thought brighter than before, "Oh, Aaron, would you?" "Shall I start it now?" he asked. The sudden urge to paint something came upon him quickly, as it was wont to do. "Of course," she said, "I want to see it right away." Aaron kissed her hand, then her cheek, and left her room. The eye in his mind backed out of the room and moved down the hall, past Ambrose's room, the playroom, to his own studio. The door opened before the eye, and it floated in. As it entered, it beheld the sight of Aaron painting something. The sky was purple, as it normally was in his paintings. The focal point of the painting was a stone statue with the body of a man sitting on a throne and the head of a bird, much like the ancient Egyptian sarcophaguses. The hands were long bloody tines of pitchforks. The creature appeared calm and flaccid, but could at any moment impale some unfortunate with those pitchfork hands. The young man stood back a little and smiled. He had just put the paint finish on it when a scream came from the direction of Lizbeth's quarters. He ran into the hallway. The eye followed him. A servant was standing out in the hallway. Ambrose and Jeremiah came in at the exact moment he did. Ambrose threw Aaron aside and barged into Lizbeth's room. The girl lay in her bed, lifeless as stone. Aaron came in behind him. Ambrose's eyes widened, then narrowed. He and Lizbeth had been moderately close in childhood, though in recent years she had grown to despise her brother's hateful attitude. She even bit him on one occasion. It was a wonder he hadn't taken her head off then, and now he stood absolutely motionless and shocked. Jeremiah came in slowly behind Aaron. For a few months, he'd been ill off and on. He was still a little weak from his last battle with the grippe. He leaned on the door jamb behind his brothers. The eye could see him. It looked at him, then returned to Aaron. They could still hear the nurse screaming in the hallway. It was Eliza. Eliza had looked after Lizbeth since the girl was a baby. She sobbed into her hand uncontrollably. Jeremiah glanced at her, wanting to shake her to pieces, but he remained calm and still. "Someone should tell Bethany," he whispered. "I'll tell her," Ambrose replied. He turned on his heel and left. Aaron followed him down the hall as far as his studio and went inside. The picture was sitting on the easel, ready to be shown to his little sister, but now there would be no need. He glanced at it and tilted his head. He knew why he'd painted it now, why he'd had the urge to run and make her something, and he knew what he would call it. "Lizbeth's Bird of Prey" Aaron went over to the window and looked out over the Estate. He saw Ambrose riding his grey stallion over to the cottage at a fast clip. He could see masts of galleons has they sailed into port. He followed Ambrose's retreating horse, and then watched for his return. Bethany, Aaron's twin sister, riding astride the stallion, rode double behind her little brother at a full gallop back to the house. Aaron turned from the window and strode back to the painting. He picked it up, wrapped it in brown paper and put it in his dresser. He walked quickly back down the hallway. Jeremiah was still standing outside Lizbeth's door, though he'd closed it against the onlookers and crying servants. Aaron came and stood next to him. "Has anyone told Father?" he asked. "I have no idea," Aaron said, "Should one of us tell him?" "I can't do it," Jeremiah said. Aaron, seeing his older brother was in dire distress, went down the hallway to his father's study. He wasn't there, so the eye and Aaron moved down into the main hall and opened the library door. Joseph was standing on a tall ladder. Aaron knocked and entered. "Father?" he asked. He thought his voice, perhaps, sounded like he was still ten years old instead of twenty three. "What is it, Aaron?" he asked, a little louder than he would have liked without looking up at him. "Its Lizbeth sir," he said quietly. Joseph snapped the book shut and climbed quickly off the ladder. He went to stand in front of his son. "What about Lizbeth?" he asked. "She's passed sir," Aaron said. He hung his head a little and waited for his father's reaction. Joseph walked past his son and climbed the stairs two at a time. As he rounded the corner at the head of the stairs, he heard a woman scream. Bethany ran out of the room and fell into her father's arms. Joseph handed her over to Jeremiah and the two of them sat down on the bench that the servants had vacated as soon as the master of the house had appeared. Aaron reappeared and sat next to Bethany. Ambrose stood across from them, leaning against the wall. He peered around the door jamb and watched their father lean over Lizbeth, brush the hair out of her face, and sob. Even when they were little, Joseph treated them all equally, even Lizbeth, but Jeremiah and the twins always knew that something always separated father and daughter, and that something was that his wife-their mother-had died birthing her. It had always lain between the two, but Joseph never let it change the way he felt about his daughter. The eye turned to Bethany again. She was calmed now. Her chest had stopped heaving. She stood up and went to stand beside her little brother. Ambrose eyed her, as if she were standing too close for him for comfort. As if he couldn't stand to smell her or feel her bodily heat, he moved off a pace and stood before a picture of an earlier Covenant. This one had gone insane and withered before her family's eyes. The eye followed the wall back to Joseph, who came out of Lizbeth's room and shut the door behind him. "We must see to her placement in the family mausoleum." His children made no movements. He looked from Ambrose to Bethany, to Jeremiah and Aaron. Joseph's shoulders sagged. "Come, my children, she will rest in peace at last." As they moved slowly to the direction to the stairs, a sound of thumping boots could be heard ascending the stairs. A head, then shoulders appeared, first in the shadows, then in plain view. Count Otto Keisinger leaned on the wall and crossed his arms, glaring at Bethany. "Where did you go? I return from Dublin this morning to discover you missing after I told you to stay put," he said coldly. Bethany moved to contradict him, but Joseph cut him off. He stepped ahead of his remaining children and met Otto Keisinger eye to eye. The eye focused closely on the master of the house. "My Lord, though you have recently returned from the city, I cannot excuse your words. I will have you know that my youngest has just passed from us, and we grieve deeply. Bethany was summoned from the cottage to pay her respects to her sister. You are a guest in my house, but I am master here, not you, nor any man of your station. As a courtesy to my daughter, I allow you to remain, that is all." Aaron eyed his siblings and then Keisinger. No one talked to the Count like that. Joseph must have taken leave of his senses for in his bereavement. The eye shifted between Ambrose-now the youngest again-and Jeremiah, who glanced at each other in a rare moment of agreement. Both of them despised Keisinger and hoped Joseph would throw him off the Estate for good, but Bethany still had use for him, and it kept her away from the manor for a while. Speaking of Bethany, the eye shifted to her and watched with some amusement as she hiked up her velvet skirts and riding cloak and rushed past her father and Keisinger. She hated them, all of them. She put her hood up on her cloak and flung the foyer door wide, running out into the autumn night. The eye returned to the family on the stairs. Otto Keisinger's face was flushed with anger and resentment, but he bowed and turned away from Joseph. Aaron crossed his arms and followed him to the door. He knew Keisinger hated him, and angering him further was just what Aaron felt like doing in his present state. The Count slammed the door in his face and Aaron grunted. Joseph came down the stairs and in a cool voice commanded: "Ambrose, my young hellion, see to it that he does not return ever to this manor." Ambrose nodded and went through the front door. Aaron hoped it would be brutal. "Aaron, run to the chapel in the east wing and fetch Father O'Leary. We will arrange for her funeral tomorrow." Aaron nodded. Joseph turned to Jeremiah, and in a much kinder tone: "Son, will you see to the servants as they prepare her body?" "Yes sir." Aaron's stomach turned over in jealousy. Jeremiah: Father always treated him with a certain measure of compassion. His first born who was now ailing was now the favored child. Aaron shook his head as he headed for the chapel in the east wing. Father O'Leary was kneeling before the alter, saying a prayer quietly. Aaron approached, followed by the eye, and waited for him to finish. Father O'Leary glanced up and got to his feet, "Aaron, good of you to come. Word of death travels fast. Poor Lizbeth. I was just saying a prayer so that the Lord might welcome her with open arms." Indeed, news of death did travel fast. Aaron smiled, "Father requests your presence, Your Grace. He wants to arrange the funeral for tomorrow." "I will accompany you," the clergyman said. He straitened his habit and put his hands in his sleeves. Aaron led the way back to Lizbeth's rooms. Joseph was waiting outside her door. He nodded to his son. "Aaron, will you assist Jeremiah?" Aaron nodded and moved away from them, entering Lizbeth's living quarters for the last time. Jeremiah was going through her clothes, picking out a specific outfit for the viewing. Eliza pushed him aside. "Silly boy," she sobbed, "You let me handle this Jeremiah. You go stand out of the way like a good boy." Jeremiah gave her a glare and sat down on Lizbeth's divan with a ragged sigh. Aaron stood in the doorway separating the living quarters and her bedroom, his hand on the door jamb, his stomach turning over and over. He resolved never to return here. He would never show anyone his new painting, he would never paint again, never.
Aaron jumped a little and awoke with a start. How long had he been asleep? He rubbed his face and looked at the empty bottle lying next to him. He tossed it into the woods with a grunt. He stood up quickly and had to grab the tree to keep from falling down again. He'd never paint again, never. Aaron remembered that. He looked at the painting next to him and sighed. He'd been kidding himself then. He hadn't even thought about his silent vow until now. His followers would enjoy this one too. The sun was warm on Aaron's face. His red hair was aflame with it. He was comfortable enough to fall back to sleep in just a few moments.
For three years Aaron didn't paint. He didn't want to. He didn't feel it. He did, however, feel a profound urge to gamble. In Ireland, there was only one thing a man of high class wanted to bet on. The annual horse races of Kildare were the prime meeting places of upper crust Irish society, of which there was little. The Covenants had the largest estate in the area. Most of the other estates, much smaller that the Covenant plot, were owned and maintained by British families. Even in 1919, the British still considered their former Irish subjects heathens. Joseph Covenant had always regarded his children as better than any British brood. At school, the children were in close contact with some British students. Ambrose beat up a number of them. Aaron didn't prefer them nor did he hate them. None of them made many friends, much less friends with British children, who were taught to treat their classmates as minorities. Aaron, now twenty-six, stood with his bets in one hand and a pair of field glasses in the other. As his horses crossed the finish line, each of them a succession of losers, the Irishman hung his head and tossed his tickets in the air. They floated away on autumn breeze.
Aaron shifted in his sleep, grunted, and became still again.
Bethany hated his gambling. He had gambled away most of his inheritance before their father had died. In the October of 1919, Ambrose-that little hellion-had reported to Jeremiah that Joseph was dead. He'd found him in the games room, bled to death from a gaping contusion in his head. Ambrose claimed he had fallen. Jeremiah, Aaron, and Bethany stood by while Ambrose delivered his statement to Constable Tempelrig. Ambrose's hands shook. Well they should, for a boy who had killed his own father. The next day, he was gone. His room was emptied of everything. It confirmed Jeremiah's own suspicion that Ambrose had killed their father. There was nothing left the remaining siblings could do. He was already gone.
A few days after Ambrose's disappearance, Jeremiah announced to them that he was enlisting in the ranks of young Irish men engaged in the Great War between Britain and Germany. Aaron and Bethany watched him leave on horseback. Keisinger was there as well, standing next to Bethany. Aaron glanced at him and growled. His glare could have melted steel. How he hated Otto Keisinger for bringing his dark arts and curses to the Estate. But Aaron held his temper and rather than putting out Keisinger's eyes with his fingers and envoking the wrath of a man of status, he retreated to his studio and tore it apart. Later he couldn't remember any of his anger, nor why his studio was in ruins, but his servants cleaned it post haste and in utter confusion. Aaron's head pounded the tree that was his pillow, but he paid it no mind.
Three years after Jeremiah ran away, after their father's death and Ambrose's consequential disappearance, Aaron and Bethany were certain that they were the last Covenants. They hadn't heard from Jeremiah for months, though Bethany wrote him countless letters behind Aaron's back. One day, on the last month of the third year, in mid-December, Aaron- in a blind rage (the drink and the loss of money and lack of painting had left him in a state of melancholy and rage)-went through the mail, and discovered an out going letter to Jeremiah on the Western front of France. He opened it read it to himself, his hands shaking in destructive rage:
Jeremiah,
Brother, Aaron becomes more and more depressed and angry everyday. He is becoming more of a burden on himself and on the family. I fear for his health and our Estate. His creditors are over every day. I cannot make them leave. They will not listen to me because I am not the master of the house. I wish you were here so that you could fix this.
Your sister,
Bethany Aaron crumpled the letter and burned it.
In a few weeks, when no answer from Jeremiah seemed forthcoming, Bethany called her brother into her study at the Manor and relayed her feelings to him. "Aaron, have you heard aught from Jeremiah or Ambrose?" she asked. Aaron was passive and quiet for a time, and he could tell that Bethany was weary of it. Her back was rigid and her demeanor was cautious. "I have not," Aaron, now twenty-nine, replied. He was under the impression that Bethany had been keeping up with Jeremiah. He recalled that day when he'd found her letter to her, but he'd let that go with the coming of the irrepressible urge to paint something. He'd broken his own vow never to paint again without even knowing it. Bethany held her hands up in defeat, "Then we are the only Covenants left. Wouldn't you agree, Brother?" Aaron shook his head, "We have no idea where Ambrose is, and don't you suppose the army would inform us of Jeremiah's death. He's a commanding officer. They have an obligation." Bethany tossed her head, "Ambrose is a disgrace on our family and doesn't even deserve his share. Neither do you, but you're here and he's not. Besides, the second he steps back on this property I shall have him arrested-" "Our own brother?" Aaron asked incredulously. "Yes, our own brother," she said without stopping, "He's a wanted man. He killed our father, do you not remember?" Aaron became defensive of the young man gone horribly wrong, "There was no proof that he did anything of the kind." Bethany snorted, "Then why would he leave?" "Because, sister, he had ambitions to be a pirate from early on," Aaron threw back, "He was just waiting for the right time before he made his escape from this place." Aaron wondered why he'd never done the same. "And what of Jeremiah?" Bethany asked. "What of him. He'll be back," Aaron said. "Aaron, we haven't heard from him in three years. He's not coming home. We are the last. Its time we divided up the will," Bethany said, rather decisively. "I don't believe it." Bethany put up her hands, "What can I do to make you see? Ambrose and Jeremiah are both cowards. They ran away when we needed them most." Aaron wondered what had possessed him to stay. "Its time, Brother," she said softly. Aaron sighed and nodded, "Just another week. Wait just another week, Bethany. If we do not here from Jeremiah within that time, I will agree to go over the will." Bethany sighed and smiled.
The corner of Aaron's lips turned down in his sleep. He twitched a little and grew still.
Two days later, on the eve of the Sabbath day, Bethany stormed into the studio as Aaron was putting the finishing touches on one of his paintings. He jumped so hard as the door came open with a crash that his brush smeared a great blue streak across the canvas. Aaron glanced at Bethany, his blue eyes wide, and he glanced at the canvas again, a small whimper escaping his lips. "Bethany, look at what you-" "Never mind that, look at this!" She thrust a piece of paper before him. It was written in Jeremiah's scrawl. In his state of angst, he read the letter calmly. It was decidedly from Jeremiah, writing to say that he was coming home from the war. His heart leaped, but Bethany was in a rage. "What curse is this?" she yelled. Aaron smiled, "Our brother is coming home, Bethany. Aren't you in the least bit happy?" Bethany sat down on his couch and sighed. She put her face in her hands and barked a laugh, "I suppose so." "We can split up the will properly when he gets home. I'll be much happier for some company," Aaron said. He glanced back at his ruined painting and sighed. "Did you see what you did to my picture?" he asked. Bethany glanced up quickly, "Enough of your pictures, your fake worlds, your little Eternal Autumn or whatever that is! Its all fake! Think of it, Aaron!" "Think of what, Bethany?" he yelled back, "That our brother has come home to put to rights everything that I've done?" His ire was rising. Bethany could tell she was about to get into a dangerous situation. So he'd found the letter she had written to Jeremiah, and even the eldest brother had apologized for not concerning himself with the problem of Aaron when it started a few years ago. That line had stuck in front of Aaron's eyes, as if it had been burned into them. She closed her eyes, "This is all your fault!" "What is my fault? I don't even know what I've done!" "You made us wait. We could have split the will straight down the middle if we hadn't waited for him. We could have had it all!" "No, you and Keisinger could have had it all!" Aaron yelled at her. He'd thrust his paints down and had his hands clenched at his sides. "How dare you!" she screamed, coming to her feet, "You don't know anything about that!" "I know how you spurn him, gleaning every bit of information from him until you've used him up. I know you!" Aaron pointed an accusing finger at her. "You do not know what you're saying! How dare you accuse me!" Aaron wouldn't hear anymore of it, and he feared the prying ears of the servants, who were ever present to eavesdrop and report to the other scrubbing low-lifes. But Bethany was not finished. "I should get it all anyway. Jeremiah walked out on me. You have been gambling for the better part of six years. I couldn't trust you not to bet your inheritance on the horses and beat the British lords you find it so convenient to lose to! I deserve it all." She was bending forward at the waist, her eyes ablaze with all the greed of her and Keisinger combined. Aaron could sense her deep longing to be rid of Jeremiah, him, and Keisinger. She'd never have it, he'd see her dead before then. Aaron couldn't take it anymore. A silver candelabra lay close to hand, six feet tall and four feet across, dripping with eighteen tall tapers. He turned, and with his right arm flung the twenty pound candelabra at his twin sister's head. She ducked to avoid it, but the white, hot wax splashed in her hair. She screamed and grabbed at her scalp. Her hair fell out of its bun and into her eyes. She glared at him and snarled. Aaron watched her storm out of the room, muttering to herself, her hair in her eyes that burned with all the hatred of her kin.
Two days later, Jeremiah returned to find Bethany locked in the greenhouse with Keisinger and Aaron silently barricaded in his studio..
Aaron jerked awake as an image of Bethany flashed before his eyes, only she wasn't Bethany. It was Bethany, but she was changed, and she smelled of pine and rotting compost. Aaron shook his head and sat up. He leaned one arm and stared at his painting adoringly. He wondered what he would call it. It was the first time he'd ever painted something that didn't have a name. Maybe, it was too strange, to real to name. Perhaps it was time for an "Untitled". He picked himself up off the ground and stretched his arms to the sky. He glanced up and almost expected it to be purple. He picked up the picture and wrapped it in the brown butcher paper he'd brought in the box. He turned it over in his hands lovingly. He tucked it under his arm and began walking. The woods were silent for a change, and if he'd thought about it, he would have noted that when the woods are quiet, it usually isn't in reverence to you. But as Aaron trudged along-lost in thought and day dreams rather than anger or depression-the woods did not stir, didn't breathe. He never looked back. The rope took him completely by surprise as it wrapped around his neck with liquid motion. The Aaron's hands came up to defend himself, but he could not pull the rope from his throat. The strangler, though, was not intent on the kill. As Aaron collapsed to the ground, the rope released, leaving the young man unconscious rather than dead.
.He woke in a large, cold room, chained to a large alter. Standing, just beyond the shadows lingered two figures. Aaron turned his head. Bethany came forward a little, and behind her, slipping his arms around her, was Keisinger. Aaron had not seen her since their argument and Jeremiah's return. He hadn't even heard her final words to him as she stormed out of his studio. "My vengeance will be swift brother, but your suffering will linger." A rat jumped up on the stone alter and began nibbling at his pants leg. Aaron tried to kick it away, but the chains did not yield. What was to be his suffering? Chained to the alter until death, to eaten alive by the rats and vermin? He began to shake. He glanced up at Bethany who smiled at him sadistically and clutched Keisinger's hands to her abdomen. She stared her twin in the eye. "I told you not to speak of things which you did not know. Now, no one will ever find you again." She started laughing. Keisinger's wicked chuckled hung in the air next to her blood curdling giggling.
Aaron began to scream.