II.
After that night, Richard Drumlins and I spent two weeks traveling together, wherefore we discussed, at length, all we could about the Angels. I wanted nothing more than to talk about what he knew and whether or not it corroborated with everything I've heard. Whereas I initially had a profound skepticism about his conviction, having seen the photographs for myself, my mind was completely made over. The proof was undeniable, and my enthusiasm for the subject bore the same sentiment. Of course, Richard was absorbed in our conversations as well, but his excitement was one of relief. He was happy in knowing that there was someone else who believed. Not only did I believe the Angel's existence, but I was someone who genuinely believed him. This was the reason why he did not bring up the photographs earlier. He wanted to gain confidence in me as a person. He wanted to make sure that the only reason for doubt was a lack of evidence and not a lack of trust. He told me many times how much he appreciated my acceptance and understanding, for he had spent many months alone, his spirit cast asunder and often discouraged by the merciless hand of ridicule, largely by those who were just as skeptical as I.
There was only one other person, Richard told me one night, who believed the stories concerning the Weeping Angels. Unfortunately, the two had a falling out due to a conflict of interest regarding what to do with an Angel statue if he were to ever find one. It was on that night Richard asked me why the Angels were so important to me. I was teaching him what I knew about various flowers and their medicinal purposes, while he was trying to teach me how to read in Hebrew (Of course, the latter proved to have less practical application; I haven't the slightest clue of what I was able to read), and, as it always did, the subject came up. However, it wasn't hard to come up with a response. You see, for me, the Angel's existence meant one thing: my grandfather was right.
It saddens me to think about what that man had to go through. I am unsure about the full extent behind his descent into madness, but, as a younger man, he was quite an accomplished archaeologist. Known for his unwavering avidity for discovering truths long lost, my grandfather was someone who garnered much respect and adoration from colleagues and rivals alike. But when he became fixated on uncovering the Weeping Angels, his entire reputation and character came into question. Nobody knew how he came to know of their existence, nor did anyone know what his initial research was based on, but I distinctly remember the way he used to talk about them. He told me everything he could about any of his recent discoveries, and he did so with such a contagious enthusiasm, it was hard not to be consumed by it all. And, of course, as a child, I was enthralled by his stories. He even wrote a book, a journal to be more accurate, detailing every single piece of information he found on the Weeping Angels (He read it to me often, and even gave it to me before his death). But as I grew older, my interest in the mythology diminished. Sadly, in the end, the rest of the world felt similarly. His reputation began to disappear, along with his sanity, and soon it all seemed to be nothing more than the inconsequential fantasies of a mad man. My grandfather died in ill repute by his professional and familial community alike, alone and discarded like the artifacts he dug up. I can only imagine the heartache and the despair he must have felt in the final moments, knowing that he was the only one who knew the truth.
My answer seemed to satisfy Richard since his inquisition did not continue any further. Strangely, when I asked him the same question, he avoided answering altogether and resumed his language lesson (I didn't find out until later why he was always so cryptic about his past), but from that point on, it appeared I had become someone he fully trusted.
Now, up to this point, the subject regarding the Angels often led to speculation, which then ended in disappointment. Almost excruciatingly, the desire to pursue further evidence became more than just a mutual inclination towards curiosity. It was a fire in our bones. We were like children, set ablaze by the limitless possibilities of knowledge while simultaneously disposed to impatience about the lack of definitive results. It was during the last five days of our journey that the decision was made to pursue any further proof on our own. The idea was that, since we were only two men, more could be accomplished by ourselves than together. It was essential, though, that any new information was to be communicated immediately.
On the fourth day, we were able to make it all the way to a quaint little island called Svinør, a former port off of the southern coast of Norway, to finalize our plans. But on the fifth day, I awoke to an empty cottage, with nothing more than my belongings and a note from Richard, apologizing for leaving on such sort notice. Apparently, he had an epiphany the night prior about the whereabouts of where he might find the Angel Statues and knew that he had to leave post haste. But he left his mailing address since he was positive that, although being the first to depart, he would not be the first to correspond. I wrote to him immediately. I felt it necessary to tell him that despite this, he could expect promising findings soon.
I must admit, at first, I hadn't the slightest idea of how to begin my quest. The obvious choice was to begin with my grandfather's journal, but he gave it to me when I was very young and, thus, had forgotten where it was. Truthfully, I was unsure whether or not it was even in my possession any longer. On the other hand, it seemed odd to just approach the populace and inquire about the Angels, so, in the end, I opted to do some research. My first stop was the city of Cambridge, where the University Library still stands, a beacon of knowledge and research which very reasonably could hold the answers I was looking for. I began with extensive research on the mythology of England itself. Not surprisingly, England's folklore has roots deeply entrenched in the rich, complex and often convoluted history. With so many battles, religious revolutions, artistic renaissances and political upheavals, there were many legends to sift through. Much of the difficulty lay, in part, that folklore was passed down orally, from generation to generation, so finding something so specific proved an impossibility. Although many English legends were fantastical in nature, none bore any resemblance to the stories Richard Drumlins and I held to be truth. Almost desperately, I even asked a few experts who frequented the Library about some of the more forgotten legends of England, hoping the subject would come about organically, but we never approached the matter of angels.
Thus, I ventured to London, England, where Richard claimed the stories originated. And, against my better judgement, I asked within the localities concerning the Weeping Angels directly, but it ended with the same results. Nobody had ever heard of the Angels, the house of Richard's great grandfather, or the woman who spread about the stories. I was baffled and disheartened to say the least. Nobody was willing to talk, nor was anybody willing to listen, except for one man... a very strange man. He introduced himself as Warren Clark Ravensdale. At first glance, he did not seem to be anybody of particular note. He was a tall, lanky gentleman with a low resonating voice, but every time he spoke, it sent a chill down the center of my spine. His calculated manner of speech and gesture gave him a strangely ominous presence. Within minutes of our first conversation, I had the sense that his interest in the Angels was not the same as mine.
Accordingly, I had many reservations about the permanence of our quest, especially in consideration to my grandfather's failure and even Richard's former ridicule. But there was still a sense within me that did not allow me to disregard it all as fabrication. The way Richard talked about the Angels was as if his obsession was fueled by a fear, an intriguing semblance of dread. And, whether the Angels themselves were real or not, the photographs of the things provided too much evidence to toss aside. There was too much contradiction to ignore either theory completely. I was resolved to write to Richard again and inquire about said contradictions, but upon arrival at the post office, there was already a letter waiting for me.
Here is the letter. You may read it in full:
Monday, 12 November 1956
42, Chilkwell Street
Glastonbury
Somerset
BA6 8DB
To my friend, Lewis: -
I wanted to let you know that the 'epiphany' I had about where I could find more Weeping Angel statues turned out to be a dead end. I should've known better than to think I could find them in this time. Also, I will be living in a house here in Glastonbury, so you can expect my replies to be much quicker.
I hope your search is more fruitful than mine.
Signed,
Richard W. Drumlins
After the experience I had, I was not surprised that he failed to find anything as well, but I decided to write him a response regardless, detailing my frustrating and confusing endeavor in Cambridge. As I wrote the letter, I must admit, I began to question the sanity of even myself in this endeavor.
Several days passed without word from Richard Drumlins, and I began to wonder if it was because of the contents of my last letter. As far as I was concerned, I did not think it to be rude or full of ungentlemanly speech, but I could not reasonably assume any explanation for his lack of communication. A week went by and I began to think something terrible happened to him. It came to the point where his safety began to outweigh the mystery of the Angels themselves. Having already experienced a measure of loneliness and frustration from my search in Cambridge and London, the thought of Richard having to relive any such isolation and ridicule was unacceptable. So, by the beginning of the second week, I was determined to concern myself fully on the well being of my friend- but the grotesque faces of those petrifying monsters kept me from doing so. They were part of many nightmarish dreams that held me from slumber, and, before long, I began to fall into that accursed lore of them yet again.
I cannot tell you how or why, but the knowledge of these things is almost spellbinding. It was as if, in the very moment I saw the photographs, I could no longer forget them. And Richard's question constantly ricochet in every corner of my mind: how could something so terrible be forged? Even though I could find no secular record of their existence, I also knew there had to be something behind it all. Nearly in desperation, I even searched for my grandfather's journal in my home but to no avail. So, one night, I wrote a letter to Richard explaining my doubts and suspicions, but assured him that, despite these, I was not fully convinced of delusion. I required more proof. I needed more answers.
It was on a Saturday, the first of December, when I went to the post office to deliver that letter. It was raining, not in a thunderous storm sort of way, but the clouds enveloped the sky in a manner so that sunlight could not penetrate through. And, although there were no lightnings or thunders to radiate the skyline, the soft drizzling of raindrops across the city left an undeniably foreboding atmosphere that should've prepared me for what I was about to encounter.
The mailroom was completely deserted, filled only with the soft rapping of work behind closed doors. Odd silvery pillars of light slipped through the windows like slowly crawling fingers across wood, and a single light bulb illuminated each space between the postal workers. They stood behind their counters in an unnaturally still manner, and even spoke to each other in cold, monotonous tones. Having stepped foot onto the sleek, wood flooring, instantaneously, an overwhelming feeling of caution ran through me. At first, I did not know where it came from, until the low, calculated voice of Warren Clark Ravensdale inched its way into my ears.
"You should be careful, Sir, " he stated. "Terrible weather today."
I cannot rationally explain to you how I knew, but he appeared informed, or at least cognizant of why I was there. The calm style of his voice seemed friendly and comforting, but my intuition left me with an uneasiness of speech and altogether a nervousness from his sudden presence. The emptiness in his pale blue eyes said so much more than his words did, and it chilled me to my very bones.
But I managed to collect my thoughts and still my quivering voice. "Indeed. One can never be too careful."
He lifted his nose in a curious sort of way. "Mailing a letter I see. To whom, may I ask?"
"A... friend of mine," I replied warily.
He placed a letter of his own on the counter-top, quietly acknowledged the clerk with a tip of his brow, and faced me once again. "It's a dangerous business, isn't it?"
"What is?"
"Searching for knowledge."
I had no adequate reply. It frightened me how much it appeared he knew, even without saying anything at all. But it was his smile that petrified me, the countenance of which bore resemblance to a deliberate warning.
"I hope all is well with your friend."
The mailroom had four letters from Richard addressed to me that, for whatever reason, were not delivered to my home. I was informed upon request that the mail doesn't always come in when expected, and that, in the future, precautions would be taken to ensure that all mail addressed to me would be delivered on time. As you can probably imagine, I thought it peculiar. Prior to arriving, I had some suspicions of wrongs against Richard. After the interaction with Warren Clarke Ravensdale, I most readily attributed impending danger to my dear friend, and feared what I might find within those letters.
I feel obliged to warn you: the contents of these letters are some of the most disturbing things I have ever read. You may read them one at a time before you continue.
Wednesday, 14 November 1956
To my friend, Lewis: -
I'm so sorry, my friend. I want to apologize for any frustration my stories might've caused you. It was not my intent, I swear. I am still appreciative and happy of your trust. It's strange.I'm still having some trouble, but sometimes I forget how much hasn't happened yet. Lewis, I hope that you are not discouraged because of this minor setback. Someone with your knowledge and drive for learning is a treasure not too many people possess. Keep it up.
PS. I've been curious about your grandfather's journal. Maybe the next time we get together, I can take a look at it.
Signed,
Richard W. Drumlins
Tuesday, 20 November 1956
To my friend, Lewis: -
I don't know if you've stopped replying to me because you're still frustrated -or maybe you're angry with me for knowingly encouraging you to look for the angels- but I feel that I should apologize again. I feel like I should be completely honest with you now. Stop pursuing it stop investigating the stories. Forget everything I ever told you because its not going to end well. The Weeping Angels are not something to be uncovered. They are secrets that should be buried forever. Nobody should have to experience the horrors that I now face. I wish I could show you. I wish I could prove it, but I fear for your life as well as mine.
Take heart this warning. because the pictures have come to life.
Saturday, 24 November 1956
To my friend, Lewis: -
I don't know who I can turn to your the only person who will believe me. I hope you reply to me soon. I just need som one to understand. I am not crazy i am not insane. The Weeping Angels are real, Lewis! The Weeping Angels are real!
Wednesday, 28 November 1956
To my friend, Lewis: -
It's been nearly two weeks. The Angels came out of the photographs. I have left the house in Glastonbury moved into a small cottage at the edge of London. I made sure it didn't have any windows. wish i had mirrors in every corner You can't be too careful Hopefully they won't be able to track me. but I'm still afraid. I think the Angels are still out there. I can't sleep. Too much on my mind There are dogs too, or maybe wolves. Theyre in forest behind the cottage. They bark and howl during some nights, not always, but it keeps me awake. I've been told dogs can sense things.
I think they're still after me. Its true what Sally told me. I shouldve listened to her I should've left them alone. I knew they were fast, but theyre faster than you can possibly imagine. the only reason why I'm alive to write you this letter is because she told me how to slow them down - yes, not stop them, but slow them down - dont blink. Don't blink, Lewis. I have never been so terrified than on the night I stared into one of the angel's cold, empty eyes, hoping fear wouldnt overcome my senses, so that I could leave that damned house forever.
Nobody believes me, Lewis. Everybody thinks I'm crazy. You saw the photographs though. You believe me don't you? I hope you get this letter because it may be my last. I know what they do if they touch you, and if this is the last time we communicate, please, do not come find me
Signed,
Richard W. Drumlins
Personally, I did not know how to feel after reading those letters. It was my initial response of trepidation, after our lapse in communication, that validated all of my fears. Some uncertain and disturbing events had befallen him, matters of which I had no explanation for. Even if I hadn't noticed the subtleties throughout, I'd still feel the same. It was the haunting and perplexing content that culminated within me an overall sensibility of dread. The candor of his retelling seemed to be motivated by a proper feeling of fear. And his handwriting from the first letter to the last continually became more erratic and illegible. The spelling and grammatical errors were uncharacteristic to say the least. He was an educated man, yet, it appeared as though he was in so much of a rush, he didn't bother to correct it. By the end, I was both fearful and disconcerted. What was he talking about? What could possibly have happened to him? Why did he tell me not to find him?
Only after rereading each letter separately did the gravity of his words fully sink in. There were many instances when sudden epiphanies shocked my system, wherefore my suspension of disbelief could hold no longer. For example, the idea of photographs actually becoming angels was preposterous, but it was this warning that seemed to unlock memories I thought were long forgotten. My grandfather wrote about this very thing in his journal. I remember thinking not blinking to keep the Angels at bay is nothing more than a children's game, but the truth was now undeniably confirmed. After much deliberation, I decided to call him by telephone, but as expected, he did not answer. An entire day transpired, where I debated over my considerations concerning his disappearance and whereabouts. It came about that any and every thought eventually went to the same point: Richard was missing. Consequently, then, I was decided. I went to Richard's cottage at the edge of London, despite his final letter's exhortation to disregard any attempts to find him.