III.

The cottage was situated in a remote area, surrounded by groves of leafless trees and fields of dying grass. It was small, made of simple stone and brick, overrun with curtains of vines and growth which made it appear unsettled, yet gave it a romantically picturesque quality. It seemed as though he did not take care of the lawn or its flower beds, and there was no sign of any personal affects of his own, but other than a lack of upkeep, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There were no disheveled foot prints or tire tracks that suggested a struggle or perhaps a kidnapping. A car, obviously one that was often used, was parked near the side of the front gate, but it appeared to be there purposefully, not uninvited. Everything seemed in its proper place, but upon arrival, I felt quite uneasy. Indeed, it was the perceived normalcy that made me feel tense. The disturbing scene only heightened my sense of horror when I knocked on the door because, as soon as I did, it opened. It was not locked, nor was the handle broken. The drearily cold cottage seemingly invited me in, encouraging my investigation further. Reason told me to leave that dreadful place immediately, to get as far away as I possibly could, but I was compelled to move forward. Quite honestly, I do not attribute any quality of courage on my part. It took every ounce of strength to keep my hands from shaking. I tell you now, the only reason I continued on was because of my concern for my friend.

It was dark inside. The open doorway provided a partial source of illumination, but it mostly acted to intensify the shadows in every corner. To my surprise, the cottage's interiors were vastly different than that of its outside. Whereas an atmosphere of normality characterized my arrival, the opposite held true afterwards. It was a soulless grave for the lonely and disregarded. To my right was the common room, to the left was a narrow hallway which led to the master bedroom. Each section was curiously without any furniture or personal items. The wallpaper was dull and peeled, as if years of neglect had turned a once beautiful home into a dilapidated coffin. The wooden floors, although not rotted or full of mold, had a layer of undisturbed dust which facilitated an odd sort of mustiness. It was evident that nobody had set foot there in many years. Only in the master bedroom did I find a small pile of blankets, haphazardly tossed aside in a manner of great distress or of unencumbered examination. The nature of these findings suggested thoughts of sinister misunderstandings, or at least speculations of a madness beyond that of comprehension. I did not doubt something terrible happened to Richard, but my fears, only necessitated more feelings of apprehension and nervousness. Thoughts of our quest to find the Weeping Angels now had the bitter taste of antipathy. There was no longer any anticipation of wonder held within possibilities of the unknown. Only accursed aversion towards those haunting sights, those abhorrent images of doom.

In desperation, I repeatedly called out Richard's name. There was no rationale behind my thought process, no sense of logic as to why I decided to do such a thing. It was the only action I thought to be appropriate. I called out louder, each time listening for something tangible.

As I walked down the dark and narrow passageway, which led away from the master bedroom, a sudden sound reached my ears. Something answered back. Naturally, I questioned whether it had been an echo, for it was muffled and quite unintelligible, however, it was the first indication of life that didn't facilitate feelings of anxiety. When I called out again, another muddled reply came back, inciting me to ignore any irregularities in the responses. Led solely by my thoughts, I came before the large double doors which led to the main living quarters. As the front door lay ajar, casting a light of assurance upon my discovery, I felt something menacing and uncomfortable about the descriptive sound of the voice, almost held back by some unknown force. But the compelling motivation of courage disregarded my intuition completely. And I immediately entered in.

I mentioned before that there was an impetuous movement of courage that drove me to search out the voiced responses to my calls- but as quickly as it came that courage was shockingly abolished by a sudden and paralyzing gust of active terror. The image shot into my consciousness which made those vague feelings of horror and apprehension upon my arrival mild and quite insignificant. A towering figure stood before me, arresting my vision in a frightful gaze. There was no chance of curbing the flights of macabre the image induced, for I recognized it immediately, and it was not without a sense of urgency that I kept my eyes open. It was the ghastly statue of a Weeping Angel.

In that moment, I was wholly incapable of summoning the strength to resist my distress. It was as if the natural tendency to run from danger had been altogether forgotten, that each nerve within me had become petrified by that gruesome sight. It wasn't in it's monstrous state, as I had seen from Richard's lurid photographs, but it still illicit strong feelings of fear within me. In all honesty, his photographs were inadequate to prepare me for that moment. To see the statue in person was far worse than seeing it in printed form. And even as my body was stuck in an unwavering paralysis, my mind was tortured by the warning Richard gave me in his last letter: do not blink.

I must have stared at the terrible thing for more than a minute before I realized my vision beginning to falter. I tried my best. I tried to forcefully wish my eyes to impede the body's instinctive desire to close, but the spirit of endurance was woefully lacking in my strength. I did not want to do it, but as seconds advanced further, my emotions began to overrun me completely. Thoughts immediately went to Richard's description of the monsters, how they were faster than he could ever imagine, or to my grandfather's stories, how he told me of their unrelenting voracity. And I could not stop myself from doing it. I blinked, knowing full well it would be the last thing I'd do. Positive of a swift yet painful end, I closed my eyes and waited... but, remarkably, when I opened them again, the Angel remained where it was, frozen and unconcerned with its surroundings. At the height of an average man, facing the wall with its head buried in the crook of its arm, the Angel appeared hauntingly serene. Strange though it was, I recalled something my grandfather had told me, that the Weeping Angels sometimes covered their faces to protect themselves, for if they were to be seen by another Angel, they'd be forever locked in their statue forms. But other than a sense of self preservation, the Angels of my grandfather's tales were never described as serene. It was then that I was able to observe it unencumbered by those intense feelings I had formerly. The strange conflict of relief and panic in that moment is one I still cannot describe thoroughly. It did not attack me like I had fearfully anticipated, and I wondered why.

"No need to be afraid of the harmless," I heard suddenly. "They're only statues."

The subdued and deliberate voice held an odd and almost disturbing immediacy of recognition. As it slithered past me and into every corner of the living quarters, a different sort of uneasiness came upon me. Cautiously, I turned to see the unsettling sight of Warren Clark Ravensdale, enveloped in full silhouette and shadow. There was no way of knowing how long he had been there, whether he had just arrived or if he had been at the doorway the entire time, but every nerve in my body told me that he was somehow behind everything.

There seemed to be a faint atmosphere of tension as we stood in that empty room. If he noticed it as I had, there was little in his mannerisms to which I could tell. A shadowy figure of a man approached from behind and whispered something inaudibly to him. With a nod of his head, Ravensdale made a gesture with his hands, and a crew of men marched inside, making various measurements and calculations around the Weeping Angel statue. It happened so quickly, I was almost rendered speechless.

"What- what are they doing?" I was finally able to mutter.

He grinned. "They're taking it's measurements."

"For what?"

"For transport."

He delicately stepped onto the wooden floors. But not in a cautious sort of way. It was more deliberate, like someone who had been there many times before. Although his composure reflected one of ease and nonchalance, there was no hiding the excitement brimming behind his eyes. It was quite unsettling to say the least. Whereas I had come to characterize him with a cold sort of emptiness, there was now life coursing through his grin, a sinister brightness with each step. All the while, he focused his complete attention entirely on the statue of the Weeping Angel.

In retrospect, had the circumstances of this particular encounter been different, I most likely would not have had such an overwhelming sense of suspicion, but Richard was missing and I could no longer stop myself from asking what was on my mind.

"Where's my friend?"

He stopped briefly as if to consider the question. "Your friend?"

"He lived here. What did you- where is he?"

The men worked seamlessly through each meticulous process of transporting the Angel while Ravensdale monitored their assignment with serious intention.

"I don't know what you're talking about. This place was empty when I arrived."

The way he denied knowing the truth was that of indifference, as if he had a complete disregard for my question. It startled me slightly. "He lived here. I'm positive of it."

"I can assure you," he responded calmly. "When I arrived, there was only this statue and nothing else. You must have seen it yourself. Nobody has lived here in years."

The low ebb of his words hung loosely in the thickness of the room, until it quietly settled against me like an iron gate. An odd sense of confusion quickly coursed through my faculties, leaving me almost as paralyzed as I was after seeing the Weeping Angel. He spoke with an unwavering sort of conviction, and his statements had an implication of veridicality. But I knew it was impossible for any logical persuasion to be on his side. Still, in a sorted capacity within myself, an urge to question my perception on the matter shook my confidence most dramatically. The facts suddenly didn't add up and there was nowhere for me to look for more.

"Why are you taking the Angel?"

"Sir," he mused almost offended. "Your suspicion towards me is quite unfounded."

"Who- who are you?"

"I'm the Keeper at the Miskatonic Museum. I've been searching for the Weeping Angel statues for a long time."

I looked at the stony features and shuddered. Why had it not moved? Why was it staying still? "You can't take it," I said. "It's dangerous."

He grinned once more. "It's just a statue."

All at once, I was at a loss of words. My mind had become too agitated with a bombardment of questions and self-doubt to respond fittingly. Because of this, I was unable to stop them. It was all I could coherently do but to watch his men finish boarding up the Weeping Angel and take it away. The uncertainty I felt after their swift departure was that of increased concern and anxiety. By the end of the ordeal, I was no closer to finding Richard than I had been prior to searching. I hadn't the slightest idea outside of the tumultuous intuition I had regarding Ravensdale and his men, but even that was without real basis in demonstrated evidence. Honestly, there was also a sense of guilt within me. A feeling that there was something else I could've tried in order to help Richard, wherever he might be. And I ended up doing the only logical thing I could think to do. I called Scotland Yard and hoped they could investigate the situation further.