IV.

Seven days passed, and I had not heard any word from the police. As a result, my worrisome mind was wrought with more confusion and deepening uncertainties. I began to think that maybe my mind had perhaps played a trick on me, that everything I had experienced was only in my head. But to think that the detectives were too busy looking for Richard than to contact me was more comforting than the alternative. I had to trust that they were doing everything in their power to find him, although, admittedly, I must say doing so was decidedly more taxing than I realized.

While I waited for a correspondence from Scotland Yard, I stubbornly tried to distract myself from the entire set of events. If ever a passing thought of Richard or the Angels entered into my mind, in an attempt to gain a semblence of sanity, I made it a point to occupy myself with established truths, matters I knew to be real, such as biology or the physical sciences. It proved unsuccessful, however, to return me to any sort of normalcy. Quite the opposite, in fact, for even the Weeping Angels once occupied the title of established truths and now everything about those terrible statues was strongly in question. And yet, I could not stop myself from falling into the obsessive gravity of their mystique.

I have mentioned before about the spellbinding nature of the Weeping Angels. Once their existence is learned, once the sight of them has been seen, the deed cannot be undone. Yes, the dread I had come to know pulled me towards them with a terrible magnetism. It is a point of contradiction since I can truthfully tell you that I was terrified of the things, yet I could not erase them from my mind. It was this arresting insanity that drew me deeper into a previously growing sense of isolation. Every time I went to sleep, my nightmares reminded me of the Angels. Every time I woke up, realities reminded me of Richard's disappearance. If I was not haunted by the images of their horrible faces, I was reminded of my failure to find my friend. Indeed, I was truly alone, with nothing more than deprived echoes, responding empty answers to my pleas for help. I care not to fully express how wrought with guilt I had become, for nothing seemed to alleviate the storm in my mind. Too many questions plagued me, too many answers needed to be found, and the desire to search them out continued to course through me like a poison.

I want to assure you, my friend, I am not without sympathy. After the incident at Richard's cottage, I found myself in the same circumstances you find yourself now. Fear, frustration, and loneliness are powerful agents to disrupt one's mind and focus. Understandably so, these are strongest when we are at our lowest and there is no other kind of insecurity like the kind of lost conviction. A person's beliefs are the foundation of so many other aspects of life. Once that confidence is shattered, there is very little to make sense of the world again. In truth, I tell you that I had become abysmally unsure of what I believed in. I slept very little, convinced of one thoughtless theory after another. Are the Weeping Angels everything we thought they were? Was I somehow led astray by a figment of my imagination? If my grandfather eventually went insane in his quest to find the Weeping Angels, why not me? These were questions that plagued me for days, tearing away at the very fabric of my heart and mind. To think that Richard had, not only, experienced similar emotions as these, but was somehow able to endure them on his own was beyond reasonable explanation. Thus, inevitably, I became obsessed over the overwhelming contradictions of recent months until, in a fit of uncontrolled frustration that resulted in the disarray of my apartment, I was readily convinced of pure madness.

It wasn't until I went to my father's house, wherefore a firm sense of resolution was re-ignited, did I find solace in the complete affirmation of my sanity.

It was on a gloomy, winter Tuesday when I received a call from him. The weather that day seemed to appropriately reflect the devastated state I was in. Rumbling grey clouds cast drearily over the city like an ominous, dark blanket, threatening to strike with lightnings and thunders at any given moment. I was laying on my couch, contemplating the ravaging battle within my head, while the constant droll of falling raindrops beat up against the window. Even though the call was not necessarily unexpected, he was the last person I thought I'd be speaking to that day. Initially, I assumed it was Scotland Yard and the disappointment I held after hearing his gruff and raggedy voice was difficult to mask.

"Lewis," he said slowly.

"Yes," I replied.

But there was no response. Silence slowly seeped through the transceiver like a trickling faucet, and I was unwilling to wait any longer. Before I was able to end the conversation, however, I was paralyzed by the most simple yet terrifying question he could ask me.

"Please... can you visit me?"

Forasmuch as I wanted to deny it, I was unable to collect a sensible thought after fully processing his question. It was shocking to say the least since that proud man's request led me to conclude an undeniable need for something previously unheard of. Companionship. And help. On the memorial of my mother's death, that desolate and dreary mid-winter Tuesday, it was indeed surprising, yet now seems oddly misplaced to what eventually occured that day.

My father's apartment was a very pleasant and well-furnished home for someone in his circumstances. Although I was deeply hurt at the loss of my mother, losing a wife is a pain I cannot fully comprehend. I assume there is a strong sense of loneliness attributed to life afterwards. It must've been difficult for my father to have a single bed again after all those years. The visit, in this case, was one of impulse. I did not make it a practice to visit him often, nor was there much need to, but, for whatever reason, I felt as though I should. Ultimately, I suppose, I needed to be around him as much as he did me.

We began with the routine pleasantries, much like our previous conversations. He did not have much to say except that the nurse who came by on rotation was someone he thought I should get a chance to know better. Overall, our conversation seemed to reflect the uncomfortableness felt on both sides. He must have sensed a greater measure of it on my part though because, after a lull began to develop, he cleared his throat and said:

"What's on your mind, Lewis?"

I did not attempt to hide my nervousness, nor did I try to dodge his question. I did, however, hesitate to answer him. The words I wanted to express, it seemed, could not find a voice of its own. My father was not one to ask about a person's well-being, let alone that of his son. I remembered, when I was a child, his stern face, and as I stared into his eyes, his face still bore that look of serious contemplation, but his voice held a tone of genuine concern. Strange though it was, I perceived that this was indeed a kind gesture towards me. But as I looked again, my recognition was mixed with sadness and anxiety; for certainly, this face was that of a very lonely man.

He waited patiently, until finally, I cleared my throat as well. "Have you ever lost your belief in something?"

He paused to think for a moment. "Are you referring to losing one's faith?"

I sighed regrettably. "No... I don't mean faith."

"Then I don't understand what you mean."

Initially, I felt it best to leave the matter unresolved, for you see, my father and I have always been on the opposite sides of the spectrum. Being deeply religious, he was always a man of faith, and myself, a man of science, found such things to be perplexing and, ultimately, futile. But something in the back of my mind resisted that urge. I cannot fully explain what the cause of the compulsion might have been, but I needed someone to understand, I needed someone else to know the plight I had suddenly found myself in. So, instead of changing the subject or even excusing myself, I leaned forward and, with as much articulation of speech, attempted to have my father understand.

"I feel as though I am losing my mind."

He narrowed his eyes in thought, but gestured for me to continue.

Once more, I found myself taken aback at his actions. I nodded my head and continued. "I've been searching for something... something I wish not to say. But, at the start, the excitement of it all seemed to be enough to pursue further... the farther I continued, the more confused I became... and now I am unsure of what is real. I fear that the discovery of what I have been searching for has come at the cost of my sanity..."

He remained in silence, obviously engrossed in some sort of contemplation. But I was sure he could never understand.

"What is it that you've been searching for?" he asked.

It may be added that I was quite embarrassed over what I was about to say. I think, at one point, there was a rationalized notion to tell him a lie, perhaps something else that he might be able to wrap his thoughts around, but, after everything that happened, it seemed wrong. Who else would I go to? How could I keep the truth hidden from the person I was trying to gain comfort and understanding from?

Once again, I was able to withstand any natural tendencies. "The Weeping Angels."

"I see," he responded very plainly. "Like your grandfather."

"Yes," I replied solemnly.

"Now I understand what you mean."

Forasmuch as our estranged relationship had become, that moment seemed to be the most anticipation I've held for my father's words. I knew he was deep in the thought, for the furrowing of his eyebrows and the piercing of his lips was quite indicative of a process, but whatever he was to say next, I hadn't the slightest clue.

"Your grandfather and I," he started suddenly, in a quiet, controlled tone, "never saw eye-to-eye on many things, particularly on this subject. But I cannot not deny him his tenacity for truths, his vigor for knowledge, because, quite frankly, it was impressive. It's something you share with him... As his son, I learned never to try his determination for doing what he thought was right, even if I didn't agree. He needed to make his own decisions. Of course, I wasn't always that way; I'm stubborn, as you know... It takes a measure of time before I can let someone go.

"But the Weeping Angels. Those damned things... will I never be rid of them? We used to argue about them daily. Your grandfather- he never stopped talking about them. He never stopped searching for them either. It consumed him, Lewis, right up until his death. I believe even now that it was the Weeping Angels that eventually caused his insanity... but, truthfully, I do not believe it was because they weren't real."

I never thought it possible for my father to say such things. My feelings in that moment were purely of surprise and intrigue.

"Let me show you something."

As he left to retrieve the thing, that certain shock which coursed through me came to have more facets for me to sift through. It was a shock filled with bits of comfort but also a strong sense of unsorted strangeness. Although it was exactly what I needed to hear, I was unable to fully process the sincerity and understanding behind it. This, however, ceased almost at once, as soon as I saw what he wanted to show me.

My father returned with a book. It was small, only slightly larger than a person's hand, leather bound, and with a red page marker that hung out from the bottom. He placed it on the armrest to my left and solemnly took his seat. I took the small book into my grasp, delicately turning each page with awe, with a growing impression that would be utterly unforgettable.

It was then that he cleared his throat again. "Did I ever tell you about the time your grandfather wanted to stop searching for the Weeping Angels?"

I shook my head mutely.

"He was fed up. Tired from the ridicule and... well, from me. He had some information and documented it down in that book, his journal, but it wasn't enough for people to take him seriously. It was just enough for his reputation to fall apart, for the relationships with those he loved to decay.

"He had one friend though. Someone he met at the coffee shop he frequented whenever he put his notes together. I never knew his name, never had a chance to meet him, but your grandfather told me that he was the one who saved his life. You see, his desperation and despair during that time had come to a disturbing point, and it was only from this friend that he was able to move beyond it. This friend helped him to renew his desire to find in the Weeping Angels, to continue his quest and to fill his journal with as much information as he could.

"Of course, I thought he was mad. I told him how foolish he was to pursue those dreadful things... but it did not stop him. And, as you can see, he filled it. He filled that journal completely."

By the time I had listened a few seconds I was broadly attentive, for the nature of his story was such as to make all disquieting thoughts about his strangeness inconsequential. Of course, I had wondered who the man was or what he must have told my grandfather, but every page of my grandfather's journal was exactly what I remembered, and I was convinced. Every statement, every warning, every bit of information he found on the Weeping Angels was written in the book, forever ingrained in a manner of truth and validity.

"Why do you have this?" I stammered. "I've been looking for it."

"You never took it with you when you moved-"

"But why- why did you keep it?"

He nodded his head knowingly. "Because of faith, Lewis."

As soon as he had spoken it, an immediate sting of confusion entered into my system. It was a word he used often, but held very little meaning to me. This word, which my father and I had debated over many times in the past, was now being used in a context specifically applicable to my circumstances.

I was forced to finally looked up from the pages of my grandfather's journal, to face him. For the need of complete understanding had to be satisfied.

"What do you mean?" I said. "What does any of this have to do with faith?"

"Lewis," my father stated calmly. "Do you know what the definition of faith is?"

"It's a hope based on credulity. An irrational belief in something that doesn't exist."

He nodded his head. "I once thought that too. I used to think it was a belief that a person had to feel, whether or not it made sense. But do you know what the real definition of faith is?"

"No."

"There is a scripture that says faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen... It means our confidence in realities must be based on proof, otherwise it's meaningless. You're a man of science, Lewis. How do you know that the wind is real? Or how do you know that gravity exists?"

I thought for a moment before replying. "Because... we can see how it affects the world around us. There's proof of their existence."

"Exactly!" He pointed enthusiastically. "Just because we can't see the air, doesn't mean it never moves the leaves. Or just because we can't see gravity, doesn't mean a rock won't fall when it's dropped. We know it's there because of the evidence. And as a scientist, you make conclusions based on that solid evidence, don't you?

"Lewis, I kept my father's journal because it is the only evidence I have that proves his sanity. It is the basis of the faith I have in him as a person... It took me a long time to realize that. Lewis, your grandfather, much like yourself, was a man that has always searched for knowledge. He always made decisions based on fact and nothing more. Look at that journal. It is much too detailed, too full of hard work and strain, to be completely fictitious. I know my father. I know his character. If he believed that those horrible creatures were real, it must be true.

"I'm not saying that I think your search for them is a good idea, nor am I saying that his was either... but you're not insane, Lewis. That book in your hands is the proof."

It is utterly amazing to me how a change in one's attitude can completely reverse feelings and perceptions once preconceived. For me, from that point onward, I felt able to act, with a motivation ready for instant use. Yes, Richard was still missing, but the Angels were not just statues. They were real. I had my grandfather's journal as proof. And with his disappearance undeniably connected to the Weeping Angels, I reasoned that if I could somehow find them, it may eventually lead me to his whereabouts as well. It only seemed logical, then, to visit the Miskatonic Museum, since it was the only place I knew to find an Angel statue. Little did I know, it was to be the last statue I'd ever find.

The first time I set foot in that grim museum was a day after the conversation with my father. I did not know what to expect, but, quite frankly, I feel obliged to tell you that the Miskatonic Museum is one of most overtly strange places I have ever set foot in. Odd displays of books and literature of things I have never heard of seemed to be its pride, but there were gruesome tapestries and clay markings of creatures of some ancient lore that were visibly celebrated. Ancient scrolls with names like Tsathaggua, Shub-Niggurath, Tuggoth, the Mi-Go and the Great Cthulu passed by my vision, amassing a sense of intrigue until, finally, I happened upon a small room labeled The Weeping Angel. This was the room I was searching for, and upon finding it, I was immediately caught up in my original purpose for coming.

Seeing the thing once again brought back feelings of dread, but more so than that, I felt the familiar twinge of confusion. Here was one of the most dangerous creatures in the entire universe, faster than the blink of an eye, yet it remained unmoved on a solid mass, displayed behind velvet rope and a plaque which read partially inaccurately about its history. Many people gathered in the small room to view it and to comment on it's mystifying yet common form, whilst I waited patiently for the crowd to disperse so that, with an unencumbered view, I might make a better judgement for myself. Unfortunately, my opinion on the matter remained the same. Why had it not left? What made this Weeping Angel different than every other Weeping Angel I've heard about? It came to a point wherefore I even spoke to it. Yes, absurd as that may sound, I voiced my troubled conscience, for this was the thing that took my friend. Why it did so and why it acted uncharacteristically was beyond me. And sadly, being there only enhanced my frustration.

With an exasperated sigh, I turned my back and walked towards the exit. I felt as though I had seen enough... but I found to my perplexity that the forcible drive of the Angel itself kept beating at the back of my mind. Would to heaven I had quietly left the place before allowing my sight to rest again on its form, I most definitely would not be here to write these words for you. It is a wonder that I did not scream, become paralyzed, or collapse into a wild scramble, but somehow I failed to do even that. I actually managed to leave the Museum in a calmly manner, without a sense of dread or horror, but rather, in an oddly composed constitution of amazement.

As I have implied, before my leave, I gazed once more upon the Weeping Angel statue; then noticing for the first time the movement of the Angel itself. Whereas its head was originally hidden within the crook of its arm, it was now looking up, straight towards me. Once again, it was not in its malicious form with brimming razor fangs or demonic twisted claws- it had a look of stoicism, and since it was the first time I had seen it move, I was altogether hooked with engaged curiosity. It left an uneasy ripple of surprise, for there was nothing of actual visual horror about it. The intrigue was in what it led one to infer.

The face- perfect to the last, subtle detail of resemblance and identity- was the face of my friend Richard Drumlins!

Once I had blinked, however, it had returned to it's original placement.