Chapter One: The Beginning
Credit for the following post goes to Wyethalania
Within an incased exhibition table at the Pascoag Historical Society, the remaining possessions of a Mr. Leopold Eldridge rest in ageing forlornness. Beneath the crystal-clear Plexiglas, a human molar, a yellowing journal, a severely dented daguerreotype camera, an immaculate pocket watch, and remarkably clear photos of the New England countryside and one furtively of a pantry sit as testaments to the existence of a man largely regarded as a myth in the local area.
The placards over the objects read:
Daguerreotype- Model: 1855 Ferrier Standard
-An early camera noted for pristine, clear pictures that help to proliferate the common usage of said devices to the public. Yet, photos easily smudged if touched too often, which quickly led other cameras to dominate the market.
-Given to Mr. Eldridge by the Belington Travel Company to photograph the countryside so that when he returned he could create a Travel Guide to the area.
-Found near his body.
Pocket Watch- Model: 1849 Schleswig Crafters
-A common pocket watch of the time.
-Found within Mr. Eldridge vest’s fob.
Pictures of the New England countryside
-357 photos recovered from a strong box in the burnt remains of Sear’s Manor.
---321 were sent to the Belington Travel Company; the rest—mostly duplicates—were sold at auction.
---4 were donated to the Pascoag Historical Society and are on display:
-----A: an ageing barn. B: a bridge over the Hudson River. C: a pantry.* D: a woman.**
*Noted for the smudged area where the Eldridge’s Fairy is reportedly seen. This photo was found folded inside of his pocket watch.
**Identified by some local scholars to be a Ms. Tuttleman of Albany
A Molar of Mr. Eldridge
-When found on the morning of December 26th, this was the only tooth found within his mouth.
-It is has long been believed that in a fit of lunacy he pulled out the rest of his teeth before fleeing Sear’s Manor, which he burned to the ground during a snowstorm.
-The autopsy performed by the local doctor stated he died of hypothermia from being stuck in a snowdrift, but inexplicable injuries covered his entire body—often attributed to self-inflicted wounds, but believers of Eldridge’s account support the local legends of the Fairies.
The Journal of Mr. Leopold Eldridge
-Found in his breast pocket.
-Several pages were found torn out and destroyed, haphazardly, from the journal.
-Records most of Mr. Eldridge travels across New England and his sentiments thereof.
-Noted for the last few pages where Mr. Eldridge’s writings slowly show his own derangement form reality caused by his snowbound occupancy of Sear’s Manor.
The Journal fragments presented thusly:
Journal of Leopold Eldridge
4/07/1856
In my first entry of this new journal, I must remark upon the grievous and irritating loss of my old one. I have spent no more than three days in New York City since arriving on the Verona when these unruly Americans set fire to my hotel with their infernal revel rousing fireworks. Within moments, the dilapidated structure and most of my possessions ascended to the high heavens in the ashes of their former selves. Fortunately, I saved my daguerreotype as I fled that abominable inferno.
This country’s “Independence Day” is absolutely nauseating: the people are drunken and rowdy in the streets, the stores are closed and dressed up like trollopes, and the cuisine is noxious and unbearable. Give me the Queen’s Birthday and a mincemeat pie any day.
19/07/1856
I have finally acquisitioned a wagon for my business. The tavern keeper’s deal seemed more than generous. Quite a respectable man he seemed. Maybe these Americans are not as bad I believed. Now, nothing shall stop me from beginning my photographing journey. First to Albany and then I will see where I go from there. My images will amaze Mr. Beresford when I return to Liverpool. I have already thought of a name for my traveling book: “Picturesque Scenes of New England.” It has a nice ring to it.
My budget is limited, but people always love portraits, so I shall not want in my wanderings. Today, I photographed a lovely couple. I adore the way a daguerreotype gives an unfathomable illusion of presence and detail to the depicted objects. The Lady’s dress flounces out in shimmering curves from the silvery plate, and the Gentleman’s moustache appears almost gruffly tangibly as well.
21/07/1856
A broken axel… I now see why that barkeep was so eager to sell me his wagon: the rapscallion.
25/07/1856
On the road again… I spent a critical amount of my reserves on repairs and that exhortative innkeeper snatched every quid he could out of me. He forced me to hand over several of my prints to settle my debts. I will have to return to New York City to retake those precious cityscapes.
18/08/1856
I have not written in a while. Albany abounds in charming little spots and the people are clamoring for my photographs, so I have been far too busy even to think about writing—let alone do it. In fact, I have been so busy that I nearly ran out of the chemicals needed for the imaging process. Luckily, I found an economical pharmacy to replenish them. It was especially difficult to acquire sodium thiosulphate for a suitable price. I never imagined this would have been a problem; the standard of living in Britain is so high that when I first saw the prices here I thought it would be cheap, but I earn so much less. “C’est la vie,” as my tutor used to say.
27/08/1856
Leaving Albany was such sweet sorrow. I shall truly miss the companionship of Ms. Tuttleman; her scones and other personal aspects were the toast of the county. The dallied pinkness of her cheeks shone through the silver sheen of her daguerreotype so brightly. I was sad to part with the likeness, though the copy I made shall keep my watch in great company inside my pocket fob.
6/09/1856
Making great progress through the Green Mountains to Montpelier, my collection is vastly expanding with these rustic images. They should catch a nice sum in Liverpool.
22/11/1856
After making several passes through New Hampshire, Massachusetts with a prolonged stay in Boston, and Connecticut, I find myself in the small village of Pascoag, Rhode Island. There are no lodgings open in town due to the Governor’s proclamation of some Americanized version of “Thanksgiving” this year. Therefore, every Tom, Dick, and Harry relation is here stuffing his or her face with food. These yanks have so many perverted English holidays.
23/11/1856
A blizzard hit Pascoag today. I am so bitterly cold in my wagon. At least my horses found safekeeping a local stall.
24/11/1856
I have decided to winter in Pascoag. The snow is simply too deep to travel anywhere far, and I have heard winter gets quite nasty. I will find a house to quarter in if possible. The lodge, more like a brothel, is too filthy to keep my work in for any extended length of time.
This Thanksgiving holiday is more cultured than I previously imagined it to be. Very close to my ones in my home. So many memories come floating back.
28/11/1856
Thanks be to God. I finally managed to lease a house. It may be a few miles out of town, but it is the perfect location for undisturbed wintry photos. I was initially skeptical of the dwelling from the low price the family offered me, but after seeing the impressive edifice, I agreed right away.
The house’s Greek Revival architecture complimented the spacious hallow it occupied. It was also fully furnished and quite modern. When I asked them why they were renting the house, they responded, “Because no one would buy it” in a quick voice. I didn’t press them further, and they left hurriedly as soon as I signed the agreement. The wood must be rotten, I thought.
2/12/1856
I cannot find anything wrong with this building: the walls are solid, the floors spic, and the cupboards span. I even check the roof and it is perfectly intact. In the cellar, I found the mason’s date and it was built only two years ago. Someone must have died here… these silly Americans and their silly superstitions. There are no such things as ghosts…
I have stocked up on enough food and supplies to last me until March, so there is no need to go to town other than to attend Church or take and sell photographs. I would really not care to go to town either: these people treat me as if I was a living corpse ever since I moved in to what I learned is called “Sear’s Manor.”
This place has an amazing view of surrounding forests. I caught a shot of snowy owl feasting on a large mouse, maybe a rat, on branch outside my bedroom window. This species of owl is very rare in this part of the country. After I took the shot, it screeched an ominous sounding call and flew off into the night: a chillingly majestic sight indeed. It appeared a sir If I saw a man in my house today, however it was only a shadow...
13/12/1856
The days are so long, and I am so bored. There is absolutely nothing to do. I can only take photographs of snowflakes and snow drifts for only so long. Also, I fear my mind may be starting to wander as I swear I am starting to hear small whisperings coming from the walls. I know it is only the winter’s wind billowing by…
The sooner spring strolls by, the happier I will be. I cannot wait to see the heaths of Yorkshire, again. The melancholic desertedness of my current lodging reminds me of my childhood home in Gimmerton. Every morning, I would go out to the barn to milk the cows with my father. The udders were always disturbingly cold. Afterwards, we would go into the pastures to look after the sheep. He always warned me not to wander to far or the fairies would get me. I would stay at his side like a scarred calf. Look at me now, taking pictures all across New England for the Belington Travel Company. I am so glad Uncle Edwin paid for me to Allensferd; without him, I would never have received this job and been brought to this wonderful country.
15/12/1856
I lost my frame chiseler today. I laid it on the kitchen counter last night and now it has just vanished. I must have left it somewhere else.
It snowed all day yesterday perfectly pure white snow covering the entire ground. Even though today was unusually calm and free from blustery winds, I still heard the faintest gusting from the walls, but it sounds more like disdainful chackling now. Why would it sound disdainful? Surely, it is only my mind passing the time in idle thoughts.
19/12/1856
Writing help takes my mind of the loneliness. Well, it isn’t exactly loneliness… I am not alone even though there is no other human for miles. I wish there were. If only I could reach them, but the snow is so deep. There are small tracks in the snow… tens, no—hundreds of them all around the house. They’re watching me… whispering amongst themselves. I’ll catch one. I’ll catch one…
21/12/1856
The faintest impression, but I have it. I have it! A face, the tiniest face I have ever seen, but a face nonetheless, disappearing behind a jar of preserves. I rigged my daguerreotype to flash with the opening of the panty door, and in the corner of the shot, there it was the ephemerality of a fairy but with the features of a devil. I am not mad! I am not mad!!!
22/12/1856
The whispers are angry now. They want the picture, but they shall not get it. No, they never shall!
24/12/1856
Christmas is but mere hours away, but I fear I may never see it. My daguerreotype is the only thing keeping me alive. The flashes scare them away if only for a minute, but I am running out of chemicals and they are being accustomed to the novelty. Nasty, little demons they are. Their whispers they don’t even try to hide any more. I am a dead man. If only I could escape… It just keeps snowing.
25/12/1856—Morning
I have seen Christmas Day; the day, they are quiet—mostly—during the day, but tonight is the end. Early this morning before dawn, my treacherous eyes closed just for a moment and the malignant whispers waggled away the last of my chemicals.
They would have stolen my daguerreotype if I hadn’t heard the metallic knock of their mischievous hands against my camera. I brushed them away with my broom, my one remaining weapon, but they stabbed and pricked me from all around with small needles and my own frame chiseler. I just rolled on the floor hoping to smash them beneath me. They retreated, but not out of any fear of me—but merely to prolong my suffering. Damn you, Uncle Edwin!!!
25/12/1856—Afternoon[/quote]
If the weather lets up for only a moment, dear God, a moment… I’ll escape and burn this place to the ground... [Abrupt ending].
25/12/1856—Evening
Oh God… they won’t stop. They’ll never stop. They want my teeth. If I give them all, maybe… [Abrupt ending]
25/12/1856—Night
Run… [Abrupt ending]
Not far from Eldridge's possessions, lay several books, all containing eerily similar content to each other. Some told of the local stories of fairies, the others examined various photos with strange content, all frighteningly realistic and usually deemed as evidence for the existence of 'black fairies' and other...entities.
A sunny autumn day.
The first family to move into Sears drive slowly drives up to their house, starting to unpack, while something watches them from afar.
