Superstition in Gomwin-Mur E-Book

Florian Mantione

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 234

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

For ten years, researcher Eadmund Wulf believes he knows the secrets of Gomwin-Mur. When he is unexpectedly entrusted with two children, this changes abruptly. Unbeknownst to them, Ed and Esmé are entering realms that their uncle would never have thought possible. Suddenly he has to deal with questions that this world does not know how to answer - literally, because superstition has taken up residence in Gomwin-Mur, pretending to know what Eadmund wants to find. Together with the quirky manager of his boarding house, Eadmund embarks on a journey he would rather never have set out on. Meanwhile, Ed and Esmé experience a completely different adventure that takes them into the underground of Gomwin-Mur. What awaits them there would shake their uncle's research to its foundations.

Leseprobe

The book

Superstition in Gomwin-Mur

Florian Mantione

EadmundThe glass curtain

When I entered the Guinness parlour on that stormy Tuesday afternoon, which I still remember as fateful to this day, I had no idea that disaster was already within my grasp.

Mrs. Folker came in and brought me a cup of tea to ease the rather dull reading of a report by Walter Briggs. Briggs provided me with information about theAelfric Digging Company,which was the subject of my research in Gomwin-Mur. It was a very mysterious company, little was known about it, only that it had built a factory building on a remote hill and was drilling wells there. It was all the more alarming that I had not yet succeeded in uncovering their true intentions, even though my investigations had already taken me to the strangest corners of Gomwin-Mur.

It was the secrets of this former metropolis, which was slowly but surely degrading into ruins, that gave meaning to the lonely life in the attic room. And then, of course, there was Mrs. Folker, who was a loyal, if somewhat whimsical, companion during the ten years of my stay.

When I had finished reading, Mrs. Folker came back with the evening post. Her neck was hidden under a colorful ball of scarves.

"For you, Mr. Wulf," she announced and fished out a single envelope from the pile of letters. As the Guinness had no guests apart from me, the rest of the letters must have belonged to the landlady, which was nothing unusual given her penchant for gossip.

"What is it?" she warbled casually.

"Don't you already know that?"

"It's from your brother," Mrs. Folker confessed. "Am I mistaken or is this the first time he's written to you?"

"That's right. It's been ages since I've heard from Harold. I wonder what motivated him to write."

"Maybe he's found himself," said Mrs. Folker.

"Harold? No, Harold's never been better since he met Sybille. He could have hugged the whole world, he was doing so well."

Sybille was Harold's wife. Together they had two children, whom they raised at Sybille's parents' beautiful country estate. I liked Sybille. She always made sure that I had a card from the family under the tree at Christmas, but I always looked in vain for Harold's signature.

With my permission, Mrs. Folker cleared away the tablet and I took my time poring over the roughly folded stationery on which the scrawled address with my name glittered in black ink. Eadmund Wulf, it said.

The wind rattled the window, the rain lashed around the chimneys, and I wondered whether it was the right place to receive such a message. In any case, it was an obituary, what else would have made Harold write to me after all these years. Please not mother, I thought. But not father either, you nasty fate, don't let it be father!

Nevertheless, I opened the letter and unfolded it. Harold Wulf's messy handwriting appeared; my brother's handwriting. I recognized it immediately, but it took me a moment to realize that it must have been years since I had last seen it.

I gloomily took my glasses off the table. I hardly wanted to put them on, certain of the suspicion that Mother was the deceased. But Harold's words were to surprise me. I read the letter not just once, but twice. Someone had indeed died ... Sybille.

"You're leaving us, Mr. Wulf?" it asked in astonishment from the telephone furniture: Mrs. Folker, as she often did when the Guinness was having a quiet day, with the receiver in her hand. For once, her attention was on me. "It's pouring like a cauldron."

"Just a walk," I replied and pulled the umbrella out of the holder.

The sleepy streets of Gomwin-Mur were motionless. I went over the words again in my mind before I went back to writing.

My dear Eadmund. I wish the occasion for my letter was more pleasant. Sybille has died. The day of her death was two weeks ago. She suffered from leukemia. She fought hard until her last breath. The world is a smaller place now. You may remember when we were young and Aunt Laura passed away - that's what it feels like, only worse. The last two weeks have been hard. I've been alone with the kids. I think they are old enough to understand that their mother is not coming back, but who is really able to comprehend something like that. I'm sorry you're only hearing from me now. Sybille begged me to tell you about her condition before it was too late. The fact that it still had to come to this is my fault. She wanted to see you, Eadmund. She always encouraged me to come and see you. I think she would have liked you to meet the children, and as I am planning to go to the Isle of Man to see our parents, I would like them to stay with you for the next two weeks. The owner of your hostel was kind enough to write me the address. I have not heard many good things about Gomwin-Mur, but I am sure you will look after the children properly. I will send you compensation by post for your trouble. This should arrive before the children. You can then pick them up at the station. They will arrive on the afternoon train at ten past five on Thursdays. Please be on time. The children can be demanding, but I'm sure that country life will do them good. It will also do me good to get away from the house and the excess of memories there. I would have waited for your answer, but fearing I already knew it, I sent the children off without your permission. They don't know their uncle, but it was Sybille's will that this should change. So consider it the last favor you can do my wife to take them in for a short while.

I have to tell you from Mom and Dad that they want to see you too. Perhaps you can accompany the children after their stay - without wanting to sound presumptuous, you don't have a job that requires your constant presence.

The death of my Sybille has shown me how fleeting life is. I will need time, but I would be glad to see you again soon, Eadmund. Pick the children up from the station and give them some distraction during their time in Gomwin-Mur.

In recognition of your work: Harold.

At that moment, I felt more contempt for my brother than I would have liked. How could he have thought it right to burden me with his children? I was ashamed to feel this way in the face of Sybil's death, which was probably responsible for this foolish decision. Stupid Harold, I thought. Stupid Harold.

"Mrs. Folker!"

Mrs. Folker, who had flinched violently at the door being blown open, dropped the receiver from her hands. "Mr. Wulf - shoes!" she hissed.

"Mrs. Folker," I said sternly, brushing off the dirt, "you gave my brother this address, or am I mistaken?"

She remained silent and looked rather taken aback for a moment. "For heaven's sake, Mr. Wulf," she said at last. "This is a guesthouse. The address is in the phone book and callers are given information, otherwise I could scare my guests away with a pitchfork. I'm not your secretary and the Guinness is not your private residence. Do we understand each other?"

"No," I replied coolly, "even if I apologize for questioning your authority, but I stand by it; you don't have the right to tell people who is staying here and when."

"The man said he was your brother," Mrs. Folker replied uncertainly, with a hint of horror in her voice. "He said he'd been phoning all over Gomwin-Mur - a relative of yours had died."

"I'm afraid that's right," I said, to which Mrs. Folker commented with a pitying sigh. "Nevertheless, Mrs. Folker, nevertheless," I said, picking up the receiver, complete with knotted cable, from the floor and pressing it into her hand. "Have a good night."

Back in the attic room, I sat down at my desk. I folded my hands and thought ... thought about two children frolicking around the inn, an extremely cranky, yet lovable landlady and ultimately my work. It hardly conflicted with the visit of two children. Harold was right; right now, it only slightly demanded my presence. I peered over at the locker. Then to the door. The combination was stored in my head, the only place it belonged. It couldn't hurt to prepare for the meeting. It was unthinkable that two kids would hijack my research, downright laughable. But if it came out that my presence was for theAelfric Digging Company,it would bring serious danger to me and whoever else might be associated with it.

The rain had subsided. I was surprised at how much the matter had made me brood. Before I went to bed, I asked Mrs. Folker for a simple meal, which she agreed to do with a sigh when I agreed to pay her worthily for her night's effort. I didn't feel like eating in the parlor, and Mrs. Folker had strictly forbidden meals in the room. Nevertheless, I had managed to smuggle a slice of pizza or two into the attic. There was an excellent Italian restaurant next door, of which the landlady thought very little.

Late in the evening, as tiredness began to gnaw at me, I did something I never used to do. I knelt down at the edge of the bed and said a prayer. It was in Sybil's memory, I thought, and if there was a God, he would certainly have liked it. Then I went to bed.

It was the dawn that woke me up. Outside, a fine drizzle fell from the closed cloud cover, so that the streets of Gomwin-Mur were bathed in a dim light. As far as the weather was concerned, it was a slight improvement on the previous day, but the same could not be said of my state of mind. I could feel my sanity slowly wearing thin at the thought of tomorrow and the seventeen o'clock train.

There was little going on in the Guinness. It smelled of blown-out candles, the open fire was struggling to survive and Mrs. Folker had plenty of time to talk about what was on the TV, although she was mostly interested in the bold print, as the magazine had to have a reason for preferring the seventh cooking show to all the previous ones. I spared myself the discussion in favor of my already damaged mind.

"I'm leaving now," I announced tonelessly, just as Mrs. Folker was ranting about the impending conflict in Finland. "Put it on my tab."

"... hot baths and - all right, Mr. Wulf," she interrupted herself briefly and then continued unperturbed, unconcerned that no one was listening to her anymore.

At half past eight on the dot, the post office opened its doors and a stout woman dressed all in pink stepped behind the counter.

"Name?"

As soon as I reached her, she slid a form and pen under the safety glass.

"Eadmund Wulf - has anything been left for me?"

The woman took the form listlessly from the counter and disappeared into the back of the room. Shortly afterwards, she returned with a thick envelope of cash.

"Here," she said brusquely.

When I reached the crossroads, I paused. The envelope was heavy, and unless Harold was planning for me to host a gala for the kids, the sum was decidedly too high. Instead of heading back to the Guinness, I turned the other way, past dark windows and misty lanes until the wet countryside became more and more rural.

On a hill, close to the mountainside, a handful of neglected brick houses were lined up. The factory-like building of theAelfric Digging Companyloomedfurther up. It looked gloomy and ominous, and it was no wonder that the former inhabitants of Corvus Hill had fled. The place was dreary, the vegetation dead, the waters black or dried up. Today, it seemed, even theAelfric Digging Companywas deserted. Despite the menace this place exuded, I continued on my way as I often did.

An inconspicuous path wound its way up the hill. Hints of footprints could be made out in the mud, all leading up to the factory building. All that remained of the access roads to the houses was a faint reminder in the form of overgrown piles of stones.

When the pointed, partly torn-down fence surrounding the factory building came into view, I stood rooted to the spot. I saw something very strange, something that seemed almost grotesque in the deserted landscape. Away from the company premises, but closest to the factory building, was a ruined brick house with a faint light shimmering from its bay window.

I walked towards it as if in a trance. Slowly, a path became clearer and clearer and I realized that Corvus Hill was not as deserted as I had assumed. Judging by the regularity of this path, the occupant of this shabby shelter must have been here for several weeks, perhaps months. I followed the footprints to a large pile of stones, where a torn-down lattice fence indicated the remains of a garden.

BANG!

I backed away reflexively. The barrel of a hunting rifle protruded from the broken door, the shooter was not long in coming and an old woman dressed in gray rags came hobbling out of the darkness, panting heavily.

"What," she hissed, "whatdo you want? Want to talk me out of my house? Or kill an old woman altogether? You're with them, aren't you?" She nodded up to the factory floor.

"No," I replied, my mouth dry, "certainly not."

"I don't believe you!" She dug the barrel into my chest, her trembling finger on the trigger, and that's when I realized. I knew the woman: it was Mrs. Shanders, the former occupant of number 11 - the house she was trying to evict me from.

I was spared nothing! I was exhausted and shattered, completely at the end of my tether. The arrival of the children was approaching and fate was so angry with me that it shook my research to the core.

I stood there stock-still. "The gun," I said, "please put it down. We've met before, remember?"

Slowly, she lowered it. She began to mumble unintelligibly, and an expression of deep suspicion marked her features. But she said nothing more, shouldered the rifle and trotted back to the house, stopped at the entrance and beckoned me inside. I could think of various reasons not to comply with this request, but curiosity prevailed. I wanted to know what had become of Mrs. Shanders and what had brought her here after all these years.

She waited patiently until I had entered. As she was visibly struggling to recognize me, I said: "Eadmund Wulf, do you remember?"

"That rings a bell," Mrs. Shanders grumbled. "Now sit down. There's tea if you want it."

It was a miracle that she found her way around. The room, which was a kind of living room, was a foul-smelling mess. Everything was carelessly strewn about, nothing was where it belonged.

I made my way to the tattered armchair Mrs. Shanders had pointed to.

"Shame," she whispered, "Gomwin-Mur has become the disgrace of the whole place ... their fault." Her watery eyes wandered to the kitchen window. The looming outline of the factory building loomed in the distance.

I remembered all too well my first visit to Mrs. Shanders. Her full name was Mafalda Shanders, actually Mafalda Yates, but after her husband died, she had gone back to her maiden name.

"I've tried for ten years, but this city and this house won't let me rest. I need answers, Eadmund. Until that happens, Gomwin-Mur will give me no peace."

"You want to forget it?"

"You bet your life," Mrs. Shanders barked sourly. I let her get away with her questionable manners as I suspected my hostess's state of mind had been affected. It hurt her to talk about it, I thought. But I wanted to hear what she had to say.

"I'm glad you came to visit me back then. Your participation in those incidents meant something to me. Most people thought I was crazy."

"I can't deny that I saw a certain self-interest in it."

"There's nothing wrong with that. Has there been any progress?"

"Nothing that would be of interest. Do you still think the house was haunted?"

"It's the truth," Mrs. Shanders replied quietly. "The terrible truth. It's a family curse, you know. My granddaughter - Ophelia's daughter - was taken from us."

"If I remember correctly, she died."

"No, much worse than that. She was kidnapped ... stolen from her bed on the night of the full moon. Nobody wanted to have seen anything. The villains must have come from the forest, gained entry through the window and carried her off into the mountains. Ophelia's husband was devastated by the loss. He left his post at the bank to look for his daughter. He wandered around in the woods; weeks passed. At some point he never came back and was never found.Ophelia,"she said, trembling, on the verge of tears, "they said she was delusional. But that wasn't true. Lies - all lies."

"What were those ...delusions?" I wondered if she could bear to keep reopening old wounds, dimly aware that it was this very event that she had recounted in such detail a decade ago.

"Grotesque," Mrs. Shanders whispered in a harsh voice. "It was absolutely grotesque. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I might have believed the hospital people. But Ophelia wasn't crazy. It started with earth tremors that shook the whole of Corvus Hill. Then there were power cuts, but at some point the lights just stopped coming on at Ophelia's house. Maybe it was because no one cared about her anymore. Selfish lot, this neighborhood. In any case, a grayish slime suddenly oozed out of the floor - ectoplasm, she called it. There was no explanation for its origin, so Ophelia and I went to see a geologist. He was supposed to look at the living room flooded with the stuff. But when we arrived, it was gone - gone, just like that. Ophelia insisted that it smelled of cleaning agent. There was no arguing with her; she was firmly convinced that it had been removed while we were away. Of course, this was - and indeed was - a fantasy. It would have been noticed if someone had gained access. And yet, two weeks later, patches of gray mold appeared in the house.

The incidents continued. Ophelia swore she had heard crawling in the walls at night. To prove it, she invited me to lie in wait with her because, as I learned to my horror, she had been on the prowl for some time to get to the bottom of what was going on. Her face was pale as a corpse. She hardly slept at all. So as we lay in wait, it happened. Out of the blue, we heard crawling and the wallpaper began to peel away from the walls. Pieces of the ceiling caved in and then - then everything was quiet. I stayed with Ophelia for the night. The next morning I handed her over to the doctors.Iwould have taken care of her, but I couldn't be responsible for her staying here. That's when I realized that there was a curse on Corvus Hill.

I heard strange noises from the house a few more times, always at night and always at full moon, even though no one lived there anymore. You know the rest of the story. When Ophelia's condition improved, she moved back to Gomwin-Mur. The house had become quiet and none of the inexplicable events were repeated. Nevertheless, there was no happy ending for her." Mrs. Shanders looked sadly at the factory building where her daughter's house had once stood. "They tore it down. They drove her out! Those scoundrels! She died, Eadmund. Nobody knows how. Suddenly she was found in her apartment - dead. The family curse."

"You don't think theAelfric Digging Companyhas anything to do with this, do you?"

Mrs. Shanders snorted, but then shook her head. "No. I was probably thinking the same thing you are now, that they're up there drilling for the mysterious slime. But how deep are they now? Two, three kilometers?"

"Five," I said. "But you're right, I did have that thought." She smiled briefly. "Mrs. Shanders," I said, "what were you hoping to get out of coming back here?"

"Oh ... I'll have to find out for myself. Maybe I'll find out something. Something seems to have happened."

"Yes," I said thoughtfully, "indeed."

A quick glance at my watch told me that it was half past two. I had a good twenty-four hours until the children arrived.

I thanked Mrs. Shanders for the tea and, after making sure she didn't want for anything, like warm blankets or food, I left her again. Despite the absurdity of her story, it seemed less outlandish to me than it had ten years ago. It was quite possible that Mrs. Shanders had tweaked it to make it seem more plausible, but it seemed wrong to dismiss her as a liar. Something about the way she said the mysterious incidents made me want to believe her.

It was afternoon. The hands of the clock were approaching half past four and there was a sense of departure in the Guinness. It didn't help that Mrs. Folker was gallivanting back and forth down the halls handing out blankets and sheets, occasionally crowing questions about the kids from the far corner of the hostel that I couldn't for the life of me answer. It was the first time in a while that anyone had stayed here for more than one night. It was also an imposition.

I tried to read the last few pages of the daily newspaper, the most boring articles that I had skipped at breakfast with a clear conscience. By now I thought I knew how to deal with the children. If I got it right, it earned me the quiet two weeks that a busy man of my maturity deserved.

EsméThe hillbilly

The train ride from Browning to Gomwin-Mur was long and uncomfortable, and it had proved once again how boring Esmé's little brother was. Ed had been staring out of the window since they had eaten lunch. Esmé poked him rudely in the side, which brought him out of his trance.

"Is what?"

"Do you see the mountains; the dark trees and sodden pastures?" She smiled mischievously. Ed hated it in the country.

"What do you think he looks like?" he asked.

"Who?"

"Our uncle. Father said he was waiting for us at the station."

"Maybe he looks like you," said Esmé. "You have the same name, maybe the same stupid appearance."

"You should not talk like that. Mother has forbidden it."

"Mother," Esmé repeated tonelessly. Ed only thought of her. She had heard him sobbing every night and sometimes he said her name quietly. At some point, he had to come to terms with the fact that she was gone. Father had forbidden anyone to speak of her at the country estate, but the rule had meant that no one spoke at all.

"That uncle, he's a hillbilly," Esmé said with such finality that Ed didn't dare contradict her.

The train rattled along. The clouds grew blacker, the mountains more menacing. Ed had his nose pressed against the window, interrupting himself here and there to take a bite of his sandwich. Then he chewed on it for ages, as if he had stuffed a piece of leather into his mouth.

Esmé had moved to the other side of the compartment, stretched out her legs and stared at the velvet-lined ceiling. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ed shed thick tears. A soft cry mingled with the constant rattling of the tracks and she heard him whisper: "Mother - you miss her just as much, don't you?"

Esmé's gaze wandered to the rear. The locomotive was blowing threads of gray smoke past the windows and a deep puffing could be heard.

"I..." Esmé began, but the words got stuck in her throat. "I think we're here."

Proud cast-iron letters proclaimed:Gomwin-Mur. There wasn't much going on on the platform, which only reinforced the impression that the station concourse was almost endless. In the dim light of dirt-stained lanterns, Esmé could make out two large tunnels. There was a warning whistle and the locomotive started stamping along again, the wagons quickly became smaller and were soon no longer visible.

"And now?" asked Ed, letting his gaze wander over the empty hall.

"Come," Esmé said and dragged him to a brick archway. "Look out for a man who looks like father."

Ed was shivering all over. "It's cold," he said. "Really cold."

It was cold, and even colder than December in Browning. "We should have put our jackets on in the train," Esmé said bitterly. She slapped her hands over her mouth in horror. "Ed, our suitcases!"

Ed's jaw dropped. He let out a dismayed "Oh" and grabbed his wrists. He looked towards the platform, but it was deserted.

A deep voice echoed through the station: "Hey, you there". Ed and Esmé whirled around. The shadowy figure of a man in a flowing coat and black fedora was coming towards them. He stopped a few meters away from them and threw a glowing cigar onto the track bed.

"Ed and Esmé?" he asked. His face was hidden from them, but he was tall, slim and surprisingly well-dressed for a backwoodsman.

"Good afternoon, sir," Ed said shyly.

"Hello," said Esmé.

"Suppose that's a yes," said the man. "You will call me Eadmund. That is your grandfather's name and according to ancient tradition, my brother Harold had the right to pass it on to his son. You," he said, pointing to Ed.

"Me, sir?"

"Certainly. Didn't you know that?" Ed shook his head. "Truly, your parents pulled out all the stops to keep you away from the family."

"With your permission," said Esmé, "- from theWulfs, my father's family."

"Right. Because it was Sybille's parents' will and Harold blindly followed it. Do you even know who your grandparents are? Your other grandparents, I mean."

"No, sir," said Ed.

"I'm sure they're terribly sad about it, you know. I haven't seen them myself for a long time. Everything was fine until your mother had you in her womb, and then Sybille's old man decided that we Wulfs would be a bad influence on you. Harold had a hard enough time with him as a breadwinning socialite trying to prove himself a suitable husband for his only daughter and heiress, so he gave in and cut ties with the Wulfs. I don't suppose you knew anything about that either?"

Now both siblings shook their heads. So that was him. That was Uncle Eadmund.

"Sir," Ed said shivering, "I'm cold."

"Of course," he said firmly. "We can take the bus to the Guinness. You'll be staying there with me and a woman called Mrs. Folker, the owner. But you'll have to get used to the cold in Gomwin-Mur."

"Uncle Eadmund," said Esmé, "I'm afraid we've forgotten our luggage."

"At home?" asked Uncle Eadmund in astonishment.

"On the train."

"I see. I'll get Mrs. Folker to call the depot. She sometimes likes to make herself useful for a small tip. Oh well." He shrugged his shoulders. "Come on now, we don't want to waste any time."