Massacre at the Moonlight Ball

Posted in Massacre at the Moonlight Ball on January 29, 2009 by scribblespectre

phantom-photoALBERT FIRTH’S JOURNAL 28th January 1814

The Scribble Spectre exists…and he is a murderer!

I had been invited to a great ball at the residence of Lady Marie Ashley, one of London’s leading aristocrats. On arriving at the great plaza, which had been decorated with spinning diamond chandeliers and brilliant vistas of artificial stars to celebrate the lady’s Moonlight Ball, I mingled for some time. 

Moonlight Ball

Moonlight Ball

The weather was dreadful outside, and the floor to ceiling windows were lashed by rain. Somewhere far off, the sound of thunder cracked over the mountains. At the height of  the 9th Concerto di Familie there was a horrible crunching sound on the roof and the music ceased.

A bolt of lightning bleached the smug features of the guests, in all their finery, and the window on the balcony in the east wing of the ball room shattered. Crouched on the balcony, wreathed in black, was a figure in a tri-corner hat. The shards of glass cascaded around him as he remained motionless.

 

“My dear vampires,” he began, before unfurling to his full height. Every pair of eyes was on him. “You have remained in your ivory towers for far too long. I have smelt your nauseating perfume from the far North, and I have felt your greedy fingers throughout the empire.”

He then threw himself off the balcony, amidst screams of horror, to land on the ballroom floor. “For long years I have learnt of the poisonous and privileged bastard children that would ruin us all. But now I see I can finally put faces to the names.” As he passed among us, stock still with fear, i noticed his eyes were glazed over and white, and his gaze would shift to the left when he addressed you, as if he were seeing double. “I have seen your true face,” he said, before his eyes met with those of Lady Marie Ashley. “And it is an deformed one.”

He leaned over to her and whispered something, but what it was, none of us could decipher. After that he stalked over to the daughter of a well-known politician and took her by the arm. “I am alone no longer!” he bellowed to the crowd. “There are others like me who see Britain for the rotting corpse that it is! We are building an army. You will know us before long.” 

At that point a brave gentlemen strode forth to put a stop to this madness but within a moment what had previously been this gentleman crumpled to the floor. The villain stared down the smoking barrel of his pistol at us all.

“Be warned,” he called, before dragging the girl out of the ballroom with him, “every black soul will stand and deliver to the scribble spectre and those he rides with.”

Many followed, searching the mansion, but no trace was found of the spectre or his hostage.

The home of Lady Ashley by day.

The home of Lady Ashley by day.

 

Albert Firth 1814

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The Haunted Minister

Posted in The Haunted Minister on January 9, 2009 by scribblespectre

ALBERT FIRTH’S JOURNAL, 24th January 1814

This is my first entry in this journal.

My name is Albert Firth and I am many things. A scholar. A journalist. A detective of sorts. You should probably best consider me as an interested party, for no matter my occuptation, my reason for writing this journal is to chronicle the emergence of a mysterious new threat to the empire.

The tale of the haunted minister began, as many unbelievable tales do, a legend. It was so long ago now that we only recieve fragments of the story; of the whole.

A corrupt and land-hungry Yorkshire council were lured out of their homes and out on the moors, by hand-delivered letters, illustrated in ink. Upon the letter was an invitation to dine with the devil at a table set underneath the moon. They each left their homes on seperate nights. They never returned. A highwayman they had hanged many years before was thought to blame. He was so called because he would leave drawings in a small wooden box in the homes of the widowed families of those corrupt bastards he had taken, out onto the Moors never to be seen again. 

An old Yorkshire engraving depicting The Scribble Spectre

An old Yorkshire engraving depicting The Scribble Spectre

Spook stories. Tales to tell your children when they begin the walk to school. ‘Don’t stray from the road or the scribble spectre will find you and drag you back down to hell with his mark branded onto your skull’. Grim thoughts indeed. But still only ghoulish tales for the superstitious, if I am not mistaken?

Yesterday a figure on a pale horse was seen riding from the home of the Prime Minister of England Lord Liverpool. The figure, witnesses believe, was cloaked from head to foot in raven black and seemed to have melted into the fog. A servant delivered a note presented to Lord Liverpool, and this correspondence must have been grave as the Prime Minister cancelled all of his appointments that day and never left his home. This is not out of the ordinary, it could have been any footman. When granted access to his physician, I was told that Liverpool was raving like a madman about the ‘phantom of the moors’ and on his chest there appeared a ‘brand or a sear-mark’ according to the physician’s report.

Taken ill yesterday

Lord Liverpool: Taken ill yesterday

I shall report more on these events and try to gather as much information on this when I can, however at this point I cannot reveal my motivations behind this investigation. The question remains, is the scribble spectre more than a myth and if so for what purpose is he writing to Ministers of the queen!

Albert Firth, 1814