Massacre at the Moonlight Ball

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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2 Responses to “Massacre at the Moonlight Ball”

  1. I hope dear sir that you realise what the Scribble-spectre is doing is only for society’s good.

    The girl has supposedly kidnapped is safely back with her father. The man he killed had been corrupting the presses to spin untruths about parliament, to repress the true goings on at Whitehall, and slandering the name of the scribble-spectre himself. I would not be so sure that the dead man did not pull the trigger in order to slander the name of the scribble-spectre further. Nothing is as it seems Mr. Firth, nothing.

    I cannot tell you what this gentlemen whispered in my ear, only that I have never met him before the evening of the events you describe. I only know that in some ways we share a vision.

    I am disturbed by your relation of these events, you seem to have taken a dislike to a man you barely know. It would be nice to see more balance in your telling of events. However, I extend a welcome to call on me if you deem it appropriate at any point, and formally welcome you to a ball I will be holding next Friday. Whatever your views, you hold good conversation from my memory of this night.

    Yours

    Lady Ashley

  2. thechronometer Says:

    Dear Mr Firth,

    I must inform you that you overestimate the Spectre’s faculties. A snatcher of women and women’s purses he may be – a rake and a wastrel, but certainly not a murderer.

    I do not suggest that he did not kill this man – I suggest rather that it was an accident on the part of a foolish man, with too high a sense of the melodrama, and too little care to his actions. It was unfortunate. Murder, on the other hand, is never unfortunate. Murder is always considered.

    If you wish to discuss the matter further, you may of course visit me at my shop Noone-Time.

    Yours faithfully,

    Mr A. Noone, Watchmaker

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