The Night of the Veiled Prophet
Turner Cline
Dear Edith,
You are my sister, childhood companion, and presently my sole confidant. I write this letter under extreme duress, for the things I have seen transpire in Purim defy all knowledge: scientific and otherwise. In my time here I have uncovered this city's sinister undercroft, a vast conspiracy of the highest order, which to my belief will cloister me to the confines of a city jail. I know that I will find no justice or peace, and plan to make my stand here. For, I am a man and will be judged by men, not by the horrors which pursue me now.
It is my hope that by some means you are able to find this message. If it shall leave these dusty bricks, redacted if at all, it would still be better for you to know of my reasons for departure than for you to think of my death as a product of guilt. Furthermore, someone besides myself, who can live freely, must also carry the knowledge which sinks my frame, for the truth must live when the body cannot. Know then, though the termination of this letter and my life are one and the same, I leave with neither remorse nor a cloudy conscience.
It all started when I came to accursed Purim two springs ago to be the apprentice of a man named Walter Hollace, the owner and editor of the Clayton County Chronicle. The opportunities for advancement within the paper seemed promising enough, and steady employment as a journalist in a rural city was a welcome environment to practice my craft in ease and comfort. My desk was littered with leads for small comfort stories. County fair winning tomatoes, the successful advancements of a Boy Scout, and the arrival of touring theater groups were reliable targets for my pen. It was after six weeks of writing such pop drivel that Hollace felt that my talents were wasted in the side columns and would be best utilized as a junior editor within the paper.
I quickly educated myself on the histories and personalities of my peers and superiors at the paper. Walter Hollace was on the downward slope of middle age. Gray wings clung to his temples, which gave him a false air of antiquity. He came from old South Carolina wealth and would boast with adoration the financial and martial successes of his ancestors, many of whom could be linked to such histories as the founding of Charleston, the southern theater of the American Revolution, and the bombardment of Fort Sumter. Any luck with either finance or war that his forefathers had did not fall genealogically to him.
During the great market crash in the thirties, Hollace and his family fell face-first into the maddening fires of absolute, unyielding poverty. The family estate was gutted and sold like a fresh caught salmon and for many a month they had narey two pennies to spare. The devastation of their lives and the utter hopelessness was too much for his young wife to endure, and soon after she took her long walk into the Savannah River.
With neither a home nor family to keep him in this country, Hollace volunteered for Europe at the start of the Second World War. There, he served as an officer until rogue pieces of shrapnel from a German shell rendered everything from his left kneecap down to fine strips of sinew. After the war, he turned his eyes back to speculation and the burgeoning real estate boom in Purim. Hollace returned his fortunes threefold. By the time I met this modern Job, he was a jovial cherub.
His rotundness could barely be contained by his suit buttons and he was not unlike a great hippopotamus, full of visible joy and powerful with danger. His gait mirrored that of the large beast when it dances across a river bed. His peculiar spryness and agility were only handicapped by the leg injury sustained in the War. Doctors didn’t even need to amputate, and fitted the man with a prosthetic that he compensated for with an ivory cane. The cane was hand carved from the tusk of an elephant Hollace slew on a safari in the Congo, and bore designs that alluded to the eccentricities and warped nature of its nameless artificer. Serpentine scales inlaid with gold leaf were carved up the trunk of the staff, crowned with the white head of a stallion. The bone mane of the sinister chimera bent and dipped like living locks, giving way to the hold of its master in such a unique fashion that he and he alone could grip the staff in total comfort. Worst yet were the horse eyes; spheres of polished opal, blinded by chromatic cataracts that glittered like stars and dense nebulas found only in the farthest reaches of space, whose light and whose warmth have yet to be touched by mortal things.
Between Hollace and I were two associate editors, Philip Paxton and Giles Teft. They were young in age and nature, and were rank with the stench of sophistry. Like Hollace, the two were of old wealth. Philip was the third grandson of A. H. Paxton, the mayor of Purim, while Giles was the nephew of a wealthy banker in Atlanta. The two were altogether rude, blindly making their dullness known at every opportunity, and vocally enjoyed their positions of patronage within the paper. Few could ask for better stepping stones to professional success.
My work in the editing office involved much less managing the paper than I had imagined, and had much more to do with selling the worth of the institution to the Purim elite. My petulant "peers" lacked the tact for such business, and my novelty was prized by a class of people who so wanted to host. As I began to integrate myself with Hollace and his circle, a common story appeared. Hollace’s woes from the Depression were far from unique in the community, which seemed to be hit exceptionally hard. Families that had lived in Purim for five generations had to auction off their own homesteads just to survive, and there were horror stories of further unfortunate souls. The late husband of Mrs. Gloria Hughes, one of our frequent hosts and a lady of importance in the community, was pushed past the brink of dignity and decency by his woes. One fall afternoon he tracked down a Mr. Lyle Butler, the town banker, shot him dead in his home, and hung himself in the backyard.
It was only under the business acumen of Mayor Paxton that this group was able to survive and thrive in the post-war decades. By all apparent measures, this community of lofty businessmen and women was still reliant on the wisdom of their ever ancient leader, who by description had to be at such a high age that mental and physical degeneration was all but a certainty. Though I had never seen the man in person, a portrait hanging in the town library showed the aged mayor as a balding flash of wrinkles and white hairs, whose dissolving form was retained by a pair of half-moon spectacles and an ill-fitting seersucker suit.
Things in Purim remained uneventful until August, when tragedy struck in the infancy of the month. Beatrice Sinclair, a recent Clayton High graduate who was supposed to start at CSU in a few weeks, had disappeared. The story goes that she left her home to go swimming with a friend on the afternoon of the first but never returned home. Her friends claimed that she never arrived at their meeting on the riverside, and within 24 hours a manhunt was called. She was well-liked by her peers, deeply involved in the community, and prone to academic ambitions. I met her briefly at her family estate during a meeting with her parents for the Chronicle, and by all measures, she was an upstanding and serious young woman without a hair of rebelliousness on her gold-locked crown.
The Sinclair family are one of the wealthier families in town. Randolph Sinclair was the owner and CEO of the Sinclair Food Group, a series of pig ranches, farms, and a slaughterhouse on the edge of town. His wife Ronett was a committee fly, encircling herself in every social program and the organization she could latch her hands into. Given these marks of a happy and community-driven life, Beatrice either running away or leaving the town of her own volition was very unlikely, and many anticipated the worst.
After a week of looking, Purim awoke to the horrible discovery of her fate. Three miles upstream from where Beatrice was supposed to meet her friends, a trash bag was found lodged between the roots of a felled tree. Water seeped into the bag, and with the August heat the body had little chance for preservation. What flesh remained had been ravaged by wild animals and insects, and could fit snugly in the confines of a ceramic mug. Her skull and bones were disconnected and beginning to break down, with it unclear if they were severed by her killer or were also victims of decomposition. Dental records would be the only thing left to signify that these ruined remains were the bones of the departed Beatrice.
With her remains found, the sorrow of the town quickly turned into rage, a white-hot craving for those responsible for this heinous crime. Everyone was involved in the hunt for vengeance. The sheriff's department put out a $400 bounty for any information that would lead to the arrest of any perpetrator. Neighborhood watches were quickly raised to patrol the streets at night, and Mayor Paxton placed a 9:00 pm curfew until the case was solved. At the Chronicle, we published dozens of articles to keep the word out about any suspects. By December 12th, the Savannah River Killer was seemingly apprehended. He was a 42-year-old man named Martin Greenly, a drifter with no family in town, who came to Purim in June to work odd jobs. By his own account, he was at his home relaxing during the time of the murder and pleaded innocent to the crime. His pleas were constant and emotional from the time of his arrest till the judge sent him off for life.
Though his arrest was widely celebrated, and his role as the murderer was the official position of the Chronicle, something about it raised my suspicions.
There was the matter of motive. This crime was exceptionally brutal and violent. What could compel someone to do that to what by all accounts was a total stranger? Surely for one to try and commit murder so heinous, and work so hard to dispose of the remains in a way to allow almost total discretion, this would have to be a well thought out, meticulous, and malicious slaughter. Then was the concern of a murder weapon and crime scene. After his arrest, his trailer was raided, and found no clear weapon to be the cause of Beatrice's death. A bloodied knife was found in the kitchen and used as evidence in the trial, but recently cleaned fish were also found in the refrigerator. Though this tied Martin closer to the river, the viability of the knife as the murder weapon was flimsy. At the trial, several witnesses were called in, each swearing that they saw Martin walking near the riverfront. Yet, if their testimony was so accurate to place Martin at the crime scene, where was their input when the investigation began months earlier? With these concerns, I began my own private investigation of the matter as the new year dawned.
I did not undertake this endeavor alone. During that busy and emotional fall, Hollace had hired his niece Margaret as an office assistant to the editors. She bore little in likeness to her uncle, bearing sharp features and sprouting an acute nose that pointed her head towards inquiry and intrigue like the rudder of a speeding schooner. Thin but well-kept brunette hair shaped her crown and gave her appearance an air of meekness. Even her eyes were shy, with light gray marbles cowering at the back of her face, hidden behind a short pair of glasses. She had graduated with Beatrice and was thus drawn to the case with the sentimental curiosity that comes from a lost peer and the fear of one's survival. Yet, during the ordeal, she maintained a clear mind and was similarly perplexed by the anomalies of “justice” surrounding the killer. She made for a perfect assistant in the endeavor, and in our free times at the office, we began to piece together what really could have happened.
At every possible point of entry into the logistics of the case, we were stonewalled. For months we tried to secure an interview with Martin at the jail, but our calls and writings fell on deaf tones. Phone calls were quickly terminated when we expressed our purpose. Finally after several months of trying to reach someone, anyone at the jail, or even Martin’s public defender, we decided to go to the jail in person. Using the possibility of a psychological intrigue piece on the mind of the mad killer as a ruse, we were finally granted access to the illusive man. Martin had suffered horrendous beatings during his time in jail, perpetrated by fellow inmates or by the guards he would not say. He had been kept in solitary confinement for the last few weeks for his safety but was still covered in horrible bruises and scars. These were nothing compared to the psychological damage he had incurred, which had enthralled him to spells of madness and anxious ramblings. Between insistent spouts of his innocence and a compulsive need to cower his frail frame between his legs, we were able to gather some details of that horrible night left out from the reports.
Not only was he not at home during the murder, but he argued that he was in fact at the river and saw the crime take place. After a long day of work, Martin went to the river to fish and take his mind off of his day of labor. Near nightfall, when he was tucked in the brush packing up his fishing gear, he saw a gray van, silent as fog, drive down to the riverside. Hiding from this strange group, Martin crouched in petrified terror as a group of three masked figures, wearing formal uniforms, carried a large trash bag down to the waterfront and tossed it into the river. As quickly and quietly as the strangers arrived, they departed, leaving Martin in shock at what he had witnessed. When the police arrived to question him in the following weeks, fearing the power of those mysterious conspirators (and how a judge would react to such a far-fetched plot), Martin lied about his alibi.
Margaret and I brought our findings to the rest of the editors to bring light to this conspiracy. Immediately we were met by particularly harsh blowback from our peers. Giles and Philip belted angry laughs and mocked our efforts, while Hollace demeaned it as journalistic malpractice and cruel to try and remove justice from an already gilt-stricken town. A paragraph, a few sentences, or even a three word blip on the back page would suffice. Yet, we were argued down so low that we could barely get away with just thinking about the story.
Slowly though, the tensions subsided, and working life resumed. My closeness with Hollace was never the same after the Martin incident, and Philip quickly replaced me as his preferred meeting partner. The air in town quieted down in rapid succession, with the brutal murder of Beatrice fading back into the recesses of popular consciousness. In a blink of an eye, the anniversary of her disappearance came with no memorial service, with little noticing its absence.
The weekend of the first, I was invited by Hollace to join him and the rest of the editors for a very important meeting. He said to me that a special society was having its annual gala at the Mayor’s house and that the community's most important members would be in attendance. I was to arrive at Hollace's home out in the country at 7:00 pm, in black tie dress, where I would meet Giles and Philip, and we all would be escorted together to Paxton House. I had long suspected that these men were part of some sacred fraternity. The three men adorned their pinkies with matching silver signet rings, bearing the mark of the hippocamp on its malachite crest. In my many meetings with town leaders, I encountered other similar ring bearers, and homes decorated with ornaments of the seahorse. Besides its surface oddness, I thought nothing of it and assumed that this secret order was like the Masons or Elks, or some other outfit for bored and well-to-do old men.
Under a sallow moon, I was led to the estate with the rest of Hollace's entourage, for what I believed to be an evening of great revelry. The manor, an ornate plantation of much renown, exceeded my wildest expectations of luxury. Driving below the magnolia canopy, the great house stood with an immensity the likes of which I had never seen, like an elephant resting in the veld. Though the darkness of the night sky was compounded by the mist and fog of the marsh, the bone-white facade of the manor shone with bright brilliance. Upon entry to the parlor, we were greeted by a doorman with a silver platter in tow, carrying a selection of canvas masks. They were a dreary yellow, muted by years of wear and storage, with red lashes painted out from their empty, shadowed sockets. A thin, nearly invisible slit, rested on the lips, presumably to afford the wearer a modicum of air to breathe and an easy port to sup wine in anonymous privacy.
Peering out through the ruffly cut sockets, I glanced feverishly at my surroundings. The parlor, halls, and rooms of the first floor of the manor were of incredible ornamentation. White birch paneling climbed from the floor to halfway up the walls, reaching out desperately towards the wallpaper; itself depicting in wild scenes a gilded menagerie. Cluttered among the malachite vines and florals of the wallpaper were clusters of animals, equal parts exotic and beautiful. Peacocks stood large, their bosoms bursting with pride, and feathers dripping across the stage in fiery vulgarity. From claw to beak, the figures were printed in gold and looking deeply, I could see golden tears foaming at the base of their inkspot eyes. So too went the way of the print, with lions and tigers, eagles and canaries, bison and buffalo; all the beasts of land and air from the far reaches of the world.
The air in the chamber was thick but rich with the sweet floral fragrances of perfume and spiced wine, elevated with the heat that radiated from every surface of the home. Heavy drapes and taffeta ball gowns billowed throughout the halls as couriers of this atmosphere. Where the drapery ended and the damsels began was impossible to tell, and the abundance of fabric sucked up every trace of coolness. Each room had at least two servants, masked, of course, waving palm fronds in silent futility, pawing for an unreachable grasp of air. This airborne opioid lapsed my senses and waxed over my mind. I was only lulled onward by my brothers in revelry.
Like Orpheus, I ventured blindly into the subterranean unknown. Handshakes, drinks, and the sweet trails of pipe smoke led me to a ballroom in the bowels of the manor. This ballroom was a vacuous room and felt cool with an eerie chill. From my guess, it was at one point in the house's history a wine cellar and had walls flooded with deep green curtains and banners marked with the heraldic seahorse, which dampened all sound and fanfare. The parade of heel taps and scuffs were muffled to mouse whispers.
Upon our entry to that velvet grove, Hollace left for a bar towards the back of the room to refresh his drink, and Philip and Giles flew off to socialize, leaving me to mingle in peace. Past a sea of truisms and speech garbled under the heavy, mustard mask, I came across a peculiar young woman. She was adorned from the crown of her head to the floor in bright red, and decorated her thin fingers with rings and bracelets bejeweled with Tahitian pearls. Her face was rigid and fragile, with particles of her makeup drifting out of her saffron veil, like dust trapped in a sunbeam. Though on first meeting her I had no recollection of her, I could feel the pins of familiarity creep in from behind my mind. She spoke in weak and cracked refrains and was in no state for conversation, but upon hearing her voice I knew that the crimson figure was none other than Margaret. Before I could learn why she was in such an odd outfit, a bell rang.
Beautiful tables of mahogany were brought in by faceless stewards, followed by golden platters inlaid with rubies and other precious gems. I sat towards the end, yet maintained a clear view of the front of the room. In the front of the room was a stage, dark as the night and illuminated with gilded bulbs around its base that gave the impression that those who stood atop it were floating in midair. An upbeat from an organ signaled forth the most esteemed procession of the Veiled Prophet. He was a figure of immense size, draped in the finery of every sort. Ermine tails flowed like water across his chest, and spewed in whirlpools out of his sanguine gown. The rich red gown was bejeweled with opals, sapphires, and emeralds, and covered a billowing undergown of glittering cream. He was larger than any man I had ever seen, easily stretching to 7’ tall and at least half as wide. His height was only accentuated by the headdress he wore. Atop his head rested a miter, bright purple in color and ostentatiously embroidered with precious beads into the shape of shimmering flowers. Flowing from the miter was the veil, a fabric of Prussian blue satin which fell across his form like a waterfall. Hollace, the boys, and a few others that remain strangers to me served as lowly train bearers in the wake of the Prophet's march. The spotlight and glittering visage of the Prophet were so rich that his companions were muted in the background, wraithlike in their fadedness. The only thing for sure that signaled to me the identities of some of the train bearers was the metronomic bolt of an ivory cane, landing with many a labored step till center stage was reached.
The bearers departed from their master, lining up with two at each side. Two others walked down and escorted Margaret up to the stage, guiding her up to the platform despite her audible whimpers. She was thrown to the ground prostrate at the feet of the Veiled Prophet, and filled the room with whales of sorrow and terror. So sharp were the screams that I could feel the pangs of emotion pierce the back of my eyes like arrows, and tears began to fall behind my mask. The two train bearers beside her foisted Margaret back to her feet and left to join their brothers beside their cloaked master. The organ music began to escalate, playing a wedding march in a strange and mesmerizing melody. The Veiled Prophet, extended out his withered black-gloved hands, lifted up Margaret's veil before raising his own. Beneath the blue curtain came not a face, but a wave of brilliant white light. I tried to avert my eyes from the magnificent beam, but like the moth, I was entranced by its heavenly glow. So was the rest of the room, staring in stark amazement at the figure, and Margaret’s cries fell to silence as she to became enraptured.
After his arms were raised, so were we. Like marionettes guided by a wicked master, we all jumped to our feet simultaneously with an unconscious jolt. Horror overtook me as my movements were stolen by the strange prophet. Worse yet was when, by powers I have yet to rationalize and cannot dare define, compelled me to join the rest of the banquet goers in the reciting of a chant. My lips moved with a thrall’s zealotry as forty voices and one spoke were unified in a shared tongue. For how long the chant lasted, or what was said, I do not know for certain. The speech was not that of one language but all. We chanted our phrases of Latin and Greek, Arabic and Hebrew, and languages whose origin remains a total mystery to me. From the whole affair I was only able to recall and translate one single, repeating stanza:
Hark the Veiled Prophet, our eternal guide
To the bosom of Kumbari, where our fortunes lie
Free us from thirst, and death, and strife
In the bosom of Kumbari, where our fortunes lie
Just as suddenly as the chant had finished, a terror occurred that I shall never forget. A buzzing noise, first quiet and distant, drew nearer and nearer. Closer and closer the swarm came until with my own eyes I saw it in its full revulsion. The brilliant light was darkened as a flood of locusts leaped out from the faceless form. They swarmed onto Margaret, burrowing their chattering mandibles into her eyes, mouth, and very flesh. They drilled through musculature and bone, erupting from her spine and scalp, flinging fragments of skull against the hard stage. Just as quickly as they torpedoed out of poor Margaret they turned around to resume the frenzied feast. Within minutes she was torn to pieces: organs, bones, and the remains of limbs falling where a body once stood. During the whole ordeal, I was the only one in the room shocked by the terrors befalling my vision. No gasps or shrieks of horror were heard. No soul recoiled in dread or disgust. Even Hollace stood unflinching, the shadowed eyes of the mask gawking apathetically at the savage sacrifice.
The swarm continued, unrelenting in their pursuit. They flooded the room, with their insistent buzzing. The high-pitched whining echoed in on itself, amplifying this maddening chorus. The noise was inescapable as the locusts began to descend upon men. They tucked away behind my mask and clothes, embedding their pincered maws into the fat of my neck. I was lifted out of my seat with a primal fury and terror. I dashed to the door, my legs moving with their own agency and limbs flailing about to shield my eyes from the wretched biters. Tearing out of the curtains in my mad streak, I ascended the stairs to the main house before succumbing to a sudden onset of darkness.
If I had collapsed out of my own hysteria and terror, ran headfirst into a wall or pillar, or had been struck by one of those loathsome revelers from below I can not say for certain. All I know is sometime later I awoke by a dried creek bed. My mask was gone and my clothes were disheveled and stained. Regaining my bearings as I awoke from a mighty stupor, I stumbled forward and collapsed on my knees. Opening my eyes to look as I tried to regain my stance, I was besieged by unendurable horror, for not but two feet ahead of me was an exsanguinated stump, terminating with a delicate and pearl bejeweled hand.
I didn’t know what to do. I was four miles out of town on the stark side of nowhere. I first thought to find a nearby house to borrow their phone and call for help or the police but soon realized the folly in that effort. My clothes were ripped, covered in blood and mud, and smelled of soiled booze. I was the picture perfect example of a mad vagrant. No sane soul would dare let me in their door, much less listen to my horrific tale. Even if I could get on the phone, who could I call? My only friends in the city were devotees to that murderous prophet. I could call the police but what good could that produce? Given the influence of the guests whose identities I did not know then, by all reason the Chief of police or any number of his detectives and officers could have been in attendance.
My suspicions were right. By the time I made it back to town, the sky had given way to a gray, cloudy night. Slinking down the streets, avoiding all lights and strangers, I made my way home to my small apartment, only to find that the place had been ransacked and looted by investigators. From down the block I saw men in blue uniforms, with revolvers and batons on their hips, carting off boxes of my belongings and notes. I hid and watched from the bushes till they left late in the morning and I was finally able to sneak into my burgled abode. As I expected, all of my notes on the Martin Greenly case, notes by Margaret, as well as other personal items had been taken as evidence.
I can only surmise that Margaret and I had gotten too close to the truth of Martin Greenly. We were right that justice had not been done, we just hadn’t realized the extent and enormity of the sinister power behind such a plot. There is no doubt in my mind that the men from the gray vans that framed Martin are part of the same murderous cabal I discovered last night, and who have now turned their attention towards revoking my freedom.
Questions though persist. If Margaret's death was an execution, then why would her uncle participate so easily in it? And what of Beatrice? What was her grave crime? Are these debutantes of fortune just lambs, reared for the slaughter, and sacrificed to sate the appetites of that horrible Prophet?
I refuse to submit to their sinister powers. I will not allow myself to be thrown behind the graying bricks of a prison, driven mad by my own righteousness while they continue to revel in their sinister rituals.
When I first moved to this hell called Purim, I brought father's old service revolver with me for safety. I kept it hidden behind a loose panel in my bedroom wall. Even the investigators couldn’t find it when they raided my place, and as I write these words it sits primed and loaded on my desk. The night is ending. From my window I see the police cars coming down the street, and it will be only a few minutes before they find me here. I hope that somehow, after this final horrible ordeal this letter reaches you, and that in your eyes and possibly others I will be acquitted and that the world will know the truth of what's transpired here.
Love,
Wesley