Jeremiah James Forrest

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This is the journal of Jeremiah James Forrest, one of the Sad Men.

Part One - The House that Madam Built

One is often pursued by thoughts of the flesh and rather than all the trouble and difficulties of one of those... thing... oh you know... tall hair, ring on the finger, opposite sex... ah... wife... yes, one of those wife things it seems more efficient to partake of the purchased offerings that are so readily available around our fine city. As was my wont of a Tuesday I entered just such an establishment with thoughts of a small tipple and a grand tumble before the eve was out. This particular house was run by a fine maid by the name of de Winter.

So it was with tipple in hand I select a fine young filly to do the deed, so to speak, and entered into negotiations with the madam. She drove a hard bargin and after the pleasure of a quick haggle we settled on a price and I ascended to have this maiden attend to my needs. Now what was her name... short thing, the name not the lass... Molly... no, Polly, that was it. A fine dance young Polly and I had and some time later I left her to compose herself whilst I partook of some more fine tipple and struck up a discourse with some gentlemen in the salon.

One must be forgiven for these ramblings, these being but the preamble the quite horrific events of the rest of the evening. Not ten minutes after leaving the fine lass a scream of terror periced the calm proceedings of the salon. The wall of a barman and the madam rushed up the stairs to seek the source of discord. Not one to miss out on something interesting I was hot on their heels. And glad was I to pursue them for I was afforded an unusual scientific pleasure upon my entrance into the room I had vacated not ten minutes past.

Lying on the bed was the supine body of young Polly with the head brutally removed. The lifesblood of the poor wretch still slowly leaked from the severed stump of her neck. On examination it seems someone had sawn through to the vertebra and then by brute force had torn the head clean off. A sturdy lad from the salon had followed us up... name of Roofer... hmm... perhaps, Thatcher. Anyway, he set about with barred steel to look for the foul miscreant who would perpatrate such a deed. The oddest thing however no one was to be found and the windows were sealled tight and the door had been lock upon the barman, Mr Woods most active entrance. To add to my perplexed state was that the head was no where to be found.

Poor Madam de Winter was in quite a state, my ministrations were required although she seemed to be no better upon revival. Perhaps I should have cleaned myself up before commencing my treatment upon her, no matter.

It seems that I was not the only curious mind attending that evening and other set about in futile attempts to understand what had happened. After some time it was decided to send someone to attempt to find a member of the watch. Strangely it seems that we were quite unable to open any port to the outside world.

As if one death of the evening were not enough it seems that some other gentleman in attendance had availed himself of the confusion and snuck upstairs to calm a fair maiden. Unfortunately whilst he was so engaged it seems that someone took it upon themselves to strangle the poor man to death. Not an unplesant way to go one has heard. At this point one the other gentlemen there privately introduces himself as none other than Beau Brummel, man about town and confidant to the Prince Regent. He spins quite a yarn about ensuing danger and evil things abroad (something I have been well aware of since my visitation to Paris) and indicates that we can find the murderer by use of a rather ornate dagger. It seems that the creaturewill not bleed if pricked with the thing.

So under some pretence about giving oath on a bible we round up the others and proceed to test them all... to no avail. The murderer is not amoungst us. And that is when we hear the banging and thumping of someone moving upstairs. It could be no one except the murderer. How horribly right we were.

The heavier, and commoner, lads made haste up the stairs only to be confronted by the nightmareish sight of the boy of Polly, animated by some foul magics and descending to wreak bloody vengance upon us. Being a man of medicine, one has be testimony to many a foul sights but nothing quite prepared me for this situation. The lads fought valiantly, although a man of the cloth who came a mite to close the the beast was rewarded with a crushed arm. Finally, the beast was overwhelmed and Roofer stabbed it to a pulp with Mr. Brummels dagger.

One wishes that this were the end of the horrors but Mr. Brummel confessed that we had not acted with sufficient haste and this creature had summoned some sort of assistance. Masters from beyond, from somewhere Man was not meant to know about. It is at times like these that real men are made, or brutally beaten into an unidentifiable pulp. Before the fight was joined, Mr. Brummel lifted a gleaming snuff box and requested that we stand fast. One could not possibly show fear under this attention so standing fast was what was offered.

As something progressed from above the lights winked out leaving us in a blackness deeper than night. Some foul presence seemed to be forming around us as visions battered our minds and before sense could be made ... it stopped.

Mr. Brummel stood a worn man with the once gleaming snuff box blackened and smoking in his hands. They are ... contained he tells us and the strange presence at the deepest fringes of my mind tells me that the snuff box is not the container...