If you are following my chronicles then perhaps you will notice that my hand has become quite shaky and my writing has taken a character many times my age. Even now my nerves feel jaded from the events of this week. And as I write my constitution is stretched beyond all reason and it is all that I can do to keep myself together to record these events. Were it not me who bore witness to these happenings I would not believe them. I would construe them the ramblings of a deranged mind or a work of pure fiction. For this reason at the outset, I will swear to you on the strength of my own eternal soul that the words that you shall read are a true and just account of the happenings of this week. I swear I am not effected by any drink or hallucinogen; nor can my sanity be called to question as will be certified by any medical practitioner you may seek to nominate.

To begin I assumed it as a dream. I was seated at my desk, working to the light of a gas lamp that flickered, throwing long shadows about the room. The clock within the hallway rang twelve then continued the slow ticking that gives such solace as I work into the night. The housekeeper, Mrs. Jenkins, left a pot of tea upon the mantle. It remained untouched and cold. I was so enamoured by my work I could not afford any type of distraction.

I considered a critical passage of my writing then lay my head upon the desktop. Placing my quill to the side and folding my tired eyes into my arms. I rolled the plot through my head. Affirming its course internally before setting it to the page.

It was then, whilst in deepest thought that it occurred to me that I was not alone.

There is a feeling when uninvited eyes invade personal space. Like breath upon the neck or an insect's touch to naked skin it causes the skin to crawl and hair follicles to freeze. I rested my head within my hands; feeling my heartbeat rise progressively and small beads of sweat accumulate as I spied about the room.

The curtain billowed unnaturally - I knew it to be double locked. I lunged forward, seizing it to reveal my reflection staring dumbly at the glass…

A cloud of smoke appeared before me. It took shape, condensing like a tropic storm. A face transpired. First vague and undefined. Its definition grew with each breath. I closed my eyes, and shook my head in disbelief. I drew breath and slowly opened my eyes.

First eyes appeared and then a nose. A mouth smiling like a Cheshire Cat. The eyes were red and grizzled. They danced about like fireflies, stealing manic glances about the room. I stared in morbid fascination at the spectre until its eyes rolled backward as a chilling wind blew through the room.

I buried my head into my palms. Seeking release from this nightmare. Wheezing then collapsing to the desk where I lay silent until the clock rang once.

It echoed about the room.

The face hung suspended like a reflection. Staring blindly its billowed cheeks expanded with each breath. The skin decayed before me. Causing a smell so foul that it forced me to wretch. Frenzy overtook me and I formed a fist, and struck it like an angered snake.

The face fell lightly to the desk. I stared at it and it returned my stare from empty sockets where the manic eyes had rested. Its nostrils dull and still. Its cheeks now tamed to the servitude of a mask - inanimate and dumb. I considered it gently, cradling it within my hands like a surgeon.

It was a mask of Venetian styling with contorted features, like a Leonardo sketch. A celebration of a disfigured countenance. A hair lip smile over scattered teeth that revealed themselves at severe angles.

I held the mask within my hand. Examining it slowly.

Was this the spectre of my dream? From where did it appear? Was it all the fiction of a dream? a nightmare? Such questions ran about my head as I held the mask to my face.

And that is all that I remember, for my next recollection is waking at the desk with a morning sun shining brightly through scattered curtains. I searched about the desktop, scattering the manuscript to the corners of the room until satisfied that the mask was no where to be found.

DAY 2

I dismissed it as a nightmare brought about (as Doctor Cyril Perkins has informed me) by an excess of root vegetables and modern preservatives. I left a strongly worded note to Mrs Jenkins. No root vegetables! Which she acknowledged accordingly.

The day ahead was tedious. I endured visitors that courted me with all manner of propositions and inquiries, so it was not until 4 o’clock that I had the opportunity for reflection.

I find the cello to be soothing and reflective to the soul. Its music is mesmeric. A source of reclusive solace following the rigors of the day. I chose a Bach concerto and locked the study door to immerse myself within the music with my beloved Stradivarius.

The music started slowly, bubbling like mountain stream into my ears, then seeping through my veins. I closed my eyes in rapture, feeling the pull of the strings against the bow that danced in gentle union with the gramophone. I became immersed to the music as though it were a newly drawn bath. Drawn deeper until I was one with the music until a light breeze caused me distraction and I struggled with its rhythm. I closed my eyes tightly and gripped the bow - pulling at the strings like a blacksmith sharpening a blade.

The breeze assumed the pattern of breath. It blew a stench toward me like halitosis and I steeled my nerves and blocked my panicked thought. It’s your imagination. I repeated, continuing the music until crescendo whereupon I lay my bow to the floor and rested my head upon the instrument whilst breathing deeply.

"What is the cause of this distraction?" I barked tersely.

Mrs. Jenkins held firm instructions that I was not to be disturbed during practise. Surely she would not defy my instruction!

"Arthur," said the voice of James Waterstone, my publisher and a dear, dear friend. He greeted me with a gentle smile as he held my hand warmly. "Arthur-you look so pale and troubled-what is it?"

"The breathing" I said with a broken voice.

"The breathing?"

"By God! The incessant breathing"

He looked at me in silence whilst I walked toward the curtain that swayed lightly to an unseen breeze.

"James. You must tell me what you see," I said as I wrenched the curtain aside.

James peered into the empty space then placed his hands upon the sill to study the streetscape below.

"A moment. Wait just a moment," I insisted.

"What is it Arthur?"

I dismissed his comment whilst waiting for the mask to re-appear. Following several minutes I turned upon him.

"What is this about James? Have we an appointment?"

"An appointment!" James laughed. "You invited me to view the manuscript, we arranged it yesterday. It’s 6 o’clock by gosh!"

I closed my eyes, touching my forehead whilst resting my hand upon the desk. "I’m sorry James. I’ve kept late hours."

I walked toward the wall safe where I turned the combination until the door hung open. I retrieved the manuscript, which I passed into his safe hands.

He leafed through it quizzically, his brow furrowed further as he turned each page.

"It’s a departure from your normal style. The illustrations are something new. Quite disturbing."

The neatly slanted writing crept like a spider across the page in my own distinctive style. The cursive letters were recognisable as mine yet the story and its illustrations were not of my invention. I studied them closely before turning to the cover to see an etching of the mask upon the cover.
"James, I am going to have to ask you to leave. I feel quite ill"
I did not rise from my seat as James departed. I sat firmly at my desk reading the manuscript: pouring through its pages until I had finished the tale, which was late into the night.

I woke at my desk with ink stained shirtsleeves lying upon the manuscript that blew loosely around the room. The window had swung open and the curtains, swayed to a fresh breeze as London woke.

The cobbled streets rang with fast turning cartwheels and the footfall of horses driven by merchants and cabbies trawling for fares. Young voices called from corners selling newspapers, flowers and all manner of foods that echoed inwards as I reached across the desk, locking the window to seal myself within.

Inside the sun seeped through the curtains like a stain to illuminate my desk. I fumbled with the manuscript. Piecing it together like a puzzle. I ordered it carefully like a deck of cards then set it before me. The story had reverted to its original form. The etching and the alien script had seemingly disappeared.

I stared at the manuscript, holding my head within my hands in wonder of the occurrence. "Oh God, what does this mean?" I cried in desperation until it occurred to me that all was not lost.

My memory was unaffected. I could recall the story in all of its intricate detail so I steadied myself, steeling my resolve to retell the tale in its entirety. I placed a new tip in my quill and filled the ink dish whilst fetching a good clean pile of paper.

As an aside, I shall tell you that during the hours that were to follow I wrote with clarity and precision that I have never before enjoyed. It was as though an invisible voice dictated words to me and something guided my hand, like a stencil. I ignored Mrs Jenkins calls to breakfast, lunch and dinner. Disregarding everything except the task immediately at hand. I did not move from the desk for nine hours, and only then did I look up from the page and set the quill to the side to survey my work. I needed reassurance that it was not simply another dream, and that the words would remain into the next day.

For the sake of brevity I shall not dictate the words I wrote verbatim, rather I shall give you a synopsis - so that you may know them for reference to the events that were to follow.

The tale was long and intricately woven like the finest Persian rug. It told the story of a truly, heinous crime of murder and deception within the tranquil setting of Tunbury Hall, a vast country estate owned by the Marquis of Northumberland, an elderly widower best known for his shrewd and stern character.

The Marquis lived a solitary existence accompanied only by his staff until the reappearance his sole heir and grand daughter Alice, who was sent away for schooling following the tragic death of her parents some fifteen years earlier.

Upon graduation, aged eighteen, it was believed that Alice would accompany her au pair to Paris, where she would live modestly upon her allowance until the Marquis’s death whereupon she would return to claim her inheritance. It came as a surprise therefore, when upon graduation, a letter was received stating her intention to return to Tunbury Hall. She begged the Marquis’s grace and blessing to her petition, which was tentatively given.

Her influence was immediate, and soon she was well known and loved by the villagers and staff alike. She befriended a stable hand named Knott, a riding champion and the leader to the local hunt who took an interest in her riding. Knott excelled in his tutelage and it seemed that in its course that the couple became inseparable.

It is rare that forbidden love enjoys a smooth passage. For love must be earned on many different levels before it may be sanctified. Yet for a while it blossomed and grew progressively until Knott mistakenly referred the matter to the Marquis to seek his blessing.

The stern old man refused Knott’s request. Stating his intention to disinherit Alice if she and Knott defied his instruction. He ordered Knott from the estate, exiling him from the village.

The young man was enraged. He struck the old man with a rake, knocking him dead with one hit. He dragged the body into a stall to make it look as though the Marquis was assaulted by a horse. He ran to Alice where he feigned to call for help.

I felt a breath again across my neck as I finished this final passage and grew steadily aware of unseen eyes that watched my every move. My skin began to freeze.

Something glowed behind the curtains and I felt a monolithic rage throughout the room, like electricity. It seized me, convulsing me to spasm.

"Dr Gladstone? A messenger is at the door. I did everything within my power to dissuade him. He is most insistent. On pain of death were his words," said Mrs. Jenkins nervous voice.

I took a moment to gain composure before stumbling down the stairs to meet a boy within the drawing room. He held a package in his hands.

"A gent said that I was to give this to you Gov."

I looked over him with suspicion, as he looked nervously about the room.

"What gentleman gave you this package, boy?" I asked.

"The gent within that’s on the cover of the paper" he said as he offered me the package. "You’ll see."

"The paper?" I repeated

"The Gov. said that you’d want it and I won’t give you this till you do", withdrawing the package into his chest.

Mrs Jenkins saw him to the door while I unwrapped the package. It was tightly bound with twine and required cutting with scissors.

It contained a newspaper, which I opened before me.

Read the headline. Immediately below was a drawing of the Marquis whose likeness to the mask was unmistakable.