The Burial Chamber Of The Lady Llwelyn

"Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil'.—Lord Byron

I shall now relate the relevancy that you must know of this eldritch tale, through the significance of my affirmation expatiated knowingly. Herein, what I shall acknowledge overtly with my avouchment only, you will be informed of its actual veracity and emprise.

I ought to warn you at once of the sinister presence I met erstwhile—for woe worth the man that has crossed it and ware its vengeance. By virtue of this admission I shall affright you, with more than a preconceived notion of an accurst horror that I cannot abdicate the thought.

Withal, it is the most abhorrent form of turpitude ever manifested in the embodiment of terror, within that house of inscrutability. There is no emphatic description I can expound more than the haunting images of that virtual ghastliness of dread that was found in the burial chamber of the Lady Llywelyn.

My name is Barnabe Tumbleweed, a Yorkshireman by birth and faithful solicitor of the Cumnor lineage of London. I had recently received an important letter, from Sir William Cumnor. The letter had informed me that I was to immediately head to Wales, to meet the steward of a certain couth aristocrat, by the name of Lord Aldwyn Cadwallader.

Therefore, I made the necessary preparations for the arduous trip and engagement to Wales and had departed from London the next morning. The inclement weather had brought the usual rain which was briefly intermittent and subsided for the nonce, allowing me the essential time to take the carriage to Wales betimes.

The year was 1690, and it was spring, when I had left the bustling city on that memorable day, as I was yearnful and ready. After, I had fared extensively through the country road of the rank and rathe primroses of vastidity, I raught the causeway that led to the house of Lord Aldwyn Cadwallader.

His home was a country house outside of the small village of Llanwddyn, in the northeast part of Wales. The Cadwallader House was a two-storey brick edifice of a dull brown colour, with ornate windows and shutters displayed. The formal gardens by the adjoining cottage had demonstrated, the placidity seldom seen in London. From the information I had obtained from the few documents sunderling discovered, the house was built within the year 1645 upon a lorn parrock. Thereat, there was considerable history of foretime attached to this unique house.

Lord Cadwallader's wife the Lady Llywelyn had recently passed away. She was badly unsound, and suffering from an implacable disease that was hereditary. At the spacious gardens the hospitable steward Mr Jerigan had greeted me, with a cordial salutation. I was dressed in my graith, as I wore my ruffled long-sleeved white shirt, under my justacorps that had contained my breeches and an elongated waistcoat. My shoes were tied with a decorated ribbon attached, and my hair was long as usual, with curls well passed the shoulders.

Once inside I had observed with a fond consideration, the interior composition of the house. The russet mahogany wood-panelled rooms of several apartments were decorated and aspectable, with the distinctive paintings of the aretaic Cadwallader lineage of exemplary prestige.

I had marvelled with an insatiable curiosity to see the rest of the stately house with its cloisons and staddle. It was indeed magnificently preserved, and I was envious of the brilliant colours of the house reflected. The wemless stairway was made of wooden balusters that were tinged, within an auriferous lustre, and the pediments of the doors were aligned properly.

In spite of this luxuriant refurbished home and the cornices, there was this aura of abject despair and murk. Even though I had not seen Lord Cadwallader, I knew he was seriously despondent by the fact that his beloved wife the Lady Llywelyn was ill and had died.

The disturbing truth was that she had a short period to live, and she could have died, at any hour afterwards. This was too uncomfortable and eerie. Notwithstanding, I had proceeded with my task and commitment with Sir Cumnor.

I was then led up the stairway, where in one of the chambers nigh was Lord Cadwallader comforting his deceased wife, who was lying in a coffin with a senticous rose. When I had entered the room with a discretionary deference, I saw him at last in person. I was told about her hideous affliction, but that would pale in comparison, to her immarcescible and emaciated body that had lain within the forblack coffin.

Her extreme pallidity was evident in the glassy eyes, the sober lineaments of her countenance, and the weftage of her dry crimson lips seen tentatively. She was wearing a necklace that had no idle gaud, instead a very gemmy emerald.

She was dighted in an elegant blue dress that I had noticed the exquisite purfle.

Verily, I was deeply and visibly shaken, by her wansed and dour appearance that I did not know how to react before Lord Cadwallader. The drear veil that was lifted had covered her face, and partially her lovely blond hair that Lord Cadwallader adored.

Whenceforth, my behaviour was subdued and reverent in nature, as I had addressed him, whilst we were inside the chamber. The Lady Llywelyn was extremely sick and feeble to be warished, and she struggled with every deep breath that had horrified him. His apparent enervation had concerned me, and I was reluctant to exhaust Lord Cadwallader with my visit or questions.

Thuswise, our conversation was limited to a brief recollection about my thoughts concerning Wales. I knew my virtuous father if he was still alive on the earth would have been absolutely appalled to have seen, the languid aspect of expiry, in this gaunt woman that I had witnessed upon that day.

I had perceived a sudden desperation in the penetrating eyes of Lord Cadwallader, as he attempted to ignore the impending chagrin that was too laden to reconcile with the truth. At first, I construed that there was something important that he had wanted to share, through his urgent admission that befuddled me. I did not wish to dretch him or add mental exertion to the grievous nature of his unsely regret, and I had expressed my concern to Lord Cadwallader.

I was going to leave the room, but he had requested that I stay and hear a sincere revelation from him. I did not anticipate or imagine previously any new tidings. He had told the steward to step outside to the adjoining hall, so that we could discuss this matter in privacy. The steward even though showed a mild reluctance to leave had complied then. Lord Cadwallader was very doleful and had looked around to see, who was espying or listening attentively.

This attitude I thought queer, but he had an exigency to inform me that he wanted to disclose therewith. When I approached closer to hear him, he had whispered to me in a broken voice that he was not going to sell the house, because the Lady Llywelyn was going to rise from the dead, and he could not forsake her.

This abnormality had startled me, but I was uncertain of what to consider. I did not have a response for Lord Cadwallader, or did I know what to believe of his disclosure. My reaction was flabbergasting and more prepared to deal, with his welsome status and transactions.

I had thought of the plausibility of hysteria consuming his irrationality and fettle. Wherefore would Lord Cadwallader scheme me to come and purchase his house, if he was not planning on selling the house for a purpose? I had no reason at that moment to doubt his established honorificabilitudinity, or presume that he was an idle gabber who paltered. He had asked me to forgive his unmeet imprudence, and that it was originally his intention to sell the house. This blatant admission of a glum man I heard was typical of a desperate lord, who had seen his wife on her last breath uneath.

I had accepted these apologetic words of his and left him to repose and calm his heightened disquietude. Outside in the corridor was Mr Jerigan, who was a man wistly to know what, was the nature of our conversation. His interest was noticeable, as I stood before him.

I told him that Lord Cadwallader had informed me that he was not selling the house, but he had made an inusitate confession. That confession was that Lord Cadwallader had claimed that his wife the Lady Llywelyn was going to resurrect from the dead, like the quondam Lazarus.

Whenas Mr Jerigan heard what I had mentioned his reaction was not of disbelief. Instead, he sighed and made emphasis of the waning condition and mental faculties of Lord Cadwallader. I made the logical assumption that Lord Cadwallader’s words were more attributed to his rapid, physical pain and the certain boundness to her memory.

Consequently, I had disregarded that revelation of Lord Cadwallader, because there was nothing that could accede to any feasible averment I could conclude.

Eftsoon, I was treated with kind hospitality, by the steward and servants, who had prepared me a lautitious repast that I could not refuse.

Once I had eaten, I was invited to take some leisure time and see the village, by the steward. He said that the tweeny could escort me. I was very grateful for his gracious invitation, but I had explained to him as I yawned that I was fatigate from the long trip and wished to rest, under the chalon. I had not been experiencing lately, any periods of rests, yet I was fully aware of the lake and the Anglican Church that was nearby the heather moorland that had encompassed the village.

The stone cottage homes of the villagers I had vaguely seen from afar stoundmeal. That night, I had remained in the estate looking through the window of my chamber, at the rain that began to fall, with the approaching storm that came afterwards.

There was hardly a day, when I did not hanker for a transient moment, with the beautiful view of the spring's natural form. The gentle comfort of the sun was a reminder of a beckoning call of a stripling from the toft therebefore. The moors would be also anothergates reminder of the wonder of the countryside by siths, when I wasn't travelling to the hinterland to eschew the yammer of London. There were no brises here amidst the moorland. This was my first visit to the country of Wales, and my first impression had been pleasant.

The next morning, I awoke to the bracing sounds of thundering and lightning. It was raining as it often did in Great Britain. I had planned on speaking to Lord Cadwallader again, concerning my departure from the estate. I could not forget that morning, when I spoke to Lord Cadwallader, the gruesome nature that would surround this indistinct mystery of the unfortunate death of the Lady Llywelyn. I had left my chamber and spoke to the steward Mr Jerigan, when he had informed me that Lord Cadwallader's mood had worsened. He was not even certain that he would overcome his sombre anguish, and this had concerned me immensely.

Any jovial signs of satisfaction in him had diminished considerably, with the death of the Lady Llywelyn. My principal endeavour was purchasing the house for Sir Cumnor. After all this was what Sir Cumnor had sent me in the first place to accomplish, but I would be remiss, if I did not acknowledge my alarming concern for the well-being of Lord Cadwallader.

When I had entered his room, there was the familiar gloom and tribulation that accompanied the chamber. I could sense the distressing signs of the manifestation of death that had enclosed the mystery in a clum erelong. The expectancy of her demise had appeared more probable and inevitable, according to Mr Jerigan who waited outside, as I sought a rational conversation, with Lord Cadwallader.

Mr Jerigan had remained in the corridor, and there was little Lord Cadwallader could have done for the Lady Llywelyn, at that stage of her advanced illness. He was weeping and beyond restraint, as he was embracing the body of the beloved Lady Llywelyn. It was obvious to me that he was not in a respectable condition to speak about my departure from the house, and judging from the unusual circumstance I had refrained, from discussing the issue with him. It was not ethical I had surmised to occupy his agonising thoughts in matters that did not pertain to his wife.

After further deliberation as well, I made certain that I would consult the delicate procedure of the purchase of the house, with a family member or legal guardian of the estate, who would assume the affairs of the estate, if Lord Cadwallader was to die afterwards. As I saw him, I had descried the exact cark and desperation of yesterday in his sober eyes and speech. His voice was still broken and fragile in rue, as he had dwaled to the corpse of the Lady Llywelyn.

He had explained her last wish that was a Delphic warning to bury her in the estate, and that she would not be in sooth at peace, if he did not honour her moribund request. The visual seriousness in his eyes had reflected that plea patently. She had insisted and begged him to bury her in a crypt. There, she would rest forever in this eternal sanctuary, and she would be waiting for him to join her. It was difficult to not be impressed, by this adamant and unique declaration. I did not know what to think of his incomprehensible words, and Lord Cadwallader told me that he needed to rest.

He grabbed my right arm, with all his remaining vigour, and reiterated her thraving claim. I had stared into his luminous eyes burthened by a horrific consequence and loneliness, as I saw this desperation turn into arrant hysteria. I cannot fathom with mere thoughts and words the unbearable contemplation of losing a beloved wife.

I could see how much passion and devotion he had for the Lady Llywelyn that he could not avoid effectively. What was this poor man to do without the winly presence and alacrity of his wife? I could see how any man can become a wretch bestraught, with prolonged episodes of a ceaseless memory. The Lady Llywelyn his precious and priceless jewel of enjoyment was then dead, never to return again.

Whilst I waited out in the corridor, I had sensed an unforeseen premonitory and intuitive perception that the spirit of the Lady Llywelyn was nigh. Indeed, I was correct in my inauspicious omen and assumption. Within ten minutes Mr Jerigan then notified me that the Lady Llywelyn had quickened.

This tragic and unbelievable occurrence had definitely caused me to reflect on the morose nature of death and the inconspicuous detachment of the soul, from the body once dead. When I enquired about what he meant, he said he had seen the ghost of the Lady Llywelyn. I was left pondering that possibility, and I immediately sent a private correspondence to Sir Cumnor in London, concerning the regrettable death of the Lady Llywelyn. Knowing that my task in Llanwddyn was finalised I had arranged to return to London, once I spoke to Lord Cadwallader.

He was still lamenting the earthly body of the Lady Llywelyn that was to be properly buried. Even though, I was not fond of having to return to London with the disappointing incompletion of my duty, I had realised that my occupation demanded the most stringent observance of the protocol instituted, as a quaestuary solicitor betaught.

I bade my time waiting, whilst I heard the caterwauling of the black cats that were outside. I had never deceived a man of his fortune and honour afore.

Thenceforth, I made the preparations to return within a week, but oddly enough, I would be asked to stay by Mr Jerigan on behalf of Lord Cadwallader.

He had revealed a disturbing admission that I found very peculiar forsooth. Mr Jerigan had confessed to me that nobody was assisting the funeral of the Lady Llywelyn, because she had no immediate family or friends nearby. It was uncommon that one as highly distinguished and wealthy as the Cadwalladers would not have either a family member or friend attending the funeral.

I was not accustomed to hear, such a disconsolate confirmation. I wondered how dreadful it was to have no minimal attachment, except the regard that the servitude present had for the Cadwalladers. What I had found more unnatural was the fact that she was to be buried, in a mysterious place located inside a secretive vault I was weetless about its location. This type of interment I had never heard before mentioned and it was an intrigue.

This method of burial was not a concern—for this was a private matter that did not involve me in the wale and rede. I had acquiesced in the end, because I was invited. The funeral was to take place in three days, and I had remained on the property, until the interment was to be performed. I had expected in my original plan to stay a day or two in Llanwddyn, under different circumstances that were more pleasant than sullen.

That very same day in the late afternoon was the first of several encounters that I had, with the blake ghost of the Lady Llywelyn within crebrity. She had risen afterwards, as Lord Cadwallader had said ere. I was stunned, with the sudden alarm and afterclap, I had experienced therewith. I was in the main hall alone so whisted with a placid silence, when I first had a glimpse of her spectral guise of sheer dread, after I intuited something skulking in the corridor.

Her ghastly pallor of death was still transparent, as her eyes were wearish and lugubrious. Her lips were then of an amaranthine shade, and her long straight yellow hair was becoming cinereous. She was standing at the edge of the main hall wearing the necklace and exact raiment she had, whilst in the coffin.

At first, I was in shock of what had transpired suddenly, as I did not quitch. Her horrific image of ghosthood only lasted a minute or so in duration, before she had disappeared into the suthers of the wuthering wind. She would whisper my name, and wail every time she was present.

For three days she had appeared before me inside the house, at every place possible. I could not escape her dreadful image and voice, as her abominable apparition had haunted me incessantly that I was becoming obsessively wode with trepidation.

I had heard the suffering wails of the dead, within the house and estate that could not be dispelled. I was eager to get out of the daunting house and I did, with a fresh breath. It seemed that no one except me and Mr Jerigan had seen the indisputable wraith of the Lady Llywelyn and heard the mournful cries of the wandering dead. During that day, I took the liberty of seeing the rest of the village, when it was possible.

First, I saw the wondrous view of the cerulean lake, the Anglican Church, the colourful garths, and the stone cottages of Llanwddyn that were evidently bucolic in composition. I had noticed that the villagers who walked or passed on wains were few and did not attempt to speak to me. They simply observed me, with their wary eyes and circumspect mien. The shepherds were near the pasture, with their flocks.

Then, I decided to return to the house, where I spoke to Mr Jerigan, who had seen me enter. He had enquired, if I was leaving Llanwddyn forthwithal. When I durst to query about his intention, he was extremely straightforward. Lord Cadwallader was going mad, and that the horripilated sounds of the deceased souls I had heard would compel me to madness as well.

If I stayed, I would never then depart Llanwddyn, and I would die as the others had before me. When I had asked him of whom he was referring to, he said the hideous wraiths. I was not certain whether he was serious in his accusation or did I mistakenly hear him say what he had said.

Apparently, he did mean what he said, as he had reiterated his words. How was I to assume that these words were credible? I did not know the ambiguous history of Llanwddyn with the Cadwalladers. I thought it better to leave Mr Jerigan to prate on another occasion, and forget his unnerving assertion and impertinence. Even though, I had seen the ghost of the Lady Llywelyn and heard the rueful echoes of the dead whilere, I could not believe that the house of Lord Cadwallader was evil and unsafe.

I had returned afterwards to my chamber, but I did not mention at all my private conversation with the steward, to Lord Cadwallader nor the other servants. Once at the house, I began to observe as a passive witness in the corridors and halls the splendid rows of paintings done with fine precision, but I took notice of the fact that the paintings had depicted the comely and eyesome appearance of the Lady Llywelyn, but not much of Lord Cadwallader.

This was a definite detail of ambiguity and skuggery that had escaped my attention and prior observation. Generally, the house of a thrasonical nobleman would be full of paintings of the family, including those of his surquedry. This was not the case, and only Lord Cadwallader could explain this unfeeling motive.

For some reason the ghost of the Lady Llywelyn was reappearing, and the voices of deceased souls were audible. Wherefore? Then, I went into the halls, and it was in the main hall of the house that I saw something particular that had arrested my intrigue. It was an object that was conspicuously placed in a nook to not be detected so easily I considered. The object was a lone diary that had appeared to be very interesting with some relevance.

I saw that no one was near to see what I was doing, and for an instinctive inducement I took the recondite diary and had returned to my room. There I began contemplatively to ponder, and I knew it was no ordinary diary; but an unveiling mystery written, by the Lady Llywelyn. The diary had mentioned indeterminate apparitions and voices in the house, with the parlous nature of its unmatched composition.

There were endless entries of periods of time dated, with the scriptitation. The entries had depicted unimaginative accounts of suspicious and insoluble incidents, with references to insidious wights of tenscore. This mystery had obsessed the Lady Llywelyn, and there was a concealed conundrum of Lord Cadwallader that dealt, with the salient lineage of his family. The troubling images and voices of death began to encircle the house uncontrollably, and she could not simply believe or anacephalise the supernatural phenomenon that was transpiring that had no logical explanation.

The name of the narrator I had discovered was the Lady Llywelyn, and my interest and curiosity to discover the truth of the diary was urgent. Parts of the diary were written in the local Welsh language that the Lady Llywelyn spoke proficiently. I had somewhat suspected that she wrote the surreptitious diary. These chilling entries had contained a lot of words that were foreign, whilst others were vaguely known.

The immediate question that had lingered in my mind was, if she was the genuine author of this diary of intrigue and horror, then what exactly was she attempting to convey? Were her ghostly appearances, a warning of some evil force that had existed in the house? The actual thought of the words of Mr Jerigan I had promptly remembered strikingly; although his comportment at times was odd.

I was well versed in the tales of superstition throughout Europe, but nothing could compare to these indelible acts of flagrant profanation and deceit that had occurred. Because I was not prepared intellectually to decipher much of the intricate contents of the diary, I recalled the minacious words suddenly of Mr Jerigan that I had presumed inconsequentially, and imagined him to be able to interpret the meaningful distinction revealed in this diary of direful consequence.

I had sensed then that I understood to a point why the ghost of the Lady Llywelyn had appeared. When I spoke to Mr Jerigan so that he could assist me, he was not verily surprised to see me and hear of my encounters with the spectre of the Lady Llywelyn. I had brought the diary with me, and he was especially interested in reading the complete contents.

The inference of this ungodly nature had an execrable attachment to the netherworld that kinsfolk dreaded and anathematised, with threap and imprecation. He had proceeded to read the parts of the unknown manuscript diary of the Lady Llywelyn that were written in Welsh. He was a native speaker of this ancient language and spoke Welsh, whilst serving her in the house.

She had mentioned a heriot, and an evocative account of one of the former tenants of Lord Cadwallader, by the name of Gareth Blevins, who lived in the year 1688 in the house. Mr Jerigan had recalled this particular tenant, and was aware of his identity. The account of this innocent villager had described and spoke of the froward Cadwalladers, and how he was lodged in their demesne, when he came from beyond the waters of the sea.

According to what Mr Blevins had declared, the house and estate of the Cadwalladers were haunted by an arcane ruse of black magic. Mr Blevins spoke of the pouring blood of the tenants, who terribly perished and had succumbed to the irrepressible volition of the fiendish maleficence, within the Cadwallader Estate.

There was an unquestionable and hagridden terror that had begun to hoodwink them, and obtain the kith and kine of the condemned inhabitants. Anon, the righteous men of God had claimed the unyielding episodes of wickedness were attributed to a cruel malediction that they were not able to dreave from the village. The mystery continued, until the deaths ceased—or so they had believed.

Manifold villagers still thought with faith that the rackle curse was not defeated, and still dwelt in the abode of the house and estate of Lord Cadwallader causing terror. The curse bore the Cadwallader name that was linked, with this untoward connotation.

The legend of the Cadwalladers had grown, with every bantling. Therefore, everyone associated to the Cadwalladers simply disappeared or died. I had explained to the steward that Lord Cadwallader could not have been a feigned madman, and that the Lady Llywelyn was no longer alive. I was not certain of what this mystery of the house and estate had signified, but I perceived that Mr Jerigan knew the answer to this confounding enigma.

He had told me that the Lady Llywelyn could be dead, but the arreptitious evil of the house would make her rise from the dead. Mr Jerigan then quickly urged me again to leave the village and to not return—if I stayed in the house, I would become mad or rankled, by the parlous influence of the Cadwallader House.

I could see in his eyes the earnest conviction he had demonstrated clearly. I was not certain about what to do, but Mr Jerigan had implored me if I was willing to stay to banish the baleful presence in the Cadwallader House, he would assist me in that imperative endeavour.

It had sounded like total madness that was occurring, but what if Lord Cadwallader was not a mere rakehellish man? What if he was a madman possessed by the evil of the house, as the steward had claimed? This was a fathomless contemplation to deduce so rationally. How were we supposedly to exile an evil that was mystic in nature and could not be grided facilely?

Mr Jerigan came with me to my chamber, as it was then eventide that had befallen. I could see the doubtless apprehension in the expressions of Mr Jerigan, nevertheless, he was prow to participate. There was this lively blore outside that had envelopped the house in creepiness and uneasiness that would not cease. I had felt this nervous sense of foreboding that I endured, as we approached the window.

We had to react with normalcy, and not be rattled with our impatience, as we left the chamber. Mr Jerigan had thought it was prudent to not disturb the other servants. When I asked where was Lord Cadwallader at he had replied that he was away. He was tending to the preparations for the funeral. The bain Mr Jerigan was unaware that Lord Cadwallader was in the vault behind the cellar.

We did not arouse any suspicion with our behaviour. Because Lord Cadwallader was not close by, Mr Jerigan had asked me where I found the diary, and I told him in one of the apartments adjacent to the hall on the first storey. He told me to take him at once to that apartment.

When we had reached the apartment, we stepped into the room, where the diary was hidden. The hasp was closed, and no one had seen us enter nor suspected our intrusive intentions. There we had discovered proof within an old painting that was kept hidden. I did not recognise the gentleman at first until Mr Jerigan had pointed out to me that it was Lord Thomas Cadwallader whilom.

When he indicated that the person on the painting was Lord Cadwallader's relative, I wanted to see the painting for myself. I was incredulous to believe that the man on the painting beliked the face of Lord Cadwallader one hundred years ago in 1590.

Was there an unmistakable link I would ask? Lord Cadwallader was indeed kin of this man. This meant that Lord Cadwallader was related to him, but what did this have to do with the Lady Llywelyn, because she did pass away to her inheritable affliction that had caused anguish?

Mr Jerigan had a horrendous secret about Lord Thomas Cadwallader that most of the villagers had suspected. Lord Thomas Cadwallader had killed his mistresses and his wife also, due to the ducenarious voices that were controlling his will to kill. It was impossible to conceive through human ratiocination that this version of Lord Thomas Cadwallader was to be believed, amidst this once seemingly impractical asseveration.

This could no longer be gainsaid if accurate, and this meant the reality that Lord Aldywn Cadwallader was a ruthless madman, who was controlled to deliberately employ a duplicitous connivance to make us believe the Lady Llywelyn had died of a natural illness, so that he could conceal his brutal murder. The question was how many more careless persons were killed by the Cadwalladers, and what evil presence had commanded the family members?

From what we had wist, Lord Cadwallader was not in the house, and we had enough time to find the vault and the body of the Lady Llywelyn. It was extremely important that we had located her body, so that we could dismiss any contingent doubts of her immaculate resurrection or tragic murder.

Mr Jerigan had no otherguess doubts, but I did. We had to reach the cellar and find the vault of the unscrupulous madman in unity. The door to the cellar was not open—for it was closed, by a heavy latch that had prevented any stranger from entering. Neither one of us, were blest with tremendous thew.

We immediately overcame the moment, and had opened the latch with an axe. Then we thrutched the door open with a downright blow, as a noise was heard. The steward thought of our entrance, and he had remembered that in yonder cavern by the hillside, there was an entrance to a deep shaft mine that was abandoned in abruption a month ago.

The miners had reported seeing unnatural apparitions that sprighted in the operose cavern with the gleeds, and many miners were reported as well missing. There was a thorough investigation completed, but the people of the village ever superstitious in grue to the lore of the Cadwalladers did not return to the mines to work, and had remained in their homes.

We had entered thitherwards, and wended through the entrance of soilure. Once there we were able to enter the chamber at our own discretion and trow. When we entered with our torches, we had proceeded to walk, through a thester passage of finew, beyond the unwist cellar.

Whither, we walked and walked by the crevices of the walls I had touched, till we saw a blicant light ahead. It was a darkling crypt that had fourscore skulls aligned in rows, from top to bottom. I could see sundry ossuaries and the grave niches as well, with the movements of spiders and snakes.

The burial chamber was a primeval catacomb from the days of the Roman occupation of Wales that had been constructed for the purpose of interment of human bodies. There was Lord Cadwallader standing before the exiguous orifice, above the unhallowed and unnameable grave niche. I was aghast by this surreal image of the glebous catacomb, and to find the body of the Lady Llywelyn stiff and rigid, lying beside him stone dead in the coffin.

The eyeballs of the Lady Llywelyn were extracted, and she had no eyes at all. Her sockets were full of maggots and her body with the screeching rats.

I was even more terrified to see this disturbing image of macabre death as I had feared. There was no doubt in me that Lord Cadwallader had murdered the Lady Llywelyn, and had taken out the eyes from her sockets.

He had sensed our presence and in a whisk, he turned around to confront our threat. It appeared we were at an afterdeal, as that had betided. He stood erect with a supercilious smirk of forcouth presumption, as he durst us to attempt to stop him. He screamed out loud in a sharp brath of madness, and from inside the area, had emerged an erumpent swarm of strepent bats that came towards us subitaneously.

Mr Jerigan had grabbed a rusty shovel that he found that belonged to the miners, who worked in the mines previously. There was a definite sense of danger that was purveyed, and we were forced to confront the bats. I had grabbed a shovel too and began to strike the bats. We had grabbed the shovels to combat the bats, but we were not certain of what we were to confront afterwards. We had survived the bats and proceeded ahead.

Instantly, as Lord Cadwallader was standing ready in wroth defiance towards us, the wraiths of tenscore from the house rose up from the dead, with their shocking guises of horror. Mr Jerrigan began to recite prayers and had obtestated God. When this was happening, the walls began to be covered, with a thousand devouring scarabs that had hastened.

Then the walls began to shake violently, as the ghosts flew above our heads. Shortly, the walls of the catacomb were crumbling and the antre, with the scathe. We knew that the entrance would crumble in motes of dust, along with the passage also. The livid and teterrimous eyes of Lord Cadwallader had shone and grew, with a heightened intensity of fell wrath, as he began to churn from within the core of his insanity.

He tried to charge at us, but I threw my torch at him causing a colossal flame that had burnt and absorbed him entirely. He struggled to resist the flames, but he had died. There was nothing he could do to prevent the flames from killing him. Through the obscuration beseemed dauntlessly, the singular trine of a radiant glow of the wraiths, who had grabbed him tautly with might and main, took him into the calamitous abode of everlasting Hades.

We had succeeded in sending the evil of the house back to the netherworld in which it originated from and existed. We were fortunate to have the expedient assistance of divine providence to help us. I do not know if what I witnessed were beings of ghostiness, but I was alive, and miraculously we had escaped through the cavern of the miners unharmed, as we ran rapidly. The cavern and the cellar of Lord Cadwallader were syndetically underground.

I am not a man to know, whether this phenomenon was a supernal amandation, but time would reveal the ultimate truth. If there is a heaven and hell on this earth of stoor, then I shall attest to have seen hell on earth and the Devil in person I say, with a solemn confession. There before our eyes of astonishment rose the ghost of the Lady Llywelyn, with her ghastly pallor of death no more. Her eyes were no longer wearish and lugubrious, and her lips were not amaranthine, but of a beautiful reddish definement. Her long, straight, hoary hair had returned to its sparkling yellow hair of divinity.

The inconceivable madness of the resurrection of the Lady Llywelyn was over, but I had prayed that her soul was resting finally at peace with her penance shriven, and the insanity of the wraiths of tenscore that consumed the Cadwallader lineage had been conquered.

Recommend Write a ReviewReport