The Wax Figures Of Collinsworth Hall

'Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault'.—Oscar Wilde.

I shall relate a tale of life and deception that haunts the core of the human mind, and leaves you cogitating within such a grave manner as you ask then, how consequential is life seen, through the perceptive eyes of a wretch and of an artist? My name is Edgar Franklin, and of myself I shall only confess the following, I was once merry and connubial, but my life had tumbled into a Stygian despair of an abyss. I became a dispirited man, and participant to the inscrutable fate that was never beholden to my every desire.

This reminiscence had stirred a maelstrom I could not bear any longer, as the constant murk enveloped within the desolation of living that I had struggled incessantly to repress. I would never suspect that my days of desultory felicity would abdicate and be replaced, with the taunting despondency that I had abhorred daily. Thenceforth, my soul began to wane in token intervals of insanity, with the helpless rage and guilt that had foreshadowed brief bouts of enjoyment.

It all began one gloomy day of autumn in the year of 1880, as I had chosen to leave my home behind, and search for better things in this world. I had grown too weary of life and velleity, and the course of its direction was too unbearable to endure another day. Thus, with resolution, I had consciously thought it better to quit my home than to suffer such depravation any longer; but fate would supervene and intervene, with a chilling and swift apprehension.

I had lost a wife, my home, my status in society and was condemned to the deplorable state of abject poverty. Hope had seemed was nothing more than an unattainable possibility to aspire daily. I had implored the hour of my fruition. My sufferance was so oppressive that I was becoming apathetic to the passing of the illimitable days, weeks and months.

Whither, I had believed to be, my last indelible view of my home. I abode the veil of darkness of death to escort me, to the ambiguous waters of the swashing seas, as I had braced myself for my new life. I was a deckhand then, and Scotland was the destination for my first trip. I had heard the voice of a strange woman, 'Tell me your name! Do not go aboard laddie, for danger awaits you!'

It was an eldritch quirk of subtle irony that had occurred, before we embarked to the sea from the harbour of Dover. I was boarding the ship at that precise moment, when an anile woman of Gypsy origin had stopped me by grabbing my arm, then said to me these disconcerting words that perplexed me suddenly.

Forsooth, I was not quite certain what had caused this bizarre woman to say and express such ominous words of direness. I saw the profound austere intensity of conviction and meaning elicited in the old lady of cinereous hair, whose penetrating eyes were passionately enthralled with her utterance.

This stern warning definitely had befuddled me for an instance, but I dismissed her words of severe admonition, as foolish and idle gibberish. I could not understand the significance of her behaviour.

'Go away woman, for I do not have time now, for your blatant incoherence. If you must peddle your black magic to someone, then seek another poor soul to deceive!' I had ejaculated.

As I was on board, I had heard her voice cursing me, 'Fool, you will remember my words of warning! Thus, you will be condemned to your blind fate, laddie!'

Upon the fortnight through the English Channel, the ship had sailed the hypenemious seas, until one unfortunate day, a tempest struck the hull of the ship, leaving the ship to be totally shipwrecked and incapacitated afterwards. The mast was the only remnant salvageable that had allowed the boat to reach the shoreline of Yorkshire, beyond the safety of the shale. Of all the crew members aboard, I along with a shipmate by the name of Gustaf Svenson had survived the shipwreck. I was told that the shipmaster, the crew, were all dead.

I was in the lower deck of the ship, when a fire had started. There was smoke all over, and I had tried to escape. That was all I remembered, as I reached the upper deck. I had lost complete consciousness, with the smoke and the apparent storm. Thus, I was left motionless on the beach, abandoned to the undetermined fate that had awaited me.

When I had opened my eyes anew, I saw the presence of a mysterious stranger, who stood in front of me, as I lay in the bed within a listless torpor. I then heard the eerie voice of a nobleman addressing me nigh. I could not speak or could I move much, due to the severity of my injury I had succumbed to, a minor fracture to my right leg that was of an inconvenience.

'The apparent Devil has smiled on you my good man suddenly. You are extremely lucky to have survived the tempest. The wrath of the tempest at times cannot be remediable so easily, as one is led to believe it to be soluble. You see my good man, when your ship hit the shore, you were unconscious. This was the state that I had found you in'.

‘Gustaf—what of him, my shipmate?’ I asked, my voice trembling with dread.

‘I am sorry to tell you, but Gustaf did not survive his injuries,’ came the nobleman’s reply. ‘You, sir, are the sole survivor of the wreck.’
‘My God... And the ship—what became of it?’

‘Gone. Irredeemably lost. A lamentable blanscue, indeed. You see, death is not a thing to be lightly imposed, nor can it be fittingly foretold. The eternal sea—once a vast and watchet expanse of beauty and perfection—can become a graveyard, turbulent and merciless. Many a sailor has met his fate chasing the tropaean winds. You, however, have been fortunate to wash ashore alive.’

‘And where am I now? Who are you, sir?’

‘Guilt—whether inherited or earned—will not absolve iniquity, nor will persuasion rid you of doubt if you do not yield to reason,’ he said with an air of peculiar solemnity.

‘As to your enquiry—you are presently within a chamber of my home. Welcome, sir, to my manor. I am Lord Alfred Collinsworth.’

The name Collinsworth was familiar, a venerable name of honour in English lineage. Yet I could not help but be unsettled by the man himself. Dressed entirely in black—shirt, waistcoat, trousers, and shoes polished to a mirror’s sheen—he struck a strange, spectral figure. His face was youthful, almost boyish, yet his eyes held the weight of years unspoken. Though his manners were polite and seemingly humble, there was something in his appearance and demeanour that stirred unease in me.

My heart beat with a rapid, relentless thrum—my thoughts clouded by anxiety and dread. The night outside had descended fully; from the window I beheld a crescent moon hanging in a sky of deep sable, its light thin and spectral.

In that moment, in my injured and weakened state, I could scarce discern reality from opium-induced fantasy. Was I to perish here, in this grand manor under the care of a man whose appearance spoke of both refinement and danger? My body, weary and battered, was a prison; I could not rise. My fractured leg throbbed with pain—an agony so great that morphine was offered, and though I considered refusing, I soon yielded. Relief dulled the torment, and for two months I remained in the Collinsworth Estate, convalescing.

‘Are you a wealthy nobleman, if I may ask?’ I once ventured.

He chuckled softly. ‘I am no plutocrat, I assure you. But what intrigues me more is who you are, Franklin. Let us not tire ourselves with the jejune trifles of my self-indulgent life, shall we?’

I hesitated, but at length responded, ‘My name is Edgar Franklin, sir.’

I had no place to go, no family, no coin. Lord Collinsworth, in a gesture of kindness, allowed me to remain. He was, as I soon learnt, a man of peculiar hobbies: an artist of sculptures and waxworks. I grew to earn his trust, though his true nature remained veiled. Whenever I probed into his origins, he would evade, ever turning the conversation back to my welfare.

In time, he offered me employment as the gatekeeper. I resided in a small, tidy cottage attached to the main gate and watched over the estate’s entrance. Lord Collinsworth was a man of frequent travels throughout Great Britain, and though he often hosted guests, none ever stayed more than a single night. His visitors were merry enough, yet fleeting.

The manor itself I can only describe as a brooding edifice upon a low plateau, its front garden overgrown and somnolent. Above the Gothic portico, a great rose window cast a pale glow. The cobbled path leading to the entrance was flanked by leafless trees and flowers of unusual hue—where once daffodils and clematis had bloomed, there now thrived only black roses and lilies.

When I once inquired about the sombre colours and funereal atmosphere of the grounds, he replied simply, ‘It is due to my solemn reverence for the colour black.’
Inside, the manor was grand but shadowed. The central hall was built of ashlar stone, a fire ever crackling in its hearth. Oak-panelled walls and an ornate plaster ceiling added to its dignity. The furniture was richly embroidered, and a pond sat quietly near the rear entrance, bordered by a bramble of thorny hedges.

The house itself was host to strange elements. Wax figures—lifelike, sometimes unsettling—stood in various rooms, seemingly arranged in positions of conversation or contemplation. Flocks of rooks nested upon the gables, cawing from dawn till midnight. From the cottage, I could see their black silhouettes watching. I was told ruddocks once made their home upon the roof—now replaced by these sentinels of shadow.

Mystery enveloped the estate like fog, yet I honoured Lord Collinsworth’s trust. I did not pry. The months passed into years. It had been five since I had arrived—five years of quiet servitude and cautious companionship. Though rarely, he would sometimes invite me to dine with him. During those moments, I saw a glimpse of the man beneath the enigma.

I would experience a horrific nightmarish sequence. My body was drenched in dripping sweat. I had been dreaming, but the dream felt so real. I had been on the ship again, amidst the storm. Gustaf’s voice had echoed in my ears, calling out to him for help. Then, in the dream, the storm had intensified, and I had felt myself sinking into the sea. But then...

I gasped, sitting up in bed. I wasn’t in the sea—I was in the manor, in the cold and dark room where I had lain after being saved by Lord Collinsworth. The memory of the storm lingered in his mind, but it quickly faded into something far more sinister.

Suddenly, I heard a soft whisper in the darkness, one that seemed to come from the walls themselves:
“Come, Franklin. Come closer...”

My heart raced as he moved towards the sound, my feet carrying me towards a wax figure room. I tried to shake the feeling of being drawn by an unseen force, but it was no use. The door creaked open, and I stepped inside.
The figures were there, as they always were—silent, lifeless statues of people long gone. But this time, they seemed different. Their eyes followed me, and their faces distorted in a grotesque mockery of life. I stumbled backward in shock, my breath quickening.

“No,” I muttered to himself. “This isn’t real... This isn’t real!”

But as I turned to leave, the door slammed shut behind me. The figures begin to move, their waxen limbs creaking as they stepped towards me. I was trapped. In the dream, I felt my body turning to wax, my limbs stiffening, my skin hardening into the same cold, lifeless form as the others. And then, I heard Lord Collinsworth’s voice again, laughing softly in the distance...

At one such dinner, as we sat at his grand oak table beneath a chandelier of dimmed crystal light, he addressed me.

‘Franklin, my boy—what do you suppose becomes of us when our souls are condemned to the Hades of eternal suffering?’

I paused, gathering my thoughts. ‘My lord, I am but a common man. Yet, if you must know, I believe that when the soul departs this earth, it must go somewhere.’
‘You refer, perhaps, to what the Catholics call purgatory?’
‘Perhaps, my lord. But I would suppose that infinity must be a destination for all mortals.’

He smiled, though his eyes remained cold. ‘Yes, Franklin, an omen indeed. Man is but a creature of base desires. Greed and lust for power lead him to forsake his soul. He is no more than a pompous swine—a vainglorious fool, like the debauched Elagabalus of Rome. Give him a fortune, and he will demand a kingdom. Religion, too, is but a fabrication—human corruption dressed in sacred robes. Faith may grant structure, but it cannot fully restrain the beast within.

'Tertullian, in all his pious zeal, was but a fool. Man’s logic, when untethered, leads not to enlightenment but to blathering madness. Gorgias had it right, in his nihilism. Never forget, Franklin—do not become the archetypal louche gentleman. It shall destroy you.’

His words lingered like smoke in the air—dark, philosophical, and strange. I nodded, though the depths of his meaning eluded me still.
‘I should hope not, my lord!’

‘And what of vanity, Franklin? What is your opinion on that most slippery of traits?’ asked Lord Collinsworth, reclining with his usual feline grace.

‘I fear, my lord, that my understanding of vanity is meagre, for I have never considered myself overly given to self-regard,’ I replied.

‘Rubbish—utter rubbish, Franklin! Every man is Machiavellian in some form or another. Vanity is a pronounced and unmistakable facet of his nature. Yes, Franklin, I too was once a man of pride and avarice, possessed by that same self-admiration we all, to some extent, covet. And I have paid dearly for it.

‘Yet in this manor, I have found solace. I have entertained myself with the whims and charms of many a guest. Vanity may be a vice, but it fascinates me—indeed, it inspires my most brilliant creations. The sculptures, the waxen figures you see... I have preserved their very essence. They are monuments to vainglory, embodiments of mortal beauty. Each, in their way, deserves a callisteia. Their beauty is divinity itself—kalon, as the Greeks would say.

‘I find inspiration in the noble blood of the Eupatrids, those ancient Athenians who prized appearance and form. Perhaps you wonder how I remain so youthful, so untouched by time... the secret, my boy, lies in the art. In my wax figures. They sustain me.’

‘Indeed, my lord,’ I confessed. ‘Vanity has led me astray more than once, when I sought it like a dizzard.’

‘I admire your intellect and your jannock wit, Franklin. That is why I entrust you now—not merely as a servant, but as steward of this estate.’

He paused, fixing me with a gaze both piercing and unreadable.

‘I shall be away for a time, tending to my other demesne. For this reason, I require you to be my eyes and ears here. You have served faithfully for five years. It is time you took on greater responsibility. Remain in the manor—not your cottage—and watch over all. Be vigilant. Can I rely on you?’

‘Yes, of course, my lord,’ I answered. ‘Though I am untried in such a post, I shall do my utmost to prove worthy of your trust.’

He smiled faintly. ‘Do not fret, Franklin. You shall soon grow accustomed to the peculiarities of this place. The manor, in the end, is always subservient to our needs.’

With that, our conversation ended. The following morning, he departed in his carriage at dawn. Only after his departure did I notice he had left his walking cane behind. I ran to the gates, but it was too late—his carriage had vanished down the winding country road.

My contact with the outside world had always been minimal. The village, isolated and sleepy, I had seldom visited. My duties at the estate kept me within its bounds, and I had learned to accept that solitude. Now, alone within the manor, I committed myself fully to my stewardship.

The first two days passed without incident. The wind blew fitfully, and the rooks cawed in their usual chorus. But then, a mist—a strange, shifting brume—descended upon the grounds. It enveloped the gardens, the paths, the very walls of the manor. The rooks seemed unbothered, still keeping their ceaseless vigil.

Yet for me, an unease began to grow.

The wails came first—distant, sorrowful sounds echoing through the corridors, as if the very walls wept. The wax figures, so lifeless before, now appeared... unsettled. I imagined whispers from behind the parlour doors, soft murmurings that carried a daunting chill.

The walls of the manor seemed to shift before my eyes, subtly at first, as though the building itself was alive. I could feel the air grow heavier, charged with something unspoken. The floorboards creaked ominously beneath me, and I could have sworn I heard the faint whispers emanating from the walls. Was the house... feeding on my fears? Was this the real reason for its oppressive nature?"

One evening, as I stood in the garden outside the manor, I noticed the flock of rooks perched upon the roof, their eyes glistening in the fading light. They were silent now, but the eerie stillness makes my skin crawl. I walked closer, my curiosity compelling me to observe them. As I neared the front gates, one of the rooks suddenly flew down and landed on the ground near me, with its beady eyes.

The bird cawed, its voice echoing in the quiet night. I froze, watching in horror as the bird’s eyes seemed to lock on to mine. It cawed again, louder this time, and something in my gut twisted out of consternation.

“What do you want from me?” I muttered under my breath, but the bird merely stared back attentively, its beak twitching as if sensing my fear.

In that moment, I felt a deep sense of foreboding, as if the rooks were not just mere creatures, but sentinels watching over the manor and its dark secrets. Verily, were they Lord Collinsworth’s silent servants, or were they messengers from the beyond, a harbinger of the doom that awaits?

Whilst I was dutifully tending to my role as the steward, I stumbled upon a forgotten room in the manor that has been locked for years it seemed. Inside, there were strange objects and items that told the story of Lord Collinsworth’s past. An ornate journal with yellowing pages opening a window into the torment that once consumed the lord.

One passage caught my eye. It said, “I have found the secret to eternal life... not through the blood of the living, but by preserving their very essence. The wax, the mould, the substance—they will live on forever, not in flesh, but in perfection.”

I remained frozen, gazing at the journal as the revelation began to sink in. I had no clue to what this journal described, except the unusual details about wax, mould and substance. I contemplated that peculiarity, and the mention to the part of them living forever not in flesh, but in perfection had made me become extremely inquisitive. I began to have restless nights.

As I sat in the dim light of the manor, I found myself staring at my own reflection in the polished surface of a nearby table. The smoothness of my skin, untouched by time, unsettled me more than any shadow creeping along the walls. How could I have lived so many years, yet remained untouched by the inevitable toll of age? A faint flicker of doubt gnawed at the edges of my mind, but I quickly dismissed it—too fearful of what might be uncovered if I allowed myself to think too deeply.

One night, as I sat in the parlour nursing a glass of Médoc, a sudden wail rattled my chair. The wind rose into a wild howl, accompanied by a chorus of groaning voices—too harmonic to be wind, too human to be imagined. I stood, heart pounding, and moved towards the sound.

Was this madness? The bitter echo of isolation? Or something else?

I reached the main hall and climbed the grand stair, drawn upwards by dread and curiosity alike. Each step felt heavier, as if the house itself wished to keep me from my path. At last, I arrived at a locked chamber. I had the keys, and after a brief hesitation, I turned the lock.

What I beheld within defies reason.

The room was filled with waxen figures—not static and still, but shifting, murmuring. Their lips moved ever so slightly. My knees buckled. These were not statues—they were the guests. The visitors. All those convivial souls who had passed through the manor’s doors... preserved. Entombed in waxen likeness.

And there—there—stood Gustaf.

He was still, expressionless, frozen in time. With trembling hands, I raised a key and scraped gently at his face. His features began to melt. Beneath the wax, he screamed.

I staggered back in horror. His body collapsed onto the floor in a heap, falling in a way that made it seem as though his very form had been undone, as if the world itself had turned against him. I fled the chamber, each footstep echoing in my ears, the weight of my own breath heavy in my chest, my mind unraveling like a fragile thread that could snap at any moment.

Back in the parlour, I poured another glass of Médoc, desperate to calm my racing heart. No—no, this cannot be. This is madness. Illusion. Delirium. But as I held the glass, I could not rid myself of the feeling that something—someone—was watching me, just beyond my vision. The wine, once a comforting presence, now tasted harsh and bitter, as if it, too, knew the truth of what had transpired.

I sat there for what felt like an eternity, the room spinning, the shadows pressing in on me. Was it madness that gripped me, or was something darker at play? The world had begun to fracture, pieces slipping through my fingers like sand.

I closed my eyes, trying to hold on to some semblance of reality. But when I opened them again, the question lingered, cold and heavy: What have I done?

But the ominous voices persisted. The walls themselves called my name. The rooks cried louder than ever before. I made for the door, intending to flee—but the stairwell loomed ahead, and behind me... a voice.

A voice I knew.

‘Indeed, you are a worthy adversary, Franklin. But rest assured—you shall soon understand the complexity of your fate.’

I turned, aghast. Lord Collinsworth stood at the foot of the stairs, his eyes alight with a terrible knowing.

‘My God—when did you return?’ I cried. ‘What do you mean by “understand my fate”? What madness is this?’

He stepped forward, calm as ever. ‘The voices. The waxen figures. The rooks. Even the gates themselves. You see, Franklin, nothing here is as it seems.’

I stared at him, a thousand questions warring in my mind. ‘What are you? Who are you?’

He smiled—but it was not the smile of a friend.
Lord Collinsworth's voice was calm, but there was a glint in his eyes that chilled me to the marrow.

‘I am the artist who saved you, Franklin—when you were but a dying wretch. You owe your very existence to me. Hitherto, you are my masterpiece, my splendid work of art. Through my mansuetude as a philocalist, I bestowed upon you the gift of life—impeccable and eternal life. Treasure it, Franklin, for should you leave this manor, you will return to the harsh cruelty of the world—a world you once inhabited, before I rescued you.’

‘You are mad, Lord Collinsworth,’ I exclaimed, my voice rising in a burst of defiance. ‘I am leaving this house of hell—this cursed place!’

He smiled softly, with a sarcastic voice. ‘And where will you go, Franklin? Can a man who was dead ever return from the darkness of his own soul? You see, my boy, you are nothing but a wax figure—like all those around you. Wax, Franklin, is akin to the ancient ichor of the gods. It is the substance of life and immortality. There is no need to dramatise the situation. Come, let us prepare a sumptuous dinner. A humble offering of reconciliation, to soothe our differences.’

The venom of his words slithered into my mind, each syllable like an invisible chain. I could feel the grip of his influence tightening around me, but in that moment, something within me snapped.

With trembling hands, I seized a lamplight from the corridor and hurled it at the draperies. The flames ignited quickly, spreading like a living thing across the room. Panic surged through me, my chest tight with terror as the fire roared around us.

Lord Collinsworth, alarmed, attempted to extinguish the flames, but it was too late. The fire consumed him, as it had consumed everything else in this cursed manor. His face began to melt—just as the wax figures did, their features distorting and disintegrating. His whole body, once so proud and imposing, began to liquefy, the cered flesh surrendering to the inferno.

Desperation and instinct overcame me. I stumbled towards the door, narrowly escaping the consuming flames as they reached for me, licking at my skin. But even as I ran, I felt something—something unholy—coursing through my veins. The skin of my arm, already scorched, began to melt.

I stood in front of the mirror, unable to recognise the man staring back at me. My skin, once warm and alive, was now smooth and cold, a perfect imitation of life. I had no scars, no imperfections. I could not feel the roughness of my palms or the beating of my heart. Was I still Franklin? Or had I become nothing more than a wretched reflection of what I once was?"

I looked down in horror. No blood. Beneath my flesh was not the pulsing warmth of life, but wax—smooth, cold, and unmoving. My body was no longer my own. No matter how much I screamed, no matter how much I fought, I was trapped within this wax shell. Lord Collinsworth had succeeded. He had made me his eternal creation."

I was no man. Instead, I was a creation—an artificial being, forged by Lord Collinsworth's hand. He had sculpted me from wax, brought me to life when I had been naught but a dying, broken soul on the shores of a tempest.

The manor burnt to the ground, its walls crumbling to ashes, its history reduced to mere smoke and dust. It was only when Lord Collinsworth’s life ended that the manor’s eerie vitality, its sinister pulse, ceased as well. The madness of the wax figures, the terror of Collinsworth Hall, was finally over.

But what of me? What had I become?

I had left behind a journal, a final testament to the truth of my existence. And through that journal, the truth of my being—and that of the others—would be known. I had wandered this world, not as a man, but as a walking corpse of wax, a lie in the shape of a man.

And as the flames consumed my body, I realised the terrible truth. I was not alive, but an imitation of life.

The fire had burnt the manor, but it had not burnt away the terrible truth. Lord Collinsworth had given me life—but at what cost? Was it a gift, or a curse?

Immortality, I had learnt, is no gift at all. It is a prison. To live forever is to endure the agony of a life that never ends, but never grows. I was trapped in a body that would not decay, a mind that could not forget the horrors I had witnessed.

And now, wandering through the world as a liegeless solitudinarian, I am haunted by the unrelenting rhythm of my own heart—beating inside a body of wax. A body that does not bleed, that does not age.

Death, once a distant prospect, has become a temptation—a longing. To cease, to finally rest, to know the peace of oblivion.

For what is life without death? What is immortality, but a trap? A world where beauty fades, where all things decay, yet none are allowed to die.

The thought of death is something we all ponder in quiet moments, whether we admit it or not. It is an inevitable truth we must all face, though we fear it. The fear is not of death itself, but of the emptiness that lies beyond it—the void that awaits us all, regardless of our vanity, our pride, our desires.

For in the end, we are all as fleeting as wax. Our lives, shaped by ambition, power, and transient triumphs, burn bright for but a moment before we are consumed by the exact flames we once wielded. I have come to realise that no matter how carefully we plot, how deeply we strategise, time is the one force we cannot bend to our will.

I, Edgar Franklin, have lived as a man who believed he could master fate, manipulate it to his advantage. But the truth, as bitter as it is, lies in the inevitable end of all things. The life I built—woven from deceit and ambition—crumbles beneath me like the decaying ruins of a forgotten castle, no different from the brittle wax that forms my foundation. I see now that even the most elaborate of schemes, the finest of triumphs, are but brief flickers in the grand tapestry of time. Like wax, I too shall melt away—insignificant, ephemeral—until nothing is left but the fleeting memory of what I once was.

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