Introduction In the spring of 1899, The Windsor Times began printing shocking excerpts from the Earl of Rothshire’s journal. The Earl described hellish events that took place on his vast estate, Caldecott Manor, and the surrounding villages in the Cotswolds. The graphic nature of these incidents was captured not only in words but also by a number of detailed sketches. These events ran from early Spring of 1896 through late Autumn of the same year. The Windsor Times’s slow-drip release of the excerpts seized the attention of the nation’s readers and stirred England to the point of distraction. By the time the second excerpt appeared, high-ranking officials had already been summoned to be held to account. The frenzy continued for weeks, peaking when Queen Victoria called upon the Prime Minister, The Marquis of Salisbury, to make a personal emergency visit to the Caldecott estate and verify the incidents. But even after this royal intervention, no satisfactory response was forthcoming from Downing Street—which only added to the growing hysteria. A few months after the excerpts were printed, The Windsor Times released yet more astonishing news. The Earl’s Journal had disappeared, and they were no longer in a position to print further excerpts. Although enormous public pressure was laid at the doors of both The Windsor Times and Caldecott at that period, the legal system itself remained strangely hushed. Of all the oddities surrounding the Caldecott Chronicles, one of the most peculiar came to light only this week. The great, great granddaughter of the Earl, Ms. Saffron Radclyffe-Jones, contacted The Windsor Times stating that she is in possession of the original journal, and is now executing the 32nd Earl's will by releasing it—exactly one hundred years to the day after his death in 1911. With full permission from the Earl of Rothshire’s estate, The Windsor Times will reprint these excerpts which will shine a light on the gruesome events at Caldecott—more commonly referred to as: The Killing Chronicles. Caldecott Manor April 4th, 1896 My Dear Albert, I pray that this finds you well, and brings you some modicum of joy. Lord knows it’s been hard of late. The lines have been down for over two weeks now, and I’ve attempted several trips to reach you, to no avail. I am livid there is no outside news, and it saddens me that I have received no support whatsoever. Nothing is normal, and I find myself in a state of perpetual flux. Two days ago I sent one of the stable lads on the only fit horse to bring news, but as yet he has not returned. To procure a suitable form of transport has proven near impossible. The thoroughfares beyond Timsbury-Sutton have become ensnared with debris and broken property, and it’s just too cumbersome. Even if I knew how to operate Charles’s blasted horseless carriage contraption, it’d be far too risky to attempt. So it has come to this: I’ve stored provisions in the attic of the east wing. There is enough canned pork—awful stuff I know—and salted crackers from the pantries. If you come to Caldecott, and I pray you do soon, don’t concern yourself if the water looks ruddy. It won’t affect you, for I’ve added iodine. There are supplies for a week—ten days if you practice restraint. I have also left you one of your Grandfather’s muskets. Devilish device to load. But it will get the job done, should you encounter one of the monsters at close range. Close range mind. If we could hear your Grandfather now he’d be frothing: “Foe, trespasser, undead! What’s the damnable difference. Take ‘em out at the knee!” Well, he never was one to mince words, was he? I need some of the old chap’s spirit in me, for the days ahead require a sturdy resolve. There’s some gun powder and precious ammunition in the attic too. Lastly, I know you were never one to be academically inclined while at Oxford, but please try to heed my advice. I’ve slain many, making these my hard won truths, and if nothing else, this journal is my legacy to you. Stay alive, Your loving Father April 8th, 1896 Such a blasted mess. How quickly everything has deteriorated. All I can do is tell you how it happened this side. When we catch up you must tell me how it unfolded in the city. If I recall correctly it was shortly after the Chaplain’s fireworks display in the village that I heard the very first lurid screams. Even with my limited medical experience from the Corps, witnessing the wounded dragged in from the front line, there’s nothing quite like the guttural howling plea for life from the victim of the undead. The very first scream went on for perhaps four minutes. I heard her between the booming finale of pyrotechnic splendour that the Chaplain does so well. Upon reflection I have to admit to some degree of compassion. Four long minutes! Lord knows what she went through. That was the bitter end of Mrs. Aldeshot—do you remember her? She’s been up to the house many a time for Christmas carols. She was a wonderful mezzo soprano. ‘C’ all the way up to an ‘A’. However I’m pretty sure she hit a rare ‘high A’ near her demise. After that night, the village fell afoul in double time. Arming your Uncle Charles and myself, I immediately set to barricading the many windows and doors to Caldecott. It took the better part of a week, and the task was bombarded with waves of attacks from the undead, many of whom had been paid help from the estate. So to-day you’ll find I am a different man. Cautious, wily, with a growing knowledge of the unearthly. No longer do I shuffle around my study in my robes. Nowadays I am dressed and armed to the hilt. I carry my Purdey double barrel everywhere—it sticks to my person like Merlin’s wand, and performs an equal measure of magic. Although I have grown rather stiff, I can wield it in any direction, and I instinctively know its ‘reach’. I cherish the thing. Even pondering the ghastly duties I’ve performed with it, I still take the time to marvel at the intricate engravings: “For my son, Aldersley, 1862”. Five hundred hours of genius craftsmanship. Brand new and custom balanced for me on my sixteenth birthday. It’s worth noting, Albert. If you ever need to dispatch a living creature to the next life, there’s no quicker nor more gentlemanly way to do it then with a Purdey side-by-side. It will be yours one day, along with the estate and all the people in it—but hopefully a good few years from now. Speaking of which, if you’re wondering what happened to the staff at Caldecott, I had to dispense with many of them. Wiggins went the first week. I suspected him the moment he started smelling off. Perhaps it wasn’t the full-blown infection, I admit, but I had to be sure. Sorry Albert, I know you were fond of him. After that, three housemaids, the lodge keeper (I forget their names) and the bellboy all went the way of the undead. The putrefaction spread among them surprisingly quickly. Lacked the fortitude of the rest of us. In short, I had to resort to burning the poor blighters. Why burning you may ask? In his frantic efforts to ward off these undead, your Uncle Charles spent most of the week blasting away from the roof. No bloody good that did. The only thing he devastated was the munitions supply, and then he twisted his ankle leaping over one of the gargoyles. As if my hands weren’t full enough. You’ll be glad to know I didn't waste ammunition; I simply lured Wiggins and his entourage into the pit using Charles and myself as bait. Actually Charles didn’t even know he was being useful, as he was simply resting his foot, playing that awful violin of his and utterly intoxicated on brandy. Quite a scene in the quadrant, I can tell you. Not sure who screamed at me more—Charles for wasting a half-gallon of his precious petroleum spirit, or the pit full of burning ‘help’. I will detail the account of your Uncle Charles and the ammunition later—right now I still find it too stirring to elaborate further. But these are small details. I can only estimate that the infection is nationwide—so for the last week, I’ve been lying low. You can understand. However, borne out of desperation, I did venture to scavenge near the stables. What luck, and a real highlight of the last month. I came across a very sorry and dejected-looking white mare. Even though she was on her side, she still managed to lift her head. I swear she knew I was one of the living and not one who was going to tear her remaining flesh from her bones. We were happy to see one another, I can say. It took three days, buckets of clean water and precious medication to get her back on her legs—during which I had to be as vigilant as ever, and I slept in the loft above her. As God is my witness, she understood I was on guard. We’ve formed quite a bond. I hope it amuses you to know that because of her bony rib cage, I have named her Willow. Last night I led her back to Caldecott, prised open the entrance to the Grand Hall and that is where we are now, as I write this. She’s in fine fettle to-day and making a complete mess of the parquet flooring. Your Mother would have thrown a right wizzy. I’ll have Willow convalesce here until she’s capable of the trip I have in mind. When we’re ready, I will ride east across the fields towards Stanton. I’ll stick as close to the main roads as I dare and head for you in London. I truly hope that we won’t have crossed paths en route. That would be an unbearable tragedy. Albert, if you’re reading this, then you have no doubt encountered the undead on the way here and I’ll assume you know how to finish them off. But as they say, assumption is the mother of misfortune, so I will go over it for your benefit. The bite wound of the undead is certainly most repulsive, mind you. I witnessed one of the help turn on another from the landing. Interesting, in a barbaric way. Death seems to occur somewhere between instantaneous and perhaps a few days, depending on what part of the living body is savaged—then it’s a matter of putrefaction. Let their awful stench be a warning—one of the first tips I encourage you to note. Suffice to say, after this I didn’t need convincing that I required thorough protection. Since Charles had dissipated dozens of boxes of cartridges, I conceived of a rather cunning plan. I sought some property that belonged to a Mr. Godfrey Simmons. Simmons was present during a shoot some years back. I can’t for the life of me work out how he managed to get an invite from your Grandfather, and I thought at the time it was strange for a civil servant to be in possession of such an arsenal of weaponry. He arrived with a selection of shotguns all oiled, prepped and ready. Although I can only assume he has now gone the way of the undead, it appeared to be somewhat of a blessing that I remember this detail. Guns like that are hard to come by these days, and I had to have them. And to do that, I ventured forth from the grounds of Caldecott. Although it is part of the estate, I’ve rarely been in to Timsbury-Sutton, so working out where Simmons’s house was became quite a chore. It took the better part of an hour of crouching and stumbling to get there. Approaching the house I was alerted by the familiar waft of putrescence coming downwind. It isn’t a particularly expansive house. It’s situated near the centre of the village, adjacent to the Green Man Tavern. Incidentally, Timsbury-Sutton is most definitely not what you’d care to remember. Fires have ravished the once quaint centre, and remnants of corpses are strewn in every conceivable place. I can now imagine how the Black Plague devastated England. But I digress. Back to Simmons and his rotting family. In Godfrey Simmons’s more robust and alive condition he was... how should I say... pedestrian? He worked in High Holborn during the week, and his job title was Clerk to the County of Aldridge or something of that nature. He was a pleasant enough fellow, and I do remember he said that he dined at the Tavern every Sunday. I suppose he meant that to be some sort of intemperance on his part. I also met his wife and children after the shoot, who were just as dreary. I try to recall but it defies me to detail any remotely appealing feature of their faces. Typical of the British peasantry, in my opinion. Perhaps now that they’re festering somewhere within the house, they’ve grown a tad more attractive. Good God! How small of me to make such a comment. I had filled my pockets with extra rounds, as the Simmonses had twin daughters. Do NOT under-estimate the undead, Albert. Even an infant can dig teeth in with all the grip of a cornered rat. These twins went by the rather befitting names of Mildred and Ethel. I remembered that, as if they weren’t ugly enough entering the world they now had labels to match. I tried to picture their present condition—their once rosy complexions were probably a mere ashen gawk. Note well, Albert: As a military man I have seen rigor mortis stiffen joints after death. However, these creatures retain a distinct peculiarity. Their ligaments elongate, due to the infection, I hazard. Hence the dragging limbs, making long trails easy to spot. You’ll do well to learn these recognizable traits. Could you spot the difference between, say, an undead and a drunkard exiting a public house during twilight hours? I found just such a trail as I tentatively made my way over the Simmons’s garden wall. The grass was long—long enough to reveal circles where the undead had worn it down in their relentless search for flesh and brain. They’ll do this—wander aimlessly for hours until they hear the living—then the trail is as straight as an arrow, right for their victim. As I drew closer to the garden shed, I heard a clink of tools from inside. Something was in there. I peered in cautiously through the cobwebbed windows to see the drooling face of Simmons himself. In truth, I only really recognised him because of the daft hunting cap he wore. Do you know the ones that cover the ears? He still had it on—well, I suppose he was hunting, in a fashion. But I thought the buffoon looked like a basset hound. He stood fondling a hoe, of all things, as if he were trying to remember what to actually do with it. I tapped on the glass with the end of the barrel. That woke him from his daze. You should hear the gurgling once they liven up—like one of those new-fangled steam-driven coffee machines we saw in the city coffee house that day. Well, you’d think this Simmons chap would exit through the shed door to get at me, but he lurched forward straight through the window with both arms outstretched. What a dunce! I pointed the Purdey into his gaping wound of a mouth and let him have both barrels. Talk about green mist. Damned well took the roof of the shed clean off—he met his maker in a jiffy. One Simmons down, three to go. Now here’s where it got a bit sticky. As soon as the blast went off, I could hear a collective moan. Noise at this level tends to aggravate and attract the local undead. No man should hear such a noise—it sends shudders down my spine just writing about it. Best not to dwell on such negatives. I popped out the spent shells and reloaded. Note: Learn to do this rapidly—it will pay dividends. Seconds after the demise of her husband, Mrs. Simmons (or at least I think it was Mrs. Simmons) came to the window of the top floor. She drooled something green over the white curtains and managed to open the window to step out, as if it there were an imaginary stair down to the garden. Except there wasn't, obviously. What shred of intelligence is left in these creatures seems easily squandered. She hit the earth with a sickening crack. I thought that would hinder her efforts to eat me alive, but even with one leg trailing behind and both broken hands flapping loose in front like greyish-green gloves she still managed get up speed. She must have been famished, poor wretch. I wish I’d had one of those camera thingamajigs to take a photographic remembrance, Albert. I could have captured a great shot (pun intended) for The Windsor Times, I can tell you. This Simmons woman was quite a sight—tangled and matted hair, and maggots falling from her right eye socket like yellowy tears. I let her have one blast. She’d earned that. Her plunge from the window gave me a quite a chuckle. I took her left leg clean off mid-thigh. Next came her attempt at a crawl. Rather pathetic really. She tried her best, but with no real purchase from her broken and shattered limbs she ended up moving rather like a caterpillar. Don’t rush if you don’t need to. Save your energy and cartridges. I took a spade from the shed and lopped her head clean off. Well, when I say clean I’m ashamed to say I managed to hack at her shoulders a few times before I got the neck. One commiserates with the Countess of Salisbury. Eleven times before the executioner severed her head, wasn’t it? Mrs. Simmons should consider herself lucky with two—alright, four. Shortly after I dispatched Mrs. Simmons I got a different kind of shock—movement from the small hatch of the barn’s loft behind the Tavern. It was a young girl about the age of a debutant. She didn’t posses the heavy motions of the ungodly. She waved at me, and there was fluidity to her action. Natural, so-to-say. I was so astonished I must have looked like one of the undead myself. I had trouble fathoming how this frail young girl had the wherewithal to have survived. I placed the Purdey under my arm and cupped my hands to my mouth. “Are you alright?” I shouted. “Who else is with you?” She didn't voice a reply, and simply pointed to an area below her that I couldn’t see. If it was a trap, I was prepared. I took tentative steps towards the dividing property wall and peeked over. No trap. Just a half dozen of the beef squad circling below. I noticed large, consistent scrape marks scarring the barn’s wooden sides, where they’d attempted to scale up to her. I guess she’d dashed over from the Tavern, pulled up the ladder, and fashioned a safe haven of sorts. How long had she been up there and whether she’d got food or not God only knows, because the girl didn’t answer when I shouted to her again. And every time I did, the blasted lot of them started bouncing off the wall just the other side. “They’re after me,” she eventually spoke up. “I’ve been here three days and nights.” I saw now why she was quiet. The mob below her seemed to erupt upon hearing her voice. Quite the dancers, some of them. “Who are they?” I shouted above their moans. “What is it they want?” A doltish question, I know, but that’s what I said. “Family,” she yelled back. “That is my Mother.” She pointed to one of them wearing a purple bonnet and a ripped dress down to her green ankles. She seemed to have lost a shoe as well as her faculties. “And that’s my Father.” The girl pointed to a figure near the hedge, gnawing on something, in a world unto himself. “Lovely,” I said. “Not much I can do to rescue them, I’m afraid.” “I know that!” she fired back. Studying her from a safe distance, I saw she was wounded. She’d adapted the ripped sleeve of her blouse into a bandage, but the blood had seeped through. By my estimation it was quite a gash... or as I suspected, quite a bite. She must have caught the flash of concern on my face, because she started up again and her crew began their jiggling. “No, no, don’t worry, Mister. I caught it on a nail getting up here. It’ll be fine. It’s not a bite, truly,” she cried. It didn’t look like it was festering, but I backed away none the less. I couldn’t be sure from this distance. And she’d become quite a hazard now that she was talking. Either way, I preferred her when she was quiet. I shook my head. “Good luck, girl,” I said. “And God be with you.” Seeing me back away she became quite frantic. I justified my indifference to her situation by surmising that she was in the early stages of the infection. I simply couldn’t shoulder the risk, Albert. The girl didn’t show the usual symptoms, I admit, but I still suspected the worst. I made the sign of the cross and backed away. She yelled blue murder and her green kin moaned. There’s nought like family, even half way to the other side. The girl had distracted me—so easy to lose one’s vision. I’d caused quite an unnecessary commotion, and the girl was best forgotten. I needed to get on with the task at hand. (Continues...) | 
