t had been quite a long time indeed since I had last heard from my friend Jeremy Baker, so naturally, upon receiving his letter, I was quite surprised, if a little curious, as to the motive behind his correspondence. We had last spoken shortly after his wedding night, a little over two years ago I believe, when his courtship of the lady Bradshaw had been made official over the course of the festivities at which I was a guest. At that time we had been fairly close, Jeremy and I, but gradually we drifted apart as many people so often do as the hands of time tick on, and by the time I had decided to go to New Orleans to pursue what I felt would be a splendid job opportunity, I felt little need to even say goodbye to him. At first we wrote each other now and again, more or less on a somewhat frequent basis, but it soon became evident, and quite obvious that our correspondence was little more than a formality, as neither one of us had anything much to say to the other. The letter writing ceased shortly after and Jeremy’s status as one of my good friends was reduced to that of merely someone with whom I had been acquainted before my relocation to New Orleans. It was a colleague of mine who had suggested the move to what the locals call “Nola,” as there were not many medical practices there and we would stand a better chance of getting our own fledgling, if you’ll pardon the pun, operation, off the ground. Things had been going well indeed, and you can imagine my surprise when a young mail carrier entered our offices and deposited a letter from a friend I’d known so long ago, and had since kept at the back of my mind as a distant memory.

I did not get a chance to examine the letter until after we had closed for the day, and by this time curiosity burned throughout the whole of my body, so much so that when finally given the chance to read Jeremy’s letter I hastily tore open the envelope and grabbed for the contents within. As I sit and write this, I am still quite uncertain as to whether I was saddened, or merely indifferent, upon the discovery that the letter was not a friendly and personal one as I had previously imagined; rather, it was a business one. It was handwritten, and the cursive script which could only come from the hand of a distraught man, was cold and lackadaisical. According to the letter, it seemed Jeremy wished to consult with me, over what he did not mention, and that he needed to speak with a doctor but did not trust anyone else. The mysterious air of the damned letter had once again piqued my inquisitiveness and I found it difficult to wait the three days before I would be able to make the journey to meet with my old friend.

At last I was able to set off on my voyage and I rode practically without rest during the entire half day ride needed to reach Jeremy’s home. Upon my arrival at Baker Manor, the celestial orb shining in the night sky had already risen, creating an eerie outline of the large building. The manor was very gothic looking, very tall, the roof sloping away at an odd angle, and the silhouettes of stone gargoyles could be seen along the eaves. Large stone steps led the way to the enormous, and ornately carved, oak doors which contrasted nicely with the dark masonry of the rest of the edifice. Indeed, the building reminded me more of a gothic cathedral straight out of Hugo, than it did the current, humble abode of my old friend. The whole scene exuded a somewhat brooding quality which, needless to say, unnerved me quite a bit.

I was greeted by Jeremy’s servant, who led my horse to the barn before guiding me up the stone steps and through the doors. I was then led into a large room, what appeared to me to be a library or study of some sort, and given a seat beside the crackling fireplace at the far end of the room. The flames cast unusual oblong shadows on the floor and eerie silhouettes against the walls and bookcases. The shadows seemed to mask malevolent spirits within their liquid blackness, and I quickly sought the comforting glow of the fireplace. The servant offered me a silver chalice, containing what looked to me like some sort of wine, which I thanked him for before returning my attention to the bright orange flames as they danced and licked at their stony prison. Somewhere in the house I heard what I thought were a crash and a thump, probably caused by the servant.

I sat in that room for quite some time, looking at the fire, the eerie silence of the house hanging heavily on my shoulders. I had finished my wine, the empty cup resting in my lap, when Jeremy finally made his appearance. He entered the room with a dark coloured towel in his hands, which he promptly handed over to his servant, who quickly disappeared through the doorway. Jeremy seemed much older than I had remembered him, his eyes were very sunken and bloodshot, and his skin did not quite seem to fit over his skeletal frame. He apologized for making me wait, saying he had been attending to some business and had to clean himself off, and proceeded to offer me another drink. I accepted his offer and we were soon joined, once again, by the servant who brought with him two glasses and a wine bottle on a silver tray.

And so it was that the two of us drank and reminisced until more than half of the bottle’s contents had disappeared down our throats, then I posed the question which had been eating away at the very fibre of my being since I had received his letter: Why did he wish to see me? As he was about to speak, the servant entered the room, coughed lightly, and took a seat at a writing table in the corner. Jeremy glanced at the man, his eyes darting back and forth, before answering. His response to my query should have angered me, as it seemed to me that he could have consulted any doctor without having to bother me, but, oddly enough, it did not. It so happened that for the last few weeks, Jeremy hadn’t been feeling well, not physically, but mentally, often lapsing into bouts of depression and melancholy. At the moment, however, everything was back to normal, and whatever had been weighing on his mind and causing his distress had apparently disappeared. He seemed fine to me; he was his usual jovial self which I so fondly remembered, and had he not said anything to me, I would not have known anything had been the matter. He was going to seek treatment from me, but now felt he did not need it any longer. He felt inordinately bad about making me come all this way for nothing, but I told him not to worry and assured him that I had been wanting to get out of New Orleans and away from the everyday drudgery of my profession for quite some time now, and his letter had at last afforded me the opportunity.

Our conversation drifted to various topics which neither one of us was truly interested in, and served to remind us as to why we had grown apart in the first place. He requested that I should spend the night and set out tomorrow, and I accepted, glad to have some place to stay and not having to return to New Orleans immediately. I then noticed that I had not seen the lady Bradshaw about, and I wondered why I had not remarked this earlier. I asked Jeremy why this was, not fully expecting the response I was to get. He told me that the lady had left him last year and he hadn’t spoken to her since, and at this a thought struck me, which I hesitated not in the least in suggesting to him. I thought that perhaps this had been the cause of his depression, but he quickly pointed out that it had been a year past and that he had been the one who had asked her to leave because she had been, quite frankly, annoying him. I turned this over in my mind and was not totally convinced that his wife’s leaving had no bearing whatsoever on his mental condition, but I decided not to press the issue, especially since he had recovered so well.

It had gotten rather late, and there was nothing left in our bottle save a few red drops, and the two of us felt slightly giddy. Jeremy’s servant showed me to the guest room where I was to spend the night. As we walked along a rather large corridor, whose walls were adorned with large, lavish paintings of forest landscapes and quaint cabins, I remarked to the servant that it was sad that lady Bradshaw had gone. The servant’s response took me by total surprise, and I asked him to repeat himself for I half-thought I had heard him wrong.

“I said she’s gone out for the night, but perhaps you shall see her come the morrow before you leave,” repeated the servant. I told him what Jeremy had related to me, about lady Bradshaw having left him, to which the servant confided to me that Jeremy was slowly losing his grip on reality, his depression was actually something much more serious. He had already been to see many doctors, each of whom declared he was mad. This information was quite startling and for a moment I was unable to believe what I had just heard; the prospect of my old friend gone insane was just too much for me to take in at that time.

The servant showed me the living quarters and gave me a robe to wear. He pointed down the hall and told me that the third door on the left was the bedroom of Jeremy and lady Bradshaw, and that I should not go near there unless invited. Jeremy was becoming more and more paranoid, sometimes suspecting even the servant of foul deeds, and it certainly would not do any good to creep around his bedroom in the middle of the night. This new piece of information served only to further confuse me, and I wondered just how far gone was my friend, and was there anything I could do for him? I said goodnight to the servant and prepared myself for bed while gazing about the room and taking in the lavish draperies which hung from the windows and from the cross beams of the bed; the red velvet laced with gold was very grand indeed. It appeared Jeremy was well off, whether it was he who was able to afford all of this, or whether it was the lady Bradshaw, I had no idea.

I fell asleep rather quickly, but my sleep was not to last long, as I awoke with a start upon hearing what sounded like crying coming from down the hall. I pushed open the large door which served to barricade my sleeping chamber from the rest of the hall, and set my foot on the carpeted floor. The oil lanterns burned dully in the black gloom of the hallway and guided by their soft glow, I made my way slowly toward the direction of the sound, which seemed to be coming from the room I was told not to enter unless invited. Upon arriving at the third door on the left, I pressed an ear to the wood and was able to hear a faint whimpering coming from within; Jeremy, no doubt. I was about to push open the door in order to see what was the matter with my half-sane friend, when I felt a hand on my shoulder, a gentle, yet still firm, grip. I spun around and saw the servant standing behind me, the burning flames of the oil lamps reflected in his emotionless eyes. He apologized for frightening me, guided me back to my room, told me once again that I was not to go near Jeremy’s room unless summoned, bade me goodnight, and closed the door as he left.

I sat on my bed, unable to fall asleep, contemplating what I had heard. It was not the sound of crying one would emit after having stubbed one’s toe, or having bumped one’s head, nor was it the joyful sound of crying that comes about when a loved one is married, nor was it the sound of crying brought forth by a death in the family, or some other type of grief; rather, it was the sort of crying one would expect to issue forth from the larynx of a man trapped in a blackened room, alone, without any idea of where he is, and not knowing what lay waiting in the darkness. It was the sound of terror I had heard in Jeremy’s cries. Absolute fright, at what, I was not certain. Perhaps it was nothing, merely another facet of his madness, but still I found the whole ordeal quite perplexing, if a bit unnerving.

I finally fell back into the embrace of dreams and the rest of the night passed without incident, and before I knew it, the glaring rays of the new day’s sun which fought their way through the velvet drapes had forced my sleeping eyes open. I dressed hurriedly and made my way to the parlor where I found Jeremy, clothed in his robe, seated in a large chair, a cup of tea on a tray beside him. We exchanged greetings, and I made sure not to mention anything of the previous night. The servant brought me a cup of tea as well, and Jeremy and I feigned conversation for an hour or so, by which time the servant had returned with quite a bit of distressing news for me. It so happened that my steed was more tired from my hasty journey than I had thought, and could probably use more time to rest. I was informed that I could use another horse for my return voyage if it suited me, but I preferred to allow my own to rest up. I could not make out Jeremy’s expression when he heard this news, and I did not know how he felt about me spending more time in his home.

I casually remarked that the lady Bradshaw still had not returned, and at this Jeremy gave me a peculiar glance, then proceeded to remind me that the lady had left him last month. I caught the error in his sentence, but apparently, he hadn’t noticed. The previous night, he had informed me that his wife had left him last year, and now he spoke as if it had been only a month. This served to reinforce the information given to me by the servant that Jeremy was indeed mad, or nearly mad; I could not be quite sure how much sanity was left in him. I decided to drop the subject of his wife for the time being and concentrate on how to make it through yet another day of awkward conversation with this man with whom I had not spoken in many years, and did not know very much about.

He decided to make it easy on me, I suppose, for he suggested that we go riding to pass some of the time, which seemed a good enough idea to me. The servant then gave him a strange glance which seemed to change his mind, for he turned to me as if he had just remembered something and told me he had hurt his leg and didn’t feel up to it. I decided not to press the issue, as the odds were, in his present condition he should not be allowed on a horse. We passed most of the time instead with games of chess, reading, and more meaningless chatter as the servant looked on.

Night came rather slowly for me, but when it was finally upon us, I quickly made my way to my sleeping chamber, eager for morning and my journey home. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling for what seemed an eternity, but finally sleep carried me away. Once again, my slumber was cut short, not by a noise this time, but by a presence: someone was in my room. As I opened my eyes, I could make out the silhouette of someone standing at the foot of my bed, outlined against the moonlight which filtered through the red curtains. My voice caught in my throat and I was unable to utter a sound, then the figure spoke to me and I realized it was Jeremy.

“I sent you the letter because you are the only person I could turn to,” he said, sitting down beside me on the bed. His voice was barely audible, never rising above a whisper. “I knew if I just told you in the letter what had happened, you wouldn’t believe me, so I had to show you. I’ve been trying to tell you since you arrived, but he won’t let me. I even had to make up stories about my illness and my wife so he wouldn’t suspect my motivations for calling you here.” His words were rather cryptic and did little, if anything, to assuage my thoughts of his madness.

I asked him to continue and he pressed on. “I am to be next, then he gets it all. It’s not how we had planned it, but that’s what will happen. He forced us to sign the will. Oh God. I don’t have many friends, you’re the only one I could trust.”

“Next for what?” I asked him. I was a little anxious about the nonsense he was speaking, as he seemed quite agitated. His excitement grew as he spoke. Apparently, lady Bradshaw was dead, killed by the servant no less, and now Jeremy was next. I saw just how far his delusions had gone, just how much his madness was becoming more and more evident. According to him, once Jeremy was out of the way, the servant could, by right of the will he had forced the two to sign, claim the house and estate for himself, which was, of course, his devious plan right from the beginning. Long before the actual murder, Jeremy had become suspicious of the servant and had mentioned this to his wife. She did not believe him, so he wrote to me. Why he had suspected the servant, and why he decided to turn to me of all people, he did not say. The servant had not been aware that I would be paying a visit, and when I arrived he had forced Jeremy to help him hide his wife’s body. This, to me, proved his delusions, as when I first saw him he did not seem to be as disturbed as someone would be if their wife had just been killed. The servant did not want to let him out of his sight and had forced him to lie to me so as not to arouse my suspicions. I was becoming quite scared of my old friend now, I could see how far gone he really was. He went on about how he needed my protection from the servant and then he began to babble; he kept speaking but was no longer forming any coherent thoughts. He kept repeating something about his bed.

Jeremy’s voice had been steadily rising, and the servant must have heard it coming from my room, for he opened the door, entered, and looked at the scene before him. I glanced over at the servant and nodded, then I stood and, together with the servant, helped Jeremy back to his bed. The room was even more elegant than the one we had just left, and many sticks of incense were lit about the room. After we laid him down, the servant held out a few pills and told Jeremy to take them. He, of course, refused to do so on account that they were poisoned. At length, we were finally able to force him to swallow them, and the servant explained to me that whenever he got this way, the pills helped to calm him down and send him off to sleep. I had taken off my spectacles when we gave Jeremy his pills, and as I went to put them back on, I dropped them. They fell to the floor, just a little ways under the bed, and as I reached down to pick them up, I heard the servant draw in a breath. As I felt for my glasses, my hand brushed something cold and clammy, what felt like flesh, and it was then that the servant grabbed my arm and held out my glasses. Though a little perturbed, I thanked him, for getting my glasses and for getting poor Jeremy out of my room, and then made my way back to bed. When sleep finally came, and it was not for some time, it was very restless and full of strange nightmares.

The next morning, I learned that poor Jeremy had died in his sleep, his fits of madness putting far too much strain on his heart. As a physician, this did not surprise me. The servant told me this with some difficulty, and upon my inquiry as to whether or not he would like me to stay and speak with the coroners, he told me I’d better be getting back to New Orleans and that he could handle things here. Soon after, I saddled my horse and bade farewell to the servant who was on his way to fetch the doctor and find out if lady Bradshaw had yet returned from her trip, the thought of having to deliver this terrible news laying heavily upon his breast. It took me longer to return home, as I did not push the beast as hard this time around.

I had been back at our offices for about a day when the news arrived, news that stirred something deep within me, an emotion I fail to describe; a mixture of other well known emotions all stirred into one: sadness, horror, bewilderment. It seemed that the lady Bradshaw had taken her life the previous day upon hearing of the death of her husband. Word had it she was away visiting someone. Who it was, nobody knew, and the servant said she had been very vague and secretive about it. No one had seen her go or return save the servant who had broken the terrible news to her. She had confined herself to her room and when the servant went to bring her some tea, he found her dead. By rights now, the servant came into possession of the large manor and all its contents.