Billingham, England
16th May, Nineteen-Hundred Twenty Three:

I record these words in the hopes of imparting some manner of understanding as to the motivation for my actions. I never intended to harm any person; I only sought to reach the end of my ancestor’s writings, to know the future of myself and my family. I suppose I was possessed by delusions of grandeur, and not at all in my normal state of mind. I see now, as my final moments of freedom speed ever closer, that I have slipped into a paradox, from which there could never have been an escape. Modern reason has a tenuous hold on the nature of the universe, and I now know that its grip will inevitably fail. If you wish to know how I am beset with this condition, gentle reader, continue with these writings. But know one thing before you do: This is a record of the thoughts and actions of a fool, a rational man who trifled with powers better left untouched by the frail hand of humanity. I ignored the sage advice of my Father, and have paid a most dire price. It is only a matter of time, now.

After contracting a particularly nasty strain of Malaria while journeying up Egypt’s Nile River, my Father returned to the family estate here in Billingham, barely a shadow of the stalwart and robust man I had known. He passed within days of his return, leaving Mother and myself to attend to his estate. My shiftless lay about brother, Edgar, was nowhere to be found. Clearly, the death of his own Father did not hold a particularly large portion of his interest, though he would no doubt be asking for his share of the inheritance once Mother and I had sorted out the dirty work.

Having lived most of my adolescent life at primary and secondary away schools, and subsequently being occupied with my career as a barrister, my father’s life was not altogether familiar to me. I had little idea he was such a well-traveled man, judging from his astounding and terrible collection of artifacts from every conceivable area of the Earth. It took the better part of a fortnight to wade through and catalogue his many treasures: Shrunken heads from Borneo, spears and darts of all manners and sizes from darkest Africa, and even a framed photograph of himself with Samuel Clemens, that most clever of Yankee writers, with whom I have long held an acute fascination. Father’s most terrifying treasure, however, was soon to permanently mar my existence.

I came across an aged tome containing the writings of my greatest ancestor, Severin Aldebourne. Amidst the darkness and chaos of the 15th century, his was the Lordship of Hallenbrooke, a small province to the north of England. While the rest of Europe writhed under the boot of the black plague, his Lordship enjoyed a localized renaissance, a veritable age of enlightenment within the closely guarded confines of his own private Eden. Understandably, reader, you take note of the oxymoron present in the words “Closely guarded renaissance”. But during the 15th century, witchcraft, which was simply the name unjustly allotted to scientific method, was punishable by hanging. The borders of Hallenbrooke were tightly defended, as it was a haven for those that rejected the modern ideals of God and nature. His Lordship scoured the globe for heretics, blasphemers, and free thinkers from every civilized society, offering asylum to any who would accept.

At the crux of this harmonious refuge of enlightenment stood Severin Aldebourne, the bright center of his own personal universe. Drawing upon widely distributed resources, of which only a few are revealed in his diary, he was a gravitational force drawing to himself the most important thinkers of his age, from all walks of life. He was permitted these heretical activities through a vast network of bribery, blackmail, and political intrigue. As he put it, he never set out to hurt those that would oppose his vision; He sought only to gently change their minds. Through his efforts, his political power was assured, and his wisdom was well respected by the most powerful men in Europe.

During the following days I pored over the withered text, each turn of a page rife with anticipation and astonishment. It was as if my ancestor had opened a gateway into the past, a past I have studied well in my time. But as I was privy to settlements of feudal disputes, the astronomical theories of men who had never heard of Galileo, and his various sketches and studies of bones he believed to belong to an ancient race of giant lizards, it became all too clear that I was a child again, learning of this period of history for the first time. This feeling of wonderment, however, would come to a crashing halt.

It was at this point that my scheming brother, Edgar, made his first appearance. While settling in for the evening in the guest room, I noticed strange sounds coming from my Father’s study, into which I had gathered all of his worldly treasures. Mother was fast asleep, and the help had all retired to the servant’s quarters, on the west end of the property.

As I made my way toward the study, my mind raced with speculation as to who might be intruding on my Father’s keep. As I rounded the corner in the hallway, I indeed saw light shining from within the study, interrupted many times by shadow and the noises of shifting objects. I slowly crept towards the door, brandishing a fire poker I had secured from the inglenook in my quarters. I quietly pushed open the door, and beheld an oafish form, obscured by poor lighting, bent over a stack of my Father’s papers.

I raised the fire poker, so as to level the intruder, when my enemy suddenly turned. It was my brother Edgar. Typically of him, having not been to his father’s house for twenty and a half years, he suddenly appears in the middle of the night, seeking no doubt to steal anything of value that he might find. But Edgar was not the most worldly of chaps, and concurrently had little idea as to the value of my Father’s possessions.

After a minor rebuke from myself, I embraced him, noticing that he reeked of cheap brandy and cigar smoke. He most often kept with the seedier elements of society, preferring to surround himself with vagrants and thieves. Father had Edgar pegged as a loafer from a young age, and Father was seldom wrong.

After a brief exchange concerning his whereabouts during the past few years, upon which I’m not sure even Edgar, himself, could have honestly reported, he retired to the second guest quarters at the far end of the house. He mentioned that he always felt more comfortable in the room furthest from Fathers, doubtless so he could carry out his mischievous plots away from prying eyes.

Over the next few days, Edgar kept mainly to himself, only leaving his quarters at meal times and to wander the grounds late at night. What he expected to find, I’ll not know. His privacy was gladly granted, as I was anxious to continue my appraisal of my ancestor’s writings.

Upon reaching the latter half of the text, I came across a warning, written on decidedly modern parchment. Scrawled in my father’s own hand, it warned not to inquire further, lest the reader’s own life be shattered as a pane of glass. At this, I was momentarily taken aback, as I knew my father to be a prudent man, a man not easily put off. After a moment of hesitation, I continued on, arrogant in my abilities to cope with any information my ancestor might wish to impart.

In the subsequent text, my ancestor recounted the homecoming of an expedition to Arabia, self-sponsored and in the name of profound discovery. The year-long voyage yielded a treasure of unparalleled significance: The lost manuscripts of Al-Khowarizmi, 7th century mathematician and troubled visionary. Severin lamented the loss of his eldest brother to the journey, yet remained confident that the spoils would ensure his sacrifice would not be in vain.

At this point, the diary entries skip several days. Before the gap, my ancestor recorded his intention to examine the treasured manuscripts in his reclusive tower study, where he might ascertain their true significance undisturbed. The first entry after the gap revealed something so fantastic and altogether ridiculous, I initially thought Severin’s self-imposed isolation had driven him mad. That is until I pressed further into his writings. To my horror and delight, his claim was all too correct.

After countless hours of intense analysis, it was my ancestor’s conclusion that Al-Khowarizmi had discovered a complex mathematical algorithm that could be applied to one’s own future life. In his own words, “…To separate the possible from the inevitable, ye needeth only the arab’s numbers.” My ancestor surmised that the Arab had had a communion with God, and this was a gift from Him to the peoples of the world. The greed of Arab royalty, however, saw that the secrets of the algorithm were kept to themselves.

The next few pages chronicled Severins final days, in which he seemed to know that he would soon be taken from this world. He wrote of a betraying Count from Denmark, a once valued confidante, who was held in high regard by the Church. He wrote of a meeting, in which the Count swore revenge, as Severin had cast the deciding opinion against his right to purchase vast properties in England. The Count swore a blood oath of revenge against my ancestor, which, Severin knew, he was more than capable of carrying out.

A week later, a small regiment of the Knights of the Holy Cross stood at the gates of Hallenbrooke, demanding my ancestor be remanded to their custody. While his retainers were ready to fight to the death in defense of their Lord, my ancestor wouldn’t have bloodshed on his account. He surrendered without incident, as he was resigned to his fate.

Because this was a personal account of the events of his life, it was at this point that I expected the text to end, despite his previous claims of owning visions of the future. But as I turned each page, I read of his knowledge of his own execution, in the public square of the very Danish Count who had betrayed him. Impossible as it seemed, Severin Aldebourne had predicted with perfect clarity the circumstances of his own death.

Unable to believe what I was witnessing, I held my breath with each turn of a page, my hands beginning to perspire. My ancestor had recorded detailed accounts of events that took place decades, and soon centuries, after his demise. He wrote of the fates of innumerable English monarchs, complete with dates and locations of their respective destinies. He wrote in varied detail of the future history of Jerusalem, the holy land, and the continued struggle for control of this most sought-after locale. He wrote of the wondrous machines that gave birth to the twentieth century, of the industrialization of modern societies, and of the new world, as the impending catalyst for the demise of the civilized world.

With my hands now shaking wildly, I continued, feeling now that a certain madness had come over me. How in god’s name my ancestor could have possibly recorded these things is beyond my clearly feeble grasp of reality. I began sweating profusely, and felt that I should have a break. I looked up from the text, and noticed that I had been reading for seven straight hours, the clock on the mantle reading half-four a.m. I mopped my soaking brow and lowered my eyes back to the bewildering manuscript before me, despite the dreadful hour, and my sudden feeling of hunger.

It was at this point that my loutish brother Edgar interrupted my studies. He informed me that he would be leaving that very hour. He explained that he needed to leave our father’s house and catch the earliest train back home. Where his home is, I did not inquire. I embraced him, again noticing his rank mixture of body odor, stale smoke, and sour defeat. I offered him a few pounds for the trip, which he accepted. I offered purely out of obligation, as the money would no doubt be wasted on activities of ill repute. He departed with a few mumbled words. The brief respite this exchange offered was enough to rekindle my curiosity, and I returned to my Father’s desk.

As I once again delved into my ancestor’s vision, he began describing the travels of my Father. He wrote of my Father’s journeys to India, South America, Antarctica, and the Orient. He then told of my Father’s trip to the land of China, during which he was approached by a man who claimed to have been holding an item of great value for him, that it was his family’s charge to deliver this strange text to the current descendant of one Severin Aldebourne. According to my ancestor, my Father took the text with him back to his estate in Billingham, where he read as much as he could stand. It was at this point that my father wrote the note, warning any who would not to venture forth. He then set the tome away in the cellar, and disturbed it never again.

My father’s life continued to unfold before my eyes. I came to a page containing the story of his final trip up the Nile River, and his final days in his house. My stomach knotted at the prospect of what was to come next.

I read on, seeing my arrival at my Father’s house, and my discovery of my ancestor’s text. I studied the conversation between myself and Edgar, not seventy-six hours previous. I saw myself at breakfast with mother, this very morning. The book then told of my evening and early morning, and I found myself unable to pull away from the gripping passages. The next page would bring me into the current moment. It was with an amalgam of apprehension, anticipation, and foreboding that I ventured to the next side.

Expecting only to read of a quiet house with one active room, I instead learned of a mysterious individual, clad in black, with a menacing aura about him, creeping through the front door and across my father’s main entry hall. My stomach began to clench as I was informed of his skulking up the stairway, and moving silently toward the study. Upon reading this, I unintentionally began to reflect upon my brother’s motives for visiting my father’s home. I knew that he was taking stock of my father’s estate, but upon his arrival, was surprised by my presence in the house. I then began to contemplate the worst, and knew at once that it must be correct. He was most assuredly planning to have one of his ruffian cronies attack, even kill me. It would be a small step from my murder to do away with poor Mother, asleep in her bed, allotting wicked Edgar the entire inheritance. As I turned my attention back to the text, I saw a description of my current thoughts, which served as a sort of confirmation of my inferences, and fanned the flames of my paranoia into a bright inferno of wrath.

I then simultaneously read of and heard the door creak ever so slightly as the villain entered the very room in which I was captivated by my ancestor’s work. Slinking ever closer to me, my attacker reeked of the same cut-rate cigar stink as Edgar had, and was clutching something in his left hand. I read of him slowly approaching me as I found myself unable to tear away from the prophetic words of my ancestor. I knew I had the advantage, as my killer would no doubt believe me unaware of his presence. I used this upper hand to quietly, slowly, open my Father’s desk drawer and remove the ivory handled letter opener stored therein.

The Assassin was now standing directly behind me, as I read, and so did I sense his proximity to me. My mounting madness and terror took hold of me. Clenching my Father’s letter opener in my fist, I spun to my feet, and with one swift thrust plunged the opener into the intruder’s heart. My aim was true, and my strength was with me. The killer staggered backwards, slumping oafishly to the stone floor. With an insane smile on my face, I felt at once that I had beaten my own death. My ancestor had somehow managed to foresee my doom, from the far reaches of the past, and warn me of its imminence. He rescued his most worthy descendent from a gruesome destiny where he declined to warn any others. His legacy should live anew in me, I knew. Mine was the future, armed with the wisdom of my ancestor. I bent over the body to examine my would-be assassin.

In the sliver of moonlight that shone through the window, I made out the face of my poor brother, Edgar. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, with a look of utter shock on his pale, corpulent visage. He died, with a sickening gurgle, on the floor of my Father’s study.

My first reaction was disbelief that my whoring, devious brother would himself attempt to murder me, in our Father’s house, no less. But as my gaze fell to his left hand, my reason quickly returned, which caused a sickly pallor to invade my face. There, now lying in crumpled wads next to his lifeless hand, lay the money I had given Edgar no more that thirty minutes prior.

I stood in horror at the scene before me. My own brother lay on the floor, with an accusatory glare, framed in terrible moonlight, penetrating his foolish killer. I had murdered my Father’s son, and there wasn’t a single hope of explaining away the circumstances. Feeling a mix of rage and sadness, pity and self-loathing, I stood for a moment, shaking my head. My suspicions of my brother’s unorthodox lifestyle proved to be the undoing of us both.

All at once, I knew what I had to do. With naught else but my curiosity left to me, I again set before the wicked account of my present and future history.

As I pressed on, I saw my brother’s death, and my horrible revelation, just a moment ago. In a few hours, Mrs. Billows, the chambermaid, would enter the study, only to find a murdered younger son, an insane older son frantically writing in a journal at the desk, and the smoldering ashes of an ancient text in the fireplace beside him. The authorities would be summoned, and I would be put on trial. In record time, I would be convicted and sentenced to death by hanging. So would end the story of my misguided existence.

Knowing what little time I had left to myself, I began this writing. Mrs. Billows will enter the room at any moment, and I will be put to prison, and eventually, the gallows. I want to apologize to my mother, who will soon be completely alone in this world. My thoughts now fall to my poor brother Edgar, who no more deserved death than a naughty child. He had many shortcomings, but in the end, proved to be of a much better stock than his older, more successful sibling. I await my destiny, knowing that I deserve this perfect hell in which I now find myself. I have set my ancestor’s diary ablaze, so it can find its way back to the safety of oblivion, somewhere outside the reach of human fallibility. May God forgive my arrogance at the hour of my judgment.