Soul Bottles

February 2009

It is with great lament that I must relate my tale to you, for once you have heard it, you too shall be set upon by this shadow, this shade that wracks my dreams and haunts my waking hours. May God have mercy on your soul, poor traveler. Yet I must tell you this story, so listen well.

In London, in an age past, there was a man of noble blood, whose family was ghastly rich, and whose decadence knew no bounds. What this man pleased, so he received, through whatever means found necessary to acquiesce to his commands. Should he have desired the neighbor's daughter, he would have her, or her house would burn to ashes; should he covet a visitor's watch, the visitor would often not return to his home that night or ever. So great was his greed in life that he aspired to begin collecting things he could not buy with money, things no other man could possess but himself.

Thus it was that he began his studies in the black arts. He took holiday in the Orient, and while he was away, he learned the magicks and sciences of the Eastern magicians, for his reputation had not spread so far as to be found known in China. His family tended to his businesses until his return a decade later. His studies in the Orient had imparted upon him all manner of mesmerisms that he could employ to befog the minds of whomever he pleased, but this was not enough for him; while he could break the minds of his victims, ultimately he did not receive anything from the endeavour.

So it was, then, when he acquired his dread tome from a collector's cache, that he delighted in the finding of the ritual by which the very spirit of the victim be decanted into a glass bottle and sealed up, leaving the victim naught but a shell, akin to what the Voo-Doo cults call a “zombi.” In this manner was the man truly satisfied, for now he could truly collect that which no other man could possess. At once he began his study of this abhorrent ritual, and not long after, this man began his collection of spirits and gathering of soulless puppet-servants.

In his parlour he has some hundreds of these spirits all bottled-up and displayed majestically for the ignorant visitor to gaze upon and at which to wonder. It is by this magick that his obsession is bounded, for now he hungers for nothing but these pretty bottles, more and more of them for his collection ever-growing. He was known for his extravagant parties, where after all was said and done one guest was never accounted for, and one more bottle would appear on his shelf. The guest would then appear as he was before, but with a hollowed demeanor and a glaze on his eyes. He speaks only of morbid tales of the man from ages past who collects the spirits of poor victims, and of the nightmares that wrack his wits to their ends. It is not surprising, either, to find them dried up and dead no longer than a fortnight after, looking as though they had been dead for years.

Alas, it is with such dread and remorse that I must reveal this to you, poor traveler, because tonight you are his chosen guest. God save your soul, for he will have your spirit in a bottle by night's end.