Before I begin my tale, I want to make one thing clear. I do not set down these words as an attempt to absolve myself of the heinous crimes I committed. I know that I am beyond forgiveness, that I have stained the fine community of Waitwich, Maine and destroyed the legacy of my family, the Inkwells. No words I could conjure up would ever heal the wounds I have inflicted.
The tale I'm about to tell you is a warning. If there is some good that can come out of this it must be that no other poor soul falls prey to the same wicked powers that undid me. So I will tell my story in detail, so those of more delicate sensibilities beware. Before I go to my final judgement, I would have the world warned of the terror of the Coiled Mask.
For those that come to the story from across the gulf of time, my name is Zacariah Inkwell. I hope my shame has faded with the years and you dear reader have no clue who I am. Perhaps this is selfish of me, but for this document to work I must be completely honest.
While readers in the future may have no clue who I am, in my time my family and I were famous. Inkwells wintered with George Washington at Valley Forge, and stood behind Ulysses Grant when he accepted Robert E. Lee's surrender at Appomattox. Despite finding our way into the path of history time and again, we always called little Waitwich home.
My forebears built a great mansion on the cliffs of Waitwich, and we saw ourselves as defenders against whatever threat came from the sea. We guided our community through many a terrible storm, and sent many a smuggler and pirate to a watery grave.
But time and the sea are implacable enemies. Over the years the Inkwells of Waitwich faded and shrunk, beset constantly by misfortune and tragedy. I will not recount the dark history of my family, because my own tale is woe enough, but by the time of my birth it was clear that I would be the last of the Inkwells.
My childhood was solitary and my adulthood even more so. I putter about our decaying family home, Inkwell Manor, like an old man, despite being only 35 years old. I confine myself to the eastern wing of the house, devoting myself to academic studies despite having no great mind or having once come up with an original thought worth pursuing.
But still I was content enough. Despite the much reduced state of my family, I was still able to live comfortably. I had my books for company and that was all I had ever needed.
That all came to an end on an otherwise normal day in early October of 1925. It was late in the afternoon as I was at the time working on an unreadable treatise comparing Hugo to Dumas when I heard a knock at the door.
At first I thought I had imagined it, but then it came again, insistent but measured. There had not been any staff in Inkwell Manor since I was 5, so with a sigh I got up and made my way through my crumbling mansion to the door. I was trying to remember various social graces when I opened the door to find no one and nothing waiting for me.
I looked around, annoyed. I thought maybe it was children from the town having a bit of fun, but I knew that their parents would never allow them anywhere near Inkwell Manor. The townsfolk were a superstitious lot, and according to many old wives tales ghosts packed Inkwell Manor to the rafters. I shrugged and was about to close the door when I noticed a wooden box setting on the doorstep.
Curious, I picked it up and studied it. The box was ancient, with ornate swirling patterns covering the box all carved in gold. There seemed to be no seam or lock to open it. Before I knew what I was doing I had closed the door and was making my way back to my study. The golden patterns seemed to move as I studied them. I was mesmerized as I sat in my favorite armchair and began feeling around the box for some hidden mechanism that would open the box and deliver its secrets to me.
As I was studying what I assumed was the back of the box I heard a faint pop, and noticed that a seam that had not been there before had appeared. The box was open and I wasted no time in flinging up the top and answering the mystery of what was inside. I remember a small part of me wondering how the box opened in the first place, but by that moment I was already lost to the power of the box. Or rather, to the power of what resided in the box.
Inside the box on a silk cushion of lavender was a mask made of rope. The rope was oily and glistened in the last rays of the day's sun as I beheld it. The rope itself seemed to be regular hemp rope, fashioned into a mask. It was so bizarre I let out a little chuckle as I took the thing out of the box.
"Why on earth would anyone give me such a thing?" I asked myself as I handled the mask reverently.
It was moist and warm and felt heavier than it should have. I wanted nothing more than to keep touching while at the same time I wanted to go into the den and toss it into the fireplace. Even in the sunlight, the eyeholes remained dark pits that drew me in.
As I sat there stroking and fondling the mask, I grew strangely weary. I felt like I had not slept in many days. Sleep clawed at my consciousness, and eventually pulled me under as I sat there tracing my fingers over the edges of the mask for what felt like the 100th time.
Once asleep I fell through impenetrable blackness, landing on a beach with white sand. A rolling black sea stretched to the horizon under a sky with no stars. Terror filled me until I felt a hand on my shoulder. With a scream I spun around, ready to fight or flee in equal measure.
The man who had touched my shoulder raised his hands in a placating gesture. He was a short, pudgy Arab with a wild salt and pepper beard and an eyepatch over his left eye. He gave me a large grin with broken, yellow teeth.
"Greetings," he said. "I am glad you got my present."
