I had listened to the end of this tale with a sense of
great hopelessness, and of pity for my host. “I cannot
think they will. It is incomprehensible that a human soul
be made to endure such torment and retribution. With
nothing to be done? Dear God—that such purgatories
exist on earth!”
Lord Kettering smiled sadly. “Indeed, they do. As
you can now attest. I have given you your story, but
moreover, your editor has given me your own. He tells me
of late you have insinuated yourself into a group of
Satanists in northern Wales. I read the description of this
cult in your subsequent article about devil worship. Tell
me, were you infatuated by their practices?”
“That was merely research,” I scoffed. “They were
abominations!”
The old man smiled. “I thought as much. The
piece was quite detailed, though. I strongly suspect they
are the remnants of the coven that laid this imprecation
upon me. You have felt my agony. I ask you, as one God-
fearing Englishman to another, will you help me uncover
them and force them to rescind this curse? The means may
try us as honest men; they may require bribery, threats,
torture, or worse—but I beg you, will you allow me this
final chance at peace?” He grasped my arm, and his strong
shaking hand aroused my pity.
“I am at your service,” I whispered.
So tonight Kettering Hall is far behind us, and the
wild howling storms of the Welsh moors batter the rough-
hewn inn where we have ended the first leg of our journey.
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