It was in West Suffolk County where a dear friend of mine encountered a very strange and terrifying being which changed him so entirely that he is barely the same man today. At the time of this incident my friend, I shall call him Ambrose, worked as an art restoration assistant to the Suffolk County History Society.
It was in mid winter when a farmer clearing away a heavily forested corner of his land discovered and old crypt, along with the foundations of a chapel, long since eaten up by stands of ivy, oak, and yew. Ambrose was sent to inspect the place and, if possible, ascertain the owner of the crypt. He was to sketch as much as he could while he was there, as well. Being excited at the possibility of uncovering the owner of the crypt, Ambrose started off on his short journey immediately upon receiving the orders. As he was traveling from Ipswich to Hengrave and had a day’s carriage ride ahead of him, he wanted an early start. The journey was a rather harrowing one as the driver had just hitched up a young horse for the first time and had some difficulty in controlling it. Ambrose expressed later that he had been sure the carriage would overturn on several occasions.
Due to the uncomfortable travel, Ambrose was in no condition to seek out the farmer upon his arrival in Hengrave, rather he sought out dinner and a stiff brandy at the only lodgings in the small village. As it was winter, the lodging house was nearly empty and Ambrose found he had his pick of rooms. He required one with a desk and hoped for a view of the famous manor house, Hengrave Hall. The manor house, as it turned out, was too far to see from any of the lodging’s rooms, but he was able to secure a desk and a view of a lovely, frost crested meadow. He found he slept well that night, apart from some commotion on the meadow that sounded like foxes with their unfortunate prey.
Recalling the trouble in the morning, it seemed to him that the foxes made a sound he was not altogether familiar with. In Ipswich he’d heard the foxes gekkering to each other late in the night, but this sound in Hengrave was less of that strained, stuttering barking he was accustomed to and more sibilant. It was curious he thought, but supposed that animals might have their dialects, too. Putting that nonsense aside, he took his breakfast and then started out to find the farmer with whom he needed to speak. The morning sun was resplendent and the land seemed to sparkle like diamonds with the morning frost. Ambrose found his mood similarly brilliant and felt the excitement of discovery lifting his spirits.
The drive to the farmhouse was short and unremarkable, for which Ambrose was grateful. He introduced himself to the farmer, who looked exceedingly haggard and exhausted. Ambrose would have thought that farmers only looked such in the summer and asked if everything was alright. The farmer merely grimaced and looked over his shoulder.
“All’s well, Sir, all’s well. D’you think you’ll be takin’ the ‘ol crypt back to Ipswich with ye?”
“Oh goodness, me, no!” Replied Ambrose, “Perhaps the resident or residents can be re-interred elsewhere in Hengrave, but the Historical Society, will most likely want to preserve everything as it is.”
The man wrung his hat in his hands and to Ambrose looked as though he were near dead with grief.
“Good heavens, are you sure you’re alright, man?” Ambrose asked again, but the farmer simply let out a sob, and waved Ambrose on. They walked across an unplowed field toward a tangled copse of trees and brush. For a brief second Ambrose thought he heard the same foxes he had heard the night before, but upon listening closer dismissed it as merely some birds taking flight. The suff, suff, suff, of their wings whispering across the open field. When they arrived at the tree line, the farmer led Ambrose down a roughly hewn path to what was exactly as Ambrose had pictured on the drive over. A small assemblage of broken and tumbled stones that had clearly once been a small chapel set akimbo and scattered by trees growing up through their foundations. The crypt, still fully intact, sat nearby, covered in ivy. Ambrose secured permission to come go as he pleased. The farmer was more than happy to never see the thing again. Ambrose frowned after him as he went, chalking the man’s mood up to country superstition.
A breeze had come up and rustled the leaves of the tall oaks surrounding the chapel and crypt. Ambrose started first with the chapel, taking out his sketchbook and drawing a rough diagram of what remained, namely a large stone pulpit and a raised stone platform that once served as the sanctuary, the wall behind that being still half standing. Inspecting the wall he noticed an odd carving, something like a reaper in its robes, but with oddly long arms, and no crook or hood. He sketched it as best he could, wondering if the peculiar appearance might not be due to weathering on the stone, causing what was merely a crucifix to look somehow more ominous.
Sketching the tumbled down chapel was quick work and nothing Ambrose could see looked to be of particular interest. With growing excitement he walked to the crypt. The farmer had left him some tools to clear away the ivy and to open the aged door. With some effort Ambrose cleared the ivy from the face of the crypt, uncovering a brass plate over the door that read:
The Suff, along with another image like the one in the chapel, a man in robes with unusually long arms. In this engraving he could see that the man had a large mustache. A body lay at the figure’s feet, and a date of 1650 was inscribed under it.
“Curious, indeed,” Ambrose recalls muttering out loud, though he is not in the habit of doing so, as I can attest. The Suff was, indeed, a curious phrase. Suffolk merely means, South Folk as Suffolk is in the southern part of England. Did the engraving refer to the south? If so, why? And why the curious picture? The date was also odd as the region itself dated all the way back to the 11th or 12th century. He would have to consult his reference material once he was back at his lodgings, surely there must be some clue there. He made a quick sketch of the exterior, roughly guessing its dimensions and tearing down more of the ivy to look for any other inscriptions.
There being none, he walked again to the door of the crypt to see if he could break the lock. Fortunately, the lock was old and rusted and came apart easily under the nudging of a crowbar. As he opened the thick marble door, Ambrose heard his curious fox friends again and made a note to ask the woman who ran the lodging house why the foxes in this area sounded so unlike the rest of England with their quick and whispery, suffsuffsuffsuffsuff bark. He pulled the door open and stood back, not wanting to stand in the way of any bad air that might escape. He let a few minutes pass to ensure the air in the crypt had cleared and went around the door to peer inside. He was met with yet another curiosity. No casket lay within. The floor was clear of any debris like bones or wood indicating a coffin had merely decayed over time, in truth it was spotless, as though swept clean. Even more curious, a black robe hung at the back of the crypt. Spread out on hooks as if to display it, rather than store it. Ambrose took a tentative step into the crypt. It was not large, but afforded plenty of room to stand at his full height and was wide enough for the extremely long arms of the robe to be stretched to their full length. Ambrose at once wondered what about the fabric deserved it this degree of protection and reverence, perhaps it was the robe of a priest or ascetic of the time, hence its location near the chapel.
As he approached it, Ambrose has said to me on several occasions that he felt a heavy oppression of sadness overcome him, as though the suffering of the world had been laid across his shoulders. He reached out to touch the hem of the robes to asses the degree of preservation and became so overwhelmed with grief that he could no longer stand to be in sight of the robes. He lurched from the crypt and slammed the door shut, determined to leave at once. Before he did though, on impulse he took a quick rubbing of the brass plate above the crypt door.
He then walked back to his lodgings, as he felt he needed the time and fresh air to clear his head before he could properly asses what had happened in the crypt.
He did not take dinner that night, only bread with butter and tea, spending the night pouring over the books he had brought with him for any indication of the meaning of the crypt. Fortunately, he had a date, 1650. He was able to ascertain that a priest by the name of Moorlock had been in the area at the time and that he had acquired a grimoire said to come from the Heavens themselves. Ambrose took a deep breath, that explained it. 1650 was near the end of the witch trial era, somehow this priest with his book had got himself caught up in the hysteria. Easy enough given the attitude toward Catholics at the time. He was likely hanged and his odd vestments, for some superstitious reason or another, were closed up in the vault. Ambrose was particularly pleased with himself for solving this mystery and decided to reward himself with good night’s rest to dispel the last bits of gloom still clinging to him like wet clothing. He had left his spectacles case in his satchel and opened the bag to retrieve it. As he searched he wondered what magic book the priest had had, and if it had survived. It would be a wonderful addition to the Historical Society’s archives. He determined to do a little more research into the matter. Certainly some copies had survived.
As he pulled his spectacles case out of his satchel he also accidentally grabbed the rubbing he had made of the plate above the crypt door. Of course, The Suff, that odd inscription. He hadn’t seen any mention of it in his books. As he spread the rubbing out under the candlelight he was overcome with dread. It wasn’t The Suff, but The Suffering. He shuddered, how simply horrid. Thank God they now lived in a more rational age.
Ambrose was, at that time, a very fastidious fellow and had a lengthy nightly routine. But soon enough, the candles had been blown out and Ambrose was tucked away in bed. It wasn’t long before he heard the foxes gekkering outside again. He had forgotten to ask his hosts about them. As he listened he realized that he was only hearing one, and that its call had changed somewhat. It was no longer barking out suffsuffsuffsuff, it was almost howling SUFFFFERIIING, in an arching crescendo. Ambrose shivered, but admitted that his overanxious mind was probably playing tricks on him. He tried to ignore the fox and go to sleep. But the animal would not leave off howling. He wondered that the hosts didn’t go out to sho it off, surely it was bothering everyone.
“Oh confound it!” Ambrose threw back his sheets and determined to go throw something at the fox himself. A frying pan if nothing else were available. He could not find his slippers, which was strange because he had put them right at the edge of his bed, where he always did. He had to walk out in the cold with bare feet. Fortunately his room was on the ground floor. He stumbled through the dark hallway but found that the fire was still burning low in the grate in the parlor, affording him enough light to navigate to the back door, leading out to the meadow. He grabbed the first thing he saw, a drinking glass that some careless servant had left behind and unlocked the bolt on the door. He charged outside, hoping that would be enough to scare the animal off, but thinking he could throw the glass if necessary. Hopefully his hosts would forgive him the ill-mannered action.
As it was, another guest found Ambrose in the morning. Standing in the frosted wet meadow grass, pale, shivering, and stuttering “the suff the suff the suff.” A bloody fox lay at his feet and his hands had been cut by glass.
He was immediately taken with sickness from standing out in the winter chill and it was some time before he was able to tell anyone what had transpired. I don’t know that I’ll ever comprehend it. But I’ll do my best to describe what Ambrose described to me.
As he opened the back door he saw not a fox, but a figure, a dark figure in dark robes. Ambrose tried to step back inside but somehow his feet wouldn’t obey him. The figure drew him closer, across the flagstone patio and into the cold, frosty meadow. Ambrose recalls shrieking for help at this time, but no one in the lodgings report hearing anything, Ambrose or the fox. As Ambrose drew closer, the figure spread its long arms wide, its mouth opened in a horrible gape and it screamed, ”THE SUUUFFFFERIIING!!” Ambrose lashed out with the drinking glass which connected with the thing’s face and shattered, cutting it and Ambrose badly. Still holding shards of glass in his hand, he slashed and stabbed at the figure until it fell in a heap of black robes at his feet. Images flashed through his mind of a dead wizard, a lone girl at a Halloween party with haunted eyes, incomprehensible images of a human-like being in the outer reaches of the atmosphere, there was so much death and suffering. Ambrose feels the sadness still. He still sees things, from time to time. Other scenes of strangers’ suffering that seem to come from across time and space. He’s been taking Sigmund Freud’s experimental talking cure, but is not convinced that it’s helping. He seems to lie down on the chaise and have a thousand woes flood his mind that aren’t his and which he dutifully tells the psychoanalyst. They are called delusions, but Ambrose knows better. He is much changed these days, pale, thin, unable to go outside. It’s not clear that he’ll ever recover.
As for the crypt, the farmer got his wish. The Historical Society moved the entire vault to its archive, fitted it with a new lock, and have given strict instructions that it never be opened.
Nice addition to the looooooore!
HoneyGloom has the best avatar. I enjoyed this, thanks.