From now until the con, Heavy Horse has agreed to share a story he has specifically written for Morphicon. The plan is to add a chapter to the story every month with the final being read at the con. We, at Morphicon, are deeply honoured by the gesture and are excited to share his story with you.

None of this story, in whole or in part, may be used without the express permission of Alan Loewen (Heavy Horse).

Yew Manor

by Alan Loewen

Chapter One

When my old friend, Robert DeMolay called me to tell me that he had inherited a house at first I suspected an April Fool’s joke.

Evidently a lawyer for an obscure relative — Robert told me his sudden benefactor was a great uncle that he had never met — had searched high and low for the nearest relative of the deceased. As Robert was an only child with both parents deceased, it appeared ownership of Yew Manor was now Robert’s and Robert’s alone.

Over the phone, he told me that he would like me to accompany him to inspect the property to which I immediately agreed.

After making phone calls and making sure that my employer and fiancé were happy leaving them for a short time, I loaded a hastily packed suitcase in my 1964 Volkswagen Beetle and made the normally thirty minute to Robert's apartment in twenty-five. Robert had already inked out our journey on a hastily purchased book of roadmaps and from Baltimore, Maryland to Yew Manor outside of Columbus, Ohio, he estimated a journey of eight hours not counting stops.

"So," I said, as I settled back into the driver’s seat, "tell me. What are the particulars of this specific windfall?"

Even in the confines of my Volkswagen, Robert gave the impression of sprawling his lanky frame over the passenger seat. He scratched at his thinning blonde hair and shrugged.

"I know just as much as you. When we reach the house my uncle's lawyer will be there and will give me more particulars. I have no desire to move to Columbus, so I'm expecting a quick turnaround in dumping the property on the market.

“You know me. Misogynist bachelor. Dedicated hermit. I’m happy in my apartment so after I get all the papers signed, I suspect both of us to be back home in two days."

The journey to Yew Manor went without incident, but as we approached the location even Robert began to sit up and take notice at the sudden change in Ohio's flat, farming landscape gave way to a large forest of what had to be first growth timber.

Concerned that we may have taken a wrong turn, with a quick check of the map, my friend assured me that we were on the right track.

“Make a right at the next intersection,” he said. “The lawyer told me it was marked with a Private Property sign.”

Delighted when I found our destination — I have a morbid fear of being lost — we found the road as described. Fifty feet further, we encountered a large, ornate, iron gate blocking the path with a late model four-door Studebaker parked next to it.

As I slowly brought my own car to a stop, a dignified gentleman opened the Studebaker's front door and raised his hand in welcome.

Robert opened his own door, standing and stretching the kinks from his muscles, he nodded at the man in welcome. "Are you Mr. Franks?" he asked.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. DeMolay,” he said with a smile. "I trust you had a good trip?"

"I brought a good friend to keep me company," Robert said. "May I present to you, David Sanders.” The lawyer and I exchanged a friendly handshake.

"Yew Manor is right up the road," the lawyer explained. "Please follow me in your car."

From his pocket, the lawyer produced a key and opened the gate as Robert and I returned to our Volkswagen.

As we drove into sight of Yew Manor, both of us gasped in surprise. A three-story mansion in the Georgian style of architecture appeared amidst the trees bordered on the front and sides with a manicured lawn.

The road we followed split into a circle that led to the manor’s ornate entrance where the lawyer stopped his car. Entranced by the sight of Robert’s new home, I would have run into the backend of the lawyer’s Studebaker if my friend had not hastily brought my attention back to my driving.

Getting out of the vehicle we continued to stare at a mansion that had been clearly maintained in a state of perfection.

The lawyer held out his hand, more keys dangling from his fingertips. "The will specifically states that I do not have permission to enter the front door. I hereby turn over ownership of Yew Manor to you as the arbiter of your late great uncle's will. Also, I have been instructed to tell you that your great uncle left you instructions and a personal note in the den which is the second door to the right as you enter the front room."

Leaving us with his business card and the assurance that he would always be at our disposal, he got into his car and left us in front of the mansion.

"Amazing," I said. "Can you believe your fortune?"

Robert shook his head in stunned disbelief. "I must be dreaming," he whispered.

"Then it’s the first time two people experienced the same dream," I said.

Robert made his way up the steps to the front door and, after finding the right key, he swung the door open into an architectural style long gone.

The front room glistened from polished floors with sets of doors on both sides. In the middle, a sweeping staircase made its way up to the second floor.

Robert shook his head. "I feel like a child on Christmas morning."

I pointed to the second door the right. "As the old cliché goes, let's not count our chickens before they hatch. I suspect your great-uncle may have some serious restrictions on your inheritance."

The door opened into a small den which appeared to have a décor consisting mostly of oak, mahogany, and black leather furnishings from the late 19th century. A large polished wooden desk dominated the back of the room and the view from the large windows provided an artist’s perspective on the small garden outside. Behind the desk, recessed bookshelves featured leather bound volumes and various knickknacks.

The top of the desk was empty with the exception of a large sealed envelope.

Eagerly, Robert tore the envelope open while I satisfied my curiosity with the bookshelf.

"My God!" I said in stunned surprise. "Robert, what is this?"

I pointed to a small framed photograph featuring an elderly man and companion standing side-by-side in front of Yew Manor. The man’s companion stood clothed in a yellow sundress, but its anthropomorphic form displayed its only human aspect.

Robert stood next to me and shook his head in surprise. "That looks too detailed to be a costume, so this is nothing more than trick photography. Rabbit women do not exist. "

Behind us, a feminine voice spoke.

"I assure you that no trick photography was involved. Your uncle’s secretary was my mother.”