Bacchanalia

The time of the winter solstice is almost upon us my dear readers. Fall has come and is almost gone now, the trees are bereft of their life giving foliage and the natural world either slowly dies or prepares for its long slumber. Unfortunately, my slumber has not been so restful. I continue to experience protracted nights of strange, alien places and creatures in my nightly reveries. Thankfully, by morning, I have forgotten the contents of most of them, leaving my sanity intact. However, one particular dream comes to me every fortnight without hesitation. The setting is not so alien, yet it is terrifying nevertheless.

You see, here in the National Capital Region, I am surrounded by beautiful colonial structures, which breathes life into the mythic origins of our republic’s founding. I have always been fascinated with eighteenth century America, a time when it seems almost anything was possible. For instance, even a humble hardworking man with enough wit and wherewithal could launch a prosperous business enterprise or an assiduous surveyor could become a popular general.

At the same time, some of these old historic places fill me with a strange dread, as if something foul took place there long ago but a malevolent energy lingers still, as if time itself refuses to move on from the foul deeds which were perpetuated there hundreds of years ago. One such place is the old Ball’s Crossroads at Wilson Boulevard and Glebe Road, in the Ballston area of Arlington. Located near a major thoroughfare, many commuters drive by the area on their daily sojourn without giving it even a passing look. For me, the area takes on an indescribable sinister quality, whenever I pass by it even though original structure no longer stands and in its place sits a rather banal appearing historical marker. However, I cannot but help feel the hair on the back of my neck begin to prickle whenever I am near the area.

Many times I assumed this reaction was due to some anxiety at having to deal with heavy commuter traffic or the poor driving skills of the other motorists. Then the dream started coming to me this fall. As far as I can tell, I have never had such a dream, which was both vivid and realistic in terms of its locale and the people who populated it. I will describe the dream with as much detail (and courage) as I can muster. Occasionally, the dream varies somewhat in the personal interactions I have with others but I am always the same “character” and travelling the same localities.

In the dream, I groggily wake up, as if my life now was just a vividly detailed nocturnal reverie. I awake from my slumber dressed in a fashionable men’s nightgown of the eighteenth century. I walk to a large washbasin on a table in a small, plain wooden room and with a small mirror begin my daily absolutions with soap and razor. The trance like fog which had clouded my mind begins to evaporate and I begin to recollect who I am. I am Josiah Miles Smith, a newly minted lieutenant in the fledging continental army. I have been living in Northern Virginia, at a newly commandeered house, formerly owned by a wealthy loyalist, now deceased by his own hand, in the City of Alexandria. The year is 1777 and I am attached to the 1st Continental Light Dragoons. I have been here for the past few weeks, convalescing, after receiving a minor wound at the Battle of Philadelphia, which had occurred during the fall.

As I pull on my cotton shirt and leather breeches, I feel my quiet self-confidence begin to radiate throughout my fiber. I look forward to going back and joining General Washington’s campaign to the north. My previous dream of a outlandish and distant future has all but disappeared, as I don my distinctive white and blue Dragoon tunic and strap on my large horseman’s saber. I admire my highly polished black riding boots before exiting the small bedroom and walking downstairs to the dining area. I greet the other recuperating officers who are seated at the large wooden Queen Anne table preparing for their morning meal. However, I prepare for my other morning ritual, instead of a shared meal. During most mornings, I prefer a long ride on horseback near the banks of the Patowmack River.

As I stand at the entrance of the outside stable, waiting for the stable boy to retrieve my large black stallion, one of the house servants comes outside and calls me by name. A middle-aged, rotund, friendly chap with a cherub face, he now appears hesitant. He hands me a letter and simply states that it was delivered late at night and the messenger had been heavily bound from head to foot (not unusual considering the cold rain storm we experienced the previous evening). Nonetheless, I was told that there was something ‘sinister’ in the way the man simply shoved the letter into the hand of the shocked doorman who answered the heavy, repeated knocking during that howling storm. The doorman stated that the rider simply turned around and “disappeared into the night” without “even a word or glance back.” The servant turned then and fled from my presence, as if I carried an invisible pox.

The letter was small and rather dainty, on the outside in neat flowing script, it stated:

Lt. J. M. Smith, 1st CLD
For Eyes Only

I pondered this enigmatic missive briefly, before placing it in my tunic for later analysis. The stable boy handed me the reins to my horse and I eyed him wearily, being that he was filthy and wretched, looking more like a street urchin than a respectable stableman. However, my stallion appeared freshly groomed and fed, therefore, I grudgingly parted with a halfpenny.

I rode southeast, past the waterfront of Alexandria, sneering at the various foreign sailors unloading their exotic goods on to the docks. I eventually increased my stead’s speed into a gallop, moving away from the banks of the river and enter the splendor of the solitary forests. I ride for a while longer and begin to feel my mount tire; I slow his pace and decide to dismount on the outskirts of a large plantation owned by the general himself. As I rest by my charger, watching the slaves slowly work the plantation fields, I take my water skin from my saddle and swallow some water. It was only while unbuttoning my tunic that I rediscovered the forgotten letter. I sat near an old oak tree stump and tore into the envelope. The letter was respectful and concise in tone and written in the same neat, flowing script. The letter proclaimed the following:

Dear Lt. Smith,

You have never met me, nor do I wish to announce my identity, sir. I know you only through reputation. It is this honorable reputation as a cavalry officer and Virginia gentleman I now beseech. I have been told that you are a former divinity student, Harvard Divinity College no less, prior to joining this just cause of ours. As a decent Christian man, I need your help, Sir! Acts of unspeakable brutality and blasphemy are being unchecked in this region, under the eyes of the Divine One himself!

I have tried to implore various authorities in the past to investigate, but due to the war, no one takes my indictments earnestly. I know that you are a young favorite of our beloved general and are attached to his staff. Perhaps, you can confirm what I have seen and heard and entreat our patriotic leaders to cleanse this impious region of its veiled, wicked denizens. Tomorrow night, there will be a masquerade, hosted by various leading families of Northern Virginia. A dashing, young cavalry officer, with an upright reputation, such as yourself could easily infiltrate such a soiree and confirm what I have espoused. In the basement of this house, appalling incantations are made and ghastly acts of sacrifices are made to appease horrors which should not be. Please Sir! Go to this masque and probe these horrors, do not allow our young country to be governed by those worshipping dark pagan gods!

In Yours,
X

I place the letter back in my tunic and button it. Although I find the letter entertaining, I’m also fascinated by how the author knew my identity and location. I had not told anyone where I was going to recuperate and only a few members of the general’s staff knew the exact whereabouts of my accommodations. Also, I had received such an invitation earlier in the week. The masque ball which was being hosted by the Balls of Fairfax, was a way of both raising funds for the Continental Army, as well as the spirits of the local revolutionaries, or so I was told. I had not planned on attending, preferring to keep my identity discreet, in case loyalist spies were present. Although I had no interest in searching for pagan gods, I found being a cavalry officer during wartime is an expensive undertaking and the lavish attentions of a wealthy widow would improve my pecuniary concerns. In my experience, masque balls never lacked in lonesome affluent widows. I smiled to myself as I promptly made up my mind to attend. I straddled my charger and rode off, with the tobacco picking slaves giving me curious glances.

When I arrived back at my temporary abode, I immediately drafted a letter announcing my presence for later that evening at the Ball’s country estate. I had one of the reluctant servants (all of them appeared uneasy at the mere mention of the name ‘Ball’) deliver the document and spent the rest of the day organizing my affairs and making sure my uniform and accoutrements were suitably presentable. The day flitted away quickly due to the season and I found myself once again on my faithful steed, heading west towards the Ball’s estate. As I travelled westward and the city streets gave way to silent, deserted dirt roads. I found myself surrounded by bare sinister looking trees and small appalling farmsteads. As I drew closer to the estate, the air seemed heavier and almost quietly overwhelming. Eventually, I located the sprawling mansion hall and moved my reluctant mount towards the large black stable nearby.

A stable slave even more dreadful appearing then my own emerged from the shadows of the dark stable. Apparently, my charger shunned the smell of him based on his braying and his initial attempt to pull away. I asked the slave a few simple questions; he simply lifted a thin, dirty sleeved arm and pointed towards the house. I assumed the boy must be mute and turned on a boot heel and marched smartly towards the grand entrance of the hall. Outside, a black masked servant, wearing small antlers atop his head and a whitish robe of ancient Rome ushered me inside the finely decorated foyer. Once inside the Grecian adorned grand hall, another toga wearing servant, acted as guest greeter and crier. He announced my attendance to the forty or so guests which were present.

Inside, all the masked guests were dressed in their finest raiment. Servants dressed in togas with curious bulky animal masks enclosing their entire heads served lavish sustenance and drink. My hosts, the Ball family, along with another politically powerful family, the Carlins were also dressed in togas. These togas were a sinister red in color with gaudy purple trimming. All around me, they conspired in whispered tones, while drinking from exquisite wine glasses. A masked gentlemen, tall and slender in build, wearing a naval uniform, broke away from the retinue and walked towards me.

“Lieutenant, do come in and enjoy our hospitality. I am Ensign John Ball, one of the hosts for this evening. Please help yourself to some victuals on this bitter fall night and refresh yourself. Would you like me to make some introductions for you?”

I declined the ensign’s courteousness. I advised him that I would make my own introductions; Ensign Ball smiled warmly and turned his attention to another newly arrived guest. A strange uneasiness had descended upon me. Although a great fire roared from a fireplace inside a prodigious brick chimney, the air inside the great hall was inexplicably cold. I passed by the servants with their trays of food and beverage, I found I had no appetite. Perhaps the letter writer was not touched in the head as I previously dismissed him to be. Slowly but deliberately, I made my way closer to another doorway, which appeared to lead to the kitchen. A constant flow of servants moved in and out this doorway. As I made my way to this doorway, I stopped and made witty banter with various masquerade guests, so as not to appear suspicious and draw attention to the social etiquette I was about to break. It was well over an hour before I finally made my way across the hall.

Finally, I was at the doorway, I waited until there was little ingress and egress of servant foot traffic and quickly ducked instead. Inside, I walked a short hallway, this lead to the kitchen. A small army of slaves were present, busily preparing trays and cooking. Outwardly, I put on my sternest countenance and barged into the kitchen. To make my performance appear even more intimating, my right fist was clasped around the pommel of my saber. The slaves, for their part, did their best to appear as if such an intrusion were an everyday occurrence. They cast their eyes downward and fully ignored my presence. I walked straight towards another door at the other end of the kitchen, which brought me outside.

My goal was to find the exterior basement door and stairs, which would lead me down into the cellar of Ball’s Hall, every such estate had them. It was then that I experienced the utterly profane “music.” I involuntarily shuddered at the sound, which was a cross between a whistle and a poorly tuned viola. In a copse of oak trees, to the north, torch lights could be seen. The music drifted to me from that location and I spied a small foot path which led into the dense grove. I trembled slightly, imagining what may exist in that ancient coppice. Briefly, I considered going back to my charger and retrieving my saddle pistols. Then…the music stopped and my previously drained mettle returned somewhat. I took a deep breath and slowly drew my saber. I presumed my swordplay would have to be good enough to meet whatever challenge lay at the end of the footpath. I cautiously exited the lawn of the estate and entered the wood.

The path was narrow but well worn, it twisted and turned and the oak trees loomed over me evilly. Some of the branches of the trees appeared to move, even though no wind was present. I began to perspire and my heart quickened in pace. I had too much of an imaginative mind. As I neared the end of the path, I heard voices. The voices started out in disparate whispers but soon became a unified cacophony of prayer. The prayer was neither in English or Latin, blessedly, I could make out little other than: “Ia, Sub-nigguarath…Ia, Sub-nigguarath.” However, even this…even this simple phrase made my bowels shift and my knees weak. I gripped my saber tighter until my knuckles went white and burst forward into a large dirt clearing.

In the clearing, an unimaginable horror began to materialize. A group of men and women in the garish reddish and purple togas, wore animal masks, chief among them, Ensign Ball, sans uniform and the only worshipper without either mask or clothes, had his naked arms raised in the air as he finished his blasphemous invocation. Ensign Ball stood naked a few feet from a large stone well which spouted in the middle of the clearing. The other dozen masked worshippers became silent and began to hypnotically sway to an unearthly melody, which was unheeded to me in my traumatized state. Then a sound I cannot (will not?) described gurgled up from the well. Ball’s face contorted into ecstasy and a maniacal laugh issued from his lips and chilled me to the bone. Ball suddenly cried out:

“She comes…she comes…the mother of a thousand young…come and bare witness children…she comes for me and I shall give her my seed.”

The true dreadfulness of this liturgy suddenly became apparent, as Ball’s manhood suddenly and fully became erect, engorged with blood. Large, fibrous tentacles, covered in black icur arose from the well and moved upward, they encircled him in an almost sensual embrace. The trees…God help me! The trees began to sluggishly move forward into the clearing, but they were not trees! The now living branches were in reality, twisted appendages and the creatures moved on large cloven hooves, great, sycophantic maws opened and spewed forth the previously heard “music!” My God, it was their LANGUAGE! I froze at the utter horror of this outlandish orgy. Ball continued to laugh witlessly as he fused with the thing ascending from the well and I screamed. I screamed as no man has ever shrieked and then….

…I am in my bed, in my home, my wife has me by both shoulders and is yelling at me, telling me I am having a nightmare. I am covered in sweat, my pajamas soaked through, my heart is hammering against my chest…yes…a dream I tell myself, only a dream. I repeat this to myself over and over again. I pray that through repetition of this statement, I will eventually believe it. Yet… this statement does not explain why whenever I pass the above historical marker of Ball’s Crossroads on Wilson Boulevard, a deep shiver runs down my spine and my palms become cold and clammy. No colonial farm estate stands in the area any longer, only a few nondescript modern office buildings. I still can’t help but wonder, if in the bowels of one of those ordinary buildings, a stone lined pit still remains, where something awful and terrifying sleeps and waits for a specific kind of sacrifice.