Construct

From what I have learned since that day, I am the only one to have seen the Knoxworths before they quit the city of Portal-Whitesmith. The name Knoxworth may be familiar to those that followed the work of the great construct designer, Desmond Knoxworth, also known for a sudden death surrounded by controversy. Before I took my leave of this city to study abroad in Albionoria, I was a casual acquaintance of their son, Clarence and had met the mother, Gwendolyn, once or twice. When I returned, I reestablished contact with the family. Desmond had passed away in the four years that I had been gone. Mrs. Knoxworth requested that I help move out some of the old constructs that laid around the place. Not having steady work, I took this job.

The house was old and musty. Mrs. Knoxworth seemed to be living in the garden, surrounded by overgrown rosebushes and a rounded construct with spidery arms that squatted beside her wrought iron garden furniture, and whirred near the endless stream of tea and tobacco that the old lady consumed. She chatted pleasantly, if inanely, apologizing for the odd absence of Clarence. She claimed him to be ill, and infectious at that. The entire third floor of the house seemed shut off. I strove to listen for sounds of him, but the whole house creaked and groaned with sounds that both baffled and unnerved me, so I could not determine if the boy even still existed.

One day, late in the afternoon, the Daymoon looming over the city's spires, I came to find the front door locked. I was alarmed, knowing that Mrs. Knoxworth had no appointments. I clambered over the garden wall, pricking myself on the roses as I found the back door ajar. I slowly walked inside, calling but receiving no reply, meeting only the silent host of brass effigies that still resided in the various corners of that house.

I ascended the stairs slowly. I was concerned. And this is the point where I opened the door and saw what I now report, though I doubt my words can capture it. How can I describe Clarence Knoxworth -what was left of him? A porcelain mockery of a face, painted white, with black straw bangs, a body that was but a shell of brass and wood. Skeletal arms and legs splayed on the bed, chest opened and the leather sacks heaving inside as they took in blood, from the arm of Gwendolyn Knoxworth, her arm placed in that semblance of a mouth, with it's sharpened teeth, the red life dripping down the throat of the thing that was not Clarence, to power the functions that only barely made it living: small, shaky gestures in it’s prison bed. 

But I was wrong about it’s weakness, a mistake that may have cost lives. I rushed to pull Mrs. Knoxworth from the hellish device that was her son, prying apart the steel jaws to take her shrunken arm out. She screamed, struggling, telling me I did not understand. I looked at her to see desperation. Then I collapsed as a heavy weight hit my head, knocking me flat to the floor and to darkness. The last thing I recall is two terrible glass eyes, flickering with the few candles in the room, observing me as the thing that was not Clarence creaked to a sitting position in the bed, half supported by, and half supporting his hysterical sobbing mother.

When I awoke, they both were gone. As far as I can tell, they are no longer in the city. A watchman claimed to have spotted an old woman carrying a thin figure wrapped in cloth out the south gate. That means they went into the forest. 
Mrs. Knoxworth is old and sick – the forest, I suspect, will kill her within a month or two. But Clarence -what can stop a thing like that? And when his mother’s blood ceases to fuel him, where shall he get his driving force? The forest holds even more horror for me, knowing that the brass vampire must soon stalk its boughs. Was that where Desmond ended up? Is that the immortal life he chose?