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Michael Kensington, a landed gentleman of wealth and taste, is the heir to a great, many things. Yet perhaps the one thing he wishes he had not inherited, is the obligation of the hunt. Lions and tigers in and upon the Dark Continent are challenging enough, yet the obligation to which Lord Kensington must hunt, many would not believe him if he told them what it was.

Ghosts and goblins, they say, are tales to frighten children into doing their chores, or to make sure they stay in their beds at night. Yet how does one tell another of real monsters? The kind that are worse then those who hunt other men for sport? How does one tell another human soul that he hunts a truly disturbing, terrifying, and sinister monster. The kind that feeds on the blood of the living for their sustenance, that they may live for yet another night?

One does not.

The asylums are full to the teeth with those poor, retched souls who tell of such fantastic tales. And as such, they are rewarded by the doctors and alienists of the day with water therapy, isolation, lobotomy, pseudo-pharamathy, and perhaps worst of all, electrotype-treatments. Yet, such are the accepted and tender treatments of the day, said by the good doctors to be able to treat and heal all. Yet “patient” is not what one should call those who are subject to these treatments, for “victim” would be a better description of the truth.

And yet all one must truly do to see the truth of it all is to open ones eyes to the treatment of the innocent, the disappearance of woman and children, to hear the desperate cries for help in the night, to be witness to the horror that is directly in front of them, as the blood is drained away before the creatures of the night return to the crypts.

Until the next night...

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Penny Dreadful

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The Victorian Age

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