War of the World Records (13 page)

As they reached the threshold, however, Arthur stopped in his tracks and turned back to the archivist. “Actually, sir,” he added, recalling the name Rex had brandished at his father during their doomed dinner party, “you haven't got anything on
Norbury
, have you?”

Terence Slumpshaw turned his head with a smile. “If it is here, Arthur Whipple, I will find it.”

• • •

The archivist returned a quarter of an hour later, out of breath and clutching a dented, dusty film canister.

“Please . . . forgive me for . . . the delay,” he puffed, handing the canister to Arthur. “This newsreel collection was the first thing I could find under the heading ‘Norbury.' The dates range from twenty to thirty years ago, so it may be a bit old—but it does seem to feature members of your family, so perhaps you'll find something pertinent, hmm? Now, if you'll just follow me, I'll get you fixed up with a private screening room and anything else you may require.”

Mr. Slumpshaw led Arthur and Ruby out of the Human Oddities wing and into a medium-sized room furnished with red velvet seats and a film projector, which faced a broad, shimmering screen.

“Here we are,” the archivist announced. “Shall I get us some refreshments?”

“I think we've got it from here, Terence,” assured Ruby.

“Very well then. But do bring the canister back to me when you're finished, so I may properly shelve it and offer you a personal farewell.”

The archivist gave a final fawning grin, then left the room and shut the door behind him.

Arthur popped open the film can and made for the projector. As soon as he had threaded the film leader through the sprocket wheels and flicked on the projector's lamp, Ruby hit the lights. The two found their way to the front row of seats, where they sat themselves in the darkened chamber and stared into the glowing white window before them.

Arthur drew a deep breath. “Let's hope this tells us something.”

Amid the whirr of the projector, a scratched and dusty IWRF logo flickered onto the screen. A tinny, distorted voiceover crackled through the speakers as the title faded up.

“Notable Moments in World-Record Breaking! This time: the storied and somber history of the live burial record.

“For centuries, man has endeavored to test his mental and physical limits by digging a hole in the ground, burying himself inside it, and seeing how long he can remain there before destroying his health or losing his mind.”

The picture cut between archival shots of men digging graves, men being sealed into coffins, coffins being lowered into the ground, and earth being shoveled on top of them.

“Receiving air, food, and water through a narrow vent in the compartment's ceiling, contenders for the live burial record must reside in a four-by-four-by-eight-foot box, buried six feet beneath the surface for the duration of the attempt.

“Given the event's treacherous and time-consuming nature, few have succeeded in besting the record set before them—none advancing the record by more than a few days at a time. That is—until Agatha Whipple.”

Flashbulbs illuminated a smiling young woman as she climbed into a large wooden box and reclined onto her back.

“Who's Agatha Whipple?” whispered Ruby.

“My grandmother, I think,” Arthur replied. “I never knew her. Both my grandparents died before I was born.”

The box was sealed and lowered into an open trench, which was promptly filled in with earth, so that only the top of the air vent remained above ground.

“Seven years ago, the live burial record was shattered when Mrs. Whipple, wife and mother, remained underground for a remarkable one hundred and two days—twice the duration of the previous record.”

Shots of the woman's face framed in blackness by the vent's rectangular opening were intercut with shots of the changing seasons, followed by shots of men removing the earth around the vent, revealing the long-buried box be-neath. A proud, mustachioed man pried open the lid and lifted the smiling woman into his arms. As he carried her frail body toward the camera amid the resumed popping of flashbulbs, a small boy ran to meet them. The woman wrapped her arms around the boy and kissed him.

“Is that your dad?”

“I think so. And the one with the mustache is my grandfather.”

“Reunited with her husband—fellow record-breaking legend Charles Whipple Sr.—and their son Charlie, Agatha would hold the live burial record for an incredible six years—until one year ago, when it was finally broken by Gregory Lyon, a newcomer to the world records game hoping to make a name for himself.”

“Wait—
Lyon
?” puzzled Ruby. “That's the name of your family's curse. Peculiar, isn't it?”

Arthur slowly nodded, his eyes fixed to the screen as the film continued.

“Mercifully, Mrs. Whipple would not live to see her cherished record pass to a new champion. One month before the start of Mr. Lyon's attempt, Agatha Whipple died suddenly of a pulmonary embolism, when an undetected blood clot from her cramped time underground dislodged itself and traveled into her lung, leaving her family shocked and heartbroken.”

A quivering-lipped Charles Sr. stood beside a fir-wreathed gravestone with his teary-eyed son.

“Charles Whipple, taking Lyon's ill-timed triumph as an insult to his wife's memory, sought immediate revenge. He buried himself in an underground tomb less than a week after Mr. Lyon had emerged from his own—and remained there an astounding one hundred and thirty-two days, nearly a month longer than his competitor. With Agatha's honor effectively avenged, the live burial record returned to the Whipple family.”

Arthur's grandfather climbed out of the unearthed box, his face marked with a somber sense of vindication.

“Wherever there is victory, however, there is also defeat. Gregory Lyon, stripped of his life's greatest achievement and dishonored, quickly spiraled into desperation. He rushed a new attempt at his former record—only to perish nine days later when his hastily-constructed compartment flooded during a freak rainstorm before rescuers could dig him out.”

“Ughh,” Ruby cringed. “What an awful way to die.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agreed.

“At a funeral attended only by his newly widowed wife and a handful of cemetery employees, Gregory Lyon was entombed once again—this time forever.”

A sobbing, black-veiled woman draped herself over her husband's third and final coffin as it slowly sank into the earth. When two pallbearers attempted to usher her away, the woman began flailing hysterically, her fingernails scraping the coffin's lid on its way down.

“Yet some spirits simply refuse to rest. Ever since Mr. Lyon's tragic death, misfortune has seemed to follow Charles Whipple Sr. wherever he goes, leading some to coin the term ‘the Lyon's Curse.' In recent weeks, Mr. Whipple has been run over by a rickshaw, grazed by a falling chandelier, and nipped by a king cobra—causing him to grow increasingly reclusive and cynical.”

“So there's your curse then,” said Ruby. “Doesn't sound all that bad if you ask me.”

Arthur shrugged.

In a high-up window of the Whipple mansion, Arthur's grandfather cautiously peered out from behind a curtain and then disappeared.

“There is, however, one Whipple who remains optimistic. Following in his father's footsteps, ten-year-old Charlie Jr. has vowed to keep the live burial title in the Whipple clan.”

A soft-cheeked, fairer-haired version of Arthur's father addressed a crowd of reporters.
“If anyone tries to take my mother's record away again, I will bury myself for as long as it takes to get it back—just like my dad did.”

Ruby turned to Arthur. “Hard to believe your father was ever so young—or so adorable. Sort of reminds me of someone I know, actually.”

Arthur glanced at his partner in confusion, then turned back to the screen.

“And so it seems for the foreseeable future, this revered yet deadly record will remain in the care of the Whipple family. Only time will tell how each will shape the other.”

With that, a clacking sound sprang from the projector as a rough splice traveled through the film gate. There was a momentary stutter in the picture, and then a second newsreel began where the first had ended. A slightly more modern-looking title card jumped onto the screen, declaring:
THE
FALL
OF
THE
H
OUSE
OF
WHIPPLE
!

“That doesn't sound good,” Ruby muttered as the narrator's muffled voice-over commenced.

“After years of unrivaled record breaking, it seems the Whipple family's reign has finally come to an end—its last days marred by failure and tragedy. The collapse began just one month ago when, nearly a decade after Charles Whipple Sr. brought his late wife's live burial title back to the family, the record was taken away a second time.”

The lid of a coffin hinged open, revealing a young man with chiseled features and a familiar smile.

“On the morning of January the twenty-seventh, upstart record-breaking contender Rex Goldwin emerged from a makeshift grave at the back of the Norbury Arms pub after one hundred and fifty-three days underground— successfully besting the Whipple record by a full three weeks.”

“Aha,” Ruby declared. “The handsome face of villainy rears its ugly head.”

“This time, the task of record reclaiming for the Whipple family would fall to nineteen-year-old Charlie Jr.—who had been schoolboy chums with Goldwin until the latter decided to set his sights on the Whipples' most cherished record. Having vowed to personally protect the family legacy against all encroachers, young Whipple was quick to back up his word, burying himself within the week.”

Arthur's teenaged father gave a smile and a salute, then retreated into a wooden box, which was promptly nailed shut.

“But after just one night underground, an anguished Charlie Jr. was forced to forfeit the attempt, due to an undiagnosed case of claustrophobia—much to his father's disappointment.”

Emergency workers hoisted the box from its pit and pried open the lid, revealing the now pale, shivering figure within.

Ruby nudged Arthur with her elbow. “So that's why your dad was so hesitant to enter the Lizard Lounge. He can't stand tight spaces. Had you never seen him act that way before?”

“Guess he just got really good at hiding it. Before Rex came along, nobody's ever really made him do anything he didn't want to do. He's never liked graveyards, though, that's for sure. And no wonder.”

“Yeah,” Ruby said with a smirk. “Good thing he didn't pass that trait on to you, eh, Arthur?”

Arthur shot her a scowl, then returned his focus to the image on the screen.

Charlie Jr. climbed from the coffin-like compartment and stepped toward his onlooking father, smiling meekly through shame and remorse. But the elder Whipple merely turned and walked away.

“Charles Sr. refused to settle for his son's failure and swore to undertake the record himself. Sadly, however, he would not get the chance to do so.

“Last week, en route to a secluded island location where he hoped to perform the record attempt free from all distractions, his plane mysteriously went down over the South Pacific. The remains of Charles Whipple Sr. were soon discovered washed up on the northern coast of New Guinea.”

“Wow,” whispered Ruby. “It's probably a bit late for this now, but—sorry about your grandfather.”

“Thanks,” Arthur said solemnly. “Guess it makes sense now why my father feels so guilty about the way he died.”

“Speculators have been quick to blame Whipple's death on the so-called Lyon's Curse, named for the late Gregory Lyon, who died years earlier in a failed attempt to reclaim the live burial title after it had returned to the Whipple clan. Sources close to the family report that Charles Sr. had spent the last years of his life in fear of the curse, seldom leaving his home, lest he should come to a gruesome end. Unfortunately, it appears his apprehension may have been well-founded.”

“I take back what I said about the curse,” said Ruby. “Sounds completely horrible, actually.”

“I'll say,” gulped Arthur.

“But as one star fades,”
continued the narrator,
“another is born. Hot off his recent victory over the typically unbeatable Whipple family, Rex Goldwin now stands poised on the brink of fame and fortune. . . .”

Rex's toothy grin faded from the screen as another crude splice rattled the projector, signaling the start of a third newsreel.

This time the title card read:
WHIPPLE
NAME
RESTORE
D
AS
CHARLES
JR
.
ROCK
ETS
TO
STARDOM
!

A fast-moving montage showed Arthur's father receiving various trophies, plaques, and awards.

“Galvanized by his father's death early last year, Charles Whipple Jr. promptly embarked on a veritable record breaking rampage, smashing every record he attempted. Having successfully proved himself in the record breaking arena, Whipple soon turned his attention to avenging his family honor—by confronting the man who had robbed them of their most prized record.

“Over the following months, Charles Whipple sought out Rex Goldwin and systematically broke every record the newcomer attempted, catapulting the former into international fame in the process—while driving the latter into depression and drunkenness, and seemingly out of the world records game for good.”

A muttering, unshaven Rex Goldwin stumbled out of a pub, then suddenly charged forward, grabbing the lens and knocking the camera to the ground.