The Westford Wizard
As a freelance journalist, I had always been looking for the recognition I needed. I wanted to be the one to cause some kind of wave in society; I needed my name to be known.
by Reagan Hillman
Part I
Where to begin? I guess I’ll start with the first day I heard of Carl. It was just an ordinary day, March, I believe, when my friend Amelia told me about these videos she’d been seeing about this guy whose neighbor, Diane, was documenting all the weird things she sees him do.
Amelia showed me some of these videos. Carl would be talking to someone, but the video never picked up anyone else conversing back. So, theories in the comment section suggested he had schizophrenia or, even more absurdly, Carl was talking to the corpse of his dead wife.
Other videos showed incredible and colorful lights beaming from the windows of the house, not too unusual nowadays, but these were different. These were not static LED strips; they looked more like a rave was going on inside this Victorian house but without any music. All that the video could pick up from across the fence was vague mutterings. I wasn’t ready to jump to conclusions yet, in fact, I didn’t truly believe these videos to be genuine. Almost two months went by before I thought about this internet sensation, Carl, again.
A new video had gone viral, but this one was different from the others. This was security cam footage on Diane’s property of Carl going down to his pond . He is an old man, his face is plated in a white beard that goes down to his shirt. He had the posture of a young man but moved firmly yet gently.In the video we see him pausing for a moment, then walking straight into the water. You can see the water quickly encapsulate over his head and fishing hat (at least it looked like a fishing hat), and a minute later, nothing happens; he doesn’t come up out of the greenish mucky water in any way.
There was a second part of this pond video. Apparently, Diane, who posted it, called the police in hopes of finding a cadaver floating in the water. Of course, she took a video of their arrival and them knocking on the door, and who answers other than Carl, seemingly dry as a bone. This is the day I became somewhat obsessed.
As a freelance journalist, I had always been looking for the recognition I needed. I wanted to be the one to cause some kind of wave in society; I needed my name to be known.
Doing some research about these two, I learned they live only 30 minutes from where I am. This is why I thought I was the one that needed to write a story about Carl and Diane. At this point, I still thought this was fabricated in some way, maybe Carl was an internet magician, or he was just playing pranks on his neighbor (in the videos, you can tell Diane is a bit of an odd old lady as well). Nevertheless, I needed to cash in on this oddity.
So, I started doing some more research, hoping to find a phone number or email of either Carl or Diane, as I didn’t just want to show up and knock on their door. I eventually found Diane’s Facebook account, sent a message telling her who I was and what I was hoping to do, being as transparent as possible. A few days go by; no response. Carl was nowhere to be found on the internet, even his house is blurred out on Google Earth. But I noticed across the street from Carl was a business, a plant nursery and flower shop. With not much else to go, I emailed the business email address the same way I messaged Diane. Three hours later; a response. It said, “I can tell you everything you need to know about this asshole Carl.” And gave me information for setting up an interview. The message signed off with the name, “Best wishes, Steve the Plant Wizard” (Great, another one).
The time set for the meeting was somewhat peculiar; Steve chose the time and place: His nursery at 8 PM on a Thursday, May 23rd. I told Amelia to come along with me; she was my closest friend at the time and was kind of like my photographer, I thought she'd be useful for this story. She told me she’ll help me but this isn’t something she can put a lot of time into. This was a little disheartening as I was into her at that time and was hoping to prove my worth to her as well. Nevertheless, she came with me.
Driving into the town, there is a large wooden painted sign that says Westford; it also depicts a lake, green valleys, and vineyards on the hills. Very common for towns in this area of New York. We pulled into the gravel parking lot of Steve's shop, and I looked across the street. There were the houses of these people I hoped to learn more about. They both were about 300 feet from the lake but only a few yards from the road. I could see a little bit of the pond in Carl's backyard and the security camera on Diane's molding. But the houses themselves were quiet except for one or two lights on in each, most likely the bedrooms.
Steve had come out to meet us as we were still getting things out of the car. "Beautiful night, isn't it?" he said. I agreed. He asked me if I worked for Channel 9 News and expressed his preference for them over Channel 8 News. I reiterated that I had no affiliation with any major news network. I noticed Steve's gaze shift past me with a look of disdain. Turning, I saw only the flutter of one of Carl's curtains. He was watching us. Steve insisted we take the conversation inside for "a bit more privacy from prying eyes." So, we followed him, expecting a typical plant store. Instead of a room filled with dirt and hand spades, he led us into what was probably one of the most impressive rooms I had seen up to that point.
The room reminded me of the botanical gardens seen in old mansions, filled with tropical plants, vegetables, herbs, fruits, and even wasabi (which is notoriously hard to grow). Steve was cultivating all of this using hydroponic towers and beds, except for one clay pot that was growing a marijuana plant (figures). Steve mentioned he had developed his own type of greenhouse light, enabling him to grow all these plants in the same room with consistent humidity and temperature. Noticing the plants thrived in an air-conditioned room, I inspected one of the lights. They shone almost white with a purplish-red tint, though the bulbs themselves were green, oddly enough.
Without prompting, Steve began to express his disdain for Carl, labeling him inconsiderate, lazy, nosy, annoying, etc. It was almost as if he was listing every trait of the worst neighbor imaginable. His exaggeration was so blatant, I started to doubt much of what he said, except for Carl's nosiness, which I had already witnessed. After an hour or so, it became clear that Steve simply despised Carl but couldn't provide a concrete reason, just more negative adjectives. Having gathered all we could, we decided to return the next day to speak with Diane or Carl himself.
We got up early and headed to Westford, hoping to learn more from the town's residents, having learned from Steve that Carl was somewhat of a local legend. At a grocery store on Main Street, which appeared to have been around for a while, likely a mom-and-pop operation, I grabbed a can of iced tea. While checking out, I began to inquire about Carl with the sweet-looking old lady behind the counter. She leaned in and whispered, "You know, he's a wizard?" I chuckled but stopped myself, not wanting to be rude. Just as I was about to ask another question, someone tapped on my shoulder. It was Carl. He said he wanted to speak with me and invited me to his house for dinner. He left as quickly as he had appeared, leaving me completely caught off guard. With a slight shake in my voice, I asked the old lady why she hadn't warned me he was right behind me. "Twelve cents is your change. Thank you, have a good day," she replied, gesturing for me to leave. So I did.
When we arrived at his house, a large gray furry ball on the porch noticed us. It stood up, revealing itself to be an Irish Wolfhound. The dog barked at us and then stepped on a black plastic button on the ground, which played a compressed audio message in Carl's voice: "Welcome to my home. My name is Bryce, and I will escort you inside." I looked up at the dog, which barked once more before standing on its hind legs to pull down a handle (obviously made for a dog). I heard a click, and the door popped open. We followed Bryce inside. Once in the foyer, Bryce doubled back and closed the door behind us.
Carl's house was old, very old, and it didn't look like anything built in this century, nor did it match the exterior. The floors were made of large smooth stones, each different in shape but masoned in such a way that they fit together perfectly like a puzzle. The walls were adorned with intricate wood panelings—dark wood with a slightly reddish tint, like mahogany. The decor and furniture matched, all appearing antique with black iron hardware and floral designs engraved in the wood. It felt like we were in a medieval castle or something from Game of Thrones. The only out-of-place elements were us and more black buttons scattered around the house. Bryce stepped on one, which politely said, "Right this way, please." We followed Bryce past the stairwell to a large wooden door, which he opened to reveal Carl sitting at an ornate table with two empty chairs, drinking tea.
This room was slightly different from the rest, decorated with greens and pinks, very bright and colorful, even by modern standards. Carl motioned for us to sit. On the table was a tower of tea cakes and pastries, resembling those from The Great British Baking Show. Noticing my interest in the treats, Carl encouraged me to take one. I obliged, selecting what appeared to be a Lemon-Raspberry tart with a red heart in the middle and powdered sugar around the edges of the lemon biscuit; to this day, it remains the best pastry I've ever had.
Carl then changed the subject, asking, "Why are you so interested in what I do here?" as he gestured around the house. "Because you're interesting," I replied with a smile. Carl chuckled, "Quite."
Eventually I told him why I was in Westford. “You want to tell my story, huh?” He looked at Bryce with a face that said ‘what do you think?’. Bryce walked over to a button: “let's go for a run” it spouted. This was the closest thing to a ‘Yes, let's do it’ in the room, apparently. So Carl agreed under one condition; I was not to publish anything or tell anyone what I was doing until I had finished and got approval from Carl. He also said if he doesn’t approve I may still publish after his death, but as long as he “still draws breath” I must wait. This was a tall order to ask, but seeing that I had nothing else to do and Carl ensured me his story was worth my while, I also agreed.
From this point on I would learn about things I still hesitate to put into words.