The Serpent's Eye

by Brand, Thomas H.

  I cannot explain what I saw next. For all my ramblings in these pages about the spirit and the effects it has had on me, I still cannot face some of the truths I guess at. As I looked upon that twisted serpent I swear somehow it reacted to my presence. Through that one jewelled eye the spirit regarded me physically for the first time. I do not know how I know. But I know. My breath stopped. The jewel began to glow softly. I could neither breath nor move. The spirit regarded me and I felt it take hold. It had me.

  I do not know how long it was before I finally managed to pull my eyes away. Free from its gaze, I felt my body fall under my own control once again. I drew in breath for what felt like the first time in minutes. I was panting as if I had been running, and only my grip on the case itself prevented my legs from collapsing underneath me.

  Looking around, I sought out some glossary or description for the objects within. On a card in the front of the case, in neat handwriting, was a brief description noting that the contents were donated to the museum in 1807, having been unearthed in Egypt as part of the expedition to investigate a lost desert tomb, thought to be that of the High Priest Ptalantohtep.

  That word! That cursed word that struck my eye and caught my soul. The text of that card remains burned upon my vision, floating before my eyes even now. The name that has haunted me with unseen and indescribable terrors ever since first I read it. From Edgar's scribbled words, it has followed me. Haunted me. Now it had found me, and I felt my strength fail.

  A hand landed on my shoulder, and the spell that held me in place was broken. I spun around, screaming, and pushing myself away. My nerves had been dragged to breaking point. The man I had spoken to before had returned with another. He spoke, but I did not hear him. Only one word filled my mind. Ptalantohtep. I was insensible with fear. I could not even think. My vision twisted, the room spinning like a dervish. Pushing past them, unheeding of anything around me, I ran from the gallery. I stumbled through the streets, and it was not until I found my way home and soundly locked the doors with shaking fingers did my panic begin to ebb.

  I have barricaded myself within my room. I cannot go back there. I cannot. I will deduce all I need from that which I know already. I can. I must. I do not need to leave here. I have candles and drink to last. He is waiting. I can feel his presence just beyond my walls, waiting for me. It still has not faded, not since I gazed upon that ancient charm. It was his. Was him. They must have found it in that cursed temple. Why did they do it? Why was that place discovered, and not left to rot for all time? Why was it brought forth to damn me to this inescapable, living hell?

  Wednesday, 25th December 1816

  Christmas. So many spend today worshiping, but what do they worship? A salvation that shall never come? Do they truly know anything? Did I? Do any of us? What goes on in that supernatural element of which we shall know nothing until it comes to claim us? We pray that our religion holds the answers. That by blindly following in faith we shall be saved from that which we do not know. I have not been saved. Religion is weak, and I am without succour.

  I attempted church this morning. On this most supposedly holy of days I hoped I might find some peace. Is there even such a thing? Can we find holiness, or is it all a misguided delusion created because we know there is no true protection? Did our forefathers understand what I know now, and create religion to hide from it? These things are hidden from me, but what I do know is that when I approached the doors of the church I felt a cold hard grip fix around my heart. I could feel those fingers tighten around it. It is stronger now. Ever since it saw me in the museum its power over me has become more certain. It did not prevent me from entering; I sat at the back but could still feel the eyes of the congregation upon me. I could not sit still. The unwelcome gaze of those ignorant churchgoers lay over me. How much do these people know? I know they wait only for me to slip, for some ill timed word to give them the excuse to throw me to Bedlam. Or worse. I could not keep still. The grip tightened around my heart, mocking my fears and prayers as its chill spread throughout my body. I was trapped. Now I was there, I wanted to leave. The spirit would not allow it. It held me there. Mocking me. Letting me flounder in the last vestiges of what hope I held. I could feel it smile at me, just as the serpent smiled upon Eve.

  I could not find the strength to leave until the end of the service. It was as if the spirit was taunting me by forcing me to remain, separated from salvation by the encroaching boundary of its power. My discomfort was at such a degree that the moment the cold latch around my heart was released I ran. Pushing others aside, I burst out of the doors and into the cold, winter air. The smog was thick, and every surface slick with frost. I fell, and the impact on the hard ground seemed to dislodge the grip that held me. As I lay there I felt the inner cold, that moments before seemed to be on the verge of freezing my heart, begin to lessen.

  I lay on the hard earth outside the church, gulping for air and waiting for the strength to stand. Just the briefest thought of returning caused a bilious lurch in my stomach. As soon as I was able to push myself up, I lumbered into a gasping run. Now at last I am barricaded within my rooms. Barricaded but not alone. The spirit is still with me. Mocking me. Waiting. I must not sleep. Sleep is when it takes me. My mind is cracking but I must not allow it to take me!

  Friday, 27th December 1816

  Drink is now my only saviour. For the last two nights my sleep has been dreamless. Only by drinking until unconsciousness takes me am I safe. I am little rested, but would accept a lifetime of exhaustion if it would grant me remission from these nightmares. I must keep up my supply. I will leave my rooms only to procure more gin. I cannot allow the dreams to take me before I have solved this mystery.

  Edgar drank. So many people told me. How did I not see? He drank and imbibed all the day long until his mind finally went. Was he seeking the same relief as I? Did he too undergo these nightly terrors? The same curse? Did he also feel the icy grip upon his heart when he sought ways to free himself from this curse?

  My one fear is that my means shall not be adequate to maintain my emancipation. Edgar could. He had his fortune to supply a lifetime of intoxicants. I have no such funds. I must determine a stronger, more effective solution. There are treatments used for the manic and the depressive, are there not? Perhaps the medicines utilised in the treatment of madmen might also aid me? Yes. As reason must be the solution to my puzzle, then chemicals must be the solution to my pains. If I could only sleep, I know I should be able to solve it all.

  Saturday, 28th December 1816

  I have procured for myself from a local chemist a modest solution of opium. Having never required the medicine before, I know little on the subject and was forced to speak with the proprietor in rather more detail than I wished. I described the basic nature of my symptoms; the insomnia and lack of concentration. He suggested a tonic proven, he claims, to calm the mind and sooth the nerves. I attempted to indicate the solution I wished to purchase was for another, but he seemed disbelieving. How much does he know? Too many people know things. He served me without much hassle or questioning, but how much can I trust the bottle? Could he have tampered with it? He would not even need to. I know nothing of medicine. Have I even been given that which I asked for? His assistant glared at me the whole time I was in the shop. A surly adolescent, the boy's eyes never left me. Even when he was out of my vision I could feel his gaze. What was he thinking? He's been speaking with the others who want me to fall. I know it. Now they know I have sought out this tonic they will know their undertaking to break my nerves is working. He is reporting to them even now. I am sure. Even as I left the chemist's shop and made my way home I know he must have run to tell them. I have so little time.

  But should this tonic have the desired effect then I shall praise the chemist for the remainder of my days. I pray for a clean night and a way to escape my dreams. I have been unable to leave my rooms since I returned with the tonic, so sure I am they follow my every move. The presence lingers and I am followed b
y men also. If I can only escape I shall be free to move once again.

  We float. Within the void that spreads throughout perception, on the edge of all that can be seen or heard or smelt or thought. A cave. Vast in its dimensions and insignificant. Smaller than a puff of thought and all encompassing. It is all, yet nothing. It fills our senses and I can barely discern it. If we concentrate it blurs and fades, yet if I relax it all becomes one.

  There are others with me. We are all of us alone. Each of us surrounded by a greatest expanse of nothing. A thousand minds and a thousand hearts. One body. A thousand souls all caught in the preternatural snare. Trawling through time, snagging each by its inexorable pull. Some foolish. Some unlucky. All forever caught. Dragged forever inwards in every conceivable direction.

  Some fought. I remember times I did not know. I can remember being those of us who managed to hold off the unrelenting force, little understanding the nature of what we battled. Some of us have neither understanding or conception of what I am. Some of us recognise the surroundings only too well. I know the cause and centre of this web, but also we do not. It is strange. I can recognise the knowledge of all that we endure is here within us but yet we have no nameable concept.

  There is a strange perception. We at last feel the world as it is and always has been and always will be. This is the true expression. The true perception. The trueness of all. This is how we have always seen. Never had I recognised this before, being now brought here again for the first time. Have we been here before? Again? Time is strange. All is real and the ill defined and mistaken measurements of man are of no use here. Again. Before. No meaning. Lost. Forever and never. The same. All here the same.

  I sink. At least we believe I do. All and none of us. Gradually we see it is not a cave. A tunnel. On and on it goes. Forever and nothing. We merely perceive. Narrow broken perceptions. Some of us did. Was it us? Now it is seen for what it is. Both and nothing. An entrance. An entrance we all recognise though I do not know from where or when. We fall within. Within waits that which drew us here. The power. Great power resonating through what we thought of as time but now see for what it truly is. Such small perceptions. Small. Such small minds as we had before. Alas for our foolish notions. It is as if simply being here grants me the knowledge to recognise that which we perceive. Our minds are still unwelcoming but have little say. Is it part of what we are? Have we moved in space? Do we merely see. So many questions to distil from these terrible answers.

  The tunnel surrounds me and we fall along its length. So familiar. So familiar and yet unrecognisable. Parts of me do. We feel terror at the sight. I have no concept of that terror, but we do for some of us know and through them the knowledge is known by all. It exists within us. There is no self. We are here. We shall be here. We were always here. He waits. He has been waiting, even when he has been with me I know he has been here. Waiting for me. For us. Watching. Death is here, death that is not death. Life is not within our poor perceptions. Greater and nothing. It is the end and also never ending.

  We fall. In the view of what we now understand as perception the eyes draw us in. Two not one. Both. All recognise the eyes. We know them. From a thousand times and a thousand places and a thousand thoughts we know them. The serpent. The tunnel grows narrow. Deeper. We cannot tear my gaze away from the eyes. Silent laughter. Why am we here? How did we find myself in this place? His grasp, his wide temporal net dragging ensnaring throughout what we once believed was time. Impossible to escape. His knowledge is our knowledge. Screams. Silence. Terror. Unknowing. Those eyes. Huge. Nothing. That mesmerise and draw me in. We scream. A hundred thousand screams all one. We fall. The serpent. The eyes. The tunnel. Falling. Rising. His reach...

  Thursday, 2nd January 1817

  My God! What am I? What is happening to me? I no longer know between that which is real and that which is fevered nightmare. Is anything true? I began this journal to track and document the facts of my employment. If nothing else in life I have been a rational and efficient man in all my doings. Yet can I even trust the words I put to paper? Was it even I? Who else could it have been? No, I do not wish to think it. This journal was to be my salvation, allowing me to sift through the facts as they were. To glean the kernel of truth from all the chaff of superstition and fear. To set my mind at ease. Is any of it true? Any of it? How can I even know?

  I have no memory of the last few days. Not since Saturday last, when I fell unconscious from the seemingly miracle sedative given me by the chemist. From that point on I have no memory. Of neither dream nor waking can I recall one moment.

  When I at last awoke, I assumed all was well and I had found the arbiter of my reason. I had no recollection of dreaming, and believed fully I had simply undergone a full night's sleep. Then, rising from my bed, I discovered my room had been thrown into a great disarray. The furniture was all askew and thrown about, as if some mighty brawl had taken place. My clothing was strewn and ripped. In the grate I found a large pile of cold ashes where my books have seemingly been set ablaze. Fragments of torn pages lay around, as if someone had ripped them madly from their bindings before burning. Soot stained the walls and floor. What pandemonium had taken place that night I could not say, for I had absolutely no memory of any of it.

  I immediately sought out my landlord, worried that some intruder had gained access while I, sunk in opium induced slumber, had slept on. I knocked at his door, but on answering his eyes narrowed and I was angrily accosted before I could even speak. Confused beyond measure by now, I was berated for the apparent noise and violence that he claimed had been emanating from my rooms for the past four nights. Knowing that all had been in good order those last few days I interjected, stating my whereabouts and indeed interactions with him during the time indicated.

  Angered further by my insistence that he was mistaken, he turned and grabbed a news-sheet that lay beside the door. He thrust it at me with furious excitations about the date. I glanced at it, and my eyes were drawn to the impossible words. My landlord continued to harangue me as I stared at the page. How could this be? Four days have passed since I slept.

  Only half listening, I took in what I was being told. Since Saturday night, strange and violent noises had been issuing forth from my room. Screams and crashes that echoed around the building, drawing attention from my neighbours. On that first night, in the fear I was in some danger, my landlord and fellow tenants had attempted to gain access only to find it impossible. While the lock would turn freely, the portal itself refused to open. Against even the strongest force they could put against it the door stood firm. By daylight silence would reign, but at the setting of the sun each night the screams and cacophony would be renewed.

  Shaken beyond anything I had yet experienced, I made attempts at pacifying the man. To no avail. He insisted upon my eviction. I have been given until the end of the day to take my leave from these premises.

  My first thoughts were that the tonic had indeed been prepared incorrectly. Then it struck me that it must have been a purposeful dosage. The chemist's boy had run from the shop as I left. Surely he had followed me, learned of my address and returned to his masters. Knowing I would be sedated they would have no trouble entering my room. What evils had they perpetrated whilst I slept? Clearly, I thought, they had dosed me anew each day. Did they merely wish my eviction? No. They knew too much for such simple goals. They had plans, and I decided I must be away before any of these might affect me again.

  It was when I had returned upstairs and began to go through the remains of my few belongings that I came upon this journal. Of the few books in my possession this journal is the only one that seems to have escaped the burning. All other papers or journals I kept have been torn and incinerated. I had assumed this book shared that fate, yet there it sat upon the shelf. Intrigued, I took it up and flicked through its pages. What if the intruders had made note of my movements and thoughts. If so I would have to move fast, for within this book is more than enough evidence to have me sent to Bedlam
. A panic rose within me, but this shrank in comparison to the cold fear that settled on me when I came to the point that makes me doubt everything.

  The last entry. I have no memory of it. Everything after my account of my visit to the chemist is something I swear I did not write. This strange and chilling account of nightmare visions, of this hallucination of hell, is not mine. Could I have written it in my sleep? I do not see how. The writing is choppy and scrawled, but undoubtedly mine. The ink is faded. In comparison to the rest of the entries it appears as if this last one was written some time ago. Possibly years. It is faded and pale, and the paper around it feels drier and more worn. This is impossible.

  But the most terrifying thing is that the words seem too familiar. As I read them, and I admit it took me a few attempts, Edgar's fevered last words came to my mind. Is not the writing akin to that which I read upon those forsaken pages? What has happened to me over these lost days? Perhaps the tonic, upon stupefying my mind, awakened some subconscious part, as if like a sleepwalker. Maybe I did indeed dream. And wrote as I dreamt.