It was too dark inside to see the lobby. Only the reflection of my lamp in the glass was clearly visible, but I knew the layout well enough to picture happy scenes. It was less than two weeks since my last visit, the chance to see one more performance before Sophie traveled to France with the girls. It happened to be the final night of William K. Cambara, the traveling magician, and we were thrilled. Indeed, it was one of the few times when Elsie—my youngest—was silent. She sat on my knee, spellbound by Cambara’s exuberant hand gestures and singsong voice as he produced doves and rabbits from impossible places. When the magician called my other daughter, Louise, to come on stage and help him keep some saucers spinning on rods, Elsie clapped her hands so hard and smiled so widely I could not help but laugh. I was no longer watching the magician. I was watching her. And the moment was completed by Sophie’s hand slipping into mine and squeezing it just enough for me to understand that she was sharing the same delight in our daughters.
When Louise came off the stage she asked me, in awe, how Cambara was able to perform such tricks. Although she was the more curious of the two—not content until she had pulled something mechanical apart to discern its works—she was not expecting me to explain the tricks; she wanted me to tell her that they weren’t tricks at all and that magic was real. So I refrained from pointing out that most of Cambara’s illusions were accompanied by a bang and a huge puff of smoke and that necessity for distraction was clear evidence of deception. Instead, I simply smiled and tapped the side of my nose, and she was content with that.
As my daydreaming faded, my eyes settled on the swirling fog gathering like cold fingers around my ankles. I wished that this mist, too, was clear evidence of deception, that the creature it hid was fake or at least a fabrication of my mind weakened by injury, but my eye caught sight of a movement in the lobby. I froze.
It was not human. I could see no distinct shape, but as before, there was the same suggestion of long, bony limbs as it retreated slowly into the dark of the theatre. Rock still, I felt a rising panic—surely it had anticipated my route and circled me, entered into the back entrance of the theatre, and waited. Then I saw more movement to my right, from the direction I had just come.
There was more than one!
More activity came from the path ahead also. I dared not move anything but my eyes as I stood completely exposed in the street with only the fog providing cover. Again the pungent smell of copper filled my nostrils, and I caught a fleeting glimpse of something ridged, like a metal spine woven into white, oily flesh.
I recoiled in terror, squatting down and wrapping my arms around my knees. My mouth was open, ready to scream, but my fear was so great that the noise stuck in my throat and I could do nothing but wait for the end. I had nowhere to run, no way to defend myself (I had lost my knife in Chester Street), and my lamp was a shining invitation as obvious as a lighthouse on the seashore. Yet they seemed unaware of me, or indifferent. I was as perplexed as I was terrified.
Then from some distant place came the same ominous howl that first introduced me to this nightmare after the earthquake. It filled the night, sounding like the feral call of something enraged and desperate. It was such a startling distraction I failed to notice the creatures leaving. Several minutes passed without further incident, but it was not until I was completely certain the beasts were absent that I continued to the police station, now wondering if there would be any signs of life when I arrived.
Reaching the station proved harder than expected. Not only did the fog continue to obscure my view, but the beasts were ever present. Keeping off the open streets had become a necessity, and I attempted to navigate a series of abandoned homes, backyards, and narrow alleys to traverse the village undetected. On several occasions I lost my bearings and had to retrace my steps. At other times I was forced to press myself hard against a damp wall or lie flat on the cobbles when I heard the rattle of inhuman breathing approach nearby corners. Their piscine stench of decay and metallic tang warned me away when I could not hear them. Exactly how I continually avoided detection was of little concern to me at the time; I was simply grateful that I had.
Presently I came within a stone’s throw of the police station but could not bring myself to approach it. Though it was not entirely clear what had happened there, I sensed danger; the lamplight surrounding the building revealed the glint of liquid on the walls, which I feared was blood. The station was fully exposed, central to the town square, and anything senseless enough to attempt a crossing would surely be visible to the invading creatures. So I entered the closest house (the back door was already ajar) and watched from a bedroom window, peering through the gap between thick drapes, hoping to glimpse human life in the darkness below. Every other minute I snatched nervous glances over my shoulder at the creaking of floorboards or murmur of water pipes.
The dark of night persisted as I stared through those panes. There was no moon to illuminate the street below, only the eerie creep of fetid mist that clogged the air like spectral weed. An hour passed, perhaps two, with no activity around the station. My eyelids struggled against the day’s burden and the throbbing head wound. And with morbid apparitions haunting my semidream state, I fell into fitful, exhausted sleep, crouched awkwardly beneath the window. I did not know I was not alone in that room.
Moon Box Segment Translation 1
Starlight over black bone and pyre
The archaeological diary of Edward Cephas Hargraven
1st September 1891
Our first day at the dig has the entire excavation party trembling with excitement. There was much debate over using dynamite to expose the hidden chambers beneath the ruins of Kur’hukayia, but I am overjoyed to discover that our risk was rewarded. Haynes remains characteristically belligerent about the whole affair, claiming that any number of magnificent relics may have been destroyed, but there is a quiet awe simmering under that crusty old surface of his. I know it. He is as starstruck as I at the unearthing of our first skull, peculiar though the specimen is. He is studying it as I write, and I expect him to burst into my tent at any moment with that practiced scowl of his, declaring that it is a mere aberration and that we have, yet again, wasted his most precious time, but he will wait with us nonetheless. I have known the man for close to twenty-five years, and I recognized that look in his eye when we presented it to him. The oxymoronic marriage of disbelief and delight. His denial never wins, of course. He knows exactly what we have unearthed.
2
I woke in confusion, frozen by instinct and anxiety at the figure before me. It took several seconds for my mind to appreciate that the shape huddled in the corner of the room, sullen, dirty, and silent, was a small girl, perhaps ten years of age, not dissimilar to Louise. She had taken my oil lamp whilst I slept, refueled it, and set it beside her, farther from the window, presumably to ensure nothing outside was aware of our presence. She seemed a sensible girl with her wits still intact, but with her hands clutched tightly about her legs, and her bloodshot eyes peeping at me over the top of her knees, I could see she was frightened. Her unbrushed, mousey hair lay languid about her shoulders and the olive dress she wore was torn and bloody around the knees, black scum smeared along its length; she had obviously been crawling through unspeakable places to escape detection.
“Hello,” I said.
Aside from a slight twitch at my greeting, she did not move. I watched her for a moment more, then opened my arms to her with a gentle smile. Her reaction was instant. Bottom lip pressing hard against her teeth in a display of either relief or mental agony, she rose immediately and came to me, receiving my hug with a strength that could come only from terror and grief. I felt the angst of separation from my own daughters and held her firm to my chest, one hand stroking her hair. It was a precious moment of silent rapport, a knowledge that—even in this darkness—there was hope in the company of another.
“How long were you sitting there?” I asked her.
She pulled away and looked up at me. “I
don’t know. It was a long time. I heard you come in.”
“You did? Why didn’t you say something?”
“I was afraid. I was hiding in the cupboard and heard the door open. Then I tried to stay as quiet as I could. I thought you were—”
Her eyes flickered with the remembrance of horrors no child should witness. I could not imagine the sickening distress she must have felt, thinking that I was one of those godless creatures lurking in wait for so many hours.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Had I known you were here, I . . . Where are your parents? Are they still in the house, too? Hiding?”
“No. This isn’t my house.”
“Why aren’t you at home? Are your parents . . . ?” I instantly regretted the open-ended question.
“They left. They went to the church. With the others. I think everyone was going there.”
“They left you behind?” I said softly.
Her mouth trembled, and her explanation of events tumbled from her so quickly that she did not even pause for breath. It was as if the need to unburden herself had become too much, and I became the recipient of her troubled account.
She told me that when the earthquake came, her parents had seemed concerned, but at the fog’s arrival, her mother became extremely anxious, almost to the point of panic. There was a heated disagreement between her parents about what should be done, but eventually her mother insisted that she would go to the church with the girl’s father to take up arms. The girl was to remain in the house and hide until their return. She had not mentioned having yet seen the creatures, and I gleaned from this that the girl’s mother seemed somehow to know what was ready to emerge from the fog. Assuming her account was accurate and concealed nothing important, this intrigued me, but I did not dwell upon it, because the story of this poor girl’s ordeal and the many hours of hiding that followed were heart-wrenching. She eventually made for the church only to turn back when she heard the sound of many people screaming. She was too frightened to approach, and ran back home only to find one of the creatures skulking in the garden. Her own home unsafe, she sought out the only other place that offered protection: the police station. But finding the same suggestion of carnage as I, and having the same idea to observe the station unseen, she found refuge in the house opposite.
Out of everything she told me, it was the thought of the church under siege that dominated my thoughts. St. James’s Church was the beating heart of the community. I wondered why they chose to make a united stand against the enemy at the church over the police station, which would have been a more fortified location, and better armed. Perhaps it had been attacked first and the church was the next best defense.
I felt the girl clasp my sleeve. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Oh, my dear! How terrible of me not to introduce myself. My name is Alexander Drenn. I used to teach at the school. And may I know your name?”
“Lucy.”
“Lucy. Well, Lucy, perhaps we should try to find your parents. What do you think?”
“Do we have to go outside?”
Obviously this would be a necessity, but the very idea of venturing out into the open turned my stomach. Cautiously, I went to the window and nudged the drapes. The scene had not changed. There were no officers near the station; there was no activity at all. A thick, consuming darkness and the diseased fog it hosted still smothered the streets. I checked my pocket watch. It was a quarter to ten. I considered the time as I stared through the glass and up into the sky. Daylight should have been pouring into the room. Even on the gloomiest of mornings the light should have been obvious. Perhaps it was near ten at night and I had slept for much longer than I thought. Surely not. That would mean this girl had been sitting there for more than twelve hours.
Lucy was studying my perplexed expression with alarm. “What’s wrong? Can you see them? Are they coming?”
“No, Lucy, we’re safe for the moment.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’m not sure. Do you happen to know the time?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think it’s noon yet. I’ve not heard the clock chime.”
“Noon?” I checked my watch again.
“Yes. Is your pocket watch wrong?”
“No . . . but it’s night outside. It can’t be noon.”
She stared back, searching my eyes. “The sun went away. Don’t you remember?”
“Went away? But . . .”
“It happened two days ago, when the ground shook. You must have seen it.”
“No, I . . . I remember the earthquake, but I received a blow to the head and fell unconscious. It seems I was asleep for much longer than I thought.”
That made clear the reason for my extreme thirst and hunger and the lack of people in the village. However, the mystery of the missing sun was not so easily explained, nor the presence of the invaders.
“Lucy, the creatures in the fog. Do you know where they came from?”
She looked down as I spoke of them, blinking hard as she balled her fists, and at once I regretted mentioning them.
“I’m sorry. We should try to find your parents.”
“No!” She clutched at me. “Please stay with me. Please!”
I held her close, keeping my voice as soft and as comforting as I could. “We cannot stay here. I know you are frightened of leaving the house, but—”
“No!”
There was no chance of moving her yet. And how could I leave her? It was impossible. This defenseless child had endured hours of isolation. She was lonely and afraid, and I was all she had. So I stayed and held her until her grip slackened and her breathing calmed. For all I knew she was right to stay. Perhaps there would be rescue any time now. Perhaps this nightmare would be over soon and the sun would rise once more, banishing these monstrous intruders from our village. But my heart did not believe these things. The darkness outside was more than just an absence of light, and it held more than murderous beasts and rank mist. It held a malignance: a spirit of suffering and despair promising something terrible, like the last words of dread on the lips of a hanged man as his eyes saw their first visions of Sheol. The truth was, I too did not want to step outside.
Gently, I lifted Lucy and laid her upon the bed, pulling a blanket over her in much the same way as I had for my own daughters on countless occasions. I watched her chest rise and fall, listened to the murmur of her breath, suddenly very aware of the silence around me, like a cloak. There was no evidence of distress as she slumbered, which somehow calmed me too, and it was enough to ease the pain in my head and to help me gather my thoughts properly for the first time since I left my home. But my meditations did nothing to encourage any hope. It was fruitless to dwell upon the possible causes of this attack, and without knowledge of cause, it would be equally futile to attempt a strategy of defense. The silent street outside was evidence enough that nobody else—including the police—had successfully challenged the invasion, and the fact that no one had come to claim Lucy left me suspicious that the stand at the church had rendered the townsfolk trapped, or worse. My intervention would be impotent, and with the police station deserted, I saw only one sensible course of action: I had to escape Dennington Cross entirely and get help from outside.
Moon Box Segment Translation 2
The killing-blackened grass
The archaeological diary of Edward Cephas Hargraven
2nd September 1891
No hidden chambers yet, but we did make a startling discovery today, and rather a somber one. We found a burial chamber. Haynes has taken more samples for field analysis, but it appears that we are dealing with a particularly barbaric culture. Ritualistic sacrifice is not uncommon for civilizations of this era, but there are indications that intelligence was seen as a curse, and that is uncommon.
Hundreds of bodies were sealed inside a great tomb wrapped in sheepskin (considered to be unclean in many cultures) and each of them was bound at the ankles and their hands had been severed. Most bizarr
e is that all of them had traces of papyrus in their esophageal passages, indicating perhaps that they were made to eat their writings. We cannot know this for sure, but taking into context the distinct lack of pictograms on the city walls and no other archival evidence, it does appear to corroborate my theory that this culture was averse to the tradition of written communication. This is mere speculation at present, of course, but I suspect Haynes may verify this before the night is out.
3
When Lucy eventually woke, I managed to persuade her to come with me to the church, a course of action that will haunt me to my grave. I told her that once she was back with her parents I needed to head out to Weytonset, where I could make arrangements to be reunited with my own family, but in truth I was prepared to have Lucy with me for the whole journey; I was not looking forward to what we might find at the church.
She understood my reasoning, but I was sure the last thing she wanted to do was leave what she perceived as the safety of the house, even if it meant being reunited with her parents. We stocked up with meager provisions—food, drink, candles, matches, bandages—and left. Though my actions must have appeared confident to Lucy, inwardly I was in turmoil, my every instinct challenged with each step into the mist, my every logical thought clouded by the base fears of a hunted animal surrounded by predators. But for the sake of my terrified companion, whose trembling hand rested in my palm, I pressed on through the backstreets with an authoritative stride.
Dark Seed Page 2
