My Dearest Alex,
There is little time remaining. Escape is possible from the tribulation in which we have found ourselves, but never have I been in such need of your intellect. There is much I have learned, but I cannot effect an exit without your help; the forces of corruption are too strong. I beseech you therefore to come to my estate.
All will be revealed, old friend. Come with all haste and care.
Sincerely,
Lord Edward Cephas Hargraven
I examined the letter for several minutes. The same pressure had been applied to the paper throughout. Ink blots and smeared marks spoiled the letter, and whilst I felt confident that these were indeed the words of my old friend Edward, the urgency, tremor, and subtext expressed to me a decline in his already blemished character.
Lord Hargraven was once a man of insufferable serenity for which no task was ever too pressing and no demand was ever too taxing—a quality which often exposed the faults of lesser men. He was a self-made man, and it was this confident and quiet nature that brought him wealth, success, and many admirers. But sadly, this I learned only from his reputation; I knew a different man.
I met him a few months before the start of the Great War, when he craved solitude and moved to Dennington Cross. He purchased the old school and the twenty-five acres of land that surrounded it, and made it his singular purpose to abandon what he thought of as “dangerous and arcane” tastes in historical pursuits, and embedded himself within our small and traditional community. Whilst he maintained an air of confidence practiced for many years, he seemed to me to be a man of sorrows, haunted by something terrible in his past.
At the first of his many wonderful dinner parties, we debated until the early hours about the latest discoveries in natural philosophy, and our friendship blossomed. But when questioned about his past and the archaeological discoveries he had made in his youth, he was always evasive. On occasion he could be persuaded to reminisce, showing us wondrous artefacts (the mysterious Moon Box included), and only then did I see the side of him that old acquaintances spoke of. However, always at the very moment when he recognized that he had allowed himself the luxury of happy memories, the conversation would end abruptly, and he would break into a sweat, as if wrestling against something wicked beneath his skin.
Our bond was broken when the shadows of his past proved too irresistible to him. He was drawn back into the esoteric endeavors he longed to abandon, and he became increasingly reclusive, until it was almost impossible to visit him. And I was not alone in this exclusion. He lost contact with many friends when he retreated back into his secret world of ancient excavations and strange experimentation. Rumors of surreal acts and unholy rituals were shared by his servants when worried friends were turned away from his home, and his public appearances became less and less frequent until, eventually, Lord Hargraven abandoned all contact with those he had so completely impressed.
I wondered what his connection was to the terror that had befallen our village. Had his pursuits brought this upon us? Perhaps this dark presence from his past was the Innominatum, and perhaps it had found his hiding place and risen to claim an old allegiance. Whatever the source of our current troubles, I trusted my memory of Lord Hargraven’s character over the rumors about him. He appeared now to be the only avenue able to offer any answers.
Examining the letter a second time, I noticed that he had also written on the back. It was a verse—one that I did not recognize from any classical literature I had studied.
Sing, lofty spirit, sing, for the love of liberty.
Suffer the flesh to free thy soul and rise to heaven’s courts.
For the way to salvation is seen with eyes of virtue.
Thy strength must not waver nor thy heart sink.
Let thy mind ponder the secrets of the flesh no longer,
that thy bowels may divine the way.
I did not know the significance of this verse, but Hargraven clearly considered it important enough to go to the effort of copying it down, and I would later discover that its meaning had far greater implications for the future than I could ever have conceived.
Moon Box Segment Translation 6
My words are viral strain
The archaeological diary of Edward Cephas Hargraven
6th September 1891
Another day gone. But how do I describe such a day? Miraculous? Groundbreaking? Humbling? All of these things. We have slipped into a new paradigm of discovery that may rock the very core of our modern understanding about ancient civilizations. Even now, as I sit exhausted in my tent penning this entry, my mind wanders, unable to fathom it. Haynes is noticeably astounded, and I do not believe we have even touched upon the true significance of it all.
It truly is the City of the Innominatum: a name faintly whispered amongst only the cruelest of occult worshippers, and known to a small minority of scholars ashamed to admit their study of it. The Cult of the Innominatum is long gone, and what little is known about their vile practices is not conducive to a peaceful night’s sleep, but in all faiths there is at least a kernel of truth. My singular goal for many years has been to discover the wisdom of these people known as the Innominatum.
I could write page upon page describing the wonders of what we found behind that door, but for the moment, I must resist. Haynes has taken leave of his senses and tells me he wishes to leave immediately. I must persuade him otherwise.
7
With hope renewed, I restocked with provisions for the short journey to Lord Hargraven’s estate and took a few minutes to eat some bread and cheese. But as I ate, my fear was resuscitated. No longer would I be strolling the streets openly, indifferent to the threat. It was, after all, my carelessness that presented the creatures with an opportunity to snuff out Lucy’s life, and if there was nothing else to be learned from such a tragedy, if fate or God had seen fit to keep me alive, what right did I have to flaunt myself before the enemy in fits of self-pity to invite their cruelty? Besides all of that, disappointing an old friend like Hargraven, who was in desperate need of help, was objectionable to me, and if he had the means to reunite me with my family, I had to go.
The ever-ominous fog pressed about me as I left my home. From a distance, the same chilling ululation that first woke me to this nightmare, like a call or warning, heralded my first steps into the street, and instinctively I kept low to the walls of the houses as I headed uphill toward my destination, still marveling at what manner of beast could make such a noise. The estate was a little over four miles from my cottage. At a fast pace it would take me just over an hour, but I intended to take Hargraven’s second piece of advice: all care. I had no idea how long the letter had been on my desk or how he had arranged its delivery; he may have been killed since then, but any extra delay on my part seemed irrelevant, and the latter part of my journey—a mile through Brumming Forest—would be a fearful trek, not a distance I wished to traverse in haste.
In spite of my caution, I made good time through the village, but upon reaching the edge of the forest, I was presented with yet another atrocity that filled me with revulsion and distress.
Fiery light shone from the forest before I reached the first line of trees. At first I feared that the inferno that had consumed the woods on the other side of the village had spread here too, but I soon realized this was a small party of people running with makeshift torches, scattering in all directions like pheasants flushed for sport. They screamed as they ran, perhaps twenty of them, wild with panic. Two of them passed me, so intent on escape from the pursuing beasts that they did not see me. I made no attempt at rectifying this but instead threw aside my lamp, dropped into a crouch, and scrambled into the bramble bushes bordering the forest, not even feeling the scratch of thorns on my skin or caring about my torn clothes.
I pressed my hand to my mouth in sorrow as I watched each torchlight go out and heard the slavering of predatory victory take the place of the victims’ cries. But it was the sight of two poor men that mesmeri
zed me. Though I did not want to watch, I was unable to close my eyes as a single beast fell upon them. The first man must have been killed instantly as the beast drove its claw down on his head, crushing it into the dirt. The other man was less fortunate. At first I thought the creature was going to devour him whole, but as I watched in numb shock, I realized why the church was such a disgusting bloodbath. As the man cried out in sheer terror, pleading for help, the beast held him down by the shoulders. It leaned forward and examined its prey’s open mouth with a kind of analytical fascination, then slowly, deliberately, it pushed its huge ribbed face into his, extending its coppery bones, forcing them between the man’s teeth as if it wanted to crawl inside his mouth. The screams degenerated into pained gurgling as the beast pushed harder and harder, splitting the man’s jaw apart. Blood pumped down into the waiting soil, but the creature continued its entry, lifting the man’s body upward as it tried to force its head beyond the man’s mouth and into his neck, between his shoulders and into his torso. Then finally, with a dissatisfied screech at the disintegrating mess, the beast thrust the mangled body back down and proceeded to eat it.
I could not help myself. I cried out.
Instantly, the creature stopped. It lifted its hideous, bloodstained head, and in curious rotation, the two tiny black eyes moved from their position underneath its mouth to meet above its upper jaw. It looked at me directly, through the cover of the bushes. I could not breathe. I could not move. I could only stare back, locked in time, captured by that most evil of glares. Dark lumps of facial matter dripped from the beast’s skin as it assessed me. Then gradually, watching me all the while like a dog warning off a rival, it lowered its head again to consume the remains of its victim.
Thinking that any slight move from my position or change in my expression would provoke it, I was forced to watch the entire meal until only a few fleshy morsels remained.
It is impossible to describe what a sight like that will do to a man, and I dare not try. My purpose in furnishing you with such ghastly detail is to impress upon you the deadly instinct of these creatures and how utterly alien they are to us. Even so, there is worse to come in my tale.
Hypnotized by the creature’s feast, I had no inclination to run until it was on the last scraps, and cursing my ill nature for not trying to escape earlier while the beast was yet unsatisfied, I burst from the bush and ran into the forest, not knowing if my enemy was chasing. The ground was muddy, and I hoped that the puddles were rainwater and not blood. With little light to guide me, it took me only a few seconds to collide with a low branch. It scraped my jaw and sent me sprawling and slipping until I was facedown on the forest floor. I heard my provisions scatter around me and I floundered to recover them all, feeling in the darkness for each item. Somewhere behind me I could hear the thing skulking and sniffing, and I wondered if my luck would soon run out.
The next several minutes were a blur of confusion and fear as I staggered on, and with each passing moment, the pounding in my head grew until the pain eventually incapacitated me. I collapsed. The pumping of blood in my ears and the rasp of my breath were all I could hear; I did not know if any of the creatures were following. Consciousness faded again, and as the world slipped away from me, I wondered if these would be my last thoughts.
Moon Box Segment Translation 7
Through brooding blood leave but one mark
The archaeological diary of Edward Cephas Hargraven
7th September 1891
I have rarely seen Haynes so determined. It took every mote of persuasive power within me to convince him to stay, and even then, he guaranteed his presence only as long as it was absolutely necessary. He has become quite serious, and frankly I am disturbed by his pathos and fear. He claims to have felt the touch of something cold and otherworldly in his bones. He told me it was as if a thousand lost souls had reached out and warned him away when we breached those great doors.
I will not deny that I cried out in shock when they opened. The antechamber had been sealed for at least four thousand years, and the cold, fetid air that rushed out at us smelled like the breath of a ghoul. There was even a deep and woeful howl, but I am convinced this was nothing more than the playing of wind through the hollows as it escaped its prison. This is not an uncommon occurrence when forcing entry into an ancient sealed tomb, and I am surprised that Haynes does not take this into account. Nevertheless, he has not retracted his claim.
Sadly, he was not the only one repelled by the eeriness of the antechamber. At least ten of the party have packed their bags and left. The loss will hinder our progress, no doubt, but it will not sway me. If I am correct, there is so much more to see.
8
I woke to silence. It seemed inconceivable that I should still be alive, yet the dull pain in my scalp and the ache of my back seemed evidence enough that my mind and body were still intact. I almost wished that I had been the creatures’ next victim. Enduring the continuous fight for survival was almost too much to bear, and were it not for the possible salvation promised in Edward’s letter, the returning temptation to allow the elements to finish me may have been too great. As it was, I knew I could not be far from the estate. A final push was all I needed to reach my old friend; it was simply a matter of gathering my wit and discerning the correct direction.
Rising from the mud, I squinted into the darkness through the creeping mist, taking note of the shifting suggestions of tree and hill. Observing the shapes in each direction, I eventually spied a hint of light in the distance, and the parting of the mist soon revealed to me exactly what I hoped for. A lit window! Feeling the first sense of relief since this whole ghastly affair began, I clambered forward, not caring about the tug and tear of brambles as I went. Salvation coming ever closer, it was not long before Hargraven Manor came into view, though it was not entirely as I remembered it.
With its previous life as a school, and before that some sort of monastery, it had always been picturesque. Jacobean in style with red brick and parapets decorated with florals, it was centered perfectly within twenty-five acres of sheep-grazed fields and had always been the greatest attraction of Dennington Cross. I worked as a junior tutor of physics and mathematics during my twelve years there, before moving on to a more senior position in the rival private school at the opposite end of the village. I had fond memories of my time there—it was where I met Sophie—but within only a year of my leaving, the school surrendered to economic hardship and finally closed its doors to new pupils. Soon after that, Lord Hargraven bought the estate and renovated it but chose, in his eccentricity, to keep most of the classrooms and school facilities as they were. It was his belief that, should old wounds eventually heal (I had no idea what he was alluding to at the time), he may reinstate its functionality as a place of learning, though of an alternative kind.
Hargraven Manor looked curiously exposed when I reached the trees bordering the grounds. Its grandeur remained untouched, but the threat of this unexpected apocalypse had polluted it. All I could see of the livestock was a white mass huddled together, almost motionless in the far corner of the field, as if their herding instincts had driven them as far as they could retreat from the village. Light shone from many of its windows, and this would have been a comforting sign were it not for the greater illumination surrounding the school. As it was on the plateaus beyond Dennington Cross, a series of blazing pyres surrounded the building, perhaps a quarter mile in radius. One of them stood no more than thirty paces east of my hidden position behind a large oak. These pyres were not burning as fiercely as the others I had seen; I guessed they had only recently been lit and had not yet reached full flame, but it was clear to me that Hargraven Manor was the target for the creatures’ latest trophy. I wondered if I had arrived too late.
About to dare the long run for the entrance, I peeped momentarily from behind my tree to check if the way was clear, and I caught a flash of several beasts squirming and writhing within the closest pyre. For one glorious moment I believed that Ha
rgraven had found a way to overcome these creatures and that he was incinerating their remains, but a second lingering gaze cut apart my hope. They were not burning, and they did not appear to be suffering. They were fawning. Moaning and hissing in ecstasy, as if the pyre held some kind of amorous significance to them. They were caressing the object at the center of the flames and I shuddered when I saw the object of their attention.
The structure fueling the pyre twisted upward out of the soil like the husk of a diseased tree. Its sharp and jagged branches were curved like tusks, and through the rippling heart of the flames, I could see it was composed of the same oily, copper-colored vertebrae that had infested St. James’s Church and connected the islands I had seen in the abysmal pit on the way to Weytonset. But worst of all was the realization that the branches were weighed down with writhing bodies. At first I thought they were people, impaled and burning alive, but as I watched in horror, one of them fell to the dirt like a vile, overripe fruit. It stretched and shuddered as if waking from a deep sleep, and the other creatures gathered around its frail, blotchy, still-fawning form. Another of these bodies struck the dirt, and with the soft thud, the revelation hit me with disgust: I was witnessing some kind of perverse birthing ceremony.
Before the full horror of this scene took hold of me I decided it would be best to continue with my first intent of running to the school while they were distracted. I took off at pace, knowing that I would be in full sight of the beasts—not only those in the pyre nearest me but many of the others surrounding the building. My hope was in Hargraven Manor.
When I reached the door, I hesitated to use the knocker or pull the bell. I glanced back at the creatures. They appeared to be in such a state of rapture that it seemed unlikely they would respond to any slight noise I might make, though I did not know how long their attention would be diverted. Fortunately, I did not need to knock or ring: the door opened, but only a crack, to reveal an observing eye. Hargraven must have been watching out for me.
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