“Who are you?” hissed the voice. Not the voice I knew.
“Please,” I said, my eyes back on the beasts, “let me in. Lord Hargraven is expecting me.”
“Who are you?” the man insisted.
“I am Professor Alexander Drenn. Now please, let me in.”
“Show me your invitation.”
I fumbled for the note. First in my trouser pockets, then in my jacket. Then I searched desperately through the dwindling inventory of my satchel.
“I don’t have it. I fell in the woods. It must have—”
The door shut. I waited for several seconds, glancing nervously at the enemy, hoping to hear the sliding of security chains or the unlatching of bolts, but there was nothing. I had been abandoned.
It was easy to understand why the man would not let me inside: he and whoever else was inside did not want to draw the attention of the creatures either, and perhaps I should not have placed them in danger, but I was weary and desperate.
With my hands pressed against the door, I tried again. “For the love of God, let me in!”
I thought I heard the sound of disagreement from within—two distressed female voices against his. But the result was the same: there was silence and no open door. And then I realized the creatures had ceased their ugly sounds. I turned to see what they were doing. Three newborns, their white skin smoking and slick with black oil, had stepped out of the fire alongside their kin. All of them stood still, watching me. Their scrutiny was soon over however, and with slow, stealthy gait, they began their approach. Their heat-ravaged bodies glistened in the firelight—raw engines of wet meat driven by cravings I could not hope to understand. In earlier attacks these creatures moved with deadly speed, but here, on the grounds of Lord Hargraven’s estate, they seemed hesitant, almost afraid to approach.
Despite their reticence, I had never been more terrified. It was the first time these monstrosities had properly turned their attention to me. In what I first thought was the beginnings of my life flashing before me, as so many others had described, or the strange control of the Innominatum that Old Man Tarky had mentioned, my mind flashed back to earlier days at the school—contented memories of school-room laughter, students playing cricket in the fields, and the furtive smokers hiding in the icehouse, where they believed I would not detect them. At first I imagined this recollection must have been some kind of internal defense mechanism, but now I believe it was a subconscious effort to find an escape route, because the icehouse turned out to be the key to my entry into the house. The difficulty was that, to reach it, I would have to head back toward the creatures.
I could not think on it further. Before fear had the opportunity to incapacitate me, I ran for the icehouse, which was concealed by a small hillock. I reached it before the creatures had got much closer, but my relief quickly turned to panic when I found that the heavy door leading to the underground chamber was firmly padlocked. Desperately, I rammed my shoulder into the wood several times, but the door merely juddered and showed no signs of giving way. I succeeded only in bruising my shoulder. Glancing about me, I saw the red brick walls that bordered the vegetable garden and remembered there was a toolshed at the far end of it. I could not see the creatures from my vantage point behind the grassy brow of the icehouse, but I knew that my chances of survival were small. Nevertheless, still panting from exertion, I sprinted to the gardens, tripping over troughs and loose turf as I ran. My pursuers were not far from me when I reached the shed, and on this occasion my shoulder was indeed strong enough to break through the door.
I fell through, collapsing onto the floor, grasping my arm in pain, but quickly righted myself and surveyed the shed for tools. There were many, and I grabbed the closest thing to hand: a sledgehammer. Wondering if I would have the strength or agility to use it as a weapon, and doubting it, I let the momentum of desperation drive me back out into the open again.
When I emerged, dragging the sledgehammer behind me, the creatures had gone. I paused momentarily in confusion before returning to the icehouse, and saw the beasts heading back to one of the pyres. Something had lured them away, and as I closed on my destination, I saw a frantic mob rushing toward Hargraven Manor from the woods. Each man and woman bore a torch like the earlier unfortunates I had encountered, and at their head I saw a tall, stocky man yelling in fury at the beasts. I felt a guilty rush of relief at the sight of this group. Their timely appearance had provided me the distraction I needed to reach safety, but I could not stand by and watch their slaughter.
“Ho!” I called. “This way! I have a way inside.”
Their shouting was such that they could not hear me, and I tried twice more before deciding my efforts were futile. I did not want to press my luck, nor did I want to witness more killing, so I focused on the icehouse. There was nothing I could do to block out the screaming as I brought the sledgehammer down hard on the padlock. It shattered with the first hit, and I ripped the remains of the lock away. In my peripheral vision I saw the miraculous sight of the tall man racing for the school entrance. A handful of others were by his side as he turned to face the monsters, and I hoped that whoever had turned me away from the entrance would have a change of heart for this brave soul trying to protect his fellows. I did not linger to find out.
The icehouse lived up to its name. As cold as it was dark, it made no provision for comfort. This place had been ignored, left to be the home of rodents, insects, and mildew. I brushed aside a mesh of cobwebs, felt for the light switch, and tried it. My hope that Hargraven had kept the school’s generator was rewarded: two bulbs made semi-opaque by months of thriving bacteria flickered to life, and the area was revealed in a wash of lurid green light. The icehouse had become a dumping ground for artefacts that Hargraven had either forgotten about or become bored with. Sealed boxes, old and faded portraits, and stacks of dog-eared books lined the curved walls, leaving only a narrow passage to the rear of the building, where I needed to be.
Still dragging the sledgehammer behind me, I squeezed between the boxes until I reached the far wall. Stonework characterized the majority of the icehouse, but the back wall was wooden and held a hidden door. It was a legacy from a time before the Hargraven estate was a place of learning. The door opened to a low, long passage. Grimy bulbs did an adequate job of lighting my way as I entered, but I did not trust them—they dipped and peaked with random intensity—so I moved quickly; I had no desire to be met by darkness again, especially in this dank and claustrophobic conduit.
I had a vague recollection of the route from here into the school. There were two points of entry: a back way through the cellars and, branching off before that, a slightly longer route to a priest hole in the inglenook of what Hargraven had refurbished into a dining room. The cellars were my first choice, but when I reached the last stretch of passageway leading to the steps that would take me to them, I could not find the courage to approach. The steps were visible farther up the passage on the left, but a few paces beyond that was a door. It was supposed to be the bottommost cellar, where the wine was kept. I had hardly ever ventured to this area, but I’m certain I could not have forgotten the chilling figure that was carved into the black wood I saw now. As I gazed upon it, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and froze like ice crystals. I had never seen the door before, but the entity depicted upon it was known to me—in spirit at least.
The figure was reminiscent of an ancient deity associated with occult sexuality, but nothing to which I could ascribe a name. Seated in lotus repose, it had a head resembling the creatures outside, but with a crown of twisted horns emerging from its scalp. The body resembled a human female with a cluster of snakelike appendages stretching from its back. One arm was raised with its fingers pinching the shape of an O; the other arm was lowered, the hand cupping what looked like seeds. But it was the single eye staring out from the figure’s forehead that prevented my feet from making progress toward the cellar stairs. It held me with a palpable evil, the same seething hatred that I
felt when I stared down into the abyss at the edge of the village, and I sensed that the presence projecting this immobilizing dread was warning me away from the door. This alone would have been enough to drive me away, but there was also an acrid chemical stench, much like the odor exuded by the beasts but more potent.
Unable to continue that way, I retraced my steps to the junction and made for the inglenook priest hole instead. When I reached the small hidden door several minutes later, I found myself fighting back nausea. Whether it was the result of my experience near the cellar or my stooped posture reminding me of the pain in my head, I was uncertain, but I suspect both of them contributed. I became dizzy and disoriented when I tried to push the door open. At first it would not give, and I feared that Hargraven had had it blocked up, but several attempts brought the reward of success, and I fell through into the fireplace. It was littered with coal and firewood, thankfully not lit, and I spent the next few dazed moments attempting to keep my head. Memory of my next actions is gone, for I lost conscious control as I floundered into the dining room. I do not recall my delirium, the damage I caused in the room, or my struggle with those who arrested me and later nursed me back to a state of awareness.
Moon Box Segment Translation 8
Harvest mind and reap the flesh
The archaeological diary of Edward Cephas Hargraven
8th September 1891
I have been remiss in detailing our discoveries thus far. I suppose it is a failing of mine to vent my frustrations about the emotional state of the team on paper, and I can no longer afford that indulgence in any case. Discovery upon discovery is overtaking us, and if I do not begin documenting it all, I fear I will miss something. It is a necessary discipline to put nib to paper and categorize, theorize, and describe the events and artefacts as they present themselves. Doing so forces one to consider them in more detail and provides opportunity for less emotional attachment to the subjects under discussion. I will begin where I should have begun, and that is with the antechamber itself, the first discovery of real import.
The stairway that led to it was discovered ten feet below the burial chamber (Haynes believes the placement was deliberate—a warning to anyone wishing to find the city remnants beneath). The antechamber is a perfect cube, forty feet in each dimension, walled by smooth granite. The temperature was ambient, the air not as stale as any of us expected. These factors alone are quite extraordinary, especially considering the nature of that first rush of escaping air when we forced the doors open, but I will not dwell on these until I can find another expert in that field (Samuels left yesterday).
I will also not yet provide details about the most intriguing discovery that was immediately visible to us when we entered (the writings). I will await a more detailed account from Haynes before writing anything here. For now I will list out the discovered artefacts as a source inventory and reference them against the tag numbers that the team have assigned them. More detailed analysis will be entered in the associated files.
1. x 5 skeletal remains adorned in priesthood robes. [ref: 00137]
2. x 2 clay tablets with skeletal figures in various positions of attack. [ref: 00174]
3. A chain made of copper. [ref: 00188]
4. A fossilized ball with what appear to be arachnid limbs. [ref: 00060]
5. x 7 swords. [ref: 00140]
6. x 20 stained linen sheets (blood?). [ref: 00141]
9
Upon waking I felt unusually relaxed. The pain in my head was still present but dramatically reduced and I felt curiously distant from my troubles. The dining room had been lit with a number of candles and oil lamps providing a soothing glow, and although no fire was lit, it was warm. A female face was staring at me, benevolent, concerned. She was in her early forties and had the plump cheeks of a woman who enjoys a hearty meal. There was confident strength in her arms as she held me in place when I made an effort to move.
“There now, my friend,” she said in firm Yorkshire tones, “you need to be still for a bit. That’s a right nasty gash you have on that fine head of yours. I’ve bathed it in antiseptic and dressed it for you, and the laudanum should be doing something for the pain.” She blew aside a straggly lock of her sandy hair as she eased back. “You gave us quite a start with that little song and dance of yours. It took all four of us to put a stop to you, and I’m not exactly the weakest of lasses.”
Four of them. I looked past her at the others in the room with me, another woman and two men, the closest of whom was familiar. He smiled at me as he placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder to suggest withdrawal. “How are you feeling, Drenn?”
I thought I recognized him as the bold man with the torch who had made a run for the school entrance—and indeed it was he—but his finely trimmed white beard and use of my name, combined with his charcoal parson’s attire, snapped the recognition in place: this was Reverend Theodore Breswick. I had met him at several of Hargraven’s dinner parties. As a surviving chaplain from the trenches, his reputation preceded him as a gentleman of extraordinary courage and character, and I confess to taking an instant liking to him when we first shook hands many years ago.
“A little shaken, but I believe I am much better than I was.” I made an effort to smile at the woman who had seen to my wounds, and I felt the bandages covering the back of my head. “It seems I owe you my thanks, Ms. . . .”
“Beatrice Green,” she said with a gentle nod. “And you’re welcome.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, frowning. “I am afraid I have no recollection of—”
“Of what you did?” Breswick anticipated. “Oh, it was nothing macabre, save some delirious raving about the demons outside and perhaps a little undirected thrashing, though I will admit it was quite a performance. I daresay even Miss Fortroy over there”—he nodded behind him—“with her thespian training could not have rivaled it. No harm done, though.”
The other woman—dressed in a dark red velvet gown and smoking a cigarette through a holder—was standing at the window watching the grounds. Like the rest of ours, her attire had been torn and soiled by the ordeal of reaching Hargraven’s estate, but even though she had not escaped dishevelment, there was no denying her beauty. Even if Breswick hadn’t identified her as Miss Fortroy, I would have known who she was; her photograph had graced the pages of my local newspaper for the last week and her performance was still fresh in my mind. Elizabeth Fortroy, whose theatrical career had catapulted her to stardom chiefly through her striking looks, was performing in Enough of Wise Men and Fools in Dennington Cross Theatre for a brief spell.
She turned—I presume to observe me—and I was immediately struck by her crystal-blue eyes. It was no wonder she had whipped up a storm in the acting world, for they were quite lovely. I had to assume she had been in the house long enough to attend to her makeup, for it was perfectly applied, and even her hair had been put up in such a way that elegance won over fatigue and trial.
There was more than a little fear in her timid voice when she spoke. “Is he quite safe now?”
She inhaled sharply through her cigarette holder, puffed the smoke out nervously, and drew up behind Breswick to clutch at his arm. It was quite obvious that this woman, though at first appearing bold and independent, was in fact quite fragile.
“He won’t hurt you, dear,” Beatrice told Elizabeth. “He just had a turn; that’s all. He needs to rest and probably needs something to drink, too. A stiff one, I’d wager.”
“Should’ve chucked ’im out on his ear. We’ve enough with them things out there, let alone a lunatic in here. He ain’t invited.”
This came from the other man in the room dressed in workman’s khaki overalls. As scathed as the rest of us—perhaps a little more so judging by the blood caked over his neck—he was sunk into an armchair, both bony hands resting on its arms. Greasy gray hair clung to the sweat of his scalp, and his face was such that I imagined the scowl had been a fixture for most of his life, which looked to be closing on sixty years
. He appeared a deal thinner than most people would feel comfortable with, too, but despite his size, I suspected he was the type who could handle himself very well. This I deduced from the many scars revealed on his upper arm, made visible only because the top of his shirt’s arm was ripped open.
Breswick spoke before I could speak up to defend myself: “I can vouch for him. I know this man and so does Lord Hargraven. Edward had a healthy respect for him, as do I, so if Drenn says he was invited, I believe him. You, however—I am at a loss to explain Hargraven’s interest.” He paused to lock eyes with the man. “George Stromany, wasn’t it? You’re not a resident of Dennington Cross and I have my doubts that he even knows you.”
Stromany looked away.
“Well, I’m not a resident, and I don’t know Lord Hargraven either,” Miss Fortroy said, “so that obviously doesn’t matter. And besides, he has an invite, which is more than can be said for Mr. Drenn here . . . No offense.” She offered me her sweetest smile with the last two words and I told her none was taken.
“It’s the same for me, too,” Beatrice said. “I’ve heard about Lord Hargraven, but I’ve never met the gentleman.”
“Where exactly is Edward?” I asked. “Didn’t you tell him I was here?”
Elizabeth took another long inhalation from her cigarette and shot a nervous glance at Beatrice. “No. We don’t know where he is. It seems the whole school is deserted. Stromany let Beatrice and me in about two hours ago, we waited for a spell, and then we started to search the school, but some of it is locked up. There’s nobody else here except us. I don’t think the servants have been around for a good while—days I would say—and there’s not a whisper of our host anywhere.”
Dark Seed Page 7
