Dark Seed

by Simon West-Bulford

  The chaplain retreated from the window and bustled us through the door into the staff room. “Are you still with us, Alex? You’re looking a trifle pale.”

  I did not have the opportunity to answer. Elizabeth let out a short, sharp scream upon entering, and with my faculties spiked by adrenaline, I followed her line of sight to the object on the floor in the center of the room. It was Stromany. He was spread out on his back in a pool of blood, a look of terror fixed on his pale, rigid features.

  “Oh, God!” said Beatrice. She rushed over to him, her hands hovering over his body as if unsure where to grasp him.

  “Is he dead?” Elizabeth’s hands were at her chest.

  Beatrice picked at his sodden shirt. “Stabbed,” she said, horrified.

  “What?” Breswick moved forward to examine the body. “By whom? There’s nobody else here.”

  “Hargraven,” said Elizabeth, on the verge of hysteria. She grasped my arm. “It must have been Hargraven. He killed him!”

  Breswick shot her a glance. “Try to calm yourself, Miss Fortroy. I can’t imagine Edward would do such a thing.”

  “Then who?” she said. “Oh, God! Demons outside and a murderer in here with us. Oh, God!”

  “It’s all right,” I said, taking one of her hands into both of mine. With my gaze still fixed on Stromany, I guided her to a chaise longue at the far side of the room and gently sat her down. Her beautiful eyes were wide and wet with fearful tears, and she was hyperventilating. I patted her hands as I rested them on her lap. She clasped them together.

  “It’s all right,” I whispered.

  Breswick removed his cloak, covered the top half of Stromany’s body, then dragged it to the opposite corner in an effort to remove it from sight. Elizabeth was now staring at the bloody pool on the rug, and Beatrice came to sit beside her, offering me a kindly glance that told me she would take care of her. A wave of nausea ensued as I rose unsteadily from beside Elizabeth. I found my way to a leather chair close by and dropped into it, taking slow measured breaths to fight the tunnel vision that threatened a swoon.

  I glanced around the room, taking in the details of my surroundings to distract myself. Hargraven had converted the staff room into a drawing room. I had not visited the west wing or this room since Hargraven had bought the estate, and under normal circumstances I would have taken delight in his modifications, for he had stripped it of the dark and dreary paneling that once beleaguered its design and replaced it with bright plain walls adorned with fine art. Tasteful upholstery was liberally placed about the room. The lit chandeliers would no doubt have set the room off beautifully too, but instead it was lit by a few half-burned candles that provided just enough light to see by.

  Breswick located the drinks cabinet standing proud at the far wall and set about pouring port into glasses. He handed a glass to me and drank his port in one gulp. “Poor fellow,” he said. “It appears you were right, Drenn. It seems he had just enough time to unlock the door. Goodness knows how he slipped past us. Must have sneaked through when we were moving the bodies.”

  I sipped at the port, grateful for its warmth.

  “Hold still,” said Beatrice. She had left Elizabeth curled up on the chaise longue to attend me. I could feel her peeling back the sticky dressing on my head, and I flinched when her fingers touched my wound.

  “So now we have a murderer to contend with too,” I said. “He could be anywhere.”

  I saw Elizabeth jerk her head when I said this. She shifted awkwardly to face us, drawing her knees to her chin like a child. “Please don’t speak of such things,” she said. Her crystal-blue eyes flitted from one person to the next. This was not the same confident woman who spoke earlier, and although her anxiety could be attributed to the shock of seeing Stromany’s body, it was a far cry from the indifference she exhibited as we dealt with the dead in the entrance hall. In a strange way, I identified with her and felt a great sympathy. She seemed uncertain of her own mind—a victim of overwhelming circumstance that would render her susceptible to the sway of emotional torment, but with her, it seemed exaggerated, and I was reminded of a young pupil I tutored for a short while before she was diagnosed with chronic schizophrenia and removed from school. There too was the same erratic pendulum of personality.

  Breswick sighed deeply. “I need another drink.”

  “Are you sure Hargraven isn’t the murderer?” said Beatrice.

  Breswick paused before gulping back his port, then stared hard into the empty glass. “He could be possessed,” he murmured. “The demons outside could have—”

  “Possessed?” Beatrice lowered herself into a seat and took a glass from Breswick. “I felt them picking around inside my head, but can they really take control of someone like that?”

  “Absolutely they can. I’ve seen it happen.”

  “You keep talking of demons,” I said, “but whatever those things are out there, they’re not—”

  “Do they have to have horns, red skin, and hooves to convince you, Drenn?” Breswick said. “No, no, no. They are demons. I’m quite certain.” His tones were emphatic as he topped our drinks. “It is the way they attack that convinces me.”

  “How so?” I said.

  “They do not simply eat their victims. Did you take note of what some of them try to do first?”

  I shuddered as I recalled the assault in the woods that skirted Hargraven Manor. “I came across a few unfortunates before arriving here. One of them was devoured before my very eyes, and I thought the manner in which the creature killed its prey was unusually cruel, more so than anything normally witnessed in a natural setting, but seriously, do you think this evidence of the demonic?”

  “It is not the cruelty that convinces me,” he said, “though that in itself could only be of diabolic design. No, the evidence is in—as you put it—the manner in which they kill their prey. In fact, I do not believe their primary intent is death. What you witnessed was the demons’ attempts at possession. They are trying to get inside us.”

  “Forgive me, chaplain but that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You saw the size of them. How could they possibly hope to—?”

  “Instinct, Drenn. Pure instinct. They cannot help themselves. These are base creatures driven purely by impulse. Demons see humans as a way to enter into the physical world where they once existed. It is the mandate of every demon.”

  I laughed heartily at this. “Absurd! For one thing, they are already in the physical world, and secondly—”

  “Please allow me to explain. May I?” Breswick addressed all three of us in earnest, and at once I felt a little foolish for dismissing him so readily.

  I glanced at the others. Beatrice’s attention was fixed unswervingly on the chaplain, one hand clutching the folds of her skirt with suppressed anxiety. Elizabeth, now slightly less withdrawn, seemed to be more interested in lighting another cigarette. Her hands were shaking.

  I sighed and inclined my head to Breswick. “I apologize, Theo. It seems I have fallen into an all too familiar pattern of ideological banter with you, and it’s quite inappropriate now, considering the circumstances. It would appear I no longer have reason to ridicule your beliefs, no matter how much they offend my reason.”

  “Indeed, you never did.” He was quite serious.

  I received the rebuke with a nod of contrition.

  Breswick glanced about the room. “I wish there was a Bible to hand. I would show you there.”

  “Your word is good enough for me,” I said. “Please continue.”

  “I take it you are familiar with the account of Noah’s flood?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you also know why God brought a flood to earth?”

  “I thought it was because of sin, wasn’t it? A time of judgment.”

  “Yes, but not specifically against man. It was the giants. The Nephilim.”

  I held my tongue, waiting for him to continue. My incredulity must have been obvious to him because he raised
a hand in case I made a bid to counter his claim.

  “I understand this must seem outlandish to you, but it’s there for anyone to see in the book of Genesis. Chapter six, to be precise. I didn’t make this up, Drenn. It says: ‘The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward—when the sons of God went to the daughters of men and had children by them.’”

  He paced the room slowly as he continued. “The Nephilim were an abomination to God, and the flood was sent to destroy them all, which it did. But when they died, their spirits fell into limbo. They did not belong in heaven, and hell was intended for the devil and his angels, so the Nephilim spirits were left to roam the earth forever in search of replacement bodies to inhabit. That is what demons actually are, and that”—he stopped and pointed to the door—“is what I believe stalks us out there in the mist.”

  “But these are not disembodied spirits, Breswick. These are real flesh-and-bone brutes. I saw them being . . . born on those . . . those fiery trees outside.”

  “This is where I believe Hargraven is to blame,” Breswick said. “It is my belief that his dabblings in the occult have somehow summoned them into our sphere of material existence.”

  I did not know how much of Breswick’s explanation was credible. All of it seemed utterly ludicrous, but upon his mention of moving between realms of spiritual and physical, I thought of my experience at the precipice, of the myriad desolate cities stretching out into the darkness that had swallowed Dennington Cross, and of Old Man Tarky’s claim that Newton Fremming and Dennington Cross had been “taken.” It was not the demons that had been moved.

  “I fear it is far worse than you say,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  Beatrice began shaking her head vigorously. “All this talk of demons and evil spirits and giants. What good is it?” Her eyes started to fill. “They’re eating people! Killing our families. So what if they’re demons or trolls or fairies. What of it!”

  She stood, slammed her glass down on the table, gathered her skirt, and rushed to the door.

  “Bea! Where are you going?” Elizabeth stood. “Don’t leave me!”

  Beatrice stopped at the door and turned to look at the actress, and the torment was clear on her face. She seemed desperate to leave, but Elizabeth’s plea had plucked at her tenderness.

  “I do apologize!” Breswick raised his hands. “Fool that I am. I have been most insensitive. Will you please forgive me, ladies?”

  Beatrice’s bottom lip stiffened with resolve and her fists clenched, then her shoulders slumped. “You shouldn’t apologize.” There was the effort of a brief smile as she sniffed hard. “I’m just a silly old boot with the mulligrubs, fretting about myself when I should be helping. It’s me who should be sorry.”

  She made her way back to Elizabeth, took her hand, and sat down alongside her again. “I’m not going anywhere, my love.”

  “I should think not!” Elizabeth was smiling again, and the volume in her voice, coupled with her sudden and inappropriate joviality, prompted an uncomfortable silence.

  “Naturally, we are all very upset,” I said eventually. “We have many questions, much speculation”—I glanced at Breswick, who raised an eyebrow—“and precious few answers. While we are undisturbed, I suggest this might be a good time to consider our options. We will consider the facts. Do we all agree?”

  “Clearly we all have a different opinion on what is fact and what is not,” Breswick said. He swallowed his drink and made for the drinks cabinet yet again. “Thank the good Lord for port!”

  “My aunt said I had a demon,” Elizabeth said enthusiastically. “Of course, I had to go through the whole nonsense ritual of an exorcism. I was twelve, you know. Can you imagine what that sort of thing does to a girl?”

  “I might have an inkling,” Beatrice said, watching me.

  I paused, hoping the line of conversation would be dropped.

  “I don’t know about anyone else,” said Elizabeth, taking an exaggerated puff from her cigarette, “but I would rather not continue searching the west wing or the cellar for Hargraven until we are sufficiently rested. I for one have quite the headache.”

  I too had a headache, and not just that. At the time there were more serious things to consider than the injury I had sustained, and I chose not to dwell on the implications of my periodic swooning. I was not a physician, but I knew enough to realize that blackouts following a knock to the head were not a good sign. I felt the freshly attended bandage at the back of my head and winced when it stung.

  “We need provisions as well as rest. How long is it since any of us ate?” I said.

  “And this may seem trivial now,” added Breswick, “but I suspect none of us have had an opportunity to bathe since all this started. Something I learned from the war is that sanitation, nutrition, and a positive mental attitude are essentials for survival.”

  Breswick was correct. It was enough that the smell of death had polluted us, but the rank odor of sweat was beginning to irk me.

  “There are bathrooms on the first floor leading from the main entrance lobby,” said Elizabeth. “Rather pleasant ones. We should each take our turn with someone watching outside.”

  “Do we still have running water?” Beatrice asked.

  “There should be enough for the time being,” Breswick said. “And I agree with Drenn: we should return to the kitchens, try to eat, and then take an inventory of food rations.”

  Moon Box Segment Translation 13

  That they may feast

  The archaeological diary of Edward Cephas Hargraven

  13th September 1891

  Damn him! Haynes truly has lost his mind. I cannot think of a sane reason why he would try to sabotage the dig.

  I stayed up later than planned last night and found myself preparing to retire at two in the morning, but I saw a suspicious figure creeping toward the antechamber and decided to follow him. It was Haynes, loaded with an alarming quantity of dynamite! He was planning to explode the entrance and prevent us from any further investigation.

  Thankfully, I was able to prevent him from doing so, and I confiscated the explosives and placed them under lock and key. Only I have access. But the poor fellow was in tears when I asked him to explain himself, and it took almost an hour to calm him. He still insists that we must leave and never return, he tells me that the City of the Innominatum holds far more danger than we could ever have realized. He is obsessed by the writings in the antechamber and has confused reality with fantasy, claiming that the Innominatum is not simply a product of ancient tribal imagination but a very real threat and that we run the risk of introducing its presence into modern day. For now he is resting in my tent and I have a man watching him, but tomorrow I must ask him to tell me all that he knows. If he can convince me that what he says is true, I will consider leaving. Until then, our investigation continues.

  14

  After cautiously returning to the east wing via the colonnade, several hours passed without incident, and although the gnawing fear of our uncertain future lurked like the Reaper’s cloak over us the whole while, the simple and familiar routines of life were enough to shield us from reality, at least for a time. It all seemed so ordinarily British. There was an unspoken agreement that plans beyond our immediate needs—and especially any show of negativity—should not intrude upon the commonplace tasks we had set ourselves, as if the path ahead was a bridge constructed with carefully balanced pebbles, and one toe placed into an unnoticed crack would cause an avalanche that would send us plummeting into unknown depths.

  We took turns to bathe, and although we had nothing to replace our ragged clothing, we all noted that it was a welcome relief to feel the luxury of soap and warm water again. In the kitchen, Beatrice even managed to cook us a simple but delicious stew from the tinned provisions, and it went down very well with Hargraven’s wine. The smell of sage and onion masked the sour odors that would remind us of earlier horrors, and despite my personal quarrel with spiritual matters,
I did not object when Breswick offered up words of grace over the food before Beatrice spooned it out for us. I even found the humble prayer to be uplifting—not for the promise of godly intervention but for the calming confidence in the chaplain’s voice. A tentative fellowship had formed among us, and the silence that fell as we ate was not uncomfortable; it was the quiet strength of unity.

  Yet this episode of equanimity could not last. The passage of time was unknown to us; the absence of the waxing and waning of sun and moon was maddening and the clocks had long since stopped. From habit, I continued to eye the timepiece that hung on the kitchen wall. With its hands still and the comforting melody of a clock’s inner mechanisms silenced, it was a sickly omen—a sign that life had stopped here; our calm was merely denial and nothing more.

  Recent memories struck me with particular violence now that my emotional guard had been lowered and I wondered if the others were feeling the same.

  Breswick was praying, but his brow became more furrowed as the minutes drew on.

  Beatrice was becoming agitated, picking at her fingertips and biting her lips.

  Elizabeth’s pale complexion suggested to me that she was fighting nausea and although she must have been as famished as the rest of us, she could not finish her broth. She took alternative comfort and pulled out a cigarette. She placed it in her holder, lit it, inhaled deeply from it, and observed Breswick with unusual nonchalance. “Reverend,” she said.

  Breswick opened his eyes and looked at her.

  “Are we in hell?” Her tone was quite matter-of-fact.