Dark Seed

by Simon West-Bulford

  Moon Box Segment Translation 14

  My words are viral strain

  The archaeological diary of Edward Cephas Hargraven

  14th September 1891

  While Joseph has been persuaded to crawl through the channels under the city to see where they may lead, I have spent much of the day talking to Haynes. He is far more lucid now that he has had opportunity to rest and reflect, but what he tells me still worries me greatly. Not because I believe there is any truth in his stories but because he believes them.

  Much of the text he has translated in the antechamber centers on the story of two brothers seeking the knowledge of the unearthly realms. It seems one of them found a way to transpose not just himself but an entire city into a dark and hellish place ruled by the Innominatum. The myth speaks of bone demons and beasts of incredible mental power residing in that realm, able to influence their stolen prey by tapping directly into their minds, luring them to their death. And at the core is the Innominatum, controlling all.

  I would write more of what he says, but I have been told that Joseph has returned from his trip through the channels, and I am eager to hear his account.

  15

  We followed our distressed companion from the kitchen, Breswick, Beatrice, Elizabeth, and I, all staying close, Stromany clutching his scalpel. He led the way back to the colonnade, past the drawing room, and through the entrance door of the west wing. To us, this was unexplored territory. Candles illuminated our path as our marching shadows progressed along a corridor of doors. Someone had lit those candles. I doubted it was Stromany, and I wondered if Hargraven was still alive after all. But why would he remain hidden?

  “In there,” said Stromany, pointing at a door, slightly ajar. “It was open when I came this way, and I went inside. I wish that I had not.”

  “I’m not going in there,” said Elizabeth.

  “Me neither,” Beatrice said.

  I once knew this room as the chemistry classroom, but it was not the familiar smell of chemical-soaked desks and polish that greeted me as I approached the door with Breswick. I covered my nose as a rank stench, like smelted copper mingled with excrement, warned me away. My stomach turned in recognition—it was the same smell that accompanied the creatures that had invaded our village. Faint wisps of fog swirled as I opened the door wider and stepped through. I gasped at what was within.

  The room was not simply a disturbing sight; it was a harrowing exhibition of brutality and maniacal invention—the results of actions that could not have been performed by a man paying heed to any thought of ethical principles or sentimentality. Hargraven had converted the classroom into a grotesque menagerie of species in various states of vivisection—strung up, pinned down, or bottled in amber fluids—and I could not imagine how such ghastly experimentation connected with the study of archaeology or geology, the fields in which he formerly exceled. It was not the act of vivisection that sickened me—for I had witnessed this before—it was the manner in which the operations had been performed and, in some cases, the nature of the specimens themselves.

  Common amphibians and invertebrates, mainly frogs, were torn asunder on one bench, their minuscule limbs and organs arranged in curious patterns in petri dishes layered with a substance that looked like melted and diluted copper. But worst of all was the back bench displaying mammals: cats, foxes, rats, rabbits, all in varied stages of dissection. It seemed they had not been cut apart with the care and prestige of a thoughtful surgeon; they had been ripped and slashed by careless hands. Thin tubes extended from their exposed innards, all of them leading in tangles to a tall metal device that wheezed and gurgled as it heaved up and down, like an artificial breathing apparatus. The poor beasts were still alive.

  On another bench different animals, each the size of a human head, pulsed and squirmed in tin tubs containing the same coppery liquid, but these creatures were of no taxonomical origin that I could recognize. Though they exhibited the same coloration and off-white skin tone of the beasts outside, these abominations looked like they had been grown in the lab. They were riddled with spiked ridges, quivering orifices, and awkwardly placed claws, and I also noticed with grim fascination that they were entwined with the same metallic skeletal segments that were embedded into the walls of St. James’s Church. Only then did I notice that this infestation was not confined solely to the creatures but was ingrained in the bench too. The metallic substance ran like rows of decayed teeth down the legs of the bench and—where the segments were largest—had even grafted itself into the floor tiles. The same bony segmentation had grown throughout the laboratory—in the walls and ceiling—as though the entire room was held in the grip of some sort of huge and diabolical scaffold.

  The stench of decay became even more horrific as I stepped farther in, and it was all I could do to keep down the broth I had eaten earlier as we made our way slowly around Hargraven’s chamber of horrors.

  So engrossed was I with the experience that I failed to notice Elizabeth entering. “What on God’s earth was the man doing here?” she said, and I was stunned at her apparent disconnection from the horror of it all. It seemed that she was completely unfazed, observing everything with an air of incredulity and disgust rather than the emotional dismay any normal person would feel. Whatever mental disorder was afflicting her, I was, on this occasion, grateful for it.

  “Wait outside,” I told her. “You should not have to see this.”

  “Nonsense. I’m not staying out there with that brute,” she said. “I don’t care for the way he looks at me.”

  I glanced at Breswick who was overcome, as I had been. “I had no idea,” he said. “I knew he had involved himself in unwholesome work, but this . . .”

  Elizabeth pointed at a curious line of raised orifices on the spine of one of the unknown creatures. “What are those things?” Her index finger was almost touching one of the openings, which trembled at the proximity. A small puff of luminous mist, laced with the same tiny glittering particles I saw in the fog outside, belched from it and we backed off in alarm. It became apparent to me then that the mist outside was likely produced by the beasts’ breathing.

  The thing in the tin squirmed and gurgled as if stimulated by Elizabeth’s prompt, and we watched in disgust as a segmented appendage, veined with tiny copper threads, flopped like a lazy limb over the side, attempting to feel its way over the container.

  By this time, Beatrice and Stromany had also plucked up enough courage to enter the laboratory. Beatrice—her face wracked with misery at the sights around her—came first. I sensed that she, like Elizabeth, did not want to be left alone with Stromany, who was close behind and still clutched the scalpel tightly in his hand. He moved cautiously around the benches, his eyes alert, flicking from one abomination to the next.

  “How could he do this?” Beatrice asked. “Why would he do this?”

  I had no answers. I knew only that I had seen enough. “We should put these poor beasts out of their misery and leave. Hargraven is not here, and I don’t know if we are any the wiser about his goals.”

  Beatrice had her eyes on the heaving mass in the tin. “Surely Stromany’s right. He created those demons outside. If there is any justice left in the world, he has already suffered and died at the hands of those monsters.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I said. “I saw the creatures being born outside on those burning trees.”

  Stromany stood over the tin, shaking and sweating as he stared at the thing writhing there. It was slowly crawling over the edge, tipping the tub.

  Breswick eyed Stromany cautiously, then addressed Beatrice: “This is not the work of man. I see only Satan’s blasphemy here.”

  My objections to his beliefs had not mellowed, and I was unwilling to accept Breswick’s assertion that these ugly cousins of the beasts outside were of satanic design. Perhaps through some long forgotten arcane practice Hargraven had excited some hideous process of evolution previously unknown to man and could not control it. Although I could n
ot think of any rational reason for his experimentation, I could not accept Beatrice’s assumption that their origin could be credited to him; I doubted that even Hargraven’s formidable ingenuity could have authored creations such as these. And I did not entirely share Beatrice’s sentiments about Hargraven’s deserved fate either.

  “The devil?” Beatrice said.

  “Of course,” said Breswick. “The heart of man is a black thing, but even in the most iniquitous of men there lies a conscience, and I cannot accept that Hargraven was so out of reach that he could sink to such depths, unless his soul had been drawn to the limits of corruption by satanic powers. What purpose could any man have for such gruesome deeds?”

  “But what purpose do you suppose the devil might have for this?” Elizabeth asked. “Perhaps Hargraven simply went mad. Has anyone thought of that?”

  “Yes, mad,” Beatrice said, “or demented.”

  Stromany was still staring at the specimen in the tin. Seemingly unable to contain his anxiety any longer, he lunged forward with a yell and thrust his scalpel into the creature before it could crawl any farther, cutting viciously from the base of its appendage and across its back with one savage sweep. The tin clattered to the floor, expelling fluids around Stromany’s feet, and the rest of us jumped back. I had visions of the wounded creature leaping up at its aggressor, but the thing made no visible attempt at defense. In fact, it seemed entirely unaffected by the attack, unwilling to even seek shelter under the bench.

  “Demons,” said Stromany. “They cannot be hurt. Just like the others.”

  He stood over the lacerated creature, breathing heavily and erratically. Except for Elizabeth absently humming the tune she sang earlier in her dazed state, an awkward silence fell.

  “You fought them?” Breswick said eventually.

  “Two of them,” he said. “I hit one with a hammer hard enough to kill a man, but it felt nothing. I shot another in the chest and it still lived.”

  “How did you escape?” Beatrice said.

  “I ran. Very fast. They did not catch me.”

  “Is that right?” Beatrice addressed Breswick. “Can demons not be killed?”

  Stromany breathed hard through his nose and, still in a heightened state of anxiety, lifted his weapon again. “Do you think I lie?”

  “Please,” Breswick said, “put the scalpel down! Plainly it is of no use against these creatures, and I hardly think you want to threaten any of us. Some of us are armed now too.” He patted the handle of a kitchen knife he had tucked into his belt.

  Stromany showed his teeth and for one horrible moment I thought he was going to attack the chaplain.

  Elizabeth, who had wandered to a different part of the room, said, “Or perhaps he was experimenting on them to find a weakness. Any of you think of that?”

  Stromany slowly lowered the scalpel, and keeping our distance from him, we gathered around Elizabeth as she examined an empty bench. It was stained with blood and remnants of the strange fluids in which the other creatures wallowed. Here also the parasitic segments had infiltrated the wood.

  “Do you suppose he had one of those demon things on here?” Elizabeth said matter-of-factly. She brushed her fingers along four grooves in the wood that might have been claw marks. “It might still be in the school.”

  “I don’t think any of them are in here,” I said. “They seem to be frightened of this place, and besides, it’s all just speculation. We don’t know what he was doing in here or why. Only he can tell us that.”

  “And sadly, I don’t think we’re ever going to find him,” Breswick said.

  “Perhaps it is the man I saw in the room at the end of the corridor,” Stromany said, still breathing heavily.

  We all looked at him. “Someone else is in the school?” I asked.

  “Why did you not make mention of this before?” Breswick asked. “And for the love of God, put that scalpel away.”

  “Why should I not be armed?” Stromany stared at Breswick, his face contorted as he struggled with the suggestion, but then he looked at the creature shuffling on the floor. “I was afraid,” he said. “I thought it would attack us.”

  “Get a grip, man, and leave it,” Breswick insisted. “It’s in no condition to attack any of us. Now, this man you spoke of—you say he is in one of the other rooms?”

  “Yes. I said nothing about him because you might have thought I killed him,” Stromany said, “but I did not. I swear. I found him when I was searching this place. He has been dead many days, I think.”

  “Nobody is accusing you of anything,” Breswick said, though Elizabeth muttered an objection under her breath.

  “It must be Hargraven,” I said. “The room at the end is the old headmaster’s office. He converted it into a study. We should check it.”

  Greatly relieved to exit Hargraven’s laboratory, I made my way with the others along the corridor and hesitated at the door. It too was ajar, and the flickering glow of candlelight radiated from the gap. The foul odor of decay was even worse here than in the laboratory, but Breswick, in his usual fearless manner, pushed open the door and entered while the rest of us were still gathering our courage.

  I followed cautiously, as did Stromany, Beatrice, and Elizabeth. I feared we might witness worse atrocities, but Hargraven’s study appeared quite normal in most respects. Like in the other rooms, the candles were burned low. Two leather chairs faced the center of the room, in which stood a small table, and numerous books lined the shelves on the walls, all of them appearing to be volumes of commentary on works of which I had never heard. But I did not dwell on any of these; my focus was upon the large desk that was set before a wide bay window overlooking the beast-ravaged grounds. Slumped in the tall chair behind the desk was Lord Edward Cephas Hargraven. There was no question of his morbidity, for his body was in a noisome condition, afflicted by decomposition. His face was gray and sallow with teeth bared, and one bulging eye stared through us into the beyond. His dark suit was peppered with tiny rips as if small insects had feasted upon it, and patches of the fabric were stained with putrid fluids that had wept from the decomposing skin beneath. I heard Beatrice moan with disgust, cover her mouth, and exit the study quickly. I could not blame her; the stench was vile. I glimpsed Elizabeth following her, but Stromany, uncertain what to do, stood by the door, while Breswick covered his nose and mouth to approach the corpse.

  “Poor fellow,” said Breswick through his hand. “I warned him it would end this way if he continued along the path of the occult.” He picked up one of the many open books that were strewn across the desk. “My attempt at his restitution,” he said, offering it to me.

  I examined the book and saw that it was still open at the verse that was written on the back of our invitations. “Can you determine the cause of death?”

  “I can see nothing obvious, but I have no wish to examine him further, and I am not a doctor.”

  “Should we bury him?” I asked.

  Stromany spoke up then: “If this is the man who brought the demons, he does not deserve it.”

  “His part in all of this is still uncertain,” I said, “but I will admit that I have no desire to move his body or to go outside.”

  “We should leave him,” Breswick said. “At least for now. It’s as you said, we still have no answers. These rooms have only added more questions to an already long list, and our best way forward now would be to continue gathering provision for survival.”

  I nodded and was about to turn and leave when something caught my eye on the desk: an object which I wished I had never laid eyes on. It was a keepsake box that Hargraven once prized. A relic from one of his expeditions in a previously unexplored area of South America, the shape and size of a jack-in-the-box. On the one occasion we persuaded him to speak of his past, Hargraven revealed it to us.

  I remember his trepidation when he placed it before us, and the atmosphere tangibly changed as he did so. Upon seeing it, Breswick had seemed to change too and insisted that it sh
ould be returned to storage immediately, whereas I, in one of my weaker moments of provocative banter with the clergy, expressed great curiosity over its workings, and goaded our host further. Hargraven stared at it long and hard as I waited for an explanation, and during those silent minutes, with Breswick watching sternly, he broke into a sweat, an expression of agony twisting his face. Breswick insisted again that the box should be put away, but then Hargraven became exuberant, almost frantic about it, as if another side of him had won through. Shaking, Hargraven held his hand over its lid and broke into tears before he could lift it, confessing that all his hardships and tribulation first started when he began his study of its contents. We never did find out what was inside.

  “The Moon Box!” Breswick declared now. He had followed my line of sight. “Good gracious, I thought he had got rid of that accursed thing, but it appears he told me that only to silence my objections.”

  “It could be important. Whatever’s inside may be the key to everything that’s happened.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Breswick. “Which is exactly why we should leave it well alone. We have no idea what we are dealing with, or what he set in motion by examining its contents. If—”

  “We can’t allow superstition to keep us in ignorance. If the Moon Box was the source of Hargraven’s trouble and led to all of this, we need to understand it. We have to open it.”

  “Absolutely not! If a man as brilliant as Hargraven was corrupted by it, what makes you think we are safe?”

  “I hardly think our situation can get much worse. Do you? And wasn’t it my intellect that Hargraven invited me for? Perhaps opening this box is the first step to the salvation he wrote about. What other options do we have?”

  Breswick eyed the box and shook his head. “Leave it, Drenn.”

  “The priest is right,” said Stromany, still standing in the doorway. “The box is evil. I feel it.”