Dark Seed

by Simon West-Bulford

  Eventually Beatrice lay back in her seat, spent, the will sapped from her. She merely shook her head when I asked if I could get her another drink. I took some more aspirin and tried to settle my stomach with another scotch from the drinks cabinet, but Beatrice’s grief was not my only concern.

  I checked my pocket watch. Stromany and Breswick had been gone fifteen minutes. It seemed to me that they would need five minutes at most to retrieve the petrol. Though it was unspoken, all of us assumed that the danger outside had diminished, that if the creatures advanced, the dreaded wail would sound. But I had heard nothing. The prospects for Breswick and Stromany seemed grim. Even if the howl did come, would the beasts still flee from it? They showed signs of resistance before. Perhaps—like the child who cried wolf—the howl would eventually be ignored.

  “How did she die?” Beatrice asked.

  I was startled by the question. She was not looking at me. She simply stared into darkness. I sat back down and took her hands, rehearsing the words in my mind carefully before speaking. “We were trying to escape the village,” I said eventually. “I slipped over the edge of a precipice and the creatures took her while I fought to climb back up. I tried to reach her, Beatrice, I swear it, but they were too fast, and I didn’t see where they went.”

  “So . . . so you didn’t actually see her die?”

  “No, but . . .”

  She nodded, and I saw the pain of grief torture her again.

  The silence returned, and in the moment I took out my pocket watch to check the time again, the awful howl roared through the school. Adrenaline filled my veins, and after exchanging a momentary look of shock with Beatrice, I stood. Resisting the urge to cover my ears, I twisted my head around for any clue to the direction of its origin.

  “Quickly,” I shouted, “go to the door. Let them in.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I’m going to find out where it’s coming from.”

  It faded by the time we hurried from the room into the corridor, but before I could ask Beatrice if she had any idea from where it came, the howl called a second time. I left Beatrice and rushed toward the east wing and down the steps into the servants’ quarters and kitchen. A third howl took me beyond the kitchen, through the utility room, and toward a second flight of stairs before it stopped. The sweat was pouring from me as I stared into the dark descent. I had no wish to venture down to the wine cellar alone. I could not go through that door.

  Feeling a slight dizziness, I rushed back to the entrance to find Stromany and Breswick safely inside and Beatrice slamming the door. My initial impression was that Breswick was unharmed. Stromany, however, was streaked with blood and dirt, and the shovel he had taken as a weapon was now reduced to a splintered stick. He staggered a few feet inside the reception hall, let go of what remained of the shovel, and dropped to his knees. He clutched at his head, where two thick gashes bled steadily, and growled his pain.

  Breswick was leaning forward with his hands on his knees, breathing hoarsely. He looked up at me through gritted teeth. “We retrieved seven cans of petrol,” he said. “But it may only have been one or two were it not for our strongman here.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No, but Stromany—”

  “I . . . will heal.” Stromany was too exhausted or agonized to say anything else.

  Beatrice moved quickly, presumably to our supplies, so that she could treat Stromany, and I turned my attention to Breswick. “What happened?”

  “There are so many of them,” Breswick said through gasps. “So many. And any one of them could bring down an elephant.” He pointed at Stromany. “I have never witnessed more ferocity than in this man. He took to them like a maddened bull when they came for us, and were it not for that howl, they would have torn him apart. As it is, one of them still resisted and almost ended his life with a single blow.”

  Stromany’s eyes were pressed tightly shut, and now, instead of clutching his head, he was gingerly checking the ribs on his left side.

  “Beatrice will help you,” I said.

  She returned with a box and set to work immediately, pressing a towel to his head and placing a glass of water and the aspirins on the floor in front of him. “We’re out of laudanum,” she said, “but this will help.”

  “I am all right,” said Stromany, getting unsteadily to his feet and declining the water from Beatrice. “But we got the petrol, Drenn. We got it.”

  It was the first time I had seen a sign of happiness on his face. Huge white teeth. It was a nice smile. I wondered if this bear of a man had actually found his struggle with the creatures a much-needed release of his frustrations. He held the towel to the top of his head and grimaced as it soaked up more blood. “Now I am like you,” he said. “I have a damaged head.”

  “I followed the direction of the howl,” I told them. “I think I know where it’s coming from.”

  “Where?” Breswick asked. He had regained his breath and was now leaning against the door, examining a long rip in the side of his cloak.

  “The wine cellar.”

  Beatrice pursed her lips. “The door Lizzy and I didn’t want to open.”

  “None of us want to go there,” I said. “It’s warning us away.”

  “Yes,” Breswick said. “You’re right.” He seemed fueled with adrenaline as he looked at Stromany. “I think we should find out what it is, don’t you? Are we in fit shape to do that now?”

  “It’s pitch black down there. I don’t like it,” Beatrice said. “And it might be locked.”

  “Then we’ll break it down if we have to,” said Breswick. “And we have lamps and candles to light our way.”

  Stromany nodded. He was my biggest concern. His conflict with the creatures had dealt him some serious blows, and I suspected one or more cracked ribs. His breathing came in short, sharp snatches of air, and he was leaning to one side. But he was eager to follow Breswick’s lead. I wondered too about Beatrice. The distraction of the men’s return was enough to subdue her grief for now, but with their immediate needs dealt with, I expected her mind to sink back into the depths of despair at any moment. Nevertheless, she was adamant that the two men should rest before doing anything else, and I agreed. In truth, I was terrified of the wine cellar. We had no idea what was down there, and although the howl had been protecting us throughout our time in the school, I could not suppress an instinctual dread at the thought of meeting its owner.

  It was at this time of solace and reflection in the drawing room that I noticed an unnerving change in Breswick’s temperament as he slouched in his chair sipping at scotch. At first I thought it was the result of drinking too much, for a casual observer would think him intoxicated, and perhaps the alcohol did indeed play its part. I would have paid only partial attention to his words, thinking they were nothing more than a verbal oozing of his fear and supplication, were it not for one particular phrase.

  Old Man Tarky had rambled about the way that the Innominatum could reach in and subvert a person’s mind, bending their thoughts so that they would willingly present themselves as prey to the beasts. He had also called this entity the father of lies and the devil. Although it would be no surprise to hear a chaplain like Breswick using these names in prayers of spiritual warfare, it was the way in which he used them that gave me pause.

  Much like Elizabeth had done when she sang her song in the kitchen, Breswick gazed dreamily ahead, a gentle smile curling his lips as he whispered a hypnotic cadence of words. It sounded like poetry or perhaps even a grim and bizarre nursery rhyme. It was certainly no prayer.

  “In darkness lies the father of lies, the lord of lies, the father of flies. Oh, how I love to further the lies the father of lies doth lie to me. He flies above the world of lies, our father of lies in filth and flies and filthy lies he loves to lie . . .” And on he went.

  It was not Breswick I was listening to. I did not know if it truly was the same affliction that crawled into Elizabeth’s mind, and I did not know if�
��without the murderer’s fatal intervention—she would have wandered outside to the beasts, but I did not want to see Breswick heading that way.

  “Theo?” I said, but I do not believe he heard me.

  “Chaplain!” I tried again, but still he continued his ominous verse.

  With Stromany and Beatrice watching as still as statues, I rose from my seat, marched over to him, and slapped him hard on the cheek. It worked. Breswick’s face portrayed the shock of a man startled from a deep trance. He touched his fingers to his cheek and looked up at me fearfully.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “What happened?” said Stromany.

  Darkness crossed Breswick’s face, and the muscles twitched in his jaw as if he was wrestling with anger at what had just happened. “Nothing,” he said. “I think we have spent enough time here. We need to go to the cellar and get to the bottom of all this.”

  Moon Box Segment Translation 19

  All the people come

  The archaeological diary of Edward Cephas Hargraven

  19th September 1891

  Our investigation in the chambers of the City of the Innominatum has paused. Only four of us remain now: myself, Haynes, Joseph, and Alice, and we have decided to spend some time outside the ruins of the city to take stock of inventory, and to examine the wealth of discovery that has opened up to us since our arrival almost three weeks ago.

  It is a welcome respite. The atmosphere within those dark and stale rooms is forbidding, and I fear it is the reason so many decided to leave. Haynes has calmed himself significantly since his severe mood shift a few days ago. I would go so far as to say that he is a different person now. He seems defeated, resigned, as if the terrible fate of our quest to uncover the secrets of the city is no longer something he can fight. I think I would prefer to have my argumentative friend back, even if it did lead him to attempt sabotage. He is still studying the writings he copied from the antechamber—which were the original source of his terrors—but I suspect it is the large quantity of port he has been drinking which has dulled his anxieties.

  I worry for him and wonder if his temporary calm is something more than defeat. He could be biding his time, waiting for a better opportunity to put an end to our investigations. I hope my worries are unfounded; I know him to be better than that.

  20

  An hour after Breswick and Stromany returned with the jerry cans, we were as ready as we could be for the wine cellar. Breswick pressed forward with his lamp and we followed him past the kitchen entrance and down the steps into the cellars.

  In keeping with Hargraven’s obsession with the arcane, ancient relics of bygone ages had been stored there: stone effigies and tablets inscribed with primitive languages, clay pots, faded rugs, scrolls, and stacked parchments—an Aladdin’s cave for archaeological enthusiasts. We continued down the steps but halted halfway. I knew what was at the bottom. We would find ourselves in the passage where I first entered via the icehouse, and at the end of it would be the door.

  The familiar coppery, acrid stench returned to my nostrils but far more intense. I coughed, trying not to breathe through my nose, and the others did likewise. None of us wanted to go any farther. Not because of the stench—though it was ample discouragement—but because of the presence that dwelt there, warning us away. Something wicked was festering inside. We all felt it, and we had all heard its stentorian howl.

  I watched Breswick in the lamplight and saw the decision hardening in his eyes, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he uttered silent prayers through clenched teeth. Nothing would stop him heading into that wine cellar. Stromany was blinking repeatedly, wiping the moisture from his brow. As Breswick continued down the steps, the lamplight brought the door into soft focus.

  “I’m not going in there,” Beatrice whispered.

  We stared at the monstrous figure carved into the wood for several minutes before any of us spoke, and even then, it was in a whisper.

  “The Innominatum,” Breswick said.

  Still the urge to run tugged hard, but I stood my ground.

  “Do you think . . . do you think it is inside?” Stromany breathed.

  I knew it could not be. The Innominatum was something that surpassed the flesh. I had seen its eye—observing from the abyss—neither corporeal nor incorporeal, but something so foreign to sense and understanding that it could not be confined to the limited space of a mere wine cellar. Yet something was within. Something connected it to this place. Breswick’s hand hovered over the large ring handle, and I held my breath.

  “Don’t!” Stromany said.

  “We have to see what’s inside,” Breswick insisted, but I heard the tremor in his words. It was the first time I had heard fear in his voice.

  Stromany took a step back, his bulging eyes fixed on the carved deity. “But what if that thing is inside?”

  Breswick’s bravado returned. “Impossible,” he snapped. “This creature is a phantom of Hargraven’s mind. It’s just an . . . an anthropomorphic representation of occult worship; that’s all.”

  “Nevertheless,” I said, “Hargraven was clearly hiding something in there that’s linked to it in some way.”

  “Agreed,” said Breswick. “But whatever it is, if it’s the source of that howl, it must be in opposition to the demons outside. Why else would they run from it?”

  “I think it is not wise to go in there,” Stromany said.

  “Then should we simply leave and take refuge in our ignorance?” Breswick countered. “No, we must find out.”

  He muttered one more prayer under his breath, and then, before any of us could object further, he turned the handle and tried the door. It swung inward.

  A thick mist rolled into the passage, bringing with it more of the coppery reek. There was nothing ahead but darkness, but still my heart leapt into my mouth. A dread engulfed us, as if death itself had rushed forward and smothered us with its heavy cloak. It was tangible: closer than the hatred from the eye of the abyss, more visceral than the oppressive wave that visited us when the Behemoth strode across the grounds of the school. With the stench still heavy upon the air and the memory of Hargraven’s experiments still vivid, my imagination filled with grotesque monstrosities and otherworldly abominations lurking in the foggy wine cellar, and I wondered why I found it so difficult to accept Breswick’s insistence that the awful creatures were demons.

  With the dread intensifying as the seconds passed, I was amazed at Breswick’s courage and understood immediately that this for him was a test. He had to resist.

  As if it were a fencing sword in his hand, he stretched the lamp ahead, turning to the side as he edged into the foggy gloom. Stromany and I followed. We attempted to fan the mist aside, but visibility remained poor. The air was thick with cloying humidity, there was a steady echoing drip of water, and as the ground crunched beneath my feet on a downward slope, the realization slowly came that this place was no longer a wine cellar. It was more like a cavern, as if something had exploded under the school and left a gaping crater filled with smoky residue. And soon I realized that my initial impression was much closer to the truth than I expected.

  Breswick’s lamp did not light a large radius, but after the next few steps, it was enough. We stood aghast. What was once a storage area for barrels had been transformed into a shrine. Dozens of crucifixes adorned the stony walls to our right and left, but the atmosphere here was far from holy. The cavern had been corrupted by the metallic infestation but with far greater severity. All around us, thick and oily segmented tubes lanced the walls, ground, and roof, and it seemed obvious to me that we were standing within a vast and hideous root system. Where each of the roots had penetrated, fissures snaked outward, filling the cavities with more of the oily metal substance.

  At the center of it all, from where most of the roots sprouted, was an engorged stamen. Its base was as thick as a redwood tree stump, and it stood at waist height to support a bulbous copper-skinned growth layered with jagged plates that r
esembled crusty petals. The entire thing pulsated like a huge heart, diseased and rank. Veins rippled in tiny streams between the petals, and with each beat came a puff of mist from beneath its folds producing an eerie sound like the dying breath of an old man.

  Something else stirred in the fog several paces from the stamen. Pale and skeletal, it shifted like underwater reeds in a slow current before the fog enveloped it again, and a sound came from it as it moved: the clinking of metal.

  Stromany had seen and heard it, too. “Enough.”

  He came forward to grab Breswick, and as he did so, the stamen shivered. At once the source of the howl became known to us. It split the air with such ferocity that none of us could stand. I felt that my eardrums were about to burst, and I staggered back with the pain. I caught Breswick by the arm in my haste, and he dropped the lamp. All turned to chaos.

  Precious seconds of fumbling in the dark connected my hands with the stamen as I tried to right myself. Such agony as I have never felt shot through my entire body like fire and lightning and I screamed and ran blindly through the darkness to escape. The others screamed too, and as I thrashed my way from the room and along the length of the cellar, crashing through artefacts and stumbling over pottery, I heard the others follow.

  Still consumed by panic, I scrambled up the stairs in the pitch black, fell through the door, and continued running, my head reeling. Footsteps rushed behind me and there were calls for me to stop, but I could not. The sickening sway of nausea took hold as I struggled on, and before I could reach the light of the kitchen area, I lost consciousness.

  Moon Box Segment Translation 20