by Amy Cross
Chapter Two
Leaning over the toilet, I stare down at the water and wait for the next wave of nausea to hit. As soon as I walked through the door of my apartment, it hit again: that stomach-churning feeling that there's something that needs to come up. I haven't eaten much for the past few days, other than a few bowls of rice and beans, so I really don't think I've done anything to inflame my stomach. Instead, it's probably just another phantom sickness. Still, phantom or not, it's a sensation I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, and I know that there's still a chance I'll throw up.
Still, at least there's no blood this time. Just yellow, foamy bile.
After half an hour or so, the feeling seems to have died down and I allow myself to relax a little. Sitting back and leaning against the bathroom wall, I take a deep breath and wipe the sweat from my brow. These little attacks are happening more and more frequently: at first they came a couple of times a week, then it was almost one a day, and now it's usually one around lunchtime and another in the evening. I wouldn't say they're as regular as clockwork, but I definitely notice if they don't happen.
This is all horribly familiar. The pain, the nausea... I've been here before, and the thought of going through all of that misery again is almost impossible to bear. I learned a long time ago to seal that part of my life up and forget about it, so why is my body apparently determined to keep delivering reminder after reminder?
Reaching out and flushing the toilet, I get to my feet, check myself in the mirror, and turn to go back through to the dark room. I haven't had the sharp, stabbing pain yet. Every time I get a nausea attack, it's always followed by a little twinge in my belly. It's agony, but at the same time it serves to let me know that the attack is over, so it's kind of comforting. Staring at myself in the mirror, I see that I'm looking slightly pale. I take a deep breath, and then - as I turn to go out the door - I feel the pain as it briefly slices into my gut. I pause for a moment, letting it pass, and finally I clear my throat before going through to get on with my work.
Chapter Three
"A presence on the steps". That's what the priest said. "A presence on the steps". It's not much of a hint, but it's a lot more than I've ever had before. It's a step forward.
Once I've poured the developer into the tank, I start the timer and hit the push-cap. I stand in complete silence, bathed in red light, and once a minute has passed I give the tank a shake for a few seconds. This is always my favorite part of the process: I've done it all so many times, I can switch my mind off completely and just get on with the whole process via auto-pilot. I don't need to remind myself what to do; instead, my hands just get on with the job, and my brain falls silent. At first, I used to get scared when I'd realize I hadn't been thinking for a few minutes, but later I learned to embrace this part of the process as a welcome relief. For almost ten minutes, I'm able to just work mechanically, and the only thought that crosses my mind is the vague awareness that at some point I'm going to have to come out of this trance and start thinking again. In a perfect world, though, everything would be like this. All the time.
"A presence on the steps". That voice keeps going around and around in my head.
Once I've set up the fixer and the wetting agent, I find myself approaching the crucial moment. All that's left now is for the thirty-two images to be dried, which means that the main part of my job is done and I can only wait. The initial images will appear fairly quickly, but it's not the initial images that interest me. I'm waiting for something else; something that only appears a few hours later. Of course, the odds of it appearing at all are pretty slim. Over the past year, I've taken between thirty-two and ninety-six photos every single day, which makes a total of almost thirty thousand; out of that huge collection, only eleven images have revealed what I'm looking for, which means my strike rate is a little under 0.05%. Still, it's that 0.05% that makes the other 99.95% worthwhile.
The waiting is hard enough on a normal day, but this afternoon it's excruciating. I usually have no idea whether I've managed to capture his image, but this time I can't help interpreting the priest's words as a gentle hint. That phrase, "a presence on the steps," seems like a perfect description of the figure that appears in a small selection of my photos. As I wait for the latest photos to develop, I head over to the portfolio where I keep the previous images. It's strange, but while this started out as a kind of crazy chase from church to church, it's grown to become an all-consuming project that devours my every waking moment. Opening the portfolio, I take a deep breath as I contemplate the possibility that this entire situation might eventually lead to something. At first, I thought I was losing my mind; it's only in recent months that I've begun to accept that it's all true.
And there they are. Eleven photos, taken over the course of a year at various churches around New York. Each of them shows a distant figure, standing next to the church and staring up at its walls, as if he wants to enter but can't get through the door. He looks like a late-middle-aged guy with a receding hairline and shoulder-length, straggly dark hair. He's always wearing a dark coat, with a black scarf around his neck, and while he's got his back to me in some of the images, in others I can see the side of his face: his eyes have dark rings under them, and there's thick stubble on his chin. It's not the most unusual thing in the world, until you take into account the fact that the man wasn't there when I took the photo; he wasn't even there when the photos was initially developed. On each occasion, he only appeared a few hours later. The first time, I assumed I just hadn't noticed him. The second time, my interest was piqued but I assumed there was a rational explanation. By the third time, I was starting to wonder what it meant. By the tenth and eleventh times, I knew something else was happening. I still don't understand what, but every time he appears on another photo, I feel as if I'm getting closer to an answer.
Putting the portfolio away, I take a deep breath, reminding myself not to get too excited. I develop new pictures every day, and nine times out of ten I don't find what I'm looking for. But those days when he appears... those days are worth waiting for. Those are the days that make everything else worthwhile.
Even though it's too early to really see anything, I head over to the other side of the room and check the first picture. An image of St. Abraham's has already developed, but there's nothing of interest. It's just an image of the front of the church, with nothing to see on the steps at all. I move on to the second picture, and then the third, and then the fourth and the fifth and the sixth, but there's still nothing. Once again, I'm in an almost trance-like state as my eyes dart across the images, desperately searching for any sign of his face. As I reach the fifteenth image, I start to get a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. What if he's not here? What if I allowed myself to be fooled by a rambling old priest? Finally, just as I'm on the verge of accepting that I won't find anything, I reach the final picture.
And there it is.
To the untrained eye, it would probably seem like nothing at all. Just a smudge at the top of the steps. I know better, though. It looks like a smudge, but it's not a smudge; I'm too careful, too exact and precise, to allow my images to smudge. I taught myself long ago to complete this process over and over again, without a single mistake. When a smudge appears, it's not because of some imperfection in my technique. It's him. After fifty-four days of failure, I've caught him again. I know it's him, or at least it will be, once the image has matured properly.
Heading over to the diary I keep for these occasions, I grab a pen and write today's date, followed by the name of the church and finally the number one. I don't need to keep these records, of course, since all the information is burned into my memory; still, there might come a time when I have trouble remembering everything, so it's good to have a back-up. Besides, the diary helps me keep track of things I might not otherwise notice. It's been thirty-eight days since the last time I found the man in one of my photos, which is a little longer than the average gap. I'd begun to develop this nagging feeling in th
e back of my mind, as if maybe I'd lost the trail. But that was needless worry; he's still out there, and my work can continue.
I swear to God, I'm not crazy.
Stepping out of the dark room, I take a deep breath once I'm in the hallway. I tend not to notice it when I'm working on images, but the chemicals can really linger in the air. As I wander through to the brightly-lit kitchen at the rear of the apartment, I remind myself that it'd probably be wise to take a few more breaks here and there, just to make sure that I don't breathe in too many fumes. Then again, I've been doing this long enough, so if anything bad was going to happen, I'm pretty sure it would've manifested itself by now. There was a brief time when I wondered if my nausea and cramping was possibly caused by the chemicals I use for developing the images, but a little research has suggested that this can't be the case. I pour myself a glass of water and make a mental note to do some more reading on the subject when I get time. If I get time. Unfortunately, it's starting to look as if time is something that's going to run out sooner rather than later. I know that. He knows that. It's fated.
"Hey," I say, after I've grabbed my phone and brought up Robert's number. "Are you free later today?" I wait as he checks his diary. "Cool," I continue, once he's confirmed he's got an open slot. "About three? That's fine. I'll see you at the Godolphin, but I have to be done by four 'cause I need to get across town, so I really need you not to be late". I wait for him to offer all the usual promises about how he won't be late and how he'll be there bang on three. "Please try to be on time," I add, before disconnecting the call. It bugs me when Robert's late, but I really need to see him today. To be blunt, I'm horny and I need to clear my mind of distractions. Without a clear mind, I'm useless.
Wandering back through to the dark room, I slip through the door and head over to take a look at the images as they dry. As I'd hoped, the picture of the top of the steps is definitely showing evidence of something unusual, although this particular 'something' is clearly developing at a much slower rate than the rest of the image. Smiling, I realize that once again I'm dragging him kicking and screaming into the light. Every time I find a smudge on a newly-developed image, I feel myself becoming more and more confident that I'm onto something. It's a tantalizing prospect, slowly reeling this mystery in so that I can get a better look at what's happening. By tonight, though, I'll be able to see his face again, and I can't help thinking that I must be getting closer and closer to the truth. Taking a deep breath, I set the timer before heading out of the dark room. By the time I get back later today, I'm confident that the smudge will have become a full image of the man. After fifty-four days, I've finally found him again.
Chapter Four
"I hope you realize how many strings I had to pull to get this for you," says Violet as she climbs stiffly from her stool. "Wait here a second," she adds, before turning and shuffling over to the shelves where she keeps reserved books. Her arthritis is clearly getting worse; I hope it doesn't get so bad that she has to retire, or I'll be really screwed.
"I appreciate the effort," I reply. The truth is, my heart is racing at the thought that I'm finally going to get my hands on the book. I've been waiting so long, I almost started to doubt that it would ever happen.
"There was only one copy of this book in the whole country," she says as she brings the plastic delivery case over to the counter and sets it down in front of me. "Another university in Pennsylvania had it, but it wasn't in their main collection. The librarian had to go down to the basement and dig it out of storage. That's why it took almost six months for them to respond to my request. To be honest with you, I had to keep prodding and poking them, 'cause I think they were hoping I'd just give up, but slowly and steady wins the race so..." She unzips the case and slides the old, leather-bound book out of its protective cover.
Taking a deep breath, I reach out to take the book.
"Wait!" Violet says, pushing my hand away. "There are certain rules". She reaches under the desk and grabs a small pouch. "They were very reluctant to send it at all, and they attached a whole lot of strings. First, you're to use protective gloves when you're handling the book, at all times. They're very worried about acid and moisture from our fingers causing damage. Second, you're to avoid breathing directly onto the pages. I doubt that'll be too much of a problem, but they're being extremely fussy. And third, I'm afraid there's simply no way you'll be allowed to either take the book away from here, or to make copies of the pages".
"Not even photocopies?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "We have the book for one week, and you're welcome to come in and go through it during our normal opening hours, but then we'll have to send it back. I'm afraid there's no possibility of that period being extended. I know it's crazy that they're so protective over a book that just sits in their basement, but its age means it probably gets listed as a tangible asset on their stock lists. I think they're worried about whether their insurance will cover any damage. You know how bureaucracy can be, right?"
Smiling, I stare at the pentagram on the cover of the book. "It's fine," I say after a moment. "I'll just sit in the study area and make notes". Grabbing the pouch, I take out the plastic gloves and start putting them over my hands.
"One more thing," Violet continues. "If anyone asks, you're here on a secondment to a visiting professor from another institution. You got that? Technically, I'm not supposed to go borrowing books from other libraries for former students, especially ones who didn't even graduate, especially ones who left on bad terms with their faculty. If someone finds you here and kicks up a stink, I'll cut you loose, you understand? I'll deny all knowledge and I'll claim you tricked me". She smiles. "Now go read your precious book, Kate. And remember, closing time's at five but you'll have to start packing up at quarter to, okay?"
"I can only stay an hour today anyway," I tell her as I pick up the book. "I have to be somewhere at three". Heading through to the study area, I find to my relief that it's mostly deserted. There are a few students over in the corner, busy working on essays, but I'm able to grab a table away from the window. I always feel kind of self-conscious when I come back to use the university's facilities. For one thing, I have bad memories of my time here; for another, I'm in my thirties whereas pretty much everyone else here is in their late teens or early twenties. Even if they all assume I'm a mature student, I still feel as if my mere presence is drawing attention to what I'm doing, and that's the last thing I want.
Taking a deep breath, I stare at the book and realize I'm actually a little scared to start going through its pages. I've been trying to track it down for so long, ever since I first found a reference to its author while I was doing some other research. Amin Bell was one of the foremost researchers of Satanic rituals in twentieth century America; even if his work was widely ignored by mainstream critics, and roundly ridiculed by members of the church, he conducted some hugely important experiments and he came closer than anyone else to lifting the veil that separates this world from the next. My hands are almost trembling as I open the book, and the spine creaks as the pages are disturbed for the first time in many, many years. It's almost as if this is some kind of sacred moment, even though I know deep down that it's nothing of the sort.
"Now that's an old book," says a nearby voice.
Startled, I look up and find that there's a smiling man wandering over to my table. He's got his hands in his pockets, and he has the general demeanor of an academic. At least he's not one of my former tutors; I'd be embarrassed to hell if anyone recognized me while I'm here. All my tutors were fusty old men, though, while this guy is closer to my own age, and to be honest he's a lot more attractive than the average person you see around the campus. In fact, he's the kind of guy I usually avoid talking to, since I really don't like social interactions unless there's a specific reason for making contact. I've learned over the years that if I 'put myself out there', I just end up making myself look like an idiot.
"Sorry," he continues. "I didn't mean to disturb you
". He pauses for a moment, smiling awkwardly. "I guess I should come clean," he says eventually. "I've been kind of keeping an eye on that title, to see who ordered it, and I just happened to spot you picking it up just now from the counter. That's quite an obscure text you've got in your hands".
"Yeah," I say, trying to stay calm. This is the absolute last thing I wanted. Every second of conversation is coming out of the time I have with the book. Why can't I just sit here, in silence, without interruption, and do what I came to do?
"My name's John Dagwood," he says, extending a hand for me to shake. "I'm a junior lecturer in European History". He stands with his hand outstretched for a moment, before putting it back in his pocket. "Amin Bell's not exactly mainstream," he continues. "Apart from my old grad school professor, I've never even met anyone else who's heard the name. Do you mind if I ask what piqued your interest enough to go to the trouble of tracking his work down?"
"Nothing," I say, before realizing that there's no way he's ever going to believe such a weak explanation. "I mean, I just thought it might be interesting".
"Amin Bell was one of America's foremost experts on Satanism in the twentieth century," he continues, "and this book is one of the most detailed accounts of the practice ever produced, although it certainly has a few unusual theories thrown into the mix. Bell traveled the length and breadth of the country, joining various groups and trying to understand what drew people to these types of groups".
"That sounds fine," I say, forcing myself to be polite.
