by Nelson Rusk
It is difficult to imagine how Muir felt during the scene that followed. He observed, silent and motionless in the darkness. He describes in detail the horror he witnessed. Perhaps it is best to let the author express himself in his own words:
After several minutes wherein Satan's worshippers continued the ritual to the rhythm of the high priest, the latter finally seemed ready to move on to another part of the ceremony. He grabbed the manuscript from which he had previously read only a few lines and declaimed passages with a forceful emphasis and exaltation. In my days, I've never heard such a diabolical thing. The words, which were incomprehensible, resounded in my head like the ringing of the bells of Pandemonium. I put my hands on my ears, without being able to attenuate their power, and I clenched my teeth until blood seeped out to prevent any screams I might have uttered without my volition.
As the high priest chanted his litanies, the other members of the congregation raised their exalted minds to a fanatical, mystical ecstasy. I felt that everyone focused their attention on the victim in the middle and I observed him, hypnotized. The man was struggling, gesturing and screaming when, suddenly, after a screamed syllable from the priest, a violent spasm shook him. A clear liquid spurted into a tube while other tubes filled with blood. As the ceremony progressed, the hellish contraption drew more clear liquid from the man, forming a continuous flow in a tube. Blood streaks sometimes appeared in this liquid but, by a process I could not explain, almost all the blood went into other ducts. Each tube poured into its respective cylinder, which filled to the rhythm of the ritual profanations of the priest and his henchmen.
Soon, the amount of liquid in the cylinders was such that it was possible to see a change occurring in the man. His unbridled spasms were subsiding. His skin was slackening on his body, taking a distinct hollow appearance while the apparatus pumped the man’s vital juices relentlessly by some satanic means. I saw one of his arms, which rested on the stone altar and passed halfway over it, bend with no breakage, to form a right angle along the altar. His eyes sank into his sockets until they were no longer visible. In the end, there was only skin left, like an animal's fur, without bone support, and deformed. I had once seen the body of a man pulled out from under a huge slab of rock that had collapsed on him. The damage was similar. It was no longer a human, but a denatured amalgam of broken and compacted organs one on top of the other.
When only blood came out of the body, the priest put the book back on the pedestal and waved his hand to the congregation. Their singing decreased to a whisper. Meanwhile, the priest grabbed a glass the size of his hand and filled it from the cylinder with clear liquid. Then he raised the glass above the man on the altar. He was still moving. Until this day, I am haunted by the terrible question whether these were simple reflexes or whether, against all natural laws, he was still conscious.
The worshippers' song grew in volume again. When it reached an inhuman crescendo, the priest spilled the contents of the glass on the victim. With his other hand, he made a gesture too fast for the eye to comprehend, which culminated in the creation of a raging blaze on the altar. Despite the size and intensity of the fire, it remained contained on the surface of the altar, as if it obeyed the will of the priest. Supernatural light from the intense fire illuminated the whole room. I had to withdraw a little further behind the corner wall in order to remain invisible. With my back to the wall, I could not see the scene anymore, but I could smell the same strange smell I had already detected near Phillips' door. Stifling clouds of bluish opaque smoke passed the elbow of the corridor in my direction.
A raging inferno broke out near the high priest.
As the terrible blaze pushed the darkness back to its last entrenchments, I risked a single look around the corner. At that moment, I finally saw the face of the one who was leading all this. It confirmed my most horrifying suspicions. There, dressed in an impossible robe adorned with charms of the most unbridled paganism, was the same man I saw during the day dressed in His Majesty's uniform. This face that twisted into evil smirks and grandiloquent expressions was Phillips’. His participation in such infamous rites was a refutation of all the oaths of honor he had had to take to find himself in his position as an aide-de-camp. This man was a traitor to his king, his nation, and humanity. I had a deep desire to put an end to this blasphemous ritual right away, but I knew I could not face the whole congregation alone.
I waited several minutes, listening carefully to make sure that no one came in my direction. I looked a few times, but the smoke was too opaque. It filled the room from the ceiling to around the waist. The congregation seemed to have dispersed. At the least, I heard no more noise. I noticed two doors in the back, through which the cultists must have left the room. The ruin of the tortured man was still lying on the stone altar, charred and emitting an orange glow. I noticed, left on its pedestal, the vile manuscript from which the priest was reading. A crazy idea then crossed my mind. I knew I would have no choice but to put it into action.
I tried to walk up to the pedestal but the smoke made it impossible to breathe. I had to squat down and crawl on my knees to avoid the suffocating smog. I kept an eye on the doors in case someone came back into the room. A terrible silence reigned. I arrived near the base of the pedestal, from where I could reach the book.
I hesitated. I don't know why, but as I got closer to the book, I felt a growing apprehension about grabbing it. And now that I was next to it, I wanted to run away without turning around. I could hear my heartbeat in my head. Soon, other sounds came to my ears, sounds difficult to distinguish. A kind of distant drum, approaching. The roar of an animal, impossible to identify. Coming from behind me, I heard whispers. A man. He seemed to tell me a secret, to me only. His words were indistinguishable, and I cursed my limited senses. Soon, he wasn't whispering anymore. His words grew louder and louder until I heard only him. And although I understood nothing he said, it seemed to grow and represent my entire existence, like a gigantic repelling sun covering the Earth with its rays. I could almost see who he was, but he was out of my focus, like someone seen from the corner of the eye. His words were thundering. They roared inside me. I wondered why this noise had not attracted the whole congregation here.
I must have remained in this hypnotic state for a long time. Thumping pulled me out, back to what I understood to be reality. The dream vanished in an instant. I recovered my abilities and grabbed the heavy manuscript, which stole all warmth from my fingers. With the heavy volume in my hand, I threw myself behind the altar. My body was tired and covered in sweat. This strange dream state had exhausted me more than I thought. Beyond the altar, the footsteps of many people resounded, a grim omen. My situation was precarious. Regardless of the turn of events, running at full speed would surely be part of it. I stuffed the manuscript in my bag and stretched myself out, ready to jump.
A man passed me by at a quick pace and let out an exclamation. He stopped near the pedestal, surprised to find it empty. I sighed with relief when I saw he was not the high priest. Propelling myself with my legs, I pounced on him with force, sending him down to the ground a few meters away. Without waiting for my other nearby opponents to recover from their surprise, I ran at full speed toward the corridor from which I had arrived.
The man was surprised to find the pedestal empty.
I had a slight lead, but soon I heard exclamations behind me. Despite my excitement, it relieved me to hear English words rather than this unholy language. I passed the elbow of the corridor without slowing down and bounced with my shoulder against the wall to continue running. After a hundred steps, I arrived at the locked door and decided not to take my chances, as it was probably locked. So, I entered the hole through which I had arrived. I took the bag off my back and threw it into the opening leading to the inner wall. Already, I could hear them coming. I had overestimated my advance. I plunged headfirst into the opening, hitting my skull with force on a stone. Half inside, I crawled on my hands so that the rest of my body could pass. I stood o
n my knees in the cramped passage, with the blood of my wound running over my eyes. I wedged a large rock into the opening I had just passed to block the way for my pursuers.
I crawled as fast as I could to the other exit, which would take me to the other side of the door. Now, I could hear my pursuers slipping a key into the door lock. They had caught up with me. I detached the sword from my bag and rushed into the exit opening. My body was only halfway through when I saw the door open. Men dressed in red togas went through running and screaming. Due to the narrow width of the corridor, it was impossible for over one person at a time to charge at me. I swung furious sword blows in front of me. Despite their frenetic state of exaltation, the followers had enough wits to stay away from the deadly blade. It was a weapon of choice, forged in Scotland by my clan's blacksmith on the day I reached maturity. It was the only possession that had crossed the Atlantic with me.
While my assailants were being held in check, I pulled my body out of the opening. Squatting, I put my arm in the hole to grab my bag. This action diverted my attention for a moment from my sword blows. The first man threw himself at me before I could push him away. A second one followed him, so I found myself cornered on my back against the floor and the wall. At that moment, my survival was hanging by a thread. Due to the short distance of my attackers, my sword was useless. I risked everything and bent my legs under the first man. This disadvantageous position would be my demise or my salvation. Gathering my strength, I pushed with my legs against the man's abdomen and threw back the human tide that threatened to submerge me. When my first attacker was far enough away, I lifted my sword and pushed it into his chest up to the hilt. His legs bent and he lost his balance. This unbalanced the press of humans pushing hard and the whole group collapsed forward, the first in the line crushed to the ground by his fellow cultists.
I used this opportunity to turn around on my stomach and crawl out of the mob. I could soon get up. I left in a hurry, stumbling at the start before running at full speed. As I didn't have a lantern, the only light source in the entire corridor was the one brought by one of my pursuers. However, the light projected by it was fading at the rate I was moving away from it. When I got about twenty meters away from the lantern, the darkness was complete. I felt my way while running and sensed the alcove leading to the spiral staircase going down to the lower town. At that moment, I realized that one of my pursuers ahead of the others was only a few steps behind me.
Thinking the situation through at a frantic pace, I stood against the wall as soon as I walked past the alcove leading to the stairs. I hid so my enemies would not see me. A few seconds later, a hooded man passed in front of me at full speed. I ran from the wall and pushed hard into the back of my pursuer as he approached the top of the stairs. I had put such strength into it that the man missed at least half a dozen steep steps, falling head first with a hoarse scream. He landed with a crash several meters below, in a shock that must have broken his neck like a dead branch. Without even stopping after pushing him, I climbed down the stairs he had just flown over. The man gave no sign of life and soon he was out of my sight. I reached the bottom of the stairs, returning to the lower town.
I emerged through the outer door of the underground, taking several breaths of fresh air to purge my lungs of the vitiated atmosphere that reigned in these cursed mazes. My muscles were on fire because of this furious physical effort, but I resolved with an effort of will to keep running. I was not sure that these maniacs would not chase me down the streets. Breathless and panting, I went up into the upper town by the Côte du Palais and reached the rue St. Jean. Looking back, I saw no one and allowed myself to relax a little.
Côte du Palais, view toward the upper town, 1825.
Little by little, as I walked toward the Château Saint-Louis, I regained control of my faculties. It gave me the opportunity to reflect on this senseless cavalcade. What I had seen in the darkness of the catacombs, and the fire in the junky apartment in St. Roch, exceeded all the apprehensions I had about the evil nature of this cult's secret schemes. This disgusting ceremony with its obscure motives was an aberration. Its vile participants must be dragged before the justice of God and Man. This was all the more true for their leader, that devil Phillips, whose sins far exceeded anything I could have imagined about him. The testimony of Private Pearce, who at the beginning of the evening still seemed fanciful, now appeared irrefutably true.
A new clarity inhabited me due to the disappearance of my doubts regarding Phillips' intrigues. Despite the terrible implications of such an assessment, they were a lesser evil compared to the insidious evil of uncertainty. Losing the manuscript I had tried to snatch overshadowed this inner resolution. I cursed myself in silence for not being able to take back my bag containing it. This occult book could have provided me with concrete information about the scourge I was facing and given me an indication of how my enemies thought, however pernicious it might be. Although I had brought nothing back from tonight’s trip, I considered the simple fact of coming back alive as a blessing. The alternative would undoubtedly have been an abominable death after inhuman torments. With a sign of the cross, imbued with an inner peace in contrast to the events of the evening, I vowed by the grace of God to bring this diabolical cult to light and to send its worshippers back into the darkness from which they came.
It is on this note that this chapter of the story ends. I could not repress a shiver of disgust while reading it. What Robert Muir claimed to have seen that night was beyond comprehension. Despite the cold January weather, I felt the temperature in my room reached an unbearable level of heat. I took a short break from the story to open the window and let the cramped warmth escape. If only the dark and disturbing thoughts in my mind could also fly away with the wind!
Standing in front of the window, I observed the Plains of Abraham in the distance. There, I could imagine, about ninety years ago, Muir and Thompson in consultation on the approach to take to unmask this cult. I could sense the extent of the underground passages beneath the city. Were they still infested today with individuals in scarlet red robes, singing their adoration to unknown entities from the dawn of humanity? My meeting with them this morning suggested they were. Tired by my readings and the exhausting day that was ending, I needed all my will to get back to finishing the story.
Confrontation
After this escapade into the bowels of the city, Mr. Muir seemed determined to take all possible measures to expose the crimes of the sect that was wreaking havoc in Quebec City, of which Phillips was an important player. To do this, he set up a circle of trusted allies to gather all the information everyone had. These individuals met every day to discuss and develop an action plan. Among them were officers Amherst and McEntyre, who had accompanied Muir in his macabre discoveries on the Island of Orleans. Another important actor was Constable Thompson, who acted as a liaison with the Quebec City police. Mr. Lavoie joined them, although, following the events of the apartment fire, he returned to his drinking habits. Finally, there was Father Tremblay, the priest of the St. Roch parish who had listened to James Pearce's confession, before he went mad under unclear circumstances related to Phillips.
To avoid drawing attention to themselves, they soon agreed to meet in the basement of the St. Roch church. Mr. Muir considered this meeting space appropriate for their endeavor and regarded being welcomed in a holy place as a sign that the group enjoyed God's blessing. Every evening, when the faithful had left after the 7:00 pm Mass, Father Tremblay opened the door outside the church that led to the basement and the confederates met there. It was a stone vault with a ceiling barely higher than a man. The place had been built as a burial vault but nobody ever used it for this purpose. Nowadays, the father rather stored his mass wine in its cool depths. The main room contained nothing more elaborate than a large table and church benches, lit by a multitude of candles. Mr. Muir, who seemed nostalgic when writing his account of the camaraderie that developed from these encounters, noted that the place was like t
he men who gathered there, simple men whose hard and aggressive appearance hid the nobility of their character.
As January went on, several other men joined them, invited by Father Tremblay, who used the masses to spread the word to anyone who might be interested. Most did not know Phillips, but it was clear, even to those who had not witnessed incongruous acts, that a strange aura hung over Quebec City. The countless fires, whose epidemic had resumed in full force, spat their blue and nauseating smoke with devilish regularity into the unnaturally bright skies. The sailor Legault, who had traveled to the poles, compared the paleness of the night sky to the strange colors dancing on the horizon he had seen during an Aurora Borealis. This type of phenomenon was not common in Quebec City, despite its northern latitude.
Aurora Borealis.
Although surprising, this sickly pale night sky was not without precedent. A more worrying phenomenon manifested shortly before the castle’s fire in the second half of January. On cloudless evenings, when the stars were clear and visible in the sky, it was possible to see a strange spherical aberration about one kilometer in diameter above the upper town. Its vague and shifting outlines seemed to engulf the darkness. Some claimed the supernatural luminosity originated from this phenomenon. It was not a concrete object; many citizens could not see it. Those who could draw its contours in their mind's eye could not forget it. According to Muir, Laval University scientists noted this strange phenomenon and reported their findings in local newspapers. I verified his statements in the university archives and all the newspapers of the time corroborated the facts, although they minimized their significance. They pretended this was a clear case of collective hysteria caused by the harsh winter punctuated by many tragedies.
