If curiosity killed the cat, it certainly brought the Caliban to the brink! But what were we going to do otherwise? Our very reality threatened, my companions and I traveled into the depth of the earth, through the hidden passages beneath March street. We found caves, old ones, hollowed out by a people who no doubt had since vanished in some sinister history. There were ancient markings here and there; symbols of power older and darker still. A few of them clawed at the edge of my memory, shapes and combinations of markings that I had seen somewhere before, perhaps in my father’s books. He had kept a few mysterious tomes, as I recall, that could not conform to any collection; strangely bound volumes with strangely labeled pages. There was a peculiar scent to them, an animal musk perhaps, mixed with burnt leaves and something unidentifiable. They had that alluring quality to them, that made one want to read them in private, and keep the secrets within. And yet, one could never remember any exact quote, or passage from its pages. Those tomes were enchanted with dark magics, made to draw you in.
We ventured further in, and finally met with resistance in the form of shadowy creatures. Fey perhaps, or demons made into men. Despite the claustrophobic proportions of the tunnels that we were forced to negotiate during our confrontation, I don’t mind saying that we all gave a sound accounting of ourselves, and made them regret trifling with our nasty sort! Our investigation would finally lead us through a narrow passage, into a vast cavern. It was at once a wondrous and astounding discovery, this chasm that could not have been made possible mere human industry. At the bottom of this cavern lay a crystalline lake, or something much like it; a murky, chilling body of viscous water with a sickly jade tint. On the sides of the cave were hastily carved grooves, made no doubt to allow visitors to navigate alongside the curved walls, toward I assume, another access point. After some deliberation with my colleagues, I did what I often do, and depleted my reserves of patience, deciding to take a survey of the depth below. I will doubtlessly regret that foolish decision for the rest of my natural life.The very moment that my body collided with the water, I felt a terrifying effect wash over my entire being. Fright, as I have well documented, is not something I experience easily. As an abomination of humanity, I am more accustomed to dispensing fear than feeling its cold spiritual atrophies. I can count on one hand the number of times I have been truly afraid; the time my father revealed to me his master plans to make me a living god, the dark night I fought two-score of monstrous Barovian wolves and lived, and the time I held a golem girl in my arms, and felt for the first time…something entirely new.
This time, fear was only the caress; what I experienced was quite appropriately put, an immersion. I was saturated in pure, unrestrained evil. I immediately felt a pressing need to extract myself from there, but pushed on out of inborn natural defiance. It was truly at that moment that I committed the gravest error, when I opened my eyes underwater, and came face-to-face with what I can only describe as madness incorporated. I have yet to full understand what I beheld beneath those cursed waters, and cannot bring myself to formulate any sort of rational explanation of it. I am simply powerless, a sensation I detest for very obvious reasons. Suffice to say that I lost something of my self at that moment, a fracture was formed into my very mind. I know not whether this wound will ever truly heal, or whether I’ll ever understand what my eyes witnessed. I know only this; the description I am unable to commit to paper here today may belong in a chronicle of its own.
I screamed. The sound could more precisely described as an animal’s death throes, coupled with something beyond even my reckoning. I emerged from the pool in a great panic, no doubt putting the fear of the gods into my companions. At one point I felt as though my heart would explode entirely, but in some inexplicable way, I was suddenly overcome with a comforting warmth and relative tranquility. I seem to remember hearing Symeon’s voice, chanting in his customary, guttural way. I had heard this melody one before, I think. Some breed of enchantment? A spell of magic? Symeon would have a more mystical word for it no doubt; an answered prayer, he would say. Whatever the case, I was thankful for his intervention (divine or otherwise).
We made a hasty retreat from the cavern, once I had pulled myself from the muck. We found the surface again, and tried to decide on where best to concentrate our efforts. We had made one important discovery on our way back, these passages were linked to the city’s sewage system, which suggested that…well, I can not be all that certain of anything at this juncture. Damnation and day! How shall I overcome this mental calamity!
It was again here, that I experienced an episode of time-unaccounted for. I recall splitting from Symeon, Petru and Ephraim, with plans to rendez-vous back at our rooms, but nothing more. I cannot account for what I did then, apart from a strange sensation of having become completely absent-minded. When I was once again myself, I also noted a curious scent on my coat. A putrid nauseating smell, that sometimes hangs over freshly slain animals. I told myself that it must have been residue from my unfortunate swim. I didn’t dwell on it, as there were stranger thinks afoot then my neglected hygiene. Namely the fact that I had somehow “awoken” amongst my compatriots once more, with the exception of Ephraim, but I shall discuss his disappearance in more detail later.
We were now, by way of some new enchantment (or divine comedy!), all seated comfortably by an oaken table in a well-decorated office. I felt it to be a detective’s office, as it bore a remarkable likeness to my old friend Inspector Ashton Blackmoore’s base of operations. Again, without sense or explanation, we had ended up in this place, feeling curiously at ease, sipping occasionally from excellent brandy that had also magically appreared in our hands. I kept silent, wea ll did, but underneath we could sense each other’s confusion.
A man entered the room to greet us, well-groomed and excellently tailored (my kind of chap, I thought). I was correct to assume that we had been waiting in a police staion. The man introduced himself as the Constable of Port-A-Lucine, although, to my everlasting frustration, I cannot now precisely recall the name he gave us. He thanked us for coming to him, despite the fact that we did not remember how we had in fact accomplished this. He claimed that we were in good hands, and that we had come at an opportune moment. My natural instinct should have been to mistrust this man immediately, but I could not bring myself to. For some unimaginable reason I felt that I… that we could all confide in him and give him our trust.
He interviewed us for some time, inquiring about our recent activities in the city. We were, according to him, at the center of some nefarious plot to undermine the will of its people. A sinister agenda perpetuated by a mysterious grey-haired stranger, whom I recognized the moment his likeness was presented to me. The old man on the portrait, I had come across him a few days ago; a man I had thought to be devoid of sight, and whom I had tried to help out of misplaced charity. I had discovered the truth soon after ushering the sly bastard to his so-called quarters. He had suddenly looked me straight in the eyes, and I cannot remember the rest (again!). Seeing the picture did have a stiring effect on me however. I realized then that my little memory lapses had begun with this encounter. I was coming closer to a breakthrough…I was putting the pieces together at last. I know not how, or why, but I now felt like I had looked upon the face of our true nemesis. This man, somehow had been behind it all of our confusions…maybe.
We told the constable everything we knew about Jean-Jacques (the artist we had rescued from Brass House), and the Invidian mentalist whom we had consulted about our perception problems. We just seemed incapable of holding back on any detail during our interview, like witless children confessing their mischief to a threatening parent. The constable listened intently, never neglecting to note a single detail. He collected our reports, seemed preoccupied for a time, then finally began to make his recommendations. The constable agreed that we were in no small amount of danger from this gray stranger, and his blackguard associates Our meddling about had in some manner become a hazard to their dark plans, and by token put us in the line of fire.
I myself made the remark that I did not feel entirely certain with regards to my own reliability as an ally, as this stranger had proven on several occasions his uncanny ability to cloud my perceptions, or to delude me completely. If this was in fact some kind of hypnotic power, or occult knowledge that allowed the gray stranger to bring me to his heels, I could not in good confidence risk my companions lives by staying at large. Together, we decided that it would be best that I be remanded to the custody of the constable’s deputies, who had arranged to keep me supervised in a townhouse located a mile from the city. I wished my farewells to Symeon and Petru, who bravely decided to confront this evil on their own while I remained behind. With much apprehension I watched them getting smaller and smaller, as my coach pulled away into the night. We traveled swiftly into the night, the mists welcoming us into their embrace, ushering us along a crackling stone path to safety.
The deputies remained silent during our voyage, while I lit a lantern and decided to relax with the help of my journal, which I had the chance to peruse briefly. We arrived some time later (it had taken longer than expected) to what looked like an excellent location; an exquisite-looking villa (even by these archaic standards) built expertly into a small clearing. The house had three floors, stables, servant’s quarters, in short, everything a man of quality would desire in a hunting lodge or summer resting house. It didn’t occur to me as odd then, but t should of dawned on me that this was all a bit much for a constable to arrange, especially for one such as I. It did seem somewhat deuced that none of his men appeared worse for wear upon seeing me in direct light. They seemed almost indifferent, which should have delighted me, but ultimately left me suspicious.
Once inside , I was brought into a secret chamber in the basement (again below ground…) of the villa. It was again a splendidly arranged room with lacquered chairs, an expensive witting desk, library selection, and anything else a gentleman might desire. I barely had time to remove my coat and take in the warmth of the fireplace, when the housekeeper, a manicured butler by the name of Jove (how amusing!) appeared in the doorway with a tray of goodies. He put out freshly prepared tea (mint, I think), a flagon of cognac, and even a few well-moistened cheroots. I was, for a moment, in total bliss. All my concerns dissipated instantly, giving way to almost dream-like euphoria. After I was served, Jove withdrew into the secret passage, and I was left to my own devices. I couldn’t wait a moment longer; I had to devour the contents of the library.
Amazingly, I recognised every single one of the volumes contained within the oaken shelves of the library. I knew them all without exception. It was as if someone had plucked them right from my memory. In Times Past by Victorius Maine, Suffer in Truth by Elliot Farlane, Seven Deadly Discourses from Dawnton Smith, and most incredibly, Thy Kingdom In Peril by the elusive Haendelsson Ark, an alleged Black Bishop of the legendary Chaplains of the 7th Order. How could anyone have come about such a rare book, I wondered. This far from Paridon… There were only two copies known to have survived the Chauncery Blaze, and my father had gone to considerable expense to posses them all. I instantly reached for it, pulling it gently from its resting place on the far right of the shelf, and settling near the brandy and tea, where I could study its contents more closely.I opened the book to find that it was…empty. Blank pages, right up until the end. A forgery? I couldn’t make sense of it. I had never been able to see the book, as it was in father’s private collection, and been looking forward to shedding the veils of its mystery, but now it seemed I had been duped. I closed the book slowly, disappointed, only to notice to my surprise, that the back cover had something sticking out form it. A closer inspection revealed a simple piece of paper, that someone had folded and slid into the book’s jacket. How very odd, I whispered beneath my breath.
The note said simply, “None of this is real”, a cryptic comment left in handwriting that again, looked too familiar.
I felt inside me a strange stir, a discomfort. I thought perhaps that I had contracted influenza from the dip in the pool of horrors earlier that day, but something told me otherwise. I called for Jove with my service bell, and tried to relax myself with another cup of hot tea (although it seemed to make things worse). Jove appeared without delay and bowed slightly in presence.
“Jove, would you be so good as to fetch me some water, and perhaps a touch more brandy. I fear that I might have caught ill from my recent travels” I declared.
“Most certainly Monsieur. Shall draw a bath as well, perhaps prepare some medical ointment?” He responded courteously.
“By all means Jove, that would be…capital” I smiled, despite my dizzied state.
At that precise instant, something in me changed. Like a blinding ray of sun piercing through rolling rain clouds. The words I had read on the paper echoed in my brain, awakening my mind with every repetition.
“None of this is real”
“None of this is real”
“None of this is real”
I quickly called to Jove, who stopped in the passage way (without reaction to my sudden alarmed state!) and regarded me with the same composed, professional manner. I did not give hims time to answer my call; I began instead to question him. I wanted the name of the master of the house, he could not clearly say. I asked how long he had been in service at the villa, he could not say. I prepared another question, but it was too late. An acrid, disgusting, foul taste materialized in my mouth and tongue. The tea! Blast it all to the 7 Hells!
to be continued….