by C W Briar
Claude and I finally let go of the beast and examined our wounds. Our shirts bathed in our blood. His ashen cheeks puffed out as he held his breath and endured the pain.
I nudged his boot with mine. “You get the doctor,” I said, “and I’ll get the wine.”
POSTSCRIPT
Professor, it has been several weeks since you took over the research of Haughtogis Point. I wish to provide some closure with this letter, at least for the time being.
I am mostly healed of my injuries, though that has not stopped Emily, my betrothed, from fretting over every stitch. I cannot so much as ride my horse without her going into fits. I suppose this is partly my doing, what with exaggerating my pain for the sake of some added doting from her.
Based on a message I received yesterday, Claude is mending as well. The festering injury to his family’s name will take longer to heal, though.
Claude and Ida’s inheritance, both the house and the employees, suffered years of neglect under their grandfather. News about the creature could have incited a riot. Claude thanked me in his telegram for crediting him with capturing the so-called ghoul. My boasts about him greatly improved his reputation, and people who once avoided the young Ragistons now approach and greet them.
But more mending is needed. Before I left, I spoke with them at length about changing the way his managers operated the quarry, and I recommended Mr. Carter or my brothers as counsels. They agreed.
Of course, a heavy hand in business pales in comparison to transmuting human beings into monsters. Leonard Ragiston played his part in the experiments. He coordinated the mining of necessary resources like ruthenium, and he assisted in surgeries on multiple occasions. But the sins belonged chiefly to Charles Voor, who owned the laboratory and the knowledge of alchemy. The man was depravity incarnate.
What more can be said about Charles Voor besides that he was an evil lunatic of the highest order? He performed his “research”—normal people would call it torture—to develop enhancements for mankind and animals. He claimed in his journals he wished to develop cures for diseases, malformations, and other impediments in life. He somehow imagined his endeavors to be noble in spite of the revolting truth drooling and convulsing in front of him.
When I study Charles Voor’s writings, I recognize a man who gorged on his own lies until his soul choked on a bone. His musings about bettering humanity were rubbish. He dissected, stretched, and amputated boundaries of decency and morality for one raw, simple reason.
Because he could.
To justify his curiosities, he fitted and stacked questionable ideas until he constructed a worldview that reduced people to mere matter. I wish I could say his ideas died with him, but the writings reference a likeminded group known as the Chimera Society. There are other alchemists in this world. Unfortunately, the only one I can identify is Major General Ethan Hitchcock, who died in 1870.
I will continue to investigate this matter.
You probably heard the butler, Timothy Barron, passed away. Did you also know he, like Charles Voor and Leonard Ragiston, had a bead of silver, or rather ruthenium, buried in his chest? I never determined what measure of guilt he bore. Based on the notes, it seems Charles Voor did pretend to leave for Canada, then slipped away to the laboratory for a few weeks of uninterrupted work.
Timothy may not have known about the laboratory, the kidnapped children, or the experiments on the animals. He knew enough to feel guilty, though. He was the only member of the Voor house staff who moved to Haughtogis Point with Charles twenty years ago. Both men changed their names throughout the decades. And Timothy received the same blood-soaked ruthenium in his chest as the others. Its power had run dry by the time I arrived at his door, hence his illness.
I have not been able to calculate his or Charles Voor’s age, but both men lived for more than a century. May the worms find an appetite for those shriveled, old prunes.
I know you requested to read Mr. Voor’s writings for yourself. I am still undecided about whether to disclose them, to you or anyone. I trust you, Professor, but I worry that you or other researchers may be tempted to tinker with biological alchemy. The tug of curiosity would be fierce. Whoever started down that path would eventually cross their personal ethical boundaries with a few acrobatic leaps of logic.
For now, I am also keeping the creature in a quiet, secured place. Rose has grown quite protective of him. She demands I refer to him as “him,” not “it.” She will not allow him to be studied and dissected. She visits him and hums songs, and I confess, he seems to enjoy her company. Sadly, I doubt she can domesticate the creature enough for him to be released from his enclosure.
Charles Voor’s writings confirmed the creature and the thing locked up with the dog were the boy and girl who disappeared from the quarry three years ago. I wrestled with that knowledge for days before looking for the parents, all the while wondering if revealing the painful truth would be a mistake.
People remembered the children, but none could identify a single relative. That led me to believe Mr. Ragiston specifically chose orphans for the alchemical experiments. Fate poured too much cruelty into their young lives.
I conclude with a report on Rose. Her legs have healed splendidly, but she aches inside. She struggled for days after the case because the cruelty shown to the children and animals pierced uniquely tender parts of her heart. The pain drove her to oversee the creature’s recovery and to care for the dog we rescued from the Voor laboratory.
We of course had to amputate the human legs attached to the hound. Rose built a cart for it, and now it follows her around like a furry, two-legged wheelbarrow.
As for the other creations, I personally made sure all were completely dead, then buried them. Our little ghoul had managed to keep some alive with food and water, but none had much fight left in them.
Rose has been more willing to talk about the case of late. Recently while we sat feeding ducks by the river, I asked her what should be done about the creature.
“Keep him alive, and take good care of him,” she said.
“But he labors just to breathe, and his unnatural body aches.”
“As long as his humanity is in question, we must err on the side of caution. If we ignore the things that make him human just so our decision is easier, we become a small reflection of Mr. Voor.”
“Are you still getting nightmares?” I asked.
“On some nights.” She threw a handful of breadcrumbs into the crowd of ducks. They beat their wings and raced for the largest pieces. “I’ll sleep better when I can forgive him.”
“Forgive who?”
“Mr. Voor.”
“You don’t need to forgive him. He’s dead, nor does he deserve it.”
“Mother superior used to say forgiveness is soap for the soul. I want the memory scrubbed away.”
I tousled her hair. “You will be fine. Time heals.”
“So does wine, correct?”
I bit my lip and sighed. “Not as well as you think. It disappoints me to know you want to forgive him. I hoped you would stay angry enough to help me hunt down his friends in the Chimera Society.”
Rose stared at me with her unique, emotionless expression. “Why should forgiveness stop me from helping? I want to catch every one of those villains, Mr. Wells. I want alchemy to become myth again.”
“That’s good to hear. Without you, I would need to hire on James as my apprentice.”
She smiled. “You are too hard on the boy. Stop blaming him just because you were too slow to avoid getting bitten.”
“You’re right.” She so often is.
I will soon be healed enough for new work. My next hunt will not be for monsters but for the society that creates them.
So tell me, Professor, do you have leads on any other cases that might involve alchemy?
Wrong Number
Jordan tipped back his water bottle and guzzled every drop. His legs burned as he trudged up his apartment building’s steps. A training run
shouldn’t have exhausted him this close to a race, but was the setback all that surprising? Idling away a month’s free time was a terrible way to prepare for a half-marathon. Unless his stamina rebounded over the next two weeks, he had no hope of winning.
The wood-paneled hallway at the top of the stairs seemed twice as long as before his run. He plodded to his door, wrestled with the doorknob to get his key to turn, and entered his sparsely furnished apartment.
On the way to his bedroom, he found his Aussie roommate, Pete Miller, seated at the table in the kitchen. He was slumped over his smartphone. The device’s glow highlighted the bags under his eyes and three days of stubble growth on his chin.
They’d been friends since Pete moved to the States with his family in tenth grade. They attended college together, pledged to the same fraternity, and fought side-by-side in two separate fistfights, both of which Pete had provoked. In all those years, Jordan had never seen him look as distraught as he did that morning.
Through heaving, post-run breaths, Jordan said, “I should’ve started training sooner.”
Pete didn’t answer. He dragged his finger over the phone’s screen, panning through a list of text messages.
“Jeesh, you look more tired than me. Did you go out last night?”
It wouldn’t have surprised him. It had been Friday night after all, and over the last few weeks, Pete had begun frequenting bars again. Finally. He seemed to be coming out of the funk that settled over him after his girlfriend, Courtney, left him.
Jordan waited a moment for Pete to respond. His roommate closed the text messages and opened his pictures. What’s up with him?
Louder, he said, “Hey, Pete? I’m back from my run.”
Pete blinked repeatedly at Jordan before showing any recognition. “How was it?”
“Terrible. Thirty-eight seconds slower than Thursday. What’s up with you this morning?”
“Nothing. Just … some bad news is all.”
“What happened?” Jordan’s already racing heart added a nervous beat. “Did someone pass away?”
“It’s a family thing. Nobody you know.”
“Are you gonna be all right?” Jordan asked.
“I’m fine,” Pete insisted to no one in particular.
“Yeah? Well, EMTs also tell trauma patients they’re ‘fine’ while they bleed out.”
Pete stood and walked away. He held the phone close to his body and out of Jordan’s sight as he scanned through it.
“Don’t take up the bathroom. I need to wash.”
Jordan huddled for a long time under the shower’s weak stream. He paused repeatedly while scrubbing, unable to move on from the look he had seen on Pete’s face. His eyes had been so intense. What could have put his friend into such a state of—what kind of state was he in? Depression? Shock?
And what’s with being secretive all of a sudden?
The situation was unclear, but his response was not. Pete clearly needed help, regardless of what he said. Plus, Jordan needed to redeem himself. He hadn’t exactly been supportive when Pete’s relationship with Courtney broke down.
After dressing in shorts and a casual button-down shirt, Jordan sought out his roommate. He was sitting at the end of his bed, staring at his phone as if waiting for it to cure whatever ailed him.
Jordan knocked on the open bedroom door. “Hey, you wanna head out to get some fresh air and lunch? It’s my first Saturday not on call in a long time.”
Pete looked up and licked his lips. “I guess I could.” His muttered tone strengthened his accent.
“Just tell me, man. Did something happen to a distant relative, like a grandparent or cousin? Do you need to fly back home?”
“No. Nobody died.” Pete checked the phone once more, then pocketed it.
“Courtney giving you a hard time?” Jordan’s lips puckered toward the end of the failed, stupid joke, but there was no taking it back. He tried to salvage it with an awkward grin.
Pete sucked in half a breath and said a drawn-out “No.” He blinked rapidly. “It’s not Courtney.”
Did he just lie? Jordan couldn’t tell. Regardless, he swallowed a pang of guilt.
“I’m going to shower, too. Can you give me a few minutes?”
“Sure.” He watched to see if Pete would leave his phone on the charger or someplace else where Jordan could peek at it. Unfortunately, Pete kept it in his pocket when he stepped into the bathroom and shut the door.
He emerged from his room ten minutes later, dressed and wearing sunglasses. His blond hair was still damp. He looked refreshed, both mentally and physically.
“You ready to go, mate?
“I was waiting on you.” Jordan slid off the counter he was sitting on. “Want to go to She-Brew’s?” It was a bit early for drinking, and She-Brew’s Tavern wouldn’t open for another fifteen minutes, but they both could use a bigger distraction than coffee.
“No, let’s go out and get some sun. But can we swing by my parents’ place first to pick something up?”
“They’re all the way out in Westfield. We’d have to take my car.”
Pete shrugged. “Do you mind?”
Jordan sighed and picked up his keys. I owe it to him. “Fine.”
The half-hour drive was a quiet one, not including the country music. Pete usually changed the radio to a different station—any other station—but not that day. Instead, he maintained a silent watch over his phone, opening the frequent text messages as they appeared.
Jordan tried to kindle conversation. He brought up topics like Australian Rules Football and Pete’s job at the bank, but every response was briefer than the incessant phone vibrations. His concern grew. Lacking an explanation for their bizarre morning, he imagined them on his own. Drug problem? Gambling debt?
“Who’s texting you so often?” Jordan asked.
Pete angled the screen away from him. “It’s nobody you know.”
“Okay, but how do you know them? Is it family or someone from work?” Jordan elbowed Pete’s bicep. “A new girlfriend, maybe?” That would certainly help him move on.
“It’s hard to explain, and it’s a bit of a personal matter.” Pete’s phone illuminated with another new message. He flicked his hand over the glass.
Jordan couldn’t steal a glance at the text, but he could see behind Pete’s shades. His roommate’s eyes repeatedly widened and narrowed.
He parked in front of the Millers’ home, a white split-level surrounded by three broad oak trees. One or both of Pete’s parents were likely away, given that their blue Mazda was missing from the driveway.
Pete climbed out. “I’ll be right back.”
“Do you want me to wait here?”
“Yeah.” He shoved the car door shut and jogged across the groomed yard.
He’d left his phone in the cup holder.
Jordan glanced up three times at Pete, making sure he wasn’t turning back to get it. As soon as Pete unlocked the front door and entered the house, Jordan turned the phone toward himself.
The phone shivered like a startled animal, and he recoiled. It had vibrated with another new message. The wallpaper image, a selfie of Pete, Courtney, and Jordan at Myrtle Beach, glowed on the screen.
Should I check it? He tensed at the thought of snooping, but it felt like he was being dragged into something serious. Pete was a great guy but not immune to bad decisions. He could be a reactive hothead. Maybe he ticked off the wrong kind of people when he went out to a bar or club. Maybe he slept with someone’s girlfriend.
Courtney. The hidden text conversation might involve her, in spite of him insisting otherwise. His earlier reactions to her name suggested that was a possibility. But that ship had sailed, and she was not the kind of spiteful person to dig into someone else’s wounds, unless—
No, she wouldn’t have mentioned what Jordan did, would she? It might explain why Pete was being so elusive, but what gain would there be in that?
A door slammed. Jordan looked up with a gasp. The soun
d came from two houses down the street. A woman in heels was hurrying to her car.
Jordan’s heart was racing.
He checked the Millers’ house again. The door remained closed, and Pete was nowhere in sight.
The phone awoke when he picked it up. The message alert hovered near the top, taunting him from above the nine dots on the unlock screen. He would need to draw the correct pattern to access the messages. Jordan thought back on the times he’d seen Pete connecting dots with his thumb—a vertical line with a hook to the left.
He swiped through the center dots and veered to the upper-left corner. Nothing. The attempt had failed.
After another quick glance at the house, Jordan tried a similar pattern, then a third. None of them worked. How many times can I try before it locks me out?
Finally, he swiped up the right side and back to the center. A dozen app icons appeared.
He was in.
He went immediately to the messages. The latest one had come from someone not saved on Pete’s contact list. 686-3223. The number looked familiar, and it had a local area code, but the name was missing. The anonymity of the sender amplified the creepiness of the text. He felt a sudden chill, as if an arctic wind had blown through the car.
“ARE YOU AFRAID OF WHAT I’LL DO?????????”
Jordan shivered at what he read. Was it a warning? A taunt? Scrolling up, he found equally disturbing messages without any replies from Pete.
“WHAT’S WORSE? TELLING EVERYONE MY SECRET OR TELLING NO ONE?”
“ARE YOU SURE YOU KNOW WHERE I AM? SOMEONE ELSE DOES.”
“ISN’T IT?”
“IT’S KILLING YOU NOT KNOWING, ISN’T IT?”
This is some seriously messed-up psycho business.
Something moved in the corner of Jordan’s eye. He spotted Pete sprinting toward him in the rearview mirror. His roommate had come around the side of the house.
Jordan hurriedly shut off the phone and dropped it in the cup holder, hoping he hadn’t been caught.