The Serpent's Eye

by Brand, Thomas H.

  I felt an excitement at having these answers, but took my time ensuring everything was in its place before leaving. Despite my fears and growing paranoia, I had no wish for careless actions to catch me as they had before. I arranged each folder and ledger carefully until I could be sure no one could possibly tell I had been down there. It took some time, but eventually I was satisfied. I know they suspect me. I know they want me put away so I cannot solve this mystery. I will not let them catch me. Not this time.

  Before leaving, one last impulse took me. This might be my last change to access these documents. What if I needed to refer to Edgar's notes one last time. What clues might remain that I might now understand? I could not afford to wait so long again. Finding the small bound volume I took it from the shelf. I fancy the risk of someone looking for it in the future is small. None other than myself has seemed to take any interest in it before now.

  Emerging from the archives, I arranged my desk to give the appearance of my having worked late and then slipped from the office into the dark evening. A light snow had begun to fall, the first of the season. I hugged my coat about me. Eyes followed me as I walked. All along the way I felt the presence over my shoulder; a permanent and unwelcome companion that seemed to heighten the cold as I walked through the drifting snow. The chill seems starker and more full, and remains even though I am now indoors. Sitting close to the fire does nothing, which is simply another sign of my situation's preternaturality. What I lack is proof that can be shared with others.

  I cannot say for sure, but I feel as if the presence is changing; becoming stronger, somehow greater than it was. It almost feels closer to me. More focused. It is no longer a peripheral sensation. It is more now; a haunting spirit that follows me as if latched to my soul. This is good, I think. If I can grow to understand what it is, I can battle it. I am aware. No longer do I allow myself to waste my efforts in denying that which is so obvious. I am awake now to my dangers.

  I walk in a world set apart. I am alert to those things we ignore in our everyday, mundane lives. I look around me as I walk through the city streets and part of me wants to laugh. All these people with such narrow perceptions. So unaware of this larger existence. Just as I was. Happy to live with their own naive visions of life. I see so much more. I am witness to things they could not possibly comprehend even should I attempt to explain it to them.

  I am full of envy for those happy fools and their comforting ignorance.

  Saturday, 14th December 1816

  My dreams continue harsh and unwelcoming. The indistinct horrors that began to plague me so long ago grow firmer and more real with each passing night. I lie awake, fearful of sleep. I cannot stand the darkness, even for a moment. Even finding myself in the streets alone is enough now to bring about a rising panic within my chest. Living in solitude, with neither family nor companions to accompany me, I am wholly unable to end my habit of lighting lanterns around my room. I tried last night to make a stand against the horrors that seek to assail me. I was unable to bring myself to extinguish even one. I stood trembling before it for a full half hour, willing my arm to extinguish the gas. Nothing. The fear holds my soul fast and I can do nothing but seek more answers.

  Again I dreamt of that impossible corridor, its dimensions so unlike that of our own world. As I seem to both fall from and climb through its length, my senses reel. In the way of dreams, it is as if my nerves go beyond that which is human. Twice I seemed to be overtaken by something dark and... wrong. Each time I awoke coated in a sweat and charged with an overwhelming fear. Each time I would fall back to slumber only to be taken by the nightmares again.

  Monday, 16th December 1816

  Nothing was mentioned today about my expedition on Friday. I am sure my colleagues suspect me of something, yet still they do nothing. They watch me, leering with contempt each time I catch their eye. They mistrust me. Laugh at me. Judge me. I am certain they will turn on me if they discover my plans. Only of that can I be sure. I must be careful, lest they use this business to work against me.

  Wednesday, 18th December 1816

  Something is there. Something new to me. I can feel it balancing on the edge of perception. I know not what this is, but I am sure that it harbours no good intentions towards me. Someone knows of my venture into the archives last week. I am sure of it. They watch me, all of them. I can sense the thoughts behind those eyes. I have kept to myself these last few days, lest in some unguarded moment I give away some clue that shall lead them on to my plans. But still they watch. Still they wait. I begin to wonder if it is safe to continue working at Caine and Dennings. While this riddle remains unsolved I cannot allow any to oppose me. But then what if I need to learn more of Edgar, or any of his family? What then?

  Despite the time of year, I am uncomfortably warm. Where others bundle themselves against the cold, I sweat and chafe at my garments. It is as if some humid cloud hovers around me, perceptible only to myself. Is it some kind of manifestation of this unwelcome spirit? Some strange power it has to affect the world? I do not know. But it is a reminder that I must not dally in my quest to uncover its secret. The chill winter air is the only thing that refreshes me, but I am unable to bring myself to leave my windows open in my own rooms, and in the office none of the others will hear of it. I must suffer through it. I have no other choice.

  Thursday, 19th December 1816

  I dreamt again last night of the impossible tunnel. Once more it haunted my night and lingered long into the day. But it changes. Each time I dream, some subtle alteration is noticeable. Where before I was always alone, now someone is with me. I could not see them, but I am sure as certainty they were there. I feel as if each time I enter the dream I am somehow more physically part of it. More there. Each night feels more real, as if my physicality within the dream grows stronger and through this I am able to perceive more. I am terrified. This is no natural thing. If I leave this matter too long before solving it, might I one night find myself more there than here? Trapped forever within the nightmare?

  I am now certain someone within Caine and Dennings is working against me. I feel them staring at me as I work. I cannot catch them, but I know they watch me. I have kept to myself, speaking to no one for fear they might use my words against me. I keep a steady eye upon them all, trying to deduce which of them are conspiring so. Palin's eyes are on me always. Whenever I turn he is there. My guard has not been strong enough however, as it appears one of them has gotten behind my back. Today, Mr. Dennings, once my champion and mentor, took me aside and instructed me to return home. He told me he and Mr. Caine had become concerned with my appearance and general demeanour. He claims they fear I have been struck again by some winter illness. Someone has gotten to him. Was it Andrew Palin, dripping poison in his ear? I cannot be sure this late after the fact, but was it not Palin who discovered my action in the archives? Could that be it? After taking over my duties whilst I was in Argentina, did he decide on my downfall as his own path to advancement?

  If I could have called Mr. Dennings on this facade I would have, but I must keep up my pretences for a while longer. Each day I am closer, I know it. I am not ill, but cannot share this burden with anyone.

  Perhaps Dennings, and his partner Caine, being so long in the employ of the Leer family, know some fact about this business that I do not. This seems the most likely. Why else would they have sent me across the world on this wild chase? Why else could they be so easily turned against me? They know something! They must. The spirit hovers at my shoulder. Mocking me. How much it knows I cannot say, but I am convinced now it can perceive that which goes on around me.

  I must move now to deduce what I may. Soon I fear it shall be too late.

  Saturday, 21st December 1816

  It is nearly Christmas. The city moves and rumbles and goes on with the mundane existence it enjoys. Thousands of lives, all lived without any knowledge of the secret things happening in the world outside their own petty influences. Things they cannot see. Things they refu
se to see. Fools. Oh how I wish I was one of them, still able to accept that which I had been taught was true.

  I awoke yesterday morning once more sweating and tangled in my sheets, the horrors of the night refusing to fade from my mind. I must determine some way of obscuring these night-time visions, or else I fear for my sanity. My tortured nights have left me exhausted and I find it harder to think clearly with each passing day. This is becoming too much for me to take.

  Seeking more knowledge, I made my way to the nearby church. As always upon entering I felt a lessening of the insidious presence on my soul. Yet this effect seems weaker than it has been before. The sanctified ground of the church is becoming less of a shield. Instead of praying, as has been my habit, I sought out the priest, one Reverend Patterson; a rotund man whom I had seen lead service but never spoken to directly. As I approached him he seemed startled, but was gracious and welcoming; treating me with a courtesy that has been lacking from those I have encountered recently.

  I wished to discover from him more knowledge on spirits and hauntings, hoping as a man educated in theology he would know such things. I had to be vaguer than I would like. Were I too candid he would think me mad. Like the others who follow me. Without first understanding that which only I can understand, I worry none can help me. Instead I asked him simple questions, claiming an interest peaked by some overheard conversations. I added in a supposed worry for the soul of another, one whom I did not wish to mention by name for his own sake.

  Reverend Patterson seemed genuinely sympathetic to the tale I spun. There was still scepticism in his eyes, but he did not dismiss me outright. I am not a great storyteller, and he appeared to sense the hidden truths I would not speak of, though clearly he believed enough of my tale not to have me thrown from the church. He insisted he was not a man of great knowledge on this subject, having never made a particular study of it, but would give me what advice he could. He spoke of how those things that men called spirits are actually known to be devils; forces of Satan sent to tempt and torture the souls of the innocent. He gave me vague words on how heathens worship in foreign lands. When I pressed him on ways to combat such things, he could only provide me with vague platitudes concerning prayer and trusting to God. I have done both of these things. Neither have helped me. I have already determined that only by rational thought and examination can I be freed from the irrational. I asked of the practice of exorcisms, hoping for some practical ritual I might undertake, but was merely given more vagaries that betrayed his lack of knowledge.

  He now began to show signs of suspicion, and pressed me for more information on my situation. I should have known he would try to trick me. Even this priest thought to use my situation to his advantage.

  As we sat there on the hard wooden pew, the spirit, which for a short while had been pushed to the back of my mind, once again grew in power. Having built its strength against the sanctity of the location, it fell upon my mind afresh. I felt chills spread through my body. My skin became clammy. My head swam, the priest's words fading into the background. I felt powerless. A hand on my shoulder. No one there. I could not think. It was as if something reached inside of me and clenched a spectral fist around my mind, deadening the nerves and sinews that granted me the very power of reason.

  I vaguely remember staggering from the building. A panic had overtaken me. Never before had I felt its touch so strongly. It wanted me out of that church, and if I had not fled I do not know what may have happened. What did it mean? What does it mean? Did it sense my seeking a way to combat it, and so strike back at me? No. It cannot possibly have such focus. Can it? Could it truly possess such consciousness?

  The sensations did not leave me on escaping the church. I recall only blurred images. I ran. I was being chased by something. Fearing what would happen should I be caught I kept to crowds, heading for the busier part of town. I fought desperately for control of my own mind. Passers-by stood away, thinking me a madman. If only they knew the truth. My truth.

  I awoke in a gutter. Everything was a blur. I have no memory after my flight from the church. An empty gin pot lay by my hand and my head throbbed, so I must deduce that I drank myself into oblivion to seek escape.

  I have now managed to spend some time thinking over the events of yesterday. I must not let panic overcome me. Clearly this presence that has haunted me since Buenos Aries has some level of consciousness. It knew that within the church I sought knowledge I might use against it. The power it has over me leads me to the unavoidable conclusion that religious or spiritual remedies are of no avail. I must set my colours to the pursuit of reason. I must understand more of this thing. I must.

  One thing of note is I have no remembrance of dreaming last night. The gin put me in a state of total unconsciousness. No dreams came to me. Could this be my emancipation? I have ventured out and procured myself a small amount of gin. I hope it is of a better quality than last night's offering, or at least how I judge it from the taste within my mouth this morning. Perhaps a smaller amount might relax my brain and defend it from my nightmares without reaching the state that would render me ill.

  Sunday, 22nd December 1816

  I was wrong. Last night the nightmare came again. I did not drink enough. I awoke with my head free from gin's ill effects, but reeling from the unnatural burdens placed upon me by this affliction.

  Once more the dream has grown in detail and immersion. As I run through that stone passageway, the faces in the corners of my vision are now so much clearer, though gone when I turn to look. It was as if they run with me, or at times as if they were me. All of us running alone in that corridor, yet together. Most are unknown to me, but I am certain that once lady Maria's face sped past; thinner and looking more ill than when I met her, but yet almost certainly her. Another I believe was Edgar. I have never seen the image of his face in life, and there were no portraits of him at Parrel House, but I know it was him in my dream. There is a clear resemblance to Sebastian his son, but even without that familial look I would be sure of it. I cannot explain how or why.

  I feel my time is running out; the clearer these dreams become, the more I lose myself. I look over and over these notes but can see no link to the answers I seek.

  What do I know? Edgar knew something. I must find out what. And what he did discover in Egypt? All I can think of would be to enquire at the museum again. There was nothing in the files of Caine and Dennings, and I doubt the Leer family would be forthcoming with any of the information I need, even should they know.

  Yes. I must return to the museum and speak to Dr. Soll once more. Perhaps he can direct me to the knowledge I seek. I will go there on the morrow. This cursed ghost hovers at my shoulder, waiting. I must gather my wits. He does not have me yet!

  Monday, 23rd December 1816

  Last night the dream was not so strong, but reduced to the vague horrors I suffered previously. Strange how I now find this reassuring. The amount I drank was more than I had hoped would be necessary, but I will do whatever I must to combat these visions. I have procured more gin. If I must drink to sleep soundly, then drink I shall!

  My trip to the museum was less fruitful than I wished. The attempt was almost scuppered from the first, for as I arrived in the Egyptian chambers I discovered the mere sight of the artefacts was enough to send me into a rising panic. I nearly turned and ran, but managed to best my base fears and keep a hold of myself long enough to enter and seek out a curator.

  People know something. They edge away from me as they pass. I have noticed this before but in the museum it was obvious. Visitors backed away as I approached, looking at me fearfully. Do they know something of my intent? What rumour has been spread about me? The man at Caine and Dennings. Palin. Has he set about tales of my supposed madness? Must I endure these as well as my supernatural oppressor? The earthly realm conspiring with the spiritual to hasten my downfall?

  Finally locating someone to ask, I enquired after Dr. Soll only to be informed of his unavailability He has travelle
d to some university to give a lecture. My reaction to this news surprised even me, as an inexcusable rage rose up in my breast and I began shouting, slapping the wall hard with my fist in wild frustration. It took more than a moment before I could master myself. Fearing I would be asked to leave I begged forgiveness, citing a bad night's sleep and the disappointment of my thwarted plans. I was in luck, and the gentleman I spoke to was in a forgiving mood.

  Enquiring as to whether there was anyone I might speak to about an Egyptian expedition in 1804 or 1805, I was led aside to the corridor outside the main gallery where the curator asked me to wait. I found a seat and remained there for a maddening amount of time. I could not sit still. My agitations drew repeated glances from passers by. I felt sure he was not going to return, or would do so with a policeman and doctor to demand my incarceration. I fought to block these thoughts from my mind, to ignore the stares of those who passed me with mocking eyes.

  Almost without meaning to I found myself standing and wandering back into the room. I do not recall consciously making any such decision. It was as if some external force or call had struck me. I found myself once again surrounded by the captured and rescued artefacts of the ancient North Africans. This time I was not affected by the same feeling of panic as I had before, but instead a strange sense of familiarity. Where before they had been exotic and terrifying to me, suddenly they seemed as everyday as a kettle or ink pot.

  I walked as if in a trance. I made no conscious decisions as to my movements, but moved when and where the urge took me. I do not know how long I wandered that room, but in the end found myself facing a stout wooden cabinet. Under a glass lid sat a number of curious clay fragments and tools fashioned from some metal or other. These all surrounded the main exhibit for this case; a broach. It was about the size of my open palm. The metal was ancient and tarnished, but must once have been of great quality to have survived in such a remarkable condition after all these years. Its shape was of a serpent curved around itself. It had originally had gems inset for its eyes, but only one of these now remained; one solitary red stone staring up at me, while the other socket sat empty and dull. I could not look away. I know it regarded me. Not just faced me, but regarded me. I sensed something I cannot describe. Or is it that I will not? Even I do not know. All I can say is some fascination brought me to lean in until my face almost touched the glass. I felt the presence of the spirit that haunts me grow; spreading around me, surrounding me, infusing me.