“Can you open any of them?” said Stromany.
“I think we are safe to open the central cylinder,” I said, slowly drawing it up from its felt sheath, “but it may be dangerous to try the others.”
“Dangerous?” said Beatrice. “I thought they could only be opened on the right day. If you can’t open them, why would they be dangerous?”
I carefully examined the cylinder with the eyeglass. “Ancient civilizations counted their calendar months in divisions of thirty days, based on the lunar cycle. There are thirty-two compartments here, so unless one of them counts as an intercalation, two of them are most likely booby traps.”
“What would happen if you opened the wrong one?” Stromany asked.
“I have no idea, but I am hoping we won’t find out. If I’m correct, the answer to that should be inside this central cylinder.”
Stromany shifted in his seat. “And if it is not?”
I glanced at him, then held my breath as I flipped the cap from it. Pausing for only a moment to try to calm the beating of my heart, I slid my finger inside and was relieved to feel only the crinkle of paper. I pulled out two rolled sheets of paper, both covered in fine copper dust and tiny granules that glittered in the lamplight. I wondered what the tube originally contained. One sheet was a letter written by Hargraven, and the other showed a six-by-six grid, each square depicting a different moon phase.
“Here.” I pointed at one corner. “The picture shows this as a new moon, which means it must be day one.” I pointed at the opposite diagonal corner. “And this must be day thirty, a full moon.”
“But there is no moon outside,” said Stromany. “How can we know when to open any of these?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know yet, but I am hoping that somewhere in this house Hargraven has a clock that’s still working and will show us the date. Though we still need to know what the moon phase would be, because the day of the month will not necessarily match.”
“What about his letter?” Beatrice said. “What does it say?”
A loud crash followed by a series of stumbling, shuffling footsteps came from outside the drawing room. Stromany leapt from his chair.
“What was that?” Beatrice hissed and instantly clapped her hands to her lips.
Stromany stared intently at the doorway, fidgeting where he stood, as if uncertain whether to hold fast or rush to investigate. I remained rooted to my seat, paralyzed by uncertainty and icy adrenaline. A series of fears chased all other thoughts aside as the footsteps staggered away into silence: Perhaps one of the beasts had found its way into the school. It could even have been another survivor, delirious and afraid, looking for help. But one prevailing notion took precedence over all others: whatever or whoever this was, it was most likely the murderer who had so viciously taken the lives of those who had escaped the beasts. Hargraven, Nubbs, Elizabeth, and Breswick, all brutally slain by this cruel monster.
As the silence continued, we glanced at each other, uncertain what to do. Then Stromany voiced the thought I had been trying to suppress: “We must find him, together, before he tries to kill again.”
He glanced about the room, eventually setting eyes on the shovel he had dropped in the corner. He grabbed it and went to the door. “Now!” His expression had lost its composure in favor of rage or madness. Beatrice stood, and for the first time—most likely because she at last believed in Stromany’s innocence—she drew close to him. The dreamy look of confusion had returned to her face. Nervously watching Beatrice as I stood, I took the lamp, and the three of us left the drawing room.
Moon Box Segment Translation 24
Till flower blooms
The archaeological diary of Edward Cephas Hargraven
24th September 1891
Opening the box was a little anticlimactic. I do not know what I believed I would find. There was a moment when I expected some otherworldly mechanism to transport me to another realm, and I put this fantasy down to having heard too many of Haynes’s ravings. I had forgotten until this moment (for he relayed so many outlandish things to me while he was here) that he told me the Innominatum, the dark god of this city’s people, made use of blood to transport its prey to its dark abode. How exactly that was supposed to have worked, I have no idea, but he said that this was the reason why blood sacrifice was so prevalent in ancient human cultures. Blood connects, he said.
This is not to say that the contents of the box were of no fascination. It contains a six-by-six grid of compartments, with the central four combined into one larger compartment. Each compartment holds a tube, like a wooden vial, with a copper-colored cap. I tried to remove four or five of the caps but had no success. Only the central compartment seems to be accessible. It holds a small scroll with faded pictograms drawn in dark ink (more blood?).
It did not take long for us to understand what this is. It is a key to open the remaining vials. Like the inside of the box, the scroll is divided into a six-by-six grid. Each of the smaller squares bears a representation of what we believe to be the moon in its various phases, while the larger central square has a picture of the sun. Joseph believes that the corresponding vial will open on the relevant moon phase. Though I am skeptical that a primitive civilization could construct a mechanism to detect the phases of the moon, we need only wait for a cloudless night to test the theory and determine which vial we may first open.
25
We traversed the short distance from the drawing room to the colonnade that leads to the west wing foyer. At the end of the colonnade we found a small table had been overturned, and the three candles that had been set atop it were rolling on the floor. It was dark but for my lamp. I peered down the length of the colonnade behind us. The glare of the outside fires shining through the windows would have provided enough light to see the intruder, but there was no sign of him.
“He must have gone deeper into the west wing,” I said. “He may have entered any number of classrooms, including the laboratory. He could be anywhere.”
“We could lock him in the west wing,” Beatrice suggested.
“We have no key, remember? Our killer probably has that,” I said.
“We can barricade it,” she said.
I looked at Stromany, who seemed undecided. “It is three against one.”
“True,” I said, “but we don’t even know what we’re dealing with. We are assuming it to be a man, but it could be anything. We have seen many different kinds of beasts since all this began.”
We stood silently in the lobby. All candles in the west wing were extinguished—evidence of foul play—and only the subtle glow of mists seeping from Hargraven’s abandoned experiments in the laboratory provided any illumination. The lamp would help, but it was not enough to assuage the fear that we could be assaulted from one of the many dark corners if we chose to move deeper into the west wing.
Beatrice peered into the dark and took a step toward it. “Lucy? Is that you?”
I regarded Beatrice, concerned. “Let’s go back to the drawing room. I feel that we are being lured.”
Another loud crash startled us, but this time it was farther away and behind us, coming from the colonnade. I whirled around to see what it was. An arched window at the far end had been smashed by one of the beasts. Its gnarled head stretched through the opening, and I stared in horror as it writhed and squirmed to force the rest of its impossible torso through. Glass splintered and showered the flagstone floor as it thrust harder to gain entry, and then one skeletal arm reached in, clawing at the floor, wreathed in ribbons of fog and coppery fluids. Beatrice screamed and I felt her grasp my arm, pinching my bicep so hard I thought she would puncture my skin through my shirt. Stromany faced the other direction, stretching his lamp out, perhaps considering retreat into the darkness of the west wing, but it was the open door of the drawing room that tempted me.
I grasped Stromany’s arm. “No, George! Wait for the howl. The creature will leave. It must!”
Stromany turned, panicking, an
d the three of us watched in terror as the beast forced another arm through the window, trying to lever the lower half of its twisted body into the colonnade, and still there was no howl to turn it away. Seconds remained before it would be inside, and I knew we could not remain where we were. We had two choices: retreat into the darkness of the west wing and shut the door behind us, or make a dash for the drawing room. Assuming the beast would not charge the door to reach us, the first option would seal us in with the killer, but the second would leave us without any other exit once inside; the drawing room led nowhere else.
I do not know what power of reason drove me to my decision—perhaps the fear of our murderer held greater trepidation for me, or perhaps it was the fact that the Moon Box was still in the drawing room and held a faint hope for salvation; it may even have been the simple instinct of familiarity with that room and the light within—but I ran toward the drawing room, screaming for Stromany and Beatrice to follow. My head and heart hammered in complaint as I strained forward. I did not know if the others had followed—my attention was solely on the creature as its full bulk slid heavily to the floor. It floundered for a moment before rising to full height, setting its sights on me. As I reached the drawing room door, I dared to turn my head back to the west wing, desperately hoping that Stromany and Beatrice were with me, but only Stromany was there.
“Beatrice!” I cried. I heard the stamping claws of the beast rushing along the colonnade, but all I could see was Beatrice wandering deeper into the west wing. Even if she could be roused from whatever strange motivation possessed her, she would not reach us in time. I cried out again, but as Stromany’s strong arms pulled me inside the drawing room, I caught the echo of her tear-filled voice wailing for her daughter.
Stromany slammed the door closed, and at precisely the same moment that I roared out my grief at our separation from Beatrice, the howl shuddered the walls. The creature in the colonnade must have been turned away. I heard the fading sound of its claws confirm retreat, and I presumed that it had forced its way back through the window and into the grounds. But the damage had already been done, and I feared greatly for Beatrice.
Moon Box Segment Translation 25
White of bone surpass
The archaeological diary of Edward Cephas Hargraven
25th September 1891
Nonsense. Sheer nonsense. We need Haynes back. He is the only member of our team who can accurately translate the Kur’hukayian language. I picked up some of the basics from him before he left, but our translation has provided no enlightenment whatsoever. Four words.
“White of bone surpass.”
They are all that is contained on the piece of papyrus rolled up inside the vial. What wisdom could possibly be imparted from that combination of syllables? And why bother sealing it inside a vial that can be opened on only one day of a given month? It makes no logical sense at all. A terrible disappointment, but again, what was I expecting to find? Perhaps one of the other vials will contain something more interesting. Time will tell.
We will leave the day after tomorrow. After spending almost an entire month in this godforsaken city, with such gloom and foreboding smothering our investigations, the shores of England will be a most welcome sight.
26
It was with a heavy heart that I stepped back out of the drawing room with Stromany. We said nothing as we opened the door to the west wing and made our way forward. Stromany trembled as he held the lamp before us, and I relit each of the candles as we progressed along the corridor. We passed the laboratory, pausing briefly to peer inside for any signs that Beatrice was hiding silently within, but I doubted she would return there. Continuing on, we tried another door and checked inside. It was a small room containing nothing but filing cabinets and boxes. There was no sign of Beatrice.
Ten more steps took us to the door of Hargraven’s office. Stromany grasped my arm, motioning with his head to the floor of the corridor ahead. Droplets of fresh blood beckoned us like gory breadcrumbs, and I looked up at my companion. His face glistened with nervous perspiration, and the whites of his eyes shone with tears as he shook his head.
“Beatrice!” I cried.
There was no answer. I strained to listen but there were no sounds of struggle. With every passing second I felt the nausea of grisly expectation slither around my stomach. I closed my eyes as if in prayer, but nothing came. Hope had already been stripped from me and I did not know if I could find the courage to take one more step toward what I knew would be the scene of yet more unbearable carnage. But neither did I have the will to turn back. I remained rooted to the spot, tormented by an ever-growing sense of futility and a mind filled with grotesque imagery of Beatrice’s torn body, for I knew from that accursed verse it was her heart the murderer desired.
It was Stromany who moved, and I followed reluctantly. I knew this corridor well. It was lined with many doors, each with a classroom behind it. I had taught pupils in at least four of them. We opened each in turn, spending as little time as possible within each room. The darkness seemed all-consuming, swallowing our words when we called out for Beatrice. The dread was unbearable. Rivulets of sweat rolled down my spine, causing my shirt to cling cold and heavy against my back, and all I wanted was for this to end, yet I knew the conclusion of our search would bring the deepest sorrow.
When we reached the seventh door after turning left down an intersecting corridor, a noise stopped both of us cold. A wet crunch like breaking bones came from behind the door, and I could not stifle a gasping moan as I imagined murderous hands forcing Beatrice’s ribcage apart to reach the organ inside. My mind could not conceive of anything else as we stood there, and I knew from Stromany’s grief-stricken face that he imagined the same. His hand closed slowly around the door handle, trembling as he prepared to turn it, slippery, gripping harder. His breath came in hot, anxious gusts as he looked at me, searching my eyes for confirmation that he should go ahead and open it. I perceived he was desperate to escape the sight that could tip our minds over the edge, but he knew, as I did, that we could not simply walk away. It was not just the fear of seeing Beatrice dead that terrified us; we also feared the revelation of the murderer. To behold evil in the midst of terrible deeds was to be stripped of another layer of humanity and innocence, and I did not know if I could stand to lose what little I had remaining.
But with a single nod, I confirmed the decision to open the door.
Stromany waited as long as he dared, then turned the handle and pushed.
The door held fast. He pushed again, but it was clear that the door was either locked or barricaded. There seemed to be no point in calling for Beatrice again. I could summon no realistic scenario in my mind that would present her salvation. Stromany opened his mouth to speak, but another sound came from the room—a slow, ponderous footfall approaching the door. I stared at the door handle, breathless, unable to move. Stromany snatched his hand from it, and I watched as it moved ever so slightly, as if the presence on the other side was holding it in place. Then there was a thud on the door at head height and the sliding of skin on wood, and I pictured a man behind the door, pressing his ear against the panels, listening to us.
On impulse of either terror or anger, Stromany struck the door with the side of his fist, causing me to jump. After a moment, with the same heavy footsteps, whoever it was walked slowly away from the door, no doubt to return to their macabre work.
Stromany struck the door again and spoke out. “Whoever you are, I curse you, and I swear you will never leave this place alive.”
But there was no reply, and I took his arm, pulling him away from the door. “George. There’s nothing we can do.”
“There is,” he said. There was deadly menace in his lowered voice. “We have petrol. And we have a gap under the door. Stay here, I will get the cans. I will empty one into the room. I will light it. He will die.”
“I don’t think we should separate.”
“There is no danger here now. We have him trapped
.”
“And if the beasts come?”
His face twitched with nervous rage. “Let them come.”
“George”—I kept my tone calm and quiet—“you are letting your anger best you. I don’t think—”
“If we leave together, he will escape.”
I was not at all comfortable with starting a fire inside the school. Once it was started, how would we contain it? We did not know for certain Beatrice was inside, and although it seemed extremely unlikely to me that she would still be alive, a small part of me hoped that by some miracle, she could be saved. If I could buy some time, perhaps Stromany would have calmed enough to think more rationally.
“We can barricade the door to the west wing, just like Beatrice said earlier. He won’t get away.”
“But he could hide in any of these rooms if we leave him now.”
“Perhaps we could barricade this door,” I said. “Then we can go together.”
His eyes flicked from left to right, considering my suggestion, then slowly he nodded. “We can take desks from one of the other classrooms.”
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