by Nelson Rusk
He swore to all the other workers he heard voices coming from the depths of the underground. According to him, it was songs in a language he did not know. He thought it could be Latin since it resembled Sunday Mass. Foreman Martin would assure him that no one else was working in the basement. That no one had been there for years. No matter. He always returned from the basement telling such nonsense. The more time passed, the more Daniel seemed in a troubled state of mind, his emotions running wild and his imagination tormented.
You understand, he was from Saguenay, and his family still lived there. He had no one to confide in here, besides maybe me. And even then, I think he didn’t tell me everything. In the last days, his eyes had such a hidden depth I thought I’d drown in them, especially when he told me what he thought he’d heard. One night, he was certain to have heard a woman’s desperate screams, half choked by songs with a strange rhythm. He tried to find the source, but since he didn’t dare to go too far into the underground complex, he couldn’t. The howling eventually ceased, but the songs continued all night long. Of this, he was certain, since he’d stayed in the basement until well after his shift, sitting and listening in the dark to this music evoking other epochs and other customs. Times when religion involved the congregation of screaming, crazed revelers in the dead of the night, instead of the blessed and mute adoration of the Lord.
One day, in a state of near panic, he told me he'd discovered smoke curls in the depths of the subterranean passages, during a night in which he heard ominous singing. The smoke had a repulsive smell that didn't remind him of the burning of anything known. Due to a strange phenomenon, these volutes did not go up into the castle itself. This made him think there were other exits on the outside, from which this smoke could escape. These volutes seemed commonplace since he discovered by the light of his torch that a thick layer of soot covered the walls. Passing a finger on it removed a stratum of blackened mold about 1 cm thick, accumulated over years.
Shortly before he disappeared, he told me he thought he was followed. He didn't know by whom, but suspected someone from our craft and construction firm. He didn't want to tell me what his suspicions were before he had tangible proof. He said he was certain to hear furtive steps behind him when he came home, at the first blurry light of dawn. He lived in a slum in St. Roch.
His body wasn't in better health than his soul. His burned hand continued to make him suffer. Despite all the treatments of nurse Lefrançois, the wound was getting worse rather than better. It oozed a clear liquid, forcing him to change his bandage every day. He hardly slept at night and fell asleep at impromptu places during the day. He swore to me that, as soon as he had enough money, he'd go back to his family home. He even told his intentions to Foreman Martin. This made him furious since it's difficult to replace a welder on short notice. A mere day later, he disappeared. Some thought he'd returned to Saguenay, but the tenant of the apartment he lodged in contacted Mr. Martin to inquire about Daniel. His belongings remained in his room and his rent went unpaid. Mr. Martin had to pay it, since he'd vouched for Daniel, which did not increase his popularity.
I don’t think we'll find Daniel. Not alive, at least. Let me tell you that, since then, I’ve been avoiding the basement. I don’t know why, but if half of what Daniel told me is true, I'm right in not going down there. Mr. Martin is still looking for an apprentice who’s desperate enough for a job to work in this sordid place. No other employee wants to do the job, whatever people say regarding the truth in Daniel’s words. I don’t know what he may have seen on the night of his disappearance, but perhaps it is better for him to take it all to the grave.”
Throughout his monologue, I could picture the images that had passed in my head while reading the tale of Robert Muir. So many things seemed to match that it was impossible for me not to see a connection between the two. The nature of this connection, however, escaped me. How could a man who lived ninety years ago and another still alive a week ago have had similar experiences? I still had to read the end of Mr. Muir’s tale in the Château Saint-Louis. Perhaps then I could pull the thread to unravel this mystery, as unlikely as it seemed.
In light of these reflections grew in me the certainty I should explore the basement. The mystery surrounding what I had learned yesterday was too enormous for me to back down now. I realized at that moment, not without a certain fright, that I had made the conscious decision to pursue this matter until the end. It would have been a sin for an inquisitive mind such as mine to abandon this mystery without applying to it the full extent of my modest investigative talents. I asked Mr. Desmarais:
“Do you have any idea how to enter the basement of the castle? I saw a locked door near the staff room. Does this door lead to the underground passages?
Yes, it does. You'll need a key. Do you have one?
“No,” I replied laconically, letting show my strong desire to obtain one. The man hesitated before continuing. He must have concluded that the risks of helping me were minimal because he finally agreed:
“Okay. Take mine if you want, but be careful. Even ignoring what we discussed, the place is dangerous. There's been no maintenance of the underground for several decades. Be careful that you're not seen. I don’t think it would please Mr. Martin to see you walking around. And, if someone sees you... we don't know one another.
Of course,” I said with a knowing smile which faded away at the sight of Mr. Desmarais' impassive face. He was not joking and did not want to involve himself in this matter any further. Whatever he may have owed to Mr. Jacquard's memory, what he just confessed, as well as the key that will allow me to continue the investigations in his place, was the furthest he would go. I therefore reassured him again, nodding, “Okay. Count on me.”
With that, he shook my hand, solemnly, as if to seal forever in the past this brief shared moment of our respective lives, and then left my office. Left alone, I looked at the key, turning it in my hand. Seen through my mind's eye, it was not just a key but a portal to the past, opening Cyclopean doors to a reality unknown to all for almost a century. I was right to be excited about what was waiting for me there. Maybe nothing, and I would thank God for that if it were the case. But if from the dark depths of the past, hidden under the rubble of the Château Saint-Louis, and its modern successor, the remains of an ancient evil arose, would I have the courage to stand in the way? I did not know the answer to that question and discovering it was not the least of the reasons that drove me further in my plans.
Scares Under the Castle
Before beginning the exploration of the basement, I searched the tools Mr. Martin made available to me and found what I was looking for: an electric lamp. It was a heavy wooden box, with a lantern projecting a straight beam, connected to a battery with good autonomy. I silently thanked foreman Martin for not having skimped on the means when buying state-of-the-art equipment. I started for the door leading to the basement.
On the way, I met several workers. They looked away when they saw me, giving me the impression of being condemned to death on my ultimate walk. Was that the result of my altercation with the man in the staffroom? Or perhaps had Mr. Desmarais told some of his colleagues about his intention to reveal the details of Mr. Jacquard's story? It seemed unlikely, given how agitated he was when he met me, and how uncomfortable he was that others saw him in my presence.
I arrived at the heavy wooden door blocking access to the basement. I waited for a group of workers in the distance to scatter out of my sight, then took the key out of my pockets and inserted it into the lock. I had to apply all my strength on the key to activate the mechanism, which relaxed with a loud thud that made me wince. Nobody, however, was close enough to hear anything, due to the cacophony produced by the busy workers. I pulled on the thick oak door. I quickly crossed the threshold and made sure the lock could open from the other side. Since it was the case, I let the door close, plunging my surroundings in darkness. The sudden obscurity evoked in me a vague panic I had not expected. I tu
rned my lamp on without waiting, to both fight the darkness and quell my growing fear.
Right in front of me was a wooden staircase leading down. The coarsely plastered walls stood out from the quality of the old wing’s coverings. It was clear the basement was not an area accessible to visitors. I started down the steep slope. The staircase appeared of an abnormal length and went down two floors under the ground floor.
The steps led to a long corridor. The ceiling was low and cluttered with ducts, whose size made the place even more cramped. The humidity and the horrible stench that escaped from the punctured sewer pipes added to the unhealthy atmosphere of the basement. Undoubtedly, the welding work required in the underground passages involved repairing the many corroded and damaged pipes.
Fewer than ten meters ahead, I saw a door on my right. Danger signs showed that this was the electrical room of the building. I opened the door and looked inside from the door frame. A huge distribution box supplied the castle with electricity. Various engines lined up on one wall of the room, some in operation and emitting a deafening noise. A gigantic pump circulated the foul liquid through the pipes running in the entrails of the building. Nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, compared to the rest of the basement, this room was in a relatively good state. I did not linger there.
I continued my exploration of the corridor, which soon led to a junction. Deciding that it was better to explore the underground systematically, I continued straight on. Before long, I arrived at another branch of the same type, then another. The third time, however, I could not continue straight for over five meters before reaching a staircase like the one I had arrived from. I climbed to the top to make sure it returned to the ground floor of the castle. It led to a heavy metal door. I tried my key but could not unlock it. I returned downstairs.
Having explored the basement from one end to the other, I now wanted to check the lateral branches. I took the first branch to what was now my left. This time, the corridor was much less regular. At short intervals, doors stood on each side. Opening them systematically, I noticed that many led to storage rooms. Piles of furniture filled the rooms to the ceiling, like what I had seen in the tower last night. The nature of the furniture was eclectic, and it seemed to have been stored in a hurry. To my disappointment, the basement's ambient conditions ensured severe damage to any furniture left here for a long time.
At every four doors, I passed a branch going in all four directions. The underground was more extensive than I thought. Although gridded at right angles, the large number of branches and the absence of landmarks made orientation difficult. I noticed that the whole underground formed a square with, at its ends, stairs to a door leading to the ground floor. I tested the other two doors I encountered. Both were locked.
After delineating the outer range of the underground and finding nothing interesting, I explored toward the center. I noticed that the center of the basement, rather than comprising multiple rooms, comprised only a large one. Several doors led to it. I opened them but did not enter, preferring to explore around the perimeter of the room before venturing into it. I determined that the main chamber was about thirty meters in both directions.
When I was sure of having returned to my starting point, I chose a random door and entered the room. I tried to pierce the blackness with my lamp, but it was impossible to see more than a few feet away. The ceiling was slightly higher than in the corridors. I soon realized I was on a railing about two meters wide, looking down one floor. As far as I could see, the balustrade ran along the perimeter of the room. Nearby, a spiral staircase descended to the lower floor.
In the room floated a smoke cloud with a peculiar odor, resembling that emanating from the furniture of the Château Saint-Louis, but with an indeterminable difference. The bluish color of the volutes was unusual for the oil used in the castle’s lanterns. The smoke rose upward and remained trapped in the air pocket formed by the raised ceiling. Part of the poor visibility in the room was due to this smoke, whose provenance mystified me. Such a quantity of emanations should have alerted the chateau staff. Yet, if the smoke remained trapped here, only to escape later in thin whorls, it was possible it would not be detectable.
Eager to discover the cause of this phenomenon, I descended the spiral stairs. The metal frame of the balustrade resonated with each of my steps. Aware of the noise I was making, I tried to soften it by walking at a hushed pace. When I reached the lower floor, the smoke was so dense and suffocating that I had to breathe while covering my face with a fold of my jacket. Raising my lamp, I noticed the railing upstairs was no longer visible, so opaque was the veil covering my vision.
Piles of bricks and building materials littered the floor of the place. Various tools lay scattered, dilapidated and neglected. A layer of thick dust showed the equipment had lain unused for ages. The Château Frontenac’s proprietors appeared to store here the building materials for planned enlargements. The castle had already undergone several renovation phases despite its relatively young age.
Cautious, I went through the piles of material. These were arranged in no particular order, tight against each other. Their height sufficed to block the view. An electric nervousness grabbed me at each intersection. What did I expect to find, on the corner of a mound of material, meters below the earth, in the sepulchral darkness of these abandoned tunnels? I could not say. After a few minutes wandering through junk of little interest, I arrived at a clear spot a few meters wide.
On the floor, a square hatch of polished metal was carved in the stone. I went near it. The appearance of this hatch, from the finish of the metal to the style of the hinges, indicated an era prior to the construction of the Château Frontenac. A deep corrosion denatured the material, far beyond what was possible in a basement, suggesting the natural elements had attacked the hatch for years. A rundown padlock locked the metal plate on the floor. I could only open it a few inches, just enough for a thin volute of smoke to escape. The source of this smog seemed to be under the trap. I made a mental note of coming back equipped with a crowbar to break the padlock.
Looking around, I noticed that the floor housing the hatch contained bricks of a different era than those found in the rest of the underground. As I inspected the pavement, something so obvious I should have seen it before made its way into my mind, startling me: footprints covered the ground, disturbing the dust layer. To my neophyte eye, some seemed old, others fresh.
Taking care not to alter the tracks, I followed the most recent ones. They moved away from the hatch at a good speed. Going through the piles of stones, their rhythm accelerated until what seemed to have been a frantic race. Soon, I saw other tracks appear, coming from several directions. They met with the first set. There, multiple intermingled tracks suggested a fight. Bodies wriggling in the dust had created large shapes and silhouettes on the floor. The disposition of the tracks on the ground was too chaotic for me to know what happened to the opponents.
Although disturbing, these tracks proved nothing. I was getting up to return to the trap when I saw in the corner of my eye a shiny object on the ground, near to where the tracks converged. As I approached it, a slow shiver ran up my spine as I realized what it was and what it meant. There, behind the traces of struggle, hidden under planks, a welding torch rested on the ground, forgotten. I leaned over to pick it up. The tool, which connected to a heavy gas cylinder, was still in working order. I tested the trigger and a bluish flame came out, illuminating the darkness of its spectral aura.
The sound of an object falling about twenty meters from me interrupted my contemplation of the flame. I became alert, on the lookout for any suspicious noise. Motionless in the dark, I turned my lamp to the ground to prevent it from showing my presence. In vain. In the total darkness of the basement, I was a as easy to spot as a lighthouse. After a while hearing nothing else, I almost attributed the noise to a small animal or to a fortuitous event when another metallic clang resounded. Then another, and another. Footsteps. That got closer.
&n
bsp; I got up and took off in the direction opposite to the steps. I tried to be quiet, but had trouble doing so due to the jumble cluttering the way. I reached the opposite side from where I had entered the room. As I hoped, another spiral staircase rose to the balustrade. I climbed quickly, trying to ignore the noise I produced. I gradually lost all hold on my poise. I had wandered too long underground. The atmosphere of decay put my nerves to the test beyond my stamina. I tried not to speculate too much on the source of the sounds I heard, for the sake of my wavering mind.
As soon as I saw a door leading out of the room, I went through it. With all this wandering around, combined with my state of agitation, I had forgotten in what direction was the basement entrance from which I arrived. I tried to think about it in a hurry, but every thought was elusive and flew away as soon as my feverish mind tried to grasp it, like water slipping through the fingers of a thirsty man. I took the path that seemed most likely, uncertain about my choice. I ran as fast as I could, slowed down by the electric lamp and the welding torch I held with one hand each.
Gasping, I finally reached a corridor leading to a staircase. I sighed with relief when I saw on my left the door to the electric room. This door’s pattern was unique, which meant I made the right choice and was heading for the door through which I had entered. I climbed the stairs at full speed, slipping on a step and getting back up. Pulling the key out of my pockets, I thanked my good fortune while lighting the lock to unlock it. A mute, icy horror then landed on my soul, sinking its claws: someone had inserted a metal object in the lock and broken it there, preventing the insertion of my key.
The breath left my lungs all at once. I slumped on my knees against the door, panting. After superhuman efforts, I managed a respiration from the heavy air. Without conviction, I tested the handle. It was stuck. I thought of pounding the door hoping someone would answer, but I remembered the thick oak and the ambient noise on the other side. Nobody would hear. Also, it would have been impossible for me to knock on this door due to the total and oppressive silence. Nothing could convince me to break it. Unknown enemies had imprisoned me here.