by Nelson Rusk
“I do not know when I will be back home, but this is the best place to meet me. I have a room at Laval University, Department of History. Number H-04. You will find it with no problem. But, again, do nothing that would draw attention to yourself. I do not want anything to happen to you. I'm the one who got us into this mess, let me take the risks.”
Despite the circumstances, a smile brightened her features, followed by a sudden laugh as if a dam had broken to free a raging river. For the first time since we had known each other, I saw the young woman under the cold exterior. Because of the last painful days, it was easy to forget there was something else out there but dark underground alleys, ritual sacrifices, and unexplained astrological phenomena. And yet, Alise's laughter, a necessary relaxation for the human mind in the face of a cruel world doomed to destruction, reminded me of everything I had been missing during the last difficult days: the heat of summer following winter, the hope that inevitably resurfaces like a phoenix from the ashes and, perhaps, a woman's natural beauty. If the universe harbors the horrors that my haggard mind has sensed, only pure, complete, and unrestrained beauty can reconcile man with his terrible plight on Earth. At this realization, I also let myself smile, feeling that in this powerful human act laid the salvation of my distressed soul.
“Forgive me, but you remind me of my father. He worried a lot when I began working here,” she added as if to justify herself, unaware of the obscure meanders in which this simple laugh had plunged me.
You do not need to apologize, Alise. To blame you for letting me enjoy the brightness of your laughter would be beyond my strength. Have you talked to your father about the events of the last few days?
No. He's...dead,” she said before shutting up, her smile fading from my sight like the sun behind clouds. “A work accident. He was a dock worker at the harbor. An equipment broke, knocking him out. He fell in the water and drowned.
I'm sorry, Alise,” I said, contrite to have darkened the atmosphere with such a mention.
“It's nothing, you couldn't have known. It's been three years already, so I learned to live with it. And yet, it still haunts my thoughts when I let them wander. He was afraid a million improbable things would happen to me. It seems that reality is worse than anything he could have imagined.
Your father is watching over you, Alise, and, like me, will not allow any harm to come to you. That being said, do not tempt fate. Join me at the university if necessary. And do me a favor: avoid Jean Beaumont for a few days. As a preventive measure.”
She did not answer but nodded an acknowledgement. Then we said goodbye and, in an apprehensive silence, she left, giving me a last look and a furtive smile before passing through the doorway. Unable to interpret the nature of this last gesture and unwilling to engage in what would be pure speculation, I sighed at the magnitude of the task before me. Alise gone, maintaining an appearance of courage became difficult, and black ideas preoccupied my mind.
In the Depths of the Past
I cleared my mind of the thoughts that bothered me. I wanted to spend part of the day searching the archives of Quebec City to find out what had happened to Robert Muir. Although each minute was counted due to my involvement in the affairs of the cult, this use of my time seemed necessary. Any information I could uncover about my enemies was valuable.
The best place for research that would bring me about ninety years earlier in the history of Quebec City was Quebec's City Hall. Although recently built in 1896, the building housed a large archive section established shortly after its construction. Its contents came from a multitude of sources and was a first attempt to centralize the colony's historically important documents. I had already used these archives for a project that required dating a series of buildings on Saint-Louis Street and estimating their historical value. Presenting my proof of identification from Laval University would be enough to get me into the building. I doubted that anyone would then inquire about my reasons for investigating the civil registers and death records.
I left my room and headed for the exit. As I did so, I walked past Mr. Martin’s office and looked in to see if someone had altered it during my absence. Unsurprisingly, the papers and cards on which the cultists wrote the vile message had disappeared. There was no trace of any threats made against Mr. Martin, except in my memories and those of Alise. It was unlikely that this cleaning was carried out last night, leaving only a small window of opportunity this morning. No doubt existed in my mind that workers bustling right now in the old wing had both written the message and started the fire. It would not be easy to know who.
I continued my way and greeted Mr. Roy, the appointed doorman, as I walked through the front door. The old man with the white hair and mustache, whose distinguished appearance and impeccable style reminded me of a bygone era, seemed to be permanently at his post. As he had called me by my name since my first visit, I thought it would be decent to return the favor. He had attended the inauguration of the Château and knew all its ins and outs. The day before, I had told him about the basement and asked him if he knew it well. I had gotten as an answer a frown and the statement that he avoided it as much as possible. I could not blame him for that but asked myself what this laconic response concealed.
Quebec's City Hall was only a two-minute walk from the Château Frontenac. It was a beautiful building with an eclectic style, typical of the late Victorian era. The architect of the building, Charles Baillargé, was a famous architect in Quebec City. He designed many administrative buildings in the second half of the 19th century. The site chosen for the City Hall had been vacant since the definitive demolition of the Jesuit College, nearly twenty years earlier, and was in the heart of the upper town.
Quebec's City Hall shortly after its construction, circa1897.
I entered the building through the main door, where many magistrates were already crowding in at this early hour. My civilian clothing detracted from my surroundings. I tried to compensate by affecting a confidence I did not feel in reality. I went to the reception desk, where a lady in her fifties gave me a cold welcome. Without looking up at me, she asked in a tone that did not admit frivolity: “How can I help you?
Isidore Roussin, from the history department of Laval University. I would like to use the municipal archives for a project to evaluate the architectural heritage on Saint-Louis Street,” I lied, giving the same reason I used a few months ago. Still looking down, she asked:
“You have the authorization of the rector of the department for that, I suppose? The Honorable Sir Hugh if I'm not mistaken.
Yes, of course,” I replied a little too quickly. At these words, she finally looked up at me, staring over her glasses. The moment lingered. I thanked God that this answer was just true enough so that the lie would not be evident in my eyes. She resumed after she had apparently passed her judgment:
“Very well, Mr. Roussin. Please take an identifier.” She waved at me toward a series of copper medallions engraved with an authorized access symbol. “I assume you know the rules?” she added with gravity.
I nodded. I grabbed a medallion and put it around my neck. Then I went down the stairs to the right of the office, sighing as soon as I got out of the receptionist's sight. The marble steps were steep and narrow, leading to the police archives in the first basement. Although the wealth of criminal and procedural information they contained would benefit my research, I could not access them without express authorization by the court. I dared not risk the exposure such a demand would entail. Continuing my descent, the stairwell narrowed down to the second basement. The light gradually dimmed as I went down into the depths, my steps resonating in the dark with a brief, dry sound.
When I arrived at the archives, the darkness was almost total. On the desk at the entrance was a lantern for visitors. I took it and fanned a flame. During my last visits, there was a clerk at this office. Considering the early hour, it seemed the post was unoccupied. It was not a very busy department. During
my research, it was a rare occurrence when I met over five people in a single day.
I went to the wing containing the civil registers and death records. The immensity of the basement made it difficult to find one's way around. As I walked, I observed around me the rows of documents succeeding one after the other. The space between each bookshelf was tight and irregular. In some places, the gap between the rows became so narrow that one had to walk sideways to get through. Clearly, the architects who designed the City Hall’s underground passages did not intend them to hold this much paperwork. No one had tidied up the archives during their transfer to the new building. Several documents were duplicates, others obsolete. It would be no easy task to find what I was looking for.
Civil registers and death records at Quebec’s City Hall.
The wing for the civil registers and death records was even less well maintained than the rest of the archives, due to its relative obsolescence. Who would need to dig into the deaths of past generations, besides a zealous historian? And yet, there I was, moving folders and files forgotten by all. I spent an hour locating the part of the archives dating back to the 1830s. These archives were in a dilapidated state. Most of the documents had been in the damp for one or more years, due to their curled and mold-stained condition.
The first sign of Robert Muir’s real existence was a military status list showing the assignment of Officer Muir to the 15th Quebec Regiment in 1931. He was part of a cohort from Aberdeen, Scotland. A civil register from the same year marked him as being 24 years old at the time, single. I obtained no further information about the man until February 18, 1834, when the governor’s troops arrested him in connection with the fire at the Château Saint-Louis. It seemed several sources of police information pointed in his direction, although I could not say for certain without looking at the police archives. Despite no one agreeing to testify against him, the court sentenced him to military imprisonment for a minimum of three years. He served this sentence in Halifax, where the Citadel housed a sizable garrison of British troops.
I was afraid then I could not find again the trace of Officer Muir. I continued my research all the same and was rewarded when I saw him reassigned to the Quebec Regiment during the riots and fighting related to the Patriot Rebellion in 1838. I presumed he was wounded while fighting near St. Eustache since he was among the wounded soldiers treated for long-term injuries at the Hôtel Dieu. The hospital released Muir in 1839. Shortly after, he received his honorable discharge from Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s army. Documents of the time did not specify why but I assumed his injury made him unfit to continue a military career.
In 1841, a marriage record indicated that Robert Muir married a 21-year-old woman named Marie McMurdo at the venerable age of 34. The corresponding marriage certificate cites the former Officer Muir as having become a blacksmith. Baptismal records show that the couple had four children: Aidan, William, Lorraine, and Rory, the latter born in 1850. Thereafter, very little information is available. Muir probably led a good life, although the records show no notable event. All I had to do was find the last major event in the man's life: his death.
I found nothing to this effect in the following decade. It was not until 1866, when I was considering the possibility that the family had moved from Quebec City, that I found several troubling documents. In May of that year, criminal investigators arrested Mr. Muir and questioned him regarding a recent murder case. A group of assailants had murdered the son of a high-status individual, whom the sources identified only by the surname of Howard. Witnesses mentioned Robert Muir as being part of this group. Once again, the police released Muir due to lack of evidence. It is strange to think a 59-year-old father could involve himself in the planned murder of this young man.
I continued my research in the criminal registers. I discovered many events that occurred during 1866 that led me to believe a sinister plot was going on in Quebec City. The number of murders in that summer was higher—and by far—than in any other year of the decade. The records show numerous arson attacks, recalling the events of 1834. As in the past, many citizens observed clouds of smoke emerging from inexplicable places on the Quebec City cliff. When dispatched to the scene, the fire brigade could not find a fire or source of fire and had to conclude that the alarms were false.
All this culminated in October 1866 when a gigantic inferno devoured much of the St. Roch and St. Sauveur districts. This fire, which the newspapers of the time referred to as the Great Quebec Fire, destroyed 2500 to 3000 buildings, reducing entire blocks into vast fields of uninhabitable ashes. The catastrophe threw about 20,000 people on the street and killed a number of citizens difficult to assess. The police department elaborated a partial list of the deaths based on the people who disappeared and left no trace.
It was by reading this list that an inexpressible fear crept in me like a specter lurking in the shadows. In fact, in the last half hour, I had done my research in a near state of shock, seeing the past catch up with Mr. Muir. A dark feeling had taken possession of me and, although I could not have said it in words, a part of me already foresaw where events were heading. When I looked at the names of Robert, Marie, Aidan, William, Lorraine and Rory Muir on the death list, an icy pressure manifested itself in my chest, as if an iron fist compressed my heart. Without being able to resist, I was brought back in memory to Mr. Muir's account in which he described the horrors he had witnessed. I had hoped to discover that Robert Muir had died in his sleep, leaving many descendants. It would have been a worthy end for the officer, whose heroic actions had remained hidden in the shadows. The reality was quite different and assailed my reason with its cruel irony.
As sweat beaded on my forehead, I continued to read the reports of the authorities on the fire. According to them, its source was the St. Roch district. From there, it spread with such fury that the fire chief assessed the use of an accelerant as likely. In some places, near the presumed origin of the fire, the investigators found nothing but severely charred bodies. The fire had been so fierce and the temperature so high that steel pillars and foundations had melted. This meant the fire had reached a higher combustion temperature than it should be possible under these conditions.
View of Quebec City's lower town following the 1866 fire.
There ended the stream of information available in the archives about this event, as the unfathomable and mysterious past reclaimed its rights. The only piece of information I still needed was Mr. Muir's final resting place. As I went through the records of the Quebec City cemeteries, I discovered the man and his family rested in the St. Matthew Anglican and Presbyterian cemetery on the St. John Street. They were among the last burials performed there as the cemetery reached its full capacity around that time. No expansion was possible due to the proximity of the surrounding urban environment.
I was in deep reflection, meditating on what I had just discovered, when I heard a noise. It came from one of the radial aisles projected from the central place where I was, an island of tables and chairs for research. I looked up, all my senses on alert. “Is anyone there?” I asked, uncertain. I had seen no one during the entire day in the underground archives.
Several seconds passed without a reply. Finally, a cavernous voice boomed: “Mr. Roussin. You are on a dangerous path, a path that can only have one way out.” The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once. Several times, I thought its source of origin changed location. I turned my head in all directions, frenetic, trying in vain to spot my interlocutor. “Many people have gone before you on this path. Fate has not been kind to them, as you may have noticed.” This sentence was too specific to be a coincidence. How could anyone know my motives here, except that I was being watched right now?
I got up, alarmed, leaving my research on the table. I had learned everything I needed, anyway. Grabbing my lantern, I turned in the general direction of the staircase leading to the ground floor. With all the confidence I could muster, I told my interlocutor: “I do not know who you are, but you will n
ot intimidate me. I come and go as I please. My motives are my own.”
Once again, flat silence followed my exclamation. Believing my message was understood, I had time to take a few steps toward the stairs before a hideous hollow laughter rang out. The laughter echoed like shots echoing from one end of the underground to the other. Standing still, I waved the lantern around me, trying to chase away the darkness. I saw or thought I saw a lone silhouette in an aisle. I went to investigate, eager to confront my attacker.
As I approached, I saw another figure in a contiguous alleyway, within reach of my lantern. The typical red toga of the cult covered the man’s body, exaggerating his size. His face remained hidden, but I had the impression he was the one who spoke. There was a foreign accent in the words that I could not identify: “The flame is such a beautiful thing, isn't it, Mr. Roussin?” At these words, he raised his hood, exposing a disfigured and inhuman face. A complete half of his features had melted and frozen into a shapeless mass of scars and blisters. The redness and oozing of the wounds implied a recent injury. “You recognize me, don't you? You reshaped me through fire. For that, I thank you.”
I required a moment to understand the meaning of his words. The answer was in his eyes. Even if one of them was closed by agglutinated flesh, I soon recognized the other as the one of my assailant in the castle’s basement. Distressed, I backed down. He burst out again with a slow sardonic laugh. "Fire is such a beautiful thing," he repeated. "It is a pity that man only realizes this when it goes extinct." With these words, I felt a freezing wind blowing on my lantern. Its flame disappeared at the same time as I lost all sensation of my hand. Weakened by the sudden and intense cold, I dropped the lantern. It burst on the ground. Darkness engulfed the whole underground complex.
To this day, I do not know why the sudden obscurity plunged me into such a dreadful terror. In silence, breathless, and with my heart pounding, I fled in the direction opposite to my assailant. The sound of his thundering laughter echoed and rang along the rows. My desperate run through the maze of darkness caused me to crash several times into objects, which I knocked over and sent to the ground. I kept looking behind me, filled with a crazed fear that my pursuer would catch up with me despite the speed with which I was navigating in the dark. My hysteria was such that, I could swear, if I had seen this hideous face again at that moment, illuminated by spectral and unreal light, I would have fainted immediately.