by Nelson Rusk
This part of her story had plunged her into an abyss of remorse. This morbid emotion appeared on her face as if the devil possessed her. Tears ran unobstructed on her cheeks. Her voice shook, but through the power of her will, she kept it under control. I tried to comfort her, but suspected it was in vain:
“It's not your fault, Alise. You know you could do nothing against a group of presumably armed men. You made the right decision, to observe them and come tell me about them. I will do what I can to help Lucie. They brought her into that door you heard opening?” I asked as I put on my coat.
“No!” she cried, so loudly it startled me. “You can't go in there! I refuse to let you fall into their hands because of me!
Oh, I have no intention of being captured, don't be afraid Alise,” I replied with a feigned confidence. “But if they kidnapped this woman, someone must at least try to save her. And since I have as much faith in the police as Robert Muir did, I'm afraid I must go. Alone”, I insisted to make sure she did not propose the folly of accompanying me.
“I won’t be able to sleep knowing you’re in this dangerous venture. How will I know if something happened to you?” I thought for a moment, then suggested, uncertain:
“I suppose you could stay here in the meantime. I won't be long. Lie down on the bed if you want to rest.”
Without resisting, she heeded my advice and laid down on the bed. Her body was there, but I could see that her mind was elsewhere. The events she had witnessed tonight did not fit in with a sane world view, and she would need time to integrate them. Or not. Some things are so outside the common existence they remain in memory as a nucleus of unassimilated, vile, and corrupting matter, until death, the only deliverance, disperses them.
I meandered in the labyrinth of these dark thoughts for a moment. When I returned to the nonsensical reality, Alise had fallen in a light sleep on the bed. The last few days must have eroded her energy as much as they had mine. Without thinking, I approached her and brushed against her hair with my hand, not daring to touch it and contenting myself with haloing its outline in a single movement. She still sensed my hand and, with her eyes closed, grabbed it and held it against her cheek. We stayed in this position for some time, a moment which I cherish. Then, with slow and deliberate movements, I stepped back without waking her up. I put on my coat and grabbed an oil lantern. I gave Alise one last look and left the room, exchanging its familiar comfort for the uncertain future outside.
Cursed Hymns
The cold whipped my face as soon as I left the porch of the university building. I took the St. Jean street after the men Alise had followed. Looking up to the sky, a vision stopped me sharply. Vibrating in the nocturnal ether, a bluish circle appeared, irregular but distinct. Fear filled my chest again as this realization confirmed my instinctive fears about the recurrent nature of the phenomenon. The events that occurred during Robert Muir's time seemed destined to happen again now. Could I stop them, repel them for even just the passing of a generation, as my predecessor had done?
Going down the Côte du Palais, I arrived in sight of the Boswell brewery. I noticed lights in the basement, coming from the closed hatch. I walked along the cliff of the ramparts to my left, staying in the shadows as much as possible. As Alise had mentioned, the street lighting was terrible, making the task easy. At the bottom of the hill, I stood on the corner, hiding, and observed the foot of the cliff. About ten meters from me was a wooden frame, which seemed erected to carry out repairs on the ramparts. No other structure could accommodate the door that Alise thought she heard.
I crossed the distance separating me from the wooden structure at a run, fast but muffled. As soon as I reached it, I hid behind the board walls. Inside was a door, as I expected. It was out of sight from the street, making the area secret to anyone who did not enter the structure. I tested the door. It was not locked. I pulled it enough to get inside. Despite my precautions, the door made a loud squeak that, I hoped, remained confined inside the wooden frame.
As soon as I was in the dark tunnel, I lit my lantern, keeping the flame as low as possible. I had not told Alise about it, but I had a theory regarding these underground passages. The Boswell brewery was located almost directly on what was once the site of the multiple incarnations of the Intendant's Palace. It was therefore almost at the exact place where Robert Muir had entered the underground passages below Quebec City almost a century ago. If this were the case, there would be a spiral staircase leading to the upper levels shortly after the entrance.
After getting on my way, I thought I recognized elements I had read. And, as expected, about twenty meters inside the cliff, I reached the spiral staircase. I ascended it quickly. There, like Robert Muir, I heard songs in the distance. Their twisted rhythm and the assonant intonation of the vile participants filled my soul with an indefinite discomfort. The events of the last few days had left me permeable to these outpourings of senseless hatred I had not thought possible among my fellow human beings. Female screams interspersed the cursed melody at intervals, evoking the deepest horror and the most unbearable pain. Every scream pierced my mind like a knife cutting flesh. They were impossible to ignore. As no one was in sight, I continued forward.
I finally arrived at an old rotten oak door with rusty metal reinforcements. Although its old age was obvious, it did not seem breakable, at least not without making a racket. The songs came from the other side. I saw the scene in my head as I had read it. This door was the same one that blocked Robert Muir's passage. As soon as this thought entered my mind, its corollary became just as clear: the lateral passage that Mr. Muir had taken was perhaps still open.
According to his account, I remembered that the small passage was a few meters before the door. I therefore turned back for a short distance and saw in the wall to my right a section of one meter by one meter that had been filled with mortar. I noticed that the work had been sloppy, as the years had caused part of the structure to collapse. I made sure that no sound—apart from the delirious songs—came from the oak door. Then I sat on the floor and pressed my feet against the patched area. In silence, I pushed like a madman and applied forceful kicks. Rocks gave way inward, motivating me to redouble my efforts. After a minute of intense struggles, this not-so-ancient part of the wall collapsed.
Hurrying in case anyone came, I entered the passage. I picked up the stones that had fallen in the corridor to hide my work. Still, the hole in the wall was gaping. I would have to hope that no one noticed it. I went forward, crouching in the passage. Soon, I reached the probable location of the hole in the wall leading beyond the door. Mortar also sealed this opening. However, this time, the workers had done a quality job. A large stone embedded in the opening supported the mortar, making it difficult to break through. I tried the same technique to dislodge it. After several minutes of breathless effort, I had to reach the obvious conclusion: it would be impossible to break through this part of the wall without a heavy object and a lot of noise.
As I got back on my knees in the passage, an instinct of self-preservation awakened in me. Something had changed. I stood still, my senses on the lookout. The realization that the singing had stopped dawned on me. A total and frightful silence reigned. Perhaps it had been so for a long time, so focused was I on my task. Crawling quickly, I headed for the entrance to the passage, hoping to leave before anyone else emerged from the oak door.
It was too late. I was not halfway through when I heard voices from the corridor. An unspeakable dread took hold on me, and I closed my lantern, plunging myself into complete darkness. Only a faint light came from the entrance, projected by the lamp of a reveler. I approached the opening without making a sound to look at the intruders. In the corridor, a procession of men in red togas marched past, approaching from the oak door. They did not seem to be in the middle of a ritual. I heard many of their profane words, their voices mixing because of the echo.
“There is no better sacrifice than one in which the cries are many.”<
br />
“The Universal Destroyer will bathe us in His glory.”
“Flame and blood will be our reward when the Messenger’s plan comes to fruition.”
“The eternal blaze will cleanse the earth when our master's form is regenerated.”
These people were either under the influence of powerful drugs or their brains had been wiped clean until they forgot their own identity. Maybe it was a mixture of the two. I watched them walk past me with an expression of unspeakable disgust. Despite my anger, I remained hidden, having no chance against so many opponents. When they had all passed, I let go a sigh, thanking my luck that none of them paid attention to the hidden passage where I was.
After waiting a reasonable time for the men to be out of range, I was about to go back through the hole when I laid a hand on an object of a consistency different from the cold rock that surrounded me. In the darkness, I thought it was a fabric. Intrigued, I lit my lantern to observe. It took me a while to assimilate what I saw, but when I did, this unexpected find aroused my curiosity like a burning flame piercing the opaque darkness. A backpack. Not just any backpack: Robert Muir's, lost in these catacombs some ninety years ago. Eager, feverish, I almost tore the bag open, hoping to find the object that Officer Muir had hidden so many years ago. It was there. The unholy book used in a demonic ceremony, its condition preserved as if time had stopped since its loss. The followers must have thought Robert Muir stole the book from them and did not think to look for it right here under their noses!
The binding was of brown leather blackened by heat and fire. On the front plate had been burned the alchemical symbol of the cult, announcing the owners and presumed authors of the volume. Heavy plaques of a metal difficult to identify and covered with browned mold protected the corners of the binding. Several ridges of a strange cartilaginous material delimited the back of the book. Despite the small number of pages, the volume was thick and imposing, its form heavy with menace. Each sheet seemed soaked in a smooth and fragrant substance giving the paper a sheen that belied its antiquity. The writing was coarse, as if the pen used had been of an inappropriate size. Some pages included convoluted illustrations whose meaning I could not fathom. On the cover page was an inscription in Sanskrit, followed by its translation in Latin. My Sanskrit was not what it should have been, but I could translate the Latin by:
Ritual Hymns for the Annihilation of the World
Such a title did not promise an easy lecture, but it was consistent with what I knew about my enemies. This discovery alone justified my descent into these damned corridors. Putting the book back in the backpack, I threw it through the opening and then crawled in after it. I slipped the bag on my shoulders as I got up. I tested the oak door handle but was not surprised to find it locked. From what I had heard, it was unlikely that the woman, Lucie, would be alive. I made the sign of the cross with my hand. I had tried everything I could to save her, but the chances of finding her alive had been low from the beginning.
I headed toward the exit with a quick step. I could not believe my luck to have found the volume in the forgotten passage. Now was not the time to ruin everything by getting spotted. However, I saw no one on the way. When I arrived in front of the door leading out of the underground, I leaned my shoulder against it. I used minimal force to open it, taking care to make no noise. Unbeknownst to me, however, something pressed against the back of the door. An iron bar or a wooden beam, I did not have the time to see it. The object fell against the outer frame as I opened the door, producing a resonant thump which froze the blood in my veins. I could not return to the underground tunnels. It was a trap in which my opponents would have no problem tracking me down. I walked out the wooden structure, hoping to get away before anyone came to investigate the source of the noise.
As soon as I came out from under the scaffold, I looked toward the Boswell brewery. No one in sight, I thought with relief. As I continued to watch the hatch leading to the basement, my gaze settled on a shaded archway I had not seen before. A moonlit face hovered as if in thin air above a body draped in the same sinister gown. A face that looked at me. Surprised by this sudden appearance, I jumped, stopping in the middle of the street. There was no wind, no sound. Nobody moved. An inhuman scream resounded loud, tearing the silence. I had no time to determine its origin. I ran away at full speed in the St. Vallier street toward the port.
As I stumbled between parked cars and stands closed for the night, I looked behind me. My pursuer was after me. I was not a fast runner, nor did I have an infallible breath. The danger of the moment, however, gave me strength. I ran like I never thought I could. When I crossed the St. André street, my lungs were burning. My follower, taller and in better shape, was gaining ground on me. If it had not been for his loose gown hindering his movements, he would have caught up with me already.
St André street, circa 1900.
I had no plan or idea of how to get rid of my pursuer. My only aim was to survive second by second and minute by minute. I had passed the harbor district and arrived at the St. Roch market, close to the Louise basin, where only a few ships were moored in the icy water. During the day, the market was a very busy place where merchants sold their products to the always numerous passers-by. In the evening, the rows of stands remained there, in the darkness, protected by tarpaulins.
View of Quebec's harbor, circa 1890.
I rushed through the first row of stands in the market without stopping. I had to jump over the second row, which was more cramped. I could not cover the entire width of a stand with my jump and rolled to the side, letting myself fall in the next aisle. I did not know where my pursuer was. His robe limited his mobility between the stands and prevented him from walking through them. I crawled on my knees as fast as I could, avoiding showing my head above the merchandise that covered the tables.
Gasping, I traced my way through the kiosks, my heart near the breaking point but fearing too much the dire consequences of an encounter with the cultist to stop. I was getting closer and closer to the Louise basin, hoping to put the whole market between me and my enemy before fleeing under the cover of darkness.
I was in the last aisle before the basin when I spotted the cultist about ten meters away, zigzagging between the tables trying to find me. He seemed to have no fear of me since he was standing upright and in full view, knocking over stands to pass. Just as I thought darkness was my staunchest ally, I saw him executing complicated movements with his hands. I stopped moving to observe. His mouth was moving but I could not determine was he said. The strange gestures and postures he adopted lanced my skull with a sharp pain, which originated at the base of my forehead and went up to the top of my spine. This unpleasant feeling surprised me to such an extent I remained dazed and helpless while the man continued his unholy rites. When the incantation reached its peak, a bluish explosion appeared in his right hand, retracting into a golden flame lodged in his palm.
Bewitched by this phenomenon, either supernatural or carried out in such a way I ignored its mechanism, I could not break the inertia that had taken hold of me, whereas I should have sought immediate refuge. The light that the man shone in all directions hit me and he screamed with malicious rage. I could see his face, sewn with scars, but still human. His eyes hinted at a total and fanatical hatred. He charged toward me, smashing and knocking over tables. Horrified to see him make his way toward me, I backed away but the edge of the Louise basin and the cold waters of the St. Lawrence soon blocked my escape.
My pursuer had me trapped and at his mercy. Acting out of pure instinct, I untied my backpack and opened it, in search of some weapon. Robert Muir's crowbar! The cultist was coming at a run, covering the last few meters to reach me. Everything happened in an instant. I dropped the bag on the ground even as I was taking out the crowbar. With the same movement, I struck a direct blow to the head of the cultist who charged me straight on using his body as a ram. He hit me with force, pushing me to the side. My head smashed on the pavement. A flash of light
obliterated my vision, causing a sensory overload that subsided when a veil of opaque darkness covered it. After that, my memory is blank.
The Cult Strikes
Pain woke me up. Intense pain behind the skull, pulsating like a second heart. I passed my hand over it and felt a mass of dried blood. What had happened? I had trouble remembering the last events, and did not understand what could have caused me such an injury. A feeling of vertigo struck me when I realized that I was not in my bed. Lying on the frozen stone, I regained awareness of my environment. I felt the breeze of the St. Lawrence. The dark sky was clearing in the east. I sat down with a huge effort. I looked around me. The Louise basin. The St. Roch market. Robert Muir's backpack. When I saw that object, the thread of events flew back into my mind. Someone was chasing me. A flame in the night. He had charged me and I...
The overwhelming flood of memories jolted me. I looked behind me with eagerness. The Louise basin was quiet. Thick ice slabs were floating with the breeze. The silence prevailing over the bay was oppressive, making me envy the daylight and the usual human activity of the market. As I was inspecting the icy expanse, I saw a color that was striking compared to its surroundings on an iceberg near the wharf where I was, out of reach from the current. A rag of torn red fabric. Near it, crimson traces stained the virgin ice. I looked around but saw nothing more. Was that the fate of my pursuer? Had he sunk to the depths of the icy and deadly waters of the St. Lawrence? If so, it was ironic that someone whose destiny was so closely linked to fire ended his life embedded in ice. Without further clues, I had to settle for this explanation for now, perhaps forever. This did not reassure me. Still, under the circumstances, knowing I had escaped an atrocious death at the hands of my enemies, it was enough.