The feet stood motionless outside the door, their elongated shadows creeping through the gap beneath it in the flickering lamplight. As Yvette debated whether to confront the intruder, the bed above her creaked with movement.
Meanwhile, Zott continued mimicking the deep breathing of sleep as his bare feet touched the floor. He moved mechanically to the writing desk, the scratch of his pen unnaturally loud in the silent room.
The episode lasted only long enough to scribble a few sentences before he returned to bed, carefully tucking something beneath his coat. Then he simply stood frozen by the bedside like a clockwork toy that had wound down.
So the threatening notes had come from his own sleepwalking self - likely connected to whatever lurked beyond the door.
But those bruises on his neck...
Suddenly, Yvette understood.
She peered out from beneath the bed to see Zott's hands clenched around his own throat, his engorged tongue protruding between blue lips, eyes rolled back until only the whites showed. The normally skittish young man who'd trembled at her ghost stories now presented a far more terrifying sight - one that would horrify him beyond consciousness if he could see himself.
Knowing she must act, Yvette produced a steel dart - a specialized projectile she'd commissioned from Malkin. Streamlined like a minnow and sharper than conventional ammunition, it didn't require gunpowder propulsion.
Her electromagnetic arrays launched the dart with bullet-like force. Estimating her target's height from the shoe shadows, she aimed for the right shoulder - enough to incapacitate without killing.
The dart pierced the door with a thunk, followed by a pained grunt outside. Simultaneously, Zott collapsed onto the bed like a marionette with cut strings.
Yvette exploded from hiding, kicking the door open with combat-trained precision. But the corridor stood empty - only discarded clothing and something resembling yellowed parchment skin remained where a man had stood moments before.
Among the garments lay a crude homemade doll, its crude stitching somehow sinister in context. Chestnut hairs entwined around its limbs - exactly matching Zott's distinctive locks.
Some form of fetish magic then.
Using coal tongs, Yvette deposited the doll in a hallway vase. Her experiences with Archdruid Kegan warned against hasty destruction of such charms. The clothes she burned outright - the ashes smelled of paper and cotton, not flesh.
Following bloody droplets (too perfectly spaced for accidental trailing), she tracked her quarry to a dead-end alley. There stood a masked figure in similar attire, lamp in hand, blood dripping from his sleeve.
"Money... for the doll..." he wheezed in a Liverpool accent, proffering a banknote roll. "Or remove the hair... before burning..."
Julie had mentioned her missing sweetheart came from Liverpool. Between the regional accent and apparent magical affliction, this had to be Chartres.
"Julie sends her regards," Yvette said.
The money scattered as he recoiled, his panicked flight cut short when injury felled him. Ripping away his mask revealed why he'd disappeared - his face had mutated into concentric folds of flesh radiating from his mouth like some nightmarish flower.
An Aberrant.
Revulsion warred with duty in Yvette's gut. As Secret Police, putting down this monster would be merciful - sparing Julie the truth while eliminating a threat. His continued humanity made the decision bitter.
Through the pain, Chartres had tried protecting Zott, even offering his life savings to ensure the doll's safe disposal. His instructions proved he still cared - removing the hair would nullify the curse.
"I can't let her see me... not like this," Chartres wept, shielding his ruined face.
Mastering her disgust, Yvette demanded, "How did this happen? You've stumbled into the shadow world - a place forbidden to mortals. Most who discover it don't survive the knowledge."
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"Does Julie know... what I've become?"
"No. She only knew you weren't dead. Now explain before I lose patience."
Perhaps it was Yvette’s friendship with Julie that disarmed Chatam. After gathering his thoughts, he began recounting his tale.
Initially, his story aligned with Julie’s. As a telegraph operator, his salary had once satisfied him—until he fell for a professor’s daughter. Suddenly, his earnings seemed pitifully inadequate to win her family’s approval. The promise of doubled wages in this remote town became irresistible.
Chatam was a man of science, his passions few but intense—especially when it came to ciphers. The more complex the code, the greater his fascination. Unlike the average person’s nosiness, he viewed codebreaking as intellectual sparring. The thrill lay not in uncovering secrets, but in outwitting the cipher itself.
Over the years, he’d decoded countless scandalous telegrams between aristocrats—flirtations cloaked in laughably simple ciphers. These he dismissed instantly. But the devious puzzles crafted by scholars? Those he treasured.
Then, two months ago, everything changed. A colleague from Berkshire began transmitting unusually slow telegrams. To seasoned telegraphists, sending speed revealed personality—Morse code’s clicks and holds were as distinctive as a pianist’s touch.
This sender? Chatam knew him well—a man who wouldn’t blink without compensation. Such meticulous transmissions meant one thing: a lavish tip.
At first glance, the telegram stood out. Vowel patterns alone screamed encryption. Like accountants spotting fake ledgers through digit distribution (courtesy of Benford’s Law—where ‘1’ leads 30.1% of numbers in real data), Chatam sensed an unprecedented cipher.
He copied it feverishly. The code proved monstrous. Nights became sleepless marathons, his landlord’s lamp oil depleting by the pint. Still, the cipher held.
Hope arrived weekly—new telegrams, same encryption. Comparing them, patterns emerged. Finally, the code broke.
Beneath lay whispers of bombs and bloodshed.
And one word, repeated: treasure. The sender promised its location post-crime.
Treasure.
Once, he’d have scoffed. Why risk his neck for dirty money?
Now? He was desperate. In England, no priest would marry them without parental blessing—unless they fled to Scotland’s Gretna Green. But Julie would be branded a harlot, severed from kin.
Then came a miracle. After the plot’s “D-Day,” all telegrams went unclaimed. Delivery boys returned fuming—no recipients meant no tips.
Had the scheme collapsed?
His pulse hammered as the final letter arrived—again, unopened.
Plan failed. Alive or dead, I honor my word: treasure awaits at our bank, safe deposit XXXX. Code…
Ecstatic, Chatam raced to the bank. Inside their designated strongbox sat a small locked case—its flimsy latch meant to deter clerks, not thieves.
His engineer’s fingers made short work of it.
Disappointment struck: not cash, but mildewed manuscripts.
Yet they, too, held secrets—dual scripts where one layer concealed truth. Reading them was like scales falling from his eyes.
“…Dream-things now live! How did I sleep among them? This path within me—lit by ten intersections—leads to God-shards stolen long ago. Each step lightning to my soul! You understand, yes?”
"Ten intersections..."
Yvette’s brow furrowed. The Ten Sephirot—known instinctively? Even she’d needed Ulysses’ guidance.
A knowledge-specialized Awakened?
HQ’s lorekeepers seldom fought—like the brain-eating linguist she’d slain, or Marcus the sentient-artifact-taming librarian.
“That shadow by Zote’s door—your creation? Ability or item?”
“Ability?” He blinked. “The books described flaying live skin for a ‘Second Skin.’ Flesh can shift between skins like liquid between vials.”
“Live skin? I burned it—it reeked of paper.” Her fingers twitched. Murder demanded execution.
“Oh.” He sighed. “Mine was wallpaper. The ritual—it’s about reenacting the mythic murder that birthed human wisdom. Gods died; we stole their minds. Sacrifices echo that first killing.”
His tone turned academic: “I simulated the ritual with serum-painted paper. The result? A passable double—if corpse-pale. Useful for nighttime errands.”
The Dead God...
Yvette remembered her dream—a mountain-sized deity consumed by its spawn. Once, the Alps were that primordial sea, the tomb of the fallen god.
Even now, the peaks' ancient sin twists men into ghouls. Did our forebears too steal power from elder gods?
The Church claims a loving God forged mankind, but its young creed mostly wards us from older, darker things. When explorers found new lands, scholars uncovered truths savage tribes had kept—how men feasted on gods’ flesh or stole their fire.
Folklorists call these the "Hainuwele" and "Prometheus" models. Both show gods hoard their gifts—blessing a hero is one thing; uplifting all mankind earns their wrath. Why else chain Prometheus or exile Adam?
Chatham's cursed book proved her theory.
But his "substitute sacrifice" shouldn't work.
Men mimic the old deicides—Dionysians eat the god-bull, Christians the Eucharist. But only feasting on true divinity ascends mortals. Human sacrifices spawn mere ghouls.
Druids once burned wicker men stuffed with prisoners. Their bloody rites worked, but modern Beltane dances around maypoles? Luck and prayer.
Yet Chatham’s wallpaper mimicked human skin. Does his gift bypass ritual costs?
"Why hunt the lost books? More rituals?"
"Just a cure! The text may only corrupt, but how climb back without seeing the pit?"
"Zott can't help—he only sold the ring. The books are gone."
Chatham bowed his head. "What's my sentence?"
Minor mutations like his could heal, but confinement meant years without freedom.
"Exile abroad, or stay imprisoned until you recover."
"Then prison! With your order's guidance?"
"Like schoolteachers—we speed the path."
His zeal surprised her. Julie's face flashed in her mind.
Later, waking Zott, she spun a tale:
"A cognition-ghost from the book wants to become Chatham. It needs you to believe its lie. Forget everything—don't even think his name."
Zott swore alcoholic amnesia.
Alone, Yvette drafted her report.
