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Moonlight (Worm/Bloodborne)
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Introduction
This is a dedicated thread for my current project for National Novel Writing Month. It's a Worm/Bloodborne crossover I've been mulling over for some time now.
Elevator pitch: Taylor was always a sickly child, and the Locker seems to have done a severe hit to her constitution. The Doctors and Panacea can't quite figure out what's wrong, and time is running out. Danny goes digging into Annette's family history looking for a miracle, leading him to the isolated, near mythical city of Yharnam. Themes include blood, horror, paternal insecurities and anxieties, blood, death, dreams, and more blood. This story's format will primarily consist of journal entries and similar framing devices, drawing inspiration from classic horror novels such as Dracula.
As a National Novel Writing Month project, my primary goal here is to write every day and try to push out a completed story. Consequently, it is probably going to seem rushed and not well thought out, because it's going to be rushed and not well thought out. As such, feel free to point out plot holes, errors, continuity issues, and make any other criticisms as you see fit, which I'll take into account. Just understand I'll most likely revisit the problem areas in a rewrite or something, unless it's something I can try and fix with an update.
Elevator pitch: Taylor was always a sickly child, and the Locker seems to have done a severe hit to her constitution. The Doctors and Panacea can't quite figure out what's wrong, and time is running out. Danny goes digging into Annette's family history looking for a miracle, leading him to the isolated, near mythical city of Yharnam. Themes include blood, horror, paternal insecurities and anxieties, blood, death, dreams, and more blood. This story's format will primarily consist of journal entries and similar framing devices, drawing inspiration from classic horror novels such as Dracula.
As a National Novel Writing Month project, my primary goal here is to write every day and try to push out a completed story. Consequently, it is probably going to seem rushed and not well thought out, because it's going to be rushed and not well thought out. As such, feel free to point out plot holes, errors, continuity issues, and make any other criticisms as you see fit, which I'll take into account. Just understand I'll most likely revisit the problem areas in a rewrite or something, unless it's something I can try and fix with an update.
Chapter 1
Moonlight
From the Journal of Daniel Hebert
January 4th, 2011
Annette always encouraged me to write. Not necessarily write specifically, but do something to vent my emotions. Before we married, I swore I would never lose my temper in front of my family. Not like my old man did. Annette was always perceptive, so she knew even though I tried to keep it contained that I had a temper seething in my blood. She understood, though, and just told me to find someone to talk to, or something like this journal, if I couldn't talk to her. So here I am.
I'm so sorry, Annette. I've fucked things up. Again. Taylor was always sickly. Ever since you died, she's just grown worse and worse, and her health took a nose dive just before she started high school. Scared the shit out of me when she fainted in the kitchen and I caught her before she broke her skull on the floor. I took her in to see doctors, and eventually they pegged it as some kind of "hemolytic anemia." Bottom line is there's something wrong with her blood, doesn't last as long as it should, doesn't work as well as it should, and it isn't replenishing itself as well either. They say it's probably genetic, but it's not like anything I've ever heard of. I tried writing your mother, but that went about as well as you can imagine. Best option they could give us was some dietary supplements and blood transfusions if things worsened. The dietary supplements helped, for a while, but I knew something was bothering her at school. I tried to ask, but when I pushed she just brushed me off and hid away in her room. She's too much like me that way. She started looking better by the end of the semester, had more color in her face, more energy. But then it all went wrong.
Whoever's been bullying her stuffed our baby girl in her locker yesterday, filled with festering garbage. From the sounds of it, they had left it there for all of winter break, and whatever diseases and infections it was carrying hit her constitution hard. She won't wake up, her pulse is barely there, and she's paler than ever. Her hair used to look like moonlight, just like yours, now it just looks like a ghost's. Our daughter looks like a God damned ghost. They're doing blood work now, but their prognosis so far isn't optimistic.
It's the blood, always has been. Yours, or mine, or ours together, I don't know. The doctors don't know either. I nearly got myself kicked out when I started shouting and howling at the doctor assigned to her case. They're doctors, how can they not know? This is their job! But protecting her in the first place was my job, and look how that turned out.
(Coffee stains and smudges)
I haven't slept since yesterday. Visiting hours are over, they forced me out and now I'm waiting here at the house. It feels emptier than ever. I can't sleep. I don't want to sleep. I don't want to face you in my dreams.
I'm going to try calling Alan in the morning. Maybe Emma knows something.
January 5th, 2011
Emma knows something, but she isn't talking. She says she and Taylor haven't been hanging out lately. That something's been bothering her, making her retreat in on herself. She said she was worried it might have been drugs or something, and that's why her health took a turn for the worse. Said she was just never the same since you died.
It was all I could do not to throttle her right there. Our daughter is not on drugs, the blood work would have said something about that I'm sure, and if Emma was really worried about that, she should have fucking told me something. Alan asked me to leave. Well. More like he told me to leave before I did something everyone would regret. Recommended I get some sleep, take some time off work. As if I wasn't already, that pompous shit.
I'm sitting with Taylor now, watching her sleep. I can barely see her breathing. If it weren't for the monitors, I'd think she was dead. It's all like a nightmare, the kind that just won't end, the kind that digs deep.
Still haven't slept. I'm running off coffee and nerves. One of the nurses subtly offered me a sedative. I turned her down.
Got in touch with the police. Their investigation isn't going well. Nobody's come forward about it. Not the other students, not the staff, nobody. They're saying it's a prank gone wrong. As if this was a whoopee cushion or a joy buzzer. I got in touch with the Association's lawyer, and he's putting together something to put the squeeze on Winslow.
Like it matters. Taylor's got a foot in the grave and none of this will mean a damn thing if the doctors can't fix what's wrong. They're still running tests, talking about bringing in different specialists. I've asked about Panacea. I never followed the cape scene much, even after you passed, but you can't swing a cat in this town without hitting something cape related, so I knew the basics. New Wave's odd duck, able to heal people with a touch rather than the flying light shows the rest of her family are. Volunteers at the hospitals and attracts some medical tourism, since she's supposed to be able to fix anything, so long as it's not in the brain.
She's a busy girl, apparently, which makes a sad amount of sense in this town. The doctors couldn't guarantee anything, but gave me Carol "Brandish" Dallon's number. I guess she manages requests, sometimes. Fingers crossed.
I love you.
January 6th, 2011
No word yet from Dallon. Turns out the number was for a secretary or something at her law office. She didn't give me any guarantees but promised she'd try to get back to me as soon as she could. I want to call again, rattle her cage, but I know that won't exactly endear me to her. And I'm a begging man, here. So I'm just pacing in my own cage here.
Taylor's still the same, just this side of the veil. Her hands are so cold in mine. I can't take losing her, Annette, not after losing you. You left a hole in my heart, one that's never healed. She'll leave a hole in place of it, and I think it'll only get bigger until there's nothing left of me. She's all I have left. All I have left of you, the last good thing I have in this world. I remember we talked about letting her skip a grade. I wish I'd just let that happen. Maybe then this wouldn't have happened.
I have to go for now. Nurse tells me visiting hours are closing, and no so subtly implied I need a shower. And a shave. And some sleep. She might be right.
I love you.
January 9th, 2011
I fucked up again.
Let me start at the beginning. I went home like I said, even managed to get some sleep with some of Jack Daniel's help. I dreamed of you and Taylor. And losing you all over again. Once I was awake and feeling human again I got cleaned up, and on the way out of the shower I stopped by Taylor's room. I honestly don't even remember the last time I checked it. Felt like I was invading her space. It wasn't my place to go through her things, to tidy up, tell her she needed to keep it in order. Not that we needed to. Everything was just fine. Just empty and cold and dark, and without our daughter in it, reading one of your books, or practicing on your flute, or being small and young and starry eyed at the cape merchandise on the walls.
I sat on her bed for a while, wishing you were both with me. Then I started going through her things. I'm not sure why, really. I guess I was just looking for answers. Well, I found them.
Taylor's been keeping journals. Quite a few of them. Dates, names, and descriptions, and... other things. Two of the journals were descriptive. A log of what she'd been going through at school. Every incident of being harassed, assaulted, shoved, getting her homework stolen or torn up or sabotaged. It goes back to her freshman year. And the fucking names. Sophia Hess, Madison Clements, and Emma Barnes.
It was all I could do to not just lose it there. These were too important to mishandle. So I just kept turning pages, reading each entry. Burning them into my mind. And every word just pissed me off even more, until all I could hear was my heart pounding in my ears, and something deep in my gut telling me to act. I was mad when you died, Annette. Madder than I'd ever been. This made me angrier than that. This wasn't just some foolish mistake or an accident, this was so deliberate, sustained. This betrayal. I'm not proud of the things that went through my mind after that.
The third journal was more personal. I read the first few pages before I put it away. It was clearly meant for just Taylor, something for her to confide in, with a dead mother, a treacherous waste of space instead of a friend, and a useless father. She was so confused, Annette, and hurt. And angry, too. The things she wrote... I can't blame her. The fact that she had all that inside her and didn't act on it, didn't lash out, just endured. I'd never been so furious and so proud of her.
She's a better person than I ever was, and I proved that with what happened next.
There was a gnawing in my gut as I left her room, the two journals with all her logs under my arm. The private one I left in her desk. I probably shouldn't have been driving with a hangover on maybe four hours of sleep running on nothing but fumes and coffee but I had target, now. Something actionable. The drive over to Alan's office was a bit of a blur, and soon enough I was all but charging through the front doors past the receptionist. Shared the elevator ride up with an intern, who couldn't get out fast enough midway up. Might have been the snarl I made when the elevator stopped on the way to Alan's floor, and my hand snapping out to start jamming the close doors button. My breathing slowed and my heart rate was back under control as I ascended. Calling me calm would have been wrong, but I wasn't about to lose it anymore.
That all changed when I saw him by the water cooler, in the middle of some conversation with one of his coworkers. Smiling. Laughing. Something I did caught his attention as I stepped out, and the look on his face was odd. Surprise, melting into confusion and a bit of fear. He took a step back, and my legs were moving on their own, my blood boiling under my skin.
I won't write down what I said, because to be honest I don't remember it that well. I remember screaming, shouting, howling even as I waved the journals in his face, poked him in the chest. He tried to talk, but I was beyond caring what he had to say. Not sure how long I went until suddenly two burly gorillas on staff were pulling me away from him. It's lucky my temper tends to run through my mouth rather than my fists, but it wasn't a great moment for me, especially since it made for my first impression with Carol Dallon, the woman he was talking to.
She got Hebert right the first time she said it, so I knew she knew who I was. Turns out Alan had talked to her a bit about us, and she had gotten the message about my request for Panacea to see Taylor. My guts started tying themselves in knots as I came back to my senses, hoping to God I hadn't just ruined our shot. Alan looked ready to have me thrown out, but Dallon for whatever reason wanted to know what was going on. I got escorted into an office with the two of them, and they waited for me to calm down a bit more. Then I just started reading. Alan looked ready to hurl by the time I took a break to look up and take stock of their reactions. Dallon was harder to read, her hands steepled as she sat at what I realized was her desk. I had their attention. I had leverage. Maybe it wouldn't hold up in court, maybe I couldn't pay the fees, even if I could find someone to represent Taylor against Alan when he had the firm backing him up, but I knew people in the media, and Alan knew that. Didn't matter what the outcome was in a court if the sharks smelled blood. Something like this would be a stain on their firm's image. Dallon knew that, too.
I remember back when New Wave first showed their faces, talked about their push for cape accountability. How they would be more ethical than the Protectorate. I guess that attitude didn't quite extend to how she handled her affairs in a suit instead of spandex. She wanted to protect the firm's image, so she made her own proposal. We keep this a strictly civil matter, the firm doesn't press charges for my stunt earlier, and after signing an agreement to that effect, she would guarantee Panacea would heal Taylor. It was extortion and I damn well knew it, they sure as hell knew it, but I'd given them ammunition when I lost my temper the minute I'd gotten my eyes on Alan.
I could have fought it, called their bluff, taken what I had to the cops like I should have done in the first place... but Taylor didn't have that kind of time for all I knew. I agreed, Dallon wrote up a contract, had Alan and I look over it, and I signed it, feeling my shame well up in my soul as I did.
I hope Taylor can forgive me. Whatever comes out of this, she deserves better.
To her credit, the Dallon woman made the call, and told me Amy – Panacea – would see Taylor that afternoon. Alan tried to say something, but I was out the door before he could get much more than a word out, calling my name. I probably would have broken his face if I stayed any longer.
Fortunately, the firm was close to the hospital, so I made good time there. The receptionist just waved me on through, talking with another couple, and I followed a now familiar path through the hallways. I've learned to hate elevators.
Panacea wasn't there when I arrived. I choked down a growl of frustration, then took a breath. I told myself she was probably busy with other patients. Or she was in transit, about to come in the door at any minute. That I hadn't been ripped off, or lied to, that I hadn't signed away a chance at justice for fuck all. I couldn't sit still, wandering around Taylor's room, tidying things up that were already perfectly in place. Peaking out the windows and the door looking for a girl in a white cloak like those Arabic women wear. All the while, Taylor's heart monitor pulsed. It would've been reassuring if it didn't sound so weak and just... wrong. I'd spent enough time in the hospital by now to know what a heartbeat should sound like. Hers wasn't steady enough, too fast, and yet she was as good as dead to the world. I finally took a seat next to her, my legs shaky, and took her hand. I told her how sorry I was again, sorry I didn't see what was wrong, didn't push harder, made her feel like she couldn't come to me about what was going on. I wanted to scream, to yell at her, shake her awake, but immediately that anger was buried in shame. Her journals lay on the nightstand as I stroked her hand. I don't know how long exactly we were like that.
There was a tapping at the door, and I jerked my head up. I wasn't sure if I'd dozed off or not, but my vision sharpened as I saw her. The miracle healer. Brown curls, freckled face, white and red robes. She smelled faintly of cigarettes, and the look in her eyes wasn't promising. She asked my name – Herbert, because of course. I corrected her on reflex, then swallowed, and asked her to help Taylor. She told me she didn't usually do requests. I did not tell her how little I cared as she shuffled over, and asked with for permission to heal Taylor, her tone all practiced, rote formality. I nodded, then took a breath and gave verbal consent when she glared at me. Finally, the girl took Taylor's other hand, taking a seat in the other chair. Her brow furrowed as she set to work.
I waited. The clock ticked, the heart monitor beeped, and Taylor breathed. For a long while, nothing happened. Eternity, at the time. Then Taylor's heart began to slow, sounding more normal. Her breathing deepened. But she didn't wake. There was no miraculous opening of her eyes, none of the Hollywood crap I was hoping for. Abruptly, Panacea dropped Taylor's hand back on the mattress, staggering up and backing away. I asked her what was wrong – why wasn't Taylor waking up, what happened, what was WRONG with her.
"I don't know."
The words didn't register at first, then it was like another punch in the gut. Just delayed. I asked her to elaborate. Perhaps a bit too loudly, but I listened, very carefully.
"Mr Herb... Hebert, I don't know. Your daughter's blood isn't right. I was able to fix the blood she already has, but the rest of her body doesn't like it that much. It's not carrying oxygen as efficiently, or nutrients. She's barely producing any on her own, and her marrow it's... I can't see it." She looked nauseous, now. She wouldn't look at Taylor or me. She asked if Taylor had any kind of tattoos, particularly of one of those omega symbols, like the Greek letters, if she was adopted. I told her no. "Mr. Hebert, I've seen a lot of things, a lot of conditions. Your daughter... she's not any of those. I've seen Case 53s, the monster capes, those I can at least understand even if I can't change them permanently." She paused, licking her lips. "But she seemed... hungry, I don't know. Like she was just missing something."
I counted to ten. Then I did it a couple more times, my knuckles popping as I sat on the other side of the bed from her. There had to be something she could do, and I told her as much.
"Mr. Hebert, I've done what I can. If it was anyone else I could figure out the source, I could change it, shape things like silly putty, but I there's parts of your daughter that I just can't see, can't reach. This hasn't happened to me before." She took a breath. In a moment of clarity, I realized how shaken she was. "At best I can make regular visits. Replenish her blood, but I don't know how long that'll work. She's dying, Mr. Hebert. All I can do is slow that down."
It took me a while to process all that. Distantly I heard her say she had to go. I muttered a thank you as she shuffled out.
I spent the rest of the day with Taylor. She did look a bit better, but I know it won't last.
I made some calls to work, told them I'll be out of town. I'm leaving to visit your parents at your old house. Too old fashioned to take a phone call, and I'm not waiting for a reply to my letters.
I'm sorry I let it get this bad.
I love you.
From the Journal of Daniel Hebert
January 4th, 2011
Annette always encouraged me to write. Not necessarily write specifically, but do something to vent my emotions. Before we married, I swore I would never lose my temper in front of my family. Not like my old man did. Annette was always perceptive, so she knew even though I tried to keep it contained that I had a temper seething in my blood. She understood, though, and just told me to find someone to talk to, or something like this journal, if I couldn't talk to her. So here I am.
I'm so sorry, Annette. I've fucked things up. Again. Taylor was always sickly. Ever since you died, she's just grown worse and worse, and her health took a nose dive just before she started high school. Scared the shit out of me when she fainted in the kitchen and I caught her before she broke her skull on the floor. I took her in to see doctors, and eventually they pegged it as some kind of "hemolytic anemia." Bottom line is there's something wrong with her blood, doesn't last as long as it should, doesn't work as well as it should, and it isn't replenishing itself as well either. They say it's probably genetic, but it's not like anything I've ever heard of. I tried writing your mother, but that went about as well as you can imagine. Best option they could give us was some dietary supplements and blood transfusions if things worsened. The dietary supplements helped, for a while, but I knew something was bothering her at school. I tried to ask, but when I pushed she just brushed me off and hid away in her room. She's too much like me that way. She started looking better by the end of the semester, had more color in her face, more energy. But then it all went wrong.
Whoever's been bullying her stuffed our baby girl in her locker yesterday, filled with festering garbage. From the sounds of it, they had left it there for all of winter break, and whatever diseases and infections it was carrying hit her constitution hard. She won't wake up, her pulse is barely there, and she's paler than ever. Her hair used to look like moonlight, just like yours, now it just looks like a ghost's. Our daughter looks like a God damned ghost. They're doing blood work now, but their prognosis so far isn't optimistic.
It's the blood, always has been. Yours, or mine, or ours together, I don't know. The doctors don't know either. I nearly got myself kicked out when I started shouting and howling at the doctor assigned to her case. They're doctors, how can they not know? This is their job! But protecting her in the first place was my job, and look how that turned out.
(Coffee stains and smudges)
I haven't slept since yesterday. Visiting hours are over, they forced me out and now I'm waiting here at the house. It feels emptier than ever. I can't sleep. I don't want to sleep. I don't want to face you in my dreams.
I'm going to try calling Alan in the morning. Maybe Emma knows something.
January 5th, 2011
Emma knows something, but she isn't talking. She says she and Taylor haven't been hanging out lately. That something's been bothering her, making her retreat in on herself. She said she was worried it might have been drugs or something, and that's why her health took a turn for the worse. Said she was just never the same since you died.
It was all I could do not to throttle her right there. Our daughter is not on drugs, the blood work would have said something about that I'm sure, and if Emma was really worried about that, she should have fucking told me something. Alan asked me to leave. Well. More like he told me to leave before I did something everyone would regret. Recommended I get some sleep, take some time off work. As if I wasn't already, that pompous shit.
I'm sitting with Taylor now, watching her sleep. I can barely see her breathing. If it weren't for the monitors, I'd think she was dead. It's all like a nightmare, the kind that just won't end, the kind that digs deep.
Still haven't slept. I'm running off coffee and nerves. One of the nurses subtly offered me a sedative. I turned her down.
Got in touch with the police. Their investigation isn't going well. Nobody's come forward about it. Not the other students, not the staff, nobody. They're saying it's a prank gone wrong. As if this was a whoopee cushion or a joy buzzer. I got in touch with the Association's lawyer, and he's putting together something to put the squeeze on Winslow.
Like it matters. Taylor's got a foot in the grave and none of this will mean a damn thing if the doctors can't fix what's wrong. They're still running tests, talking about bringing in different specialists. I've asked about Panacea. I never followed the cape scene much, even after you passed, but you can't swing a cat in this town without hitting something cape related, so I knew the basics. New Wave's odd duck, able to heal people with a touch rather than the flying light shows the rest of her family are. Volunteers at the hospitals and attracts some medical tourism, since she's supposed to be able to fix anything, so long as it's not in the brain.
She's a busy girl, apparently, which makes a sad amount of sense in this town. The doctors couldn't guarantee anything, but gave me Carol "Brandish" Dallon's number. I guess she manages requests, sometimes. Fingers crossed.
I love you.
January 6th, 2011
No word yet from Dallon. Turns out the number was for a secretary or something at her law office. She didn't give me any guarantees but promised she'd try to get back to me as soon as she could. I want to call again, rattle her cage, but I know that won't exactly endear me to her. And I'm a begging man, here. So I'm just pacing in my own cage here.
Taylor's still the same, just this side of the veil. Her hands are so cold in mine. I can't take losing her, Annette, not after losing you. You left a hole in my heart, one that's never healed. She'll leave a hole in place of it, and I think it'll only get bigger until there's nothing left of me. She's all I have left. All I have left of you, the last good thing I have in this world. I remember we talked about letting her skip a grade. I wish I'd just let that happen. Maybe then this wouldn't have happened.
I have to go for now. Nurse tells me visiting hours are closing, and no so subtly implied I need a shower. And a shave. And some sleep. She might be right.
I love you.
January 9th, 2011
I fucked up again.
Let me start at the beginning. I went home like I said, even managed to get some sleep with some of Jack Daniel's help. I dreamed of you and Taylor. And losing you all over again. Once I was awake and feeling human again I got cleaned up, and on the way out of the shower I stopped by Taylor's room. I honestly don't even remember the last time I checked it. Felt like I was invading her space. It wasn't my place to go through her things, to tidy up, tell her she needed to keep it in order. Not that we needed to. Everything was just fine. Just empty and cold and dark, and without our daughter in it, reading one of your books, or practicing on your flute, or being small and young and starry eyed at the cape merchandise on the walls.
I sat on her bed for a while, wishing you were both with me. Then I started going through her things. I'm not sure why, really. I guess I was just looking for answers. Well, I found them.
Taylor's been keeping journals. Quite a few of them. Dates, names, and descriptions, and... other things. Two of the journals were descriptive. A log of what she'd been going through at school. Every incident of being harassed, assaulted, shoved, getting her homework stolen or torn up or sabotaged. It goes back to her freshman year. And the fucking names. Sophia Hess, Madison Clements, and Emma Barnes.
It was all I could do to not just lose it there. These were too important to mishandle. So I just kept turning pages, reading each entry. Burning them into my mind. And every word just pissed me off even more, until all I could hear was my heart pounding in my ears, and something deep in my gut telling me to act. I was mad when you died, Annette. Madder than I'd ever been. This made me angrier than that. This wasn't just some foolish mistake or an accident, this was so deliberate, sustained. This betrayal. I'm not proud of the things that went through my mind after that.
The third journal was more personal. I read the first few pages before I put it away. It was clearly meant for just Taylor, something for her to confide in, with a dead mother, a treacherous waste of space instead of a friend, and a useless father. She was so confused, Annette, and hurt. And angry, too. The things she wrote... I can't blame her. The fact that she had all that inside her and didn't act on it, didn't lash out, just endured. I'd never been so furious and so proud of her.
She's a better person than I ever was, and I proved that with what happened next.
There was a gnawing in my gut as I left her room, the two journals with all her logs under my arm. The private one I left in her desk. I probably shouldn't have been driving with a hangover on maybe four hours of sleep running on nothing but fumes and coffee but I had target, now. Something actionable. The drive over to Alan's office was a bit of a blur, and soon enough I was all but charging through the front doors past the receptionist. Shared the elevator ride up with an intern, who couldn't get out fast enough midway up. Might have been the snarl I made when the elevator stopped on the way to Alan's floor, and my hand snapping out to start jamming the close doors button. My breathing slowed and my heart rate was back under control as I ascended. Calling me calm would have been wrong, but I wasn't about to lose it anymore.
That all changed when I saw him by the water cooler, in the middle of some conversation with one of his coworkers. Smiling. Laughing. Something I did caught his attention as I stepped out, and the look on his face was odd. Surprise, melting into confusion and a bit of fear. He took a step back, and my legs were moving on their own, my blood boiling under my skin.
I won't write down what I said, because to be honest I don't remember it that well. I remember screaming, shouting, howling even as I waved the journals in his face, poked him in the chest. He tried to talk, but I was beyond caring what he had to say. Not sure how long I went until suddenly two burly gorillas on staff were pulling me away from him. It's lucky my temper tends to run through my mouth rather than my fists, but it wasn't a great moment for me, especially since it made for my first impression with Carol Dallon, the woman he was talking to.
She got Hebert right the first time she said it, so I knew she knew who I was. Turns out Alan had talked to her a bit about us, and she had gotten the message about my request for Panacea to see Taylor. My guts started tying themselves in knots as I came back to my senses, hoping to God I hadn't just ruined our shot. Alan looked ready to have me thrown out, but Dallon for whatever reason wanted to know what was going on. I got escorted into an office with the two of them, and they waited for me to calm down a bit more. Then I just started reading. Alan looked ready to hurl by the time I took a break to look up and take stock of their reactions. Dallon was harder to read, her hands steepled as she sat at what I realized was her desk. I had their attention. I had leverage. Maybe it wouldn't hold up in court, maybe I couldn't pay the fees, even if I could find someone to represent Taylor against Alan when he had the firm backing him up, but I knew people in the media, and Alan knew that. Didn't matter what the outcome was in a court if the sharks smelled blood. Something like this would be a stain on their firm's image. Dallon knew that, too.
I remember back when New Wave first showed their faces, talked about their push for cape accountability. How they would be more ethical than the Protectorate. I guess that attitude didn't quite extend to how she handled her affairs in a suit instead of spandex. She wanted to protect the firm's image, so she made her own proposal. We keep this a strictly civil matter, the firm doesn't press charges for my stunt earlier, and after signing an agreement to that effect, she would guarantee Panacea would heal Taylor. It was extortion and I damn well knew it, they sure as hell knew it, but I'd given them ammunition when I lost my temper the minute I'd gotten my eyes on Alan.
I could have fought it, called their bluff, taken what I had to the cops like I should have done in the first place... but Taylor didn't have that kind of time for all I knew. I agreed, Dallon wrote up a contract, had Alan and I look over it, and I signed it, feeling my shame well up in my soul as I did.
I hope Taylor can forgive me. Whatever comes out of this, she deserves better.
To her credit, the Dallon woman made the call, and told me Amy – Panacea – would see Taylor that afternoon. Alan tried to say something, but I was out the door before he could get much more than a word out, calling my name. I probably would have broken his face if I stayed any longer.
Fortunately, the firm was close to the hospital, so I made good time there. The receptionist just waved me on through, talking with another couple, and I followed a now familiar path through the hallways. I've learned to hate elevators.
Panacea wasn't there when I arrived. I choked down a growl of frustration, then took a breath. I told myself she was probably busy with other patients. Or she was in transit, about to come in the door at any minute. That I hadn't been ripped off, or lied to, that I hadn't signed away a chance at justice for fuck all. I couldn't sit still, wandering around Taylor's room, tidying things up that were already perfectly in place. Peaking out the windows and the door looking for a girl in a white cloak like those Arabic women wear. All the while, Taylor's heart monitor pulsed. It would've been reassuring if it didn't sound so weak and just... wrong. I'd spent enough time in the hospital by now to know what a heartbeat should sound like. Hers wasn't steady enough, too fast, and yet she was as good as dead to the world. I finally took a seat next to her, my legs shaky, and took her hand. I told her how sorry I was again, sorry I didn't see what was wrong, didn't push harder, made her feel like she couldn't come to me about what was going on. I wanted to scream, to yell at her, shake her awake, but immediately that anger was buried in shame. Her journals lay on the nightstand as I stroked her hand. I don't know how long exactly we were like that.
There was a tapping at the door, and I jerked my head up. I wasn't sure if I'd dozed off or not, but my vision sharpened as I saw her. The miracle healer. Brown curls, freckled face, white and red robes. She smelled faintly of cigarettes, and the look in her eyes wasn't promising. She asked my name – Herbert, because of course. I corrected her on reflex, then swallowed, and asked her to help Taylor. She told me she didn't usually do requests. I did not tell her how little I cared as she shuffled over, and asked with for permission to heal Taylor, her tone all practiced, rote formality. I nodded, then took a breath and gave verbal consent when she glared at me. Finally, the girl took Taylor's other hand, taking a seat in the other chair. Her brow furrowed as she set to work.
I waited. The clock ticked, the heart monitor beeped, and Taylor breathed. For a long while, nothing happened. Eternity, at the time. Then Taylor's heart began to slow, sounding more normal. Her breathing deepened. But she didn't wake. There was no miraculous opening of her eyes, none of the Hollywood crap I was hoping for. Abruptly, Panacea dropped Taylor's hand back on the mattress, staggering up and backing away. I asked her what was wrong – why wasn't Taylor waking up, what happened, what was WRONG with her.
"I don't know."
The words didn't register at first, then it was like another punch in the gut. Just delayed. I asked her to elaborate. Perhaps a bit too loudly, but I listened, very carefully.
"Mr Herb... Hebert, I don't know. Your daughter's blood isn't right. I was able to fix the blood she already has, but the rest of her body doesn't like it that much. It's not carrying oxygen as efficiently, or nutrients. She's barely producing any on her own, and her marrow it's... I can't see it." She looked nauseous, now. She wouldn't look at Taylor or me. She asked if Taylor had any kind of tattoos, particularly of one of those omega symbols, like the Greek letters, if she was adopted. I told her no. "Mr. Hebert, I've seen a lot of things, a lot of conditions. Your daughter... she's not any of those. I've seen Case 53s, the monster capes, those I can at least understand even if I can't change them permanently." She paused, licking her lips. "But she seemed... hungry, I don't know. Like she was just missing something."
I counted to ten. Then I did it a couple more times, my knuckles popping as I sat on the other side of the bed from her. There had to be something she could do, and I told her as much.
"Mr. Hebert, I've done what I can. If it was anyone else I could figure out the source, I could change it, shape things like silly putty, but I there's parts of your daughter that I just can't see, can't reach. This hasn't happened to me before." She took a breath. In a moment of clarity, I realized how shaken she was. "At best I can make regular visits. Replenish her blood, but I don't know how long that'll work. She's dying, Mr. Hebert. All I can do is slow that down."
It took me a while to process all that. Distantly I heard her say she had to go. I muttered a thank you as she shuffled out.
I spent the rest of the day with Taylor. She did look a bit better, but I know it won't last.
I made some calls to work, told them I'll be out of town. I'm leaving to visit your parents at your old house. Too old fashioned to take a phone call, and I'm not waiting for a reply to my letters.
I'm sorry I let it get this bad.
I love you.
Chapter 2
From the Journal of Daniel Hebert
January 11th, 2011
What was it you called it – Lovecraft Country? Rural New England, seems boring but hiding secrets and scares deep in the shadows, lots of trees. You used to read a lot of Stephen King.
I'm writing this in a motel just off the highway. Cheap, crummy heating, smells like bleach, but I've crashed in worse. They were able to keep the snow off the roads so far, but I don't imagine I'll be so lucky on the final stretch. I borrowed Kurt's truck. He's spent his – sadly abundant - free time modifying it for off road travel. Swore it'd get me wherever I needed to go, over whatever terrain, and would win in a fight with a moose if it had to. Hopefully we won't end up needing to test that.
He and Lacy were supportive, even offered to come with (not like there's much work anyway), but I turned them down. I need to do this alone. The Association can get along without me a while longer until I can get this taken care of. I saw Taylor one last time before leaving, after putting her journals in a safety deposit box. The girl, Panacea, had come by again, told me she'd keep checking on Taylor. She's gruff but I guess she really does care. She must, doing what she does, right? I gave her my – our – thanks.
I bought a cell phone as well. One of those newer "smart" ones. Has a calculator, a clock, GPS, everything. If I hadn't been such an ass before about phones maybe Taylor would have been able to get help faster. Just another thing to put on my list of sins.
I went digging through your things before I left, hoping to find some kind of answers. I found the directions to your family estate, essays you never finished grading, that set of antique medical equipment from when you were flirting with med school, and more reasons to drink.
I don't know what I expect to find when I see your mother. It's not as if she or your sisters liked me much when you introduced me. They were polite, all smiles and that old world hospitality, but it wasn't hard to read the room, or your mood as we left. They showed up for the wedding in those ancient looking dresses, just kind of looming in the shadows during the ceremony, and made themselves scarce right after. Didn't even show up for Taylor's birth. Any birthdays, despite the yearly letters and cards and even gifts you had us send them. Hell, they didn't even come for your damn funeral. And if there is something in your family history that could explain Taylor's condition, I would've appreciated a head's up. Some kinda warning. "Oh, yeah ba
Sorry. My temper's getting the better of me.
I can only hope they'll come through this time. Taylor may be my daughter, but she's yours, too. That has to count for something to them.
I love you.
January 12th, 2011
The GPS on my phone could only take me so far. Your family's estate wasn't actually in its database, for some reason. Or however it works. Once I got further and further from civilization it's not like it mattered that much, the damn thing lost contact with the satellites or whatever. Highway turned to paved roads, stretches of country side, and small town New England, then that gave way to narrow dirt roads lined with thick trees casting shadows over it all, gray, sometimes almost black snow from the mud. Even passed through an honest to goodness ghost town, or the remains of one.
Where the old directions you kept failed me, I stopped by the odd farmhouse asking for help. Mostly got looks like I'd grown a second head for my trouble, but it seems your folks had made some kind of impression on a few of the families out here. They pointed me in the right direction and wished me luck when I'd pressed them, explaining Taylor.
Kurt's truck performed as advertised, once I was basically off road. There were paths through the woods, just big enough to pass through, but they weren't maintained, and sure as hell weren't designed for anything that didn't have hooves, reminding me of just how rough the first trip over there was, all those years ago. I was surprised not to run into any deer or wolves or something, but I guess the engine's roar scared them all off. It was night by the time I got to the old gates. They just screamed 'old' as the headlights lit them up. I didn't see anyone around, or any kind of intercom, so I had to step out and get closer to try and get them open. I was careful not to cut my hands on the rust bars, didn't want to give myself tetanus, but a little push and they just flew open with the wind, old hinges squealing so hard I couldn't help but flinch.
On the other side, things weren't much better. Less trees, the area having been cleared for farmland back when it'd first been established by my guess, but nature was taking the land back. Everything was overgrown, but Kurt's truck just plowed through the snow. The house itself caught me by surprise when the lights finally hit it, and I slammed the brakes on reflex, the truck sliding through until the tires finally had enough grip again to bring it to a stop. I recognized its old colonial style, and it seems your folks made no attempts to modernize it since we last saw them. It was completely dark, no lights on the inside or outside. I assumed they had all turned in early, if they were even still around. A part of me began to panic, wondering if that's why we never got any replies – if your family had just up and left after the wedding, gone back to Europe or something, and this was all a big waste of time.
Once I'd gotten my nerve back, I cut the engine and stepped out, bringing a flash light with me. The steps creaked beneath my feet as I climbed up, heading for the double doors, then pounding on them with my fist. I didn't see a doorbell anywhere, or one of those pull cords, so that was the best I could do. I didn't get an answer the first time, so I went at it again, shouting this time. I dropped your name, told them Taylor needed help, and still nothing.
So I kind of kicked the doors in. They were heavy things, but age and wear had done their job, and the doors buckled under my heal and flew open, the door on the right falling out of its hinges. I admit, I winced. Seems I've been batting a thousand as far as first (recent, in this case) impressions go the last few days.
After angry residents failed to materialize and I didn't get shot or anything, I crept inside, surveying the area with the flash light, passing through the foyer. It was quiet, in the wake of my entrance, but the building creaked in the wind and the cold. I called out another greeting, asking if anyone was around. No answer. But the place didn't seem quite abandoned. The furniture was still present as I explored, lace doilies on tables, armchairs, candlesticks with deformed wax pouring down the sides, frozen in time. I brought a sleeve to my face, coughing into it as the dust hit. Books on the shelves, candles in their holders, plates and dinner sets on tables, but this place hadn't been cleaned in who knows how long.
Then I called out a few more times, until I was satisfied I was alone. The house was almost exactly as I remembered, except for the obvious disrepair. Three stories, the walls covered in old paintings and tapestries. And the statues, arranged around tables, in the den, in the dining room, the library, like they were residents just going about their business before being turned to stone or something.
I didn't find any animals or bugs, at least, which struck me as a little odd, even in the winter. I did find the guest room, though, fully furnished if dusty and just as unwelcoming as I remembered, the portrait opposite the bedding staring down at me with those icy blue eyes. She looked eerily like you, but stripped of your warmth.
I've decided to spend the night, begin my search for anything of use in the morning. Not like there's anyone around here to care about a squatter.
I love you.
January 13th, 2011
Today was a long day.
I didn't rest well the night before, and I had nightmares. Nothing I could remember, nothing coherent. I just remember waking with this sense of dread, my breath catching. The sky was overcast, and without the sun all I could see was a field of gray extending to the treeline. I brought some food with me I'd picked up from a gas station along the way. Power bars and bottled water may not be especially appetizing but they got the job done. Not like I have much of an appetite these days anyhow. Once I'd eaten and had some time to get the blood flowing again, I made the bed and began my search. Felt more like an excavation, really. The house lost most of its creep factor once I pulled the curtains back and let some daylight in. I'm not sure how you could ever stand living with those statues... but then again, maybe you couldn't. You did leave it all behind and meet me, after all.
I decided to go ahead and do a sweep of the first floor while I was starting out. I'm not proud to say that the first thing that came to mind was money. Not like I found cash, but there's so many paintings and tapestries here, and the statues, the furniture, the silverware, the books... I digress, and I'll come back around to that subject later. Point is, I didn't find anything especially useful or informative. From there I decided to brave the cellar. It's a good thing I brought extra batteries for the flash light, if only for my peace of mind.
The stairs were sturdy enough, no wood rot or anything to worry about as I began my descent. The house as a whole was cold, but it really started seeping into my bones the further down I went. The cellar was, oddly, empty. Lots of wine racks, but no wine. Not even empty bottles or anything. And it was a big cellar. Another room looked like it was some kind of meat locker? Had chains and hooks hanging from the ceiling, for aging or something I guess. I was never into the vegetarian thing but I admit it gave me the willies being in there – the chains rattling as I opened the door, the stench of blood and iron. You never mentioned your family hunted or anything. I definitely don't remember seeing any livestock last time we were there, just the crops and farmhands they had on staff.
Satisfied that I hadn't missed anything, I made my way back upstairs, glad to be out of the cold of the cellar. The second floor was where I started making progress, but also where I hit snags. So many locked doors. If the cops showed up I'd already be charged with breaking and entering I'm sure, so I was hesitant to just start busting down doors. Eventually I did find one that was unlocked. The master bedroom. Your mother was there. What was left of her, I mean. She looked like a mummy or something, all dried out skin taut over bone, white hair splayed out over the pillow. I can only assume she passed in her sleep, alone here. Gave me a scare when I saw her, but I suppose it explains things. Once I worked up the nerve, apologizing aloud for whatever reason, I started poking around. Her desk drawers were filled with some journals, but I couldn't read any of it. Wasn't in English, not even the English alphabet. Looked like that Russian script. Cyrillic, I think? Your family did have an accent, and even you showed a bit of it when you got upset or excited. There were a few bottles laying around the room, emptied. A few of them did have a strange red mold growing on the inside. I didn't think wine did that. I did find a key on the nightstand as well. Lucky for me she didn't wear it around her neck or something. I was about to leave when I stopped, and took a look down at her corpse, as something caught my eye, light reflecting off metal. She had a razor in her hand, Annette. It was then I saw the stains in the sheets. She didn't die in her sleep. She killed herself.
Part of me wanted to talk to her, apologize for us never visiting. Say that nobody should have to die alone like she did. If only we'd talked more, bridged that gap, maybe she could have come live with us, watched Taylor grow up. Had something to live for. Another part of me felt... I guess saying another part of me felt "nothing" wouldn't make sense. I hate to admit it, but it was a kind of satisfaction? I mean, we did try to bridge that gap. But there was no hiding the contempt. You always wrote to her, even if she never wrote back, at least as far as you ever told me.
In the end I just took the key and left. I'll see about having her buried properly later.
The key let me into the rooms on the second floor. A couple bathrooms, one of which almost made me vomit as I came in. The stench was rank, and I could see spores of some kind suspended in the air. The tub was lined with a fuzzy, greenish mold. I shut the door and backed off before I could get a good look. Pretty sure there was nothing of interest in there, and I can only hope I didn't catch something from it.
I finally hit pay dirt, and another big scare, when I found the study. The door had multiple locks on it, and latches, and I decided to bite the bullet and force the door open after using the key. Years of neglect made it easier, especially once I used a fire poker as a lever. Once I got it open and stepped inside, I gave it a quick once over. More bookshelves lining the walls, a set of desks lining one side of the room with old chemistry equipment – alembics, retorts, that kind of stuff, all of it lined and filled with that red mold on the inside. More wine bottles, too. There was a desk, at the back, and windows behind it. The curtains were drawn, which made it all the more odd as a single beam of light, dim though it was with the overcast sky, caught my eye. A hole had been punched through the wall, near the ceiling. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck as I approached, going around the desk. That's where I saw the overturned chair, and the corpse inside of it. Not the most dignified pose in death, her legs sagging around the chair toward the ground, arms stretching out at her sides. One hand held a pistol, one of those old flintlock ones. All that remained of her head was ruins. I had to step out for a moment, to catch my breath and settle my stomach.
Why didn't they ever respond to you, Annette? Why did it get this bad? How could this happen? What made them so hopeless? Once I collected myself, I went back in, hoping to find answers. Well, I definitely found something. The desk was covered in books and manuscripts, a lot of it in that same script as the journals your mother had, but I did find another note. It was for you, and in English.
Dearest Sister,
I pray this letter finds you well, and that your child has grown strong. I write this in English, for your sake, as you grew to love the tongue in our time here, and in case of the eventuality that your husband is the one to find this instead. Mother has spoken to use of your difficulties and your attempts to ease them. I can only hope my own research proved of assistance, at least in some small way, and that you found success where I have only found failure. It burdens my soul to say that our sisters are lost to us, as I failed to find a way to sate our needs as our supplies dwindled. We agreed that mother should be given the greatest share, out of respect and love, and I the next greatest, so as to facilitate my research and maintain my faculties. They were so brave, dearest Annette, and it broke my heart to watch them wither and degrade with time. For a time I detested you for fleeing, for leaving us, and I cursed your name when it came to me to end their misery. But I see now you had the right of it. Or at least, I pray that you did.
I write this in the study, at the end of my experiments. Our supplies are no more. Mother has lost all hope, and has left me behind. My body turns against me, the darkness devouring my mind and soul. Still, I struggle. I will not see the same fate as our sisters. I shall leave this world in dignity, as mother did, although I confess I am too cowardly to watch myself bleed to death as she did. It is perhaps fitting that I use our heirloom to do this deed. Sweet Evelyn.
In the event you, or your husband, or dear Taylor, find this letter, know that in this desk is a set of documents for your benefit. A will, bequeathing unto your family this property and the contents thereof. I apologize for not having it sent to you sooner, but mine stubbornness refused to entertain this end until it was too late. I now lack the strength to go beyond our grounds, and it was our wish to not be bothered by the common folk who live beyond. The consequences of this I now suffer. If you are reading this, know I would be glad that you came to us in the end, and know that I feel sorrow that we could not reconcile while I and mother and our sisters still walked this earth. I see now you were the wisest and cleverest of us all, to practice austerity and carefulness rather than submit to the temptations of the old blood. I know not if you were able to free yourself completely of its grip, or if you merely found a balance. Perhaps this is merely the feverish wishes of a dying woman, and that you suffer a similar fate as we. You spoke of Taylor, sweet thing, and her struggles with life. We had warned you of the consequences of your coupling and its results, but you desired to prove us wrong. I wish for you to have been right.
Besides the will, there also remains my notes from my experiments. While they ultimately proved a failure here, perhaps you will find them of some use in the future. Unless my prayers are answered, and they are no longer needed, in which case I do implore you to see them burned, or buried, before their blasphemous assertions cast a shadow on this world you grew to love and cherish. If not, then please, I beg, use them as you see fit, so that our family line may continue, through your daughter, and her daughters, and so on for all time. To that end, I have also kept safe an invitation to our ancestral home, granting entrance to you or your chosen representative to those ancient halls. If an answer cannot be found on these foreign shores, returning home is our last hope, even in this age of chaos and change, as our homeland is surrounded by strange magics and witchcraft, in this age born of the Golden Man.
It is my heartfelt desire that you harbor no need for what I have to offer, but I must account for the possibility that you are only here seeking succor. A possibility that is the most likely of fates, given our failures to maintain the ties of blood and love that kept us together since our flight from our home. Forgive us, Annette. Forgive us all, Daniel. And forgive us, Taylor, for damning you to whatever wretched fate may plague you.
All my love,
Lady Annabelle
Daughter of Cainhurst
I was, as one might imagine, really weirded out. I didn't know where to begin, or what to think, so I just kept digging through the desk, finding the journals she mentioned, and the invitation. It was a beautiful letter, to be sure, written in that loopy, flowing handwriting that you just don't see these days. A blank space caught my eye, and after reading your sisters note, I could only imagine it was meant for a name.
I sat on the desk, head in my hands. I came here looking for answers. Now I just had more questions. But I have a direction, a lead. I wrote my name in the letter, closing it up. A jar of wax and a stamp lay on the desk, and I figured, why the hell not? Make it official. I heated the wax as much as I could with a lighter, spreading it over the letter to form a seal, then pressed into it with the stamp. Two wolves, back to back, in front of a shield. You never mentioned any kind of noble bloodline, but I guess there's a lot of things you never mentioned.
The will I found as well, and the journals. I've packed it all up, and I'm going to head back to the truck now. Drive back to civilization, get some sleep, a real meal, see if this was all just a weird dream or not. Part of me wants to just wake up back at home, with Taylor still there, alive and well. And for you to be there, too, next to me. But I know that won't happen. Still, I have a lead. And, with this will, I can arrange for some kind of estate sale to keep Taylor taken care of while I'm away. Hell, maybe get some more doctors on her case, and they can find something.
I love you.
January 11th, 2011
What was it you called it – Lovecraft Country? Rural New England, seems boring but hiding secrets and scares deep in the shadows, lots of trees. You used to read a lot of Stephen King.
I'm writing this in a motel just off the highway. Cheap, crummy heating, smells like bleach, but I've crashed in worse. They were able to keep the snow off the roads so far, but I don't imagine I'll be so lucky on the final stretch. I borrowed Kurt's truck. He's spent his – sadly abundant - free time modifying it for off road travel. Swore it'd get me wherever I needed to go, over whatever terrain, and would win in a fight with a moose if it had to. Hopefully we won't end up needing to test that.
He and Lacy were supportive, even offered to come with (not like there's much work anyway), but I turned them down. I need to do this alone. The Association can get along without me a while longer until I can get this taken care of. I saw Taylor one last time before leaving, after putting her journals in a safety deposit box. The girl, Panacea, had come by again, told me she'd keep checking on Taylor. She's gruff but I guess she really does care. She must, doing what she does, right? I gave her my – our – thanks.
I bought a cell phone as well. One of those newer "smart" ones. Has a calculator, a clock, GPS, everything. If I hadn't been such an ass before about phones maybe Taylor would have been able to get help faster. Just another thing to put on my list of sins.
I went digging through your things before I left, hoping to find some kind of answers. I found the directions to your family estate, essays you never finished grading, that set of antique medical equipment from when you were flirting with med school, and more reasons to drink.
I don't know what I expect to find when I see your mother. It's not as if she or your sisters liked me much when you introduced me. They were polite, all smiles and that old world hospitality, but it wasn't hard to read the room, or your mood as we left. They showed up for the wedding in those ancient looking dresses, just kind of looming in the shadows during the ceremony, and made themselves scarce right after. Didn't even show up for Taylor's birth. Any birthdays, despite the yearly letters and cards and even gifts you had us send them. Hell, they didn't even come for your damn funeral. And if there is something in your family history that could explain Taylor's condition, I would've appreciated a head's up. Some kinda warning. "Oh, yeah ba
Sorry. My temper's getting the better of me.
I can only hope they'll come through this time. Taylor may be my daughter, but she's yours, too. That has to count for something to them.
I love you.
January 12th, 2011
The GPS on my phone could only take me so far. Your family's estate wasn't actually in its database, for some reason. Or however it works. Once I got further and further from civilization it's not like it mattered that much, the damn thing lost contact with the satellites or whatever. Highway turned to paved roads, stretches of country side, and small town New England, then that gave way to narrow dirt roads lined with thick trees casting shadows over it all, gray, sometimes almost black snow from the mud. Even passed through an honest to goodness ghost town, or the remains of one.
Where the old directions you kept failed me, I stopped by the odd farmhouse asking for help. Mostly got looks like I'd grown a second head for my trouble, but it seems your folks had made some kind of impression on a few of the families out here. They pointed me in the right direction and wished me luck when I'd pressed them, explaining Taylor.
Kurt's truck performed as advertised, once I was basically off road. There were paths through the woods, just big enough to pass through, but they weren't maintained, and sure as hell weren't designed for anything that didn't have hooves, reminding me of just how rough the first trip over there was, all those years ago. I was surprised not to run into any deer or wolves or something, but I guess the engine's roar scared them all off. It was night by the time I got to the old gates. They just screamed 'old' as the headlights lit them up. I didn't see anyone around, or any kind of intercom, so I had to step out and get closer to try and get them open. I was careful not to cut my hands on the rust bars, didn't want to give myself tetanus, but a little push and they just flew open with the wind, old hinges squealing so hard I couldn't help but flinch.
On the other side, things weren't much better. Less trees, the area having been cleared for farmland back when it'd first been established by my guess, but nature was taking the land back. Everything was overgrown, but Kurt's truck just plowed through the snow. The house itself caught me by surprise when the lights finally hit it, and I slammed the brakes on reflex, the truck sliding through until the tires finally had enough grip again to bring it to a stop. I recognized its old colonial style, and it seems your folks made no attempts to modernize it since we last saw them. It was completely dark, no lights on the inside or outside. I assumed they had all turned in early, if they were even still around. A part of me began to panic, wondering if that's why we never got any replies – if your family had just up and left after the wedding, gone back to Europe or something, and this was all a big waste of time.
Once I'd gotten my nerve back, I cut the engine and stepped out, bringing a flash light with me. The steps creaked beneath my feet as I climbed up, heading for the double doors, then pounding on them with my fist. I didn't see a doorbell anywhere, or one of those pull cords, so that was the best I could do. I didn't get an answer the first time, so I went at it again, shouting this time. I dropped your name, told them Taylor needed help, and still nothing.
So I kind of kicked the doors in. They were heavy things, but age and wear had done their job, and the doors buckled under my heal and flew open, the door on the right falling out of its hinges. I admit, I winced. Seems I've been batting a thousand as far as first (recent, in this case) impressions go the last few days.
After angry residents failed to materialize and I didn't get shot or anything, I crept inside, surveying the area with the flash light, passing through the foyer. It was quiet, in the wake of my entrance, but the building creaked in the wind and the cold. I called out another greeting, asking if anyone was around. No answer. But the place didn't seem quite abandoned. The furniture was still present as I explored, lace doilies on tables, armchairs, candlesticks with deformed wax pouring down the sides, frozen in time. I brought a sleeve to my face, coughing into it as the dust hit. Books on the shelves, candles in their holders, plates and dinner sets on tables, but this place hadn't been cleaned in who knows how long.
Then I called out a few more times, until I was satisfied I was alone. The house was almost exactly as I remembered, except for the obvious disrepair. Three stories, the walls covered in old paintings and tapestries. And the statues, arranged around tables, in the den, in the dining room, the library, like they were residents just going about their business before being turned to stone or something.
I didn't find any animals or bugs, at least, which struck me as a little odd, even in the winter. I did find the guest room, though, fully furnished if dusty and just as unwelcoming as I remembered, the portrait opposite the bedding staring down at me with those icy blue eyes. She looked eerily like you, but stripped of your warmth.
I've decided to spend the night, begin my search for anything of use in the morning. Not like there's anyone around here to care about a squatter.
I love you.
January 13th, 2011
Today was a long day.
I didn't rest well the night before, and I had nightmares. Nothing I could remember, nothing coherent. I just remember waking with this sense of dread, my breath catching. The sky was overcast, and without the sun all I could see was a field of gray extending to the treeline. I brought some food with me I'd picked up from a gas station along the way. Power bars and bottled water may not be especially appetizing but they got the job done. Not like I have much of an appetite these days anyhow. Once I'd eaten and had some time to get the blood flowing again, I made the bed and began my search. Felt more like an excavation, really. The house lost most of its creep factor once I pulled the curtains back and let some daylight in. I'm not sure how you could ever stand living with those statues... but then again, maybe you couldn't. You did leave it all behind and meet me, after all.
I decided to go ahead and do a sweep of the first floor while I was starting out. I'm not proud to say that the first thing that came to mind was money. Not like I found cash, but there's so many paintings and tapestries here, and the statues, the furniture, the silverware, the books... I digress, and I'll come back around to that subject later. Point is, I didn't find anything especially useful or informative. From there I decided to brave the cellar. It's a good thing I brought extra batteries for the flash light, if only for my peace of mind.
The stairs were sturdy enough, no wood rot or anything to worry about as I began my descent. The house as a whole was cold, but it really started seeping into my bones the further down I went. The cellar was, oddly, empty. Lots of wine racks, but no wine. Not even empty bottles or anything. And it was a big cellar. Another room looked like it was some kind of meat locker? Had chains and hooks hanging from the ceiling, for aging or something I guess. I was never into the vegetarian thing but I admit it gave me the willies being in there – the chains rattling as I opened the door, the stench of blood and iron. You never mentioned your family hunted or anything. I definitely don't remember seeing any livestock last time we were there, just the crops and farmhands they had on staff.
Satisfied that I hadn't missed anything, I made my way back upstairs, glad to be out of the cold of the cellar. The second floor was where I started making progress, but also where I hit snags. So many locked doors. If the cops showed up I'd already be charged with breaking and entering I'm sure, so I was hesitant to just start busting down doors. Eventually I did find one that was unlocked. The master bedroom. Your mother was there. What was left of her, I mean. She looked like a mummy or something, all dried out skin taut over bone, white hair splayed out over the pillow. I can only assume she passed in her sleep, alone here. Gave me a scare when I saw her, but I suppose it explains things. Once I worked up the nerve, apologizing aloud for whatever reason, I started poking around. Her desk drawers were filled with some journals, but I couldn't read any of it. Wasn't in English, not even the English alphabet. Looked like that Russian script. Cyrillic, I think? Your family did have an accent, and even you showed a bit of it when you got upset or excited. There were a few bottles laying around the room, emptied. A few of them did have a strange red mold growing on the inside. I didn't think wine did that. I did find a key on the nightstand as well. Lucky for me she didn't wear it around her neck or something. I was about to leave when I stopped, and took a look down at her corpse, as something caught my eye, light reflecting off metal. She had a razor in her hand, Annette. It was then I saw the stains in the sheets. She didn't die in her sleep. She killed herself.
Part of me wanted to talk to her, apologize for us never visiting. Say that nobody should have to die alone like she did. If only we'd talked more, bridged that gap, maybe she could have come live with us, watched Taylor grow up. Had something to live for. Another part of me felt... I guess saying another part of me felt "nothing" wouldn't make sense. I hate to admit it, but it was a kind of satisfaction? I mean, we did try to bridge that gap. But there was no hiding the contempt. You always wrote to her, even if she never wrote back, at least as far as you ever told me.
In the end I just took the key and left. I'll see about having her buried properly later.
The key let me into the rooms on the second floor. A couple bathrooms, one of which almost made me vomit as I came in. The stench was rank, and I could see spores of some kind suspended in the air. The tub was lined with a fuzzy, greenish mold. I shut the door and backed off before I could get a good look. Pretty sure there was nothing of interest in there, and I can only hope I didn't catch something from it.
I finally hit pay dirt, and another big scare, when I found the study. The door had multiple locks on it, and latches, and I decided to bite the bullet and force the door open after using the key. Years of neglect made it easier, especially once I used a fire poker as a lever. Once I got it open and stepped inside, I gave it a quick once over. More bookshelves lining the walls, a set of desks lining one side of the room with old chemistry equipment – alembics, retorts, that kind of stuff, all of it lined and filled with that red mold on the inside. More wine bottles, too. There was a desk, at the back, and windows behind it. The curtains were drawn, which made it all the more odd as a single beam of light, dim though it was with the overcast sky, caught my eye. A hole had been punched through the wall, near the ceiling. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck as I approached, going around the desk. That's where I saw the overturned chair, and the corpse inside of it. Not the most dignified pose in death, her legs sagging around the chair toward the ground, arms stretching out at her sides. One hand held a pistol, one of those old flintlock ones. All that remained of her head was ruins. I had to step out for a moment, to catch my breath and settle my stomach.
Why didn't they ever respond to you, Annette? Why did it get this bad? How could this happen? What made them so hopeless? Once I collected myself, I went back in, hoping to find answers. Well, I definitely found something. The desk was covered in books and manuscripts, a lot of it in that same script as the journals your mother had, but I did find another note. It was for you, and in English.
Dearest Sister,
I pray this letter finds you well, and that your child has grown strong. I write this in English, for your sake, as you grew to love the tongue in our time here, and in case of the eventuality that your husband is the one to find this instead. Mother has spoken to use of your difficulties and your attempts to ease them. I can only hope my own research proved of assistance, at least in some small way, and that you found success where I have only found failure. It burdens my soul to say that our sisters are lost to us, as I failed to find a way to sate our needs as our supplies dwindled. We agreed that mother should be given the greatest share, out of respect and love, and I the next greatest, so as to facilitate my research and maintain my faculties. They were so brave, dearest Annette, and it broke my heart to watch them wither and degrade with time. For a time I detested you for fleeing, for leaving us, and I cursed your name when it came to me to end their misery. But I see now you had the right of it. Or at least, I pray that you did.
I write this in the study, at the end of my experiments. Our supplies are no more. Mother has lost all hope, and has left me behind. My body turns against me, the darkness devouring my mind and soul. Still, I struggle. I will not see the same fate as our sisters. I shall leave this world in dignity, as mother did, although I confess I am too cowardly to watch myself bleed to death as she did. It is perhaps fitting that I use our heirloom to do this deed. Sweet Evelyn.
In the event you, or your husband, or dear Taylor, find this letter, know that in this desk is a set of documents for your benefit. A will, bequeathing unto your family this property and the contents thereof. I apologize for not having it sent to you sooner, but mine stubbornness refused to entertain this end until it was too late. I now lack the strength to go beyond our grounds, and it was our wish to not be bothered by the common folk who live beyond. The consequences of this I now suffer. If you are reading this, know I would be glad that you came to us in the end, and know that I feel sorrow that we could not reconcile while I and mother and our sisters still walked this earth. I see now you were the wisest and cleverest of us all, to practice austerity and carefulness rather than submit to the temptations of the old blood. I know not if you were able to free yourself completely of its grip, or if you merely found a balance. Perhaps this is merely the feverish wishes of a dying woman, and that you suffer a similar fate as we. You spoke of Taylor, sweet thing, and her struggles with life. We had warned you of the consequences of your coupling and its results, but you desired to prove us wrong. I wish for you to have been right.
Besides the will, there also remains my notes from my experiments. While they ultimately proved a failure here, perhaps you will find them of some use in the future. Unless my prayers are answered, and they are no longer needed, in which case I do implore you to see them burned, or buried, before their blasphemous assertions cast a shadow on this world you grew to love and cherish. If not, then please, I beg, use them as you see fit, so that our family line may continue, through your daughter, and her daughters, and so on for all time. To that end, I have also kept safe an invitation to our ancestral home, granting entrance to you or your chosen representative to those ancient halls. If an answer cannot be found on these foreign shores, returning home is our last hope, even in this age of chaos and change, as our homeland is surrounded by strange magics and witchcraft, in this age born of the Golden Man.
It is my heartfelt desire that you harbor no need for what I have to offer, but I must account for the possibility that you are only here seeking succor. A possibility that is the most likely of fates, given our failures to maintain the ties of blood and love that kept us together since our flight from our home. Forgive us, Annette. Forgive us all, Daniel. And forgive us, Taylor, for damning you to whatever wretched fate may plague you.
All my love,
Lady Annabelle
Daughter of Cainhurst
I was, as one might imagine, really weirded out. I didn't know where to begin, or what to think, so I just kept digging through the desk, finding the journals she mentioned, and the invitation. It was a beautiful letter, to be sure, written in that loopy, flowing handwriting that you just don't see these days. A blank space caught my eye, and after reading your sisters note, I could only imagine it was meant for a name.
I sat on the desk, head in my hands. I came here looking for answers. Now I just had more questions. But I have a direction, a lead. I wrote my name in the letter, closing it up. A jar of wax and a stamp lay on the desk, and I figured, why the hell not? Make it official. I heated the wax as much as I could with a lighter, spreading it over the letter to form a seal, then pressed into it with the stamp. Two wolves, back to back, in front of a shield. You never mentioned any kind of noble bloodline, but I guess there's a lot of things you never mentioned.
The will I found as well, and the journals. I've packed it all up, and I'm going to head back to the truck now. Drive back to civilization, get some sleep, a real meal, see if this was all just a weird dream or not. Part of me wants to just wake up back at home, with Taylor still there, alive and well. And for you to be there, too, next to me. But I know that won't happen. Still, I have a lead. And, with this will, I can arrange for some kind of estate sale to keep Taylor taken care of while I'm away. Hell, maybe get some more doctors on her case, and they can find something.
I love you.
Chapter 3
From the Journal of Daniel Hebert
January 19th, 2011
It's been a while since we talked, I think. And I don't just mean these journal entries. I read over your sister's letter a few more times, as if I would squeeze more information out of it, like the pieces would suddenly fall into place, or something would click and I'd be able to pull a miracle out of my ass and save our daughter from becoming a bedridden vegetable, doomed to a life of being fed and watered out of obligation until she finally expires. All I got instead of the knowledge that after the better part of two decades, you were keeping secrets from me.
I knew you had a life before me, just as I had one before you. I knew you were in Lustrum's crowd for a time, before the violence, the castrations, the madness. And I knew there were things between you and our daughter that were not for me to know, things in your family that were for your family. But I had hoped that you would have kept me up to speed on things that I would need to know for our little girl's sake. It's become very apparent these last few days that this was not the case. The journals are written in that odd, eastern European script – not Cyrillic, I came to learn, but perhaps something related. So of course, they've told me next to nothing, but I've employed one of your old colleagues, a linguistic professor up north. Greedy bastard, but a cursory audit by an appraiser I hired has assured me that we won't be hurting for money. While I was at it, I had the Association's medical liaison put out feelers too, looking for more specialists to take Taylor's case.
I've managed to send some of the boys from the Association over to help catalog and pack up the contents of your family estate, too. The boys found some old maps, too. The appraiser's opinion is that your family crossed the Atlantic some time in the early 19th century, going by the deeds to the house and the contents of the manor, from one of those Baltic-Slavic schismatic whatever states just plopped in the middle of everything that nobody's ever heard of. Then the crest, the coat of arms, hell, they're pulling suits of armor, weaponry, and ancient, frilly gowns and suits that look like they belong in a period movie out of the attic and the closets. I can only imagine what else that place is hiding, and what they'll find when the snows clear.
That doesn't bother me so much, truth be told. I never talked much about my family either, or where we came from. You remember my father.
What does bother me is the things your sister said – that you'd been speaking with them more actively than you'd let me believe. About Taylor. That they'd anticipated complications. I've spent a lot of the last few days cursing your name, then apologizing, only to cycle back into shouting and raving at your shadow. I love you, always, but by God, Annette, how could you do this to us? From what I could put together, it was something they were drinking, in those bottles. Some kind of old drug, or something, something that drove your family into ruin. Sounds like you managed to kick the habit in a way they couldn't, but it's had some impact on Taylor. It's something she needs, apparently. Panacea has kept her somewhat stable, but it's like plugging fingers in a dam, with new holes and cracks showing up all the time. Which leads me to wonder, was this from the locker? Was it some kind of sucker punch to her constitution, and now it's all crashing down?
Or were you feeding whatever it was your sister was talking about to her, all these years? Behind my back? And after you died, the supply dried up, leaving Taylor to twist in the wind. Or did she start treating herself, with her own hidden supply of whatever it is, and now it's buried somewhere only she knows while she wastes away in the hospital? I went digging in the basement. I didn't find any of those bottles, no secret stash, but I found a loose brick, and a void on the other side, with nothing but more questions. If you were hiding something there, once, if you really thought it was necessary, you should have told me. I would have understood, if our daughter's life was at stake. So I can only figure that it was something you were ashamed of. Something you didn't want anyone – not even me – to see, something that had you scared.
God, I wish you were here. I wish you were here to tell me the answer, to help me save our little girl. I wish you were here so I could yell in your face, shake you in my arms, then put them around you and squeeze you tight and never let go. I don't hate you, I love you, but I hate what you've done. What you did. Because I'm in a race against time to save our daughter on a track I don't know the rules to, or how long it is, or where the clock's at. I don't even know what fucking car I'm driving, or if I'm on a horse instead.
I can only hope the professor can give me something. A place, a name, hell, a direction. Or maybe he'll strike gold and find it all laid out, some ancient snake oil bullshit I can throw at the nearest lab or tinker and have them whip up a cure. But I know well enough that we don't have that kind of luck.
I hope to hear from the professor soon. I have to go now.
I love you, always.
January 24nd, 2011
The Professor finally got back to me. I threw the appraiser at him with some of the maps, hoping that would shake things up and something good would fall out. It paid off. They're still working on the journals - apparently they've piqued the professor's interest even beyond what I'm going to be paying him but between what he has so far and the maps, they found a location for me. Your folks were definitely descended from old nobility, their ancestral home in some place called Cainhurst, wedged somewhere in the the Carpathian mountains. So more Romanian than Baltic, apparently, but what do I know.
From what they could dig up the Cainhursts were some kind of boogeyman family in the area, who fell into decline and obscurity sometime during the early 16th century. They had a reputation for being reclusive, and accusations of being devil worshipers or something. Professor imagines that was more the product of their isolationism and not playing nice with others in general. Godwin's Law before Nazis came around, I guess. Going by the maps, they had a castle located in the mountains across what looks like a river from some place called Yharnam, which was apparently a fairly large, if isolated city. The pair got pretty excited about the prospect, since there's very few references to the place in the usual literature (their words, not mine). References to unique medical techniques and cures to terminal illnesses, but not a lot in the way of details. Yharnam was apparently extremely insular and even xenophobic, and the general consensus was that the place's reputation was puffed up by rumors and desperation by wealthy but dying aristocrats looking for a miracle. Very few who returned spoke of it more than references to some kind of blood transfusions, and some insist the place was made up whole cloth like El Dorado or Atlantis. Your family's estate, the maps, and the journals say different.
Unfortunately, these days the area is smack dab in the middle of feuding parahuman warlords and rogue states that sprung up since the Cold War ended, fighting among themselves when not focusing on ethnic cleansing or trying to keep their populations penned in. Not nearly as bad as Africa, but it's still the same kind of assholes.
Bottom line is, this is going to be a risky, expensive pain in the ass. Fortunately, we've got the money (or will) and we live in a city with the highest number of capes per capita in the country, and American greenbacks talk plenty loud overseas too. I've got calls to make.
Fingers crossed.
I love you.
January 26th, 2011
Hiring cape help out of Brockton Bay was a bust. I started asking some of the guys from the Association still in touch with the people we lost to henching. They pointed me to Faultline's Crew, a mercenary outfit that works out of the Palanquin. I'd heard of them before, apparently they have a few of the "monster" capes, and are reasonably professional when it comes to villains. Unfortunately for us, it seems they're out of town on business and won't be back for some time. Time Taylor doesn't have. The ABB and Empire are right out. Even if I was willing to stoop that low (which for Taylor...) it's not like they're in any position to spare capes for what must sound like a desperate man's last Hail Mary. I heard rumors of another, someone named Coil, setting up shop, but if he does exist he's still getting established and I haven't gotten any responses from my attempts at contact. The Protectorate was also out of the question.
It doesn't help that the estate is still in the process of being assessed and liquidated. Uncle Sam will take his pound of flesh too, and I don't need the IRS breathing down my neck. Long story short I can promise I'll be good for the money in time but I'm also asking them to help me find some thing I don't know what, in some place that may or may not even exist, nestled in a place that hasn't see real political stability since before Scion showed up. There's other outfits like mundane PMCs and the Elite, but they're pricey too. Even if I dip into our savings it wouldn't be enough. And that's not even getting to the legal aspects. New plan is to fly over and try to get in touch with some locals for the job.
Taylor is still much the same, like a porcelain doll laid out on the hospital bed. My heart stops whenever her breath hitches, which is less often now, thank God. I'm grateful that Panacea decided to make her visits with Taylor part of her normal routine, although she started acting cagey when I tried to thank her. Maybe she's frustrated she can't just fix whatever the problem is? Or she just doesn't take gratitude well. Then again, if I was any good at understanding teenage girls maybe this whole mess wouldn't have happened.
Still looking for answers, but I admit I feel hopeful.
I love you.
January 31st, 2011
I've booked a flight to London in two days, then a flight from there to Poland, where I've been talking with a private pilot. Goes by the handle (callsign, she insists), Banita Four Four. Some kind of aviation tinker, apparently, with a cowboy theme (hearing a woman with a thick Polish accent trying to sound like John Wayne was a trip). Claims her plane is fuel efficient, stable, VTOL capable in any terrain, and a bunch of other stuff that I didn't follow really well, but the bottom line was she could do the job and get me in contact with some professionals to act as an escort. I didn't tell her the details about Taylor, but dropped the Professor's name. For all she and her contacts will know I'm just a history buff with money to burn, looking around for a lost city in the Balkans. Much stronger negotiation position than a desperate father. She did email me some dossiers so I had an idea of who I was working with, and I did a bit of research on my own for verification. None of them show up on INTERPOL's most wanted or anything, which was reassuring. After Banita they were really mundane. One is listed as a "combat thinker" from Belarus, the other is a hulking brute from Russia. The other two aren't parahumans, just normal ex-military they've been running with. They still insisted on sticking to code names, though. Dog (combat thinker, seems to be the one in charge), Heavy (self described weapons specialist, the brute, guy looks like three linebackers put together), Rambo (I wish I was kidding, also does survival videos on the internet), and Prague (like the city, medic).
If our daughter wasn't dying in the hospital I'd probably be a bit more amused at how our lives have turned into a bad action movie. I just hope that none of those guns end up being necessary, and that I find what Taylor needs.
The Professor and the Appraiser asked that I recover anything of interest while I'm there. They've hit a wall trying to translate the journals, they're not sure if it's some secret code your sister was using or if the language itself was just so isolated and split off from its neighbors so long ago it's unintelligible. So even if nobody's around, I can try looking for something to help translate the books. Maybe we can find someone who could finish what your sister couldn't, if only we could figure out just what she was doing in the first place.
I need to talk things out at the Association about me leaving and all. Spend time with Taylor, tell her what's going on. I don't know if she can hear me but it's nice talking to her.
I love you.
February 5th, 2011
It's cold here.
The snow hasn't let up since I flew into Poland and met with Banita and the team. We didn't leave immediately, to my disappointment, but unfortunately Banita's objections were too sensible to ignore. Winter hasn't let up, and the parts of the mountains I need her to fly us to are still experiencing severe inclement weather. She recommended I take the time to enjoy the sites here, do tourist stuff, but I haven't left my hotel room except for my meetings with her, or waiting around at the airfield she owns. Heavy says I've been walking around like a caged animal. He's probably right. What conversations we've had have been limited in scope. Banita speaks the most English of the five, and she hasn't asked me much beyond where we're going, how long we plan to stay, and so forth. My answers weren't terribly satisfying (somewhere on these centuries old maps, however long it takes for me to find what I'm looking for), but apparently they were enough for her to flight plan. The others speak enough English for conversation and to follow along with everything, but they haven't asked a lot of in depth questions. Dog and Banita talked about the airspace and border issues, mostly, and what kind of trouble they could expect. Fortunately for us, the territory we're looking at isn't deep within anyone's territory and while officially disputed it isn't something anyone's very interested in.
The plan we've worked out is fairly simple. Once there's a break in the weather, Banita will fly us in, we'll go looking around for Yharnam, the Castle, or any other significant landmarks on the map to try and get our bearings, and she'll land to drop us off. Once we're settled and, provided the weather holds up, she'll fly back on out to her airfield and come to pick us up, or at least drop off resupply, a week later. Dog and his team figured out how to ration supplies for enough wiggle room in case the weather complicates things. Dog spoke with me then, asking if I had any experience in this kind of thing, if I had survival skills, knew how to use a gun, stuff like that. I was as honest as I could be. I'd gone hunting before and knew my way around a gun, which seemed to satisfy him, but I could tell he was suspicious about something. Or maybe it was just how intense he was. Heavy was friendlier, if difficult to understand, while Rambo and Prague kept to themselves.
Kurt and Lacy gave me a call, asking how I was doing. I let them know when I landed and told them I'd give them a call before I went into the mountains. They sent their love, said they'd been visiting Taylor in my absence. Apparently they found Panacea there, holding her hand and muttering. Maybe when Taylor wakes up they can be fr
Banita just came to me, we're heading out in half an hour. Said to pack up and get on board as soon as I could while she did her preflight checks. The team is on their way.
I love you.
January 19th, 2011
It's been a while since we talked, I think. And I don't just mean these journal entries. I read over your sister's letter a few more times, as if I would squeeze more information out of it, like the pieces would suddenly fall into place, or something would click and I'd be able to pull a miracle out of my ass and save our daughter from becoming a bedridden vegetable, doomed to a life of being fed and watered out of obligation until she finally expires. All I got instead of the knowledge that after the better part of two decades, you were keeping secrets from me.
I knew you had a life before me, just as I had one before you. I knew you were in Lustrum's crowd for a time, before the violence, the castrations, the madness. And I knew there were things between you and our daughter that were not for me to know, things in your family that were for your family. But I had hoped that you would have kept me up to speed on things that I would need to know for our little girl's sake. It's become very apparent these last few days that this was not the case. The journals are written in that odd, eastern European script – not Cyrillic, I came to learn, but perhaps something related. So of course, they've told me next to nothing, but I've employed one of your old colleagues, a linguistic professor up north. Greedy bastard, but a cursory audit by an appraiser I hired has assured me that we won't be hurting for money. While I was at it, I had the Association's medical liaison put out feelers too, looking for more specialists to take Taylor's case.
I've managed to send some of the boys from the Association over to help catalog and pack up the contents of your family estate, too. The boys found some old maps, too. The appraiser's opinion is that your family crossed the Atlantic some time in the early 19th century, going by the deeds to the house and the contents of the manor, from one of those Baltic-Slavic schismatic whatever states just plopped in the middle of everything that nobody's ever heard of. Then the crest, the coat of arms, hell, they're pulling suits of armor, weaponry, and ancient, frilly gowns and suits that look like they belong in a period movie out of the attic and the closets. I can only imagine what else that place is hiding, and what they'll find when the snows clear.
That doesn't bother me so much, truth be told. I never talked much about my family either, or where we came from. You remember my father.
What does bother me is the things your sister said – that you'd been speaking with them more actively than you'd let me believe. About Taylor. That they'd anticipated complications. I've spent a lot of the last few days cursing your name, then apologizing, only to cycle back into shouting and raving at your shadow. I love you, always, but by God, Annette, how could you do this to us? From what I could put together, it was something they were drinking, in those bottles. Some kind of old drug, or something, something that drove your family into ruin. Sounds like you managed to kick the habit in a way they couldn't, but it's had some impact on Taylor. It's something she needs, apparently. Panacea has kept her somewhat stable, but it's like plugging fingers in a dam, with new holes and cracks showing up all the time. Which leads me to wonder, was this from the locker? Was it some kind of sucker punch to her constitution, and now it's all crashing down?
Or were you feeding whatever it was your sister was talking about to her, all these years? Behind my back? And after you died, the supply dried up, leaving Taylor to twist in the wind. Or did she start treating herself, with her own hidden supply of whatever it is, and now it's buried somewhere only she knows while she wastes away in the hospital? I went digging in the basement. I didn't find any of those bottles, no secret stash, but I found a loose brick, and a void on the other side, with nothing but more questions. If you were hiding something there, once, if you really thought it was necessary, you should have told me. I would have understood, if our daughter's life was at stake. So I can only figure that it was something you were ashamed of. Something you didn't want anyone – not even me – to see, something that had you scared.
God, I wish you were here. I wish you were here to tell me the answer, to help me save our little girl. I wish you were here so I could yell in your face, shake you in my arms, then put them around you and squeeze you tight and never let go. I don't hate you, I love you, but I hate what you've done. What you did. Because I'm in a race against time to save our daughter on a track I don't know the rules to, or how long it is, or where the clock's at. I don't even know what fucking car I'm driving, or if I'm on a horse instead.
I can only hope the professor can give me something. A place, a name, hell, a direction. Or maybe he'll strike gold and find it all laid out, some ancient snake oil bullshit I can throw at the nearest lab or tinker and have them whip up a cure. But I know well enough that we don't have that kind of luck.
I hope to hear from the professor soon. I have to go now.
I love you, always.
January 24nd, 2011
The Professor finally got back to me. I threw the appraiser at him with some of the maps, hoping that would shake things up and something good would fall out. It paid off. They're still working on the journals - apparently they've piqued the professor's interest even beyond what I'm going to be paying him but between what he has so far and the maps, they found a location for me. Your folks were definitely descended from old nobility, their ancestral home in some place called Cainhurst, wedged somewhere in the the Carpathian mountains. So more Romanian than Baltic, apparently, but what do I know.
From what they could dig up the Cainhursts were some kind of boogeyman family in the area, who fell into decline and obscurity sometime during the early 16th century. They had a reputation for being reclusive, and accusations of being devil worshipers or something. Professor imagines that was more the product of their isolationism and not playing nice with others in general. Godwin's Law before Nazis came around, I guess. Going by the maps, they had a castle located in the mountains across what looks like a river from some place called Yharnam, which was apparently a fairly large, if isolated city. The pair got pretty excited about the prospect, since there's very few references to the place in the usual literature (their words, not mine). References to unique medical techniques and cures to terminal illnesses, but not a lot in the way of details. Yharnam was apparently extremely insular and even xenophobic, and the general consensus was that the place's reputation was puffed up by rumors and desperation by wealthy but dying aristocrats looking for a miracle. Very few who returned spoke of it more than references to some kind of blood transfusions, and some insist the place was made up whole cloth like El Dorado or Atlantis. Your family's estate, the maps, and the journals say different.
Unfortunately, these days the area is smack dab in the middle of feuding parahuman warlords and rogue states that sprung up since the Cold War ended, fighting among themselves when not focusing on ethnic cleansing or trying to keep their populations penned in. Not nearly as bad as Africa, but it's still the same kind of assholes.
Bottom line is, this is going to be a risky, expensive pain in the ass. Fortunately, we've got the money (or will) and we live in a city with the highest number of capes per capita in the country, and American greenbacks talk plenty loud overseas too. I've got calls to make.
Fingers crossed.
I love you.
January 26th, 2011
Hiring cape help out of Brockton Bay was a bust. I started asking some of the guys from the Association still in touch with the people we lost to henching. They pointed me to Faultline's Crew, a mercenary outfit that works out of the Palanquin. I'd heard of them before, apparently they have a few of the "monster" capes, and are reasonably professional when it comes to villains. Unfortunately for us, it seems they're out of town on business and won't be back for some time. Time Taylor doesn't have. The ABB and Empire are right out. Even if I was willing to stoop that low (which for Taylor...) it's not like they're in any position to spare capes for what must sound like a desperate man's last Hail Mary. I heard rumors of another, someone named Coil, setting up shop, but if he does exist he's still getting established and I haven't gotten any responses from my attempts at contact. The Protectorate was also out of the question.
It doesn't help that the estate is still in the process of being assessed and liquidated. Uncle Sam will take his pound of flesh too, and I don't need the IRS breathing down my neck. Long story short I can promise I'll be good for the money in time but I'm also asking them to help me find some thing I don't know what, in some place that may or may not even exist, nestled in a place that hasn't see real political stability since before Scion showed up. There's other outfits like mundane PMCs and the Elite, but they're pricey too. Even if I dip into our savings it wouldn't be enough. And that's not even getting to the legal aspects. New plan is to fly over and try to get in touch with some locals for the job.
Taylor is still much the same, like a porcelain doll laid out on the hospital bed. My heart stops whenever her breath hitches, which is less often now, thank God. I'm grateful that Panacea decided to make her visits with Taylor part of her normal routine, although she started acting cagey when I tried to thank her. Maybe she's frustrated she can't just fix whatever the problem is? Or she just doesn't take gratitude well. Then again, if I was any good at understanding teenage girls maybe this whole mess wouldn't have happened.
Still looking for answers, but I admit I feel hopeful.
I love you.
January 31st, 2011
I've booked a flight to London in two days, then a flight from there to Poland, where I've been talking with a private pilot. Goes by the handle (callsign, she insists), Banita Four Four. Some kind of aviation tinker, apparently, with a cowboy theme (hearing a woman with a thick Polish accent trying to sound like John Wayne was a trip). Claims her plane is fuel efficient, stable, VTOL capable in any terrain, and a bunch of other stuff that I didn't follow really well, but the bottom line was she could do the job and get me in contact with some professionals to act as an escort. I didn't tell her the details about Taylor, but dropped the Professor's name. For all she and her contacts will know I'm just a history buff with money to burn, looking around for a lost city in the Balkans. Much stronger negotiation position than a desperate father. She did email me some dossiers so I had an idea of who I was working with, and I did a bit of research on my own for verification. None of them show up on INTERPOL's most wanted or anything, which was reassuring. After Banita they were really mundane. One is listed as a "combat thinker" from Belarus, the other is a hulking brute from Russia. The other two aren't parahumans, just normal ex-military they've been running with. They still insisted on sticking to code names, though. Dog (combat thinker, seems to be the one in charge), Heavy (self described weapons specialist, the brute, guy looks like three linebackers put together), Rambo (I wish I was kidding, also does survival videos on the internet), and Prague (like the city, medic).
If our daughter wasn't dying in the hospital I'd probably be a bit more amused at how our lives have turned into a bad action movie. I just hope that none of those guns end up being necessary, and that I find what Taylor needs.
The Professor and the Appraiser asked that I recover anything of interest while I'm there. They've hit a wall trying to translate the journals, they're not sure if it's some secret code your sister was using or if the language itself was just so isolated and split off from its neighbors so long ago it's unintelligible. So even if nobody's around, I can try looking for something to help translate the books. Maybe we can find someone who could finish what your sister couldn't, if only we could figure out just what she was doing in the first place.
I need to talk things out at the Association about me leaving and all. Spend time with Taylor, tell her what's going on. I don't know if she can hear me but it's nice talking to her.
I love you.
February 5th, 2011
It's cold here.
The snow hasn't let up since I flew into Poland and met with Banita and the team. We didn't leave immediately, to my disappointment, but unfortunately Banita's objections were too sensible to ignore. Winter hasn't let up, and the parts of the mountains I need her to fly us to are still experiencing severe inclement weather. She recommended I take the time to enjoy the sites here, do tourist stuff, but I haven't left my hotel room except for my meetings with her, or waiting around at the airfield she owns. Heavy says I've been walking around like a caged animal. He's probably right. What conversations we've had have been limited in scope. Banita speaks the most English of the five, and she hasn't asked me much beyond where we're going, how long we plan to stay, and so forth. My answers weren't terribly satisfying (somewhere on these centuries old maps, however long it takes for me to find what I'm looking for), but apparently they were enough for her to flight plan. The others speak enough English for conversation and to follow along with everything, but they haven't asked a lot of in depth questions. Dog and Banita talked about the airspace and border issues, mostly, and what kind of trouble they could expect. Fortunately for us, the territory we're looking at isn't deep within anyone's territory and while officially disputed it isn't something anyone's very interested in.
The plan we've worked out is fairly simple. Once there's a break in the weather, Banita will fly us in, we'll go looking around for Yharnam, the Castle, or any other significant landmarks on the map to try and get our bearings, and she'll land to drop us off. Once we're settled and, provided the weather holds up, she'll fly back on out to her airfield and come to pick us up, or at least drop off resupply, a week later. Dog and his team figured out how to ration supplies for enough wiggle room in case the weather complicates things. Dog spoke with me then, asking if I had any experience in this kind of thing, if I had survival skills, knew how to use a gun, stuff like that. I was as honest as I could be. I'd gone hunting before and knew my way around a gun, which seemed to satisfy him, but I could tell he was suspicious about something. Or maybe it was just how intense he was. Heavy was friendlier, if difficult to understand, while Rambo and Prague kept to themselves.
Kurt and Lacy gave me a call, asking how I was doing. I let them know when I landed and told them I'd give them a call before I went into the mountains. They sent their love, said they'd been visiting Taylor in my absence. Apparently they found Panacea there, holding her hand and muttering. Maybe when Taylor wakes up they can be fr
Banita just came to me, we're heading out in half an hour. Said to pack up and get on board as soon as I could while she did her preflight checks. The team is on their way.
I love you.
- Location
- Earth
I'm loving it, it does have that old-school suspense feeling to it and I can't wait for the horror to come but even then I'm loving it till now.
- Location
- Ohio, United States
I'm pumped for the oncoming madness found in Cainhurst. So pumped.
- Location
- Australia
Hope the Queen is still around, maybe she can come back to Brockton. But I doubt it. Hopefully Logarius isn't there still lol.
Will the entire story be in Journal format? Feels like it limits it a bit.
Will the entire story be in Journal format? Feels like it limits it a bit.
- Location
- Finland
Seems like Pan-Pan is farming Insight pretty hard...
Chapter 4
AN: I ended up taking a break yesterday (no, two days ago now), and had to go back and rewrite about 400 words after deciding that what I'd done before just wasn't cutting it. Now I'm behind 600 words for hitting 50,000 in 31 days. Tut tut. Not really satisfied with this chapter, but we're building up to some real Bloodborne action. For now we can only continue moving forward. Here's chapter four. As most of you have probably noticed, the spacing between paragraphs is pretty excessive. The formatting just seems to do that when I copy/paste from my word processor to here, and I'm too lazy to go through the whole thing to condense it all. I haven't gotten any complaints so I guess it helps with pacing? if not just pretend the larger spaces are filled with scratched out first drafts, coffee stains, and doodles by Danny. Now, I go to bed. Sweet dreams.
Moonlight
From the Journal of Daniel Hebert
February 5th, 2011 (continued)
Banita was as good as her word. We're on our way south now. She's taken us above the cloud layer for this part of the flight, so things are pretty smooth. Looking out the window it's hard to believe we're even on the same planet. It's bright up here, and we're soaring above an endless field of puffy white clouds. Maybe I can show Taylor something like this, after she gets better.
The team arrived with time to spare for Banita to finish her preflight checks, loading their equipment and filing in. It's pretty clear they're used to working together at this point. Once we finished the climb the team made themselves comfortable and got to sleep. Heavy advised I do the same. He calls me "skinny man." Friendly guy, reminds me of some of the more gregarious, salt of the earth dockworkers back home, but there's something in his eyes that's nonetheless chilling. Doesn't help that the guy could squish my head between his thumb and forefinger like an egg. They all have that look, though, Dog especially. He has that quiet, focused kind of intensity, like I see in some of the ex-military guys at the Association. Rambo's twitchy. Not in a druggy, tweaker kind of way, more just hyper aware and double checking anything and everything. Honestly reminds me of a bird, the way he moves. Prague's more difficult to get a read on, talks the least of the group. Only conversation we really had was him asking if I had any allergies, what my blood type was, and if I had any health conditions he should be aware of. Called me out on being too thin and obviously sleep deprived, but I insisted I was fine. He let it go. To my credit, I did try to get some shut eye, but sleep's hard to come by most nights ever since Taylor was hospitalized. All I see in my dreams are her face, bloodless and pale and still, or yours, hating me, before turning into your mother's mummified rictus, or the ruins of your sister.
I gave Kurt and Lacey a call before we left. Woke them up, because of of the time difference, but they wished me luck and said they would visit Taylor and keep her updated.
Where the Team and I are situated – The Tube, as Banita calls it – I've got the maps and copies of your sister's journals spread out. I've gone over the maps a thousand times already with the entire crew, and Banita has a flight plan already for getting to the general area we think Yharnam and Cainhurst are in and conducting a search, but I need something to do on the way over. So I'm going over everything again.
Yharnam itself was built in mountain valleys east of a lake. From what we could gather, it was founded due to an influx of immigrants after some medical and scientific breakthroughs at a place called Byrgenwerth, located in a forest by the lake. Cainhurst Castle predates the city and the college, having acted a patron to the latter – so the Professor thinks – and was built in a small island just off shore. That should make locating it somewhat easy, although it does beg the question of why nobody's found it before now. Or if they have, why there isn't more information on it. I could almost believe a city like this just disappearing into obscurity because of the terrain, but we live in an age of airplanes and satellites. One theory was that the city is in ruins, buried in rubble and snow and rock, over the forests reclaimed it after the city was abandoned. That, combined with a fairly consistent cloud lair trapped by the mountains would make it difficult to find from above. As for ground expeditions or historical records, there just isn't much to go on. If the Soviets ever found anything they never put it out, and the actual states in the area had nothing either. As far as the team knows, this is some kind of historical expedition. Which I guess, to an extent, it is. Your sister seemed convinced that this invitation would be good for something, as if Cainhurst were still occupied. I guess we'll find out.
Probably not in our best interest do be doing this in winter. Banita and the team said as much, at length, but the promise of a paycheck soothed their objections. Taylor doesn't have time for me to wait for things to be safer. The down payment cut deep, but talking with the Appraiser convinced me we'd be in good shape when all was said and done.
I'm going to try and get some sleep.
I love you.
We've landed and made a base camp, barely.
Banita woke us once she began our descent through the cloud layer, flying just above or around mountain peaks thanks to her instruments. Once we cleared the cloud layer it was all forest and mountains below us, and my stomach didn't take well to the increased turbulence or maneuvering as we began our search. Using the maps and some satellite imagery we were able to pull, we had a general idea of where Yharnam was, allowing us to navigate the twisting spires of rock and snow that carved up the land. Navigating visually wasn't easy. While we had gotten below the ceiling, as Banita called it, there was still a lot of mist and fog over the ground, and the visibility wasn't great. Banita tasked us with looking out the windows to help her navigate, and asked we keep an eye out for mountains, cliff faces, other aircraft, birds, or "other flyin' varmints." She split her own attention between the radar and the windshield. When she made a vaguely disgruntled noise, I asked what was wrong. She said we'd lost GPS, and her wet compass was acting up. Apparently not that big of a deal, or even unusual. Still, it meant we had one less means of navigation to rely on, although she insisted the inertial system would keep track of where we were, somehow.
I had given everyone a description of the landmarks we'd be looking for, particularly the Castle and anything that looked like a big Gothic city, which I imagined wouldn't be hard to recognize. The fog layer made that problematic, even if we were still able to get eyes on the peaks and cliffs and valleys in general. Banita told us we had only a couple of hours of search time at this altitude and airspeed, max, if I wanted her to drop us off, then leave as planned. She could stretch that out and stop at an alternate airfield more close by, but that'd ultimately cause some delays and push up her fees. I wasn't concerned about the money, but having her stuck someplace else needing time to either get the equipment she needed to properly refuel or making it herself on the spot were delays I couldn't abide. I told her we'd stick with the plan, and we'd prioritize finding a place to land, settle in, and meet her next week. The team (or at least Dog, who was calling the shots) agreed.
We did manage to find a lake as we continued our search, with the help of Banita's radar, and it seemed to roughly correlate with the maps I'd brought. Banita steered us over the water, then, and we followed along the shoreline. Eventually we started getting returns of something that might have been the bridge, island, and castle, according to Banita, not that I could tell. The radar screen just looked someone had thrown a bunch of snow on it. We made our approach at that point, attempting a flyby to get eyes on it and figure out a landing zone. Through the mists I could make out a looming silhouette, high walls and turrets piercing the sky like an animal's teeth emerging from the waters. As we came closer, we were struck with sudden, violent turbulence, forcing Banita to steer us away from the island and climb. After stabilizing, at my insistence, we tried once more, and were met with similar results, and Banita declared we would not make a third attempt, tapping the clock with her finger to remind me of our schedule. The Castle fell behind us, disappearing once more into the fog.
I managed not to curse or howl in frustration - we were close, so close! Still, this was progress. Great progress. I was more than reasonably confident that we had found Castle Cainhurst, which meant Yharnam was also close by, hidden under the fog and snow, and probably decades if not centuries of overgrowth, ruin, and neglect. We went back to following the coastline, forced to climb as we approached the cliffs. It was at this point we had to make a decision. Banita said she wouldn't attempt a landing through the fog, so we would have to find a suitable landing zone somewhere on the mountains. Fortunately, her aircraft was capable of VTOL (vertical take off and landing, as she told me), so we didn't need to find a natural runway or anything like that.
As we searched for a suitable landing spot, a glimmer caught my eye. Grabbing a pair of binoculars and looking through one of the windows, I looked for the source, eventually finding what turned out to be a cabin, situated on a cliff looming over the valley, a ways south east of the lake. The snow and fog made it difficult to pick out against the mountainside, but I showed it to Dog and the others, and Banita double checked with her radar. Next to the cabin was a clearing, a little more than large enough for us to land safely. As we got closer, Dog used his own binoculars to eye the cabin, pressing a switch, commenting that the "chalet" didn't seem inhabited. He figured it was a hunting lodge of some sort, and seemed in good enough condition, and easy enough to spot now that we knew it was there. Banita prepared to make her approach and told us to strap back in. This time around there wasn't as much turbulence, or at least nothing Banita couldn't handle, and she set us down smoothly. Once she had us on the ground and declared the aircraft safe to exit, the team and I unstrapped ourselves and made our way out.
We weren't sure if we'd run into people here. After all, Yharnam as far as anyone could tell before was little more than a myth, and we sure as hell weren't picking up any radio signals out here, or any other signs of modern civilization. That could mean the place just hadn't seen human habitation for decades if not almost two hundred years, or it could mean the people who did live here had their own thing going on and had no interest in the outside world. And that's not to mention the wildlife here. We were all a long way from the city, or even rural civilization. This was most likely beast's domain, not man's, as Rambo said during the flight over. And we were coming as invaders and plunderers, not guests.
Still, we'd made it. The hunt was on.
A big part of me wanted to just grab what we could carry and make our way down the mountain. The smaller, wiser, and ultimately more persuasive part of me knew that was a bad idea. We'd been traveling for hours, it was getting darker, the weather was still garbage, and we still needed to set up some kind of base. The cabin - or chalet, as Dog said - was a blessing. Heavy had already knocked on the door, asking if anyone was home (which, I figured, was a pretty clear no, given they hadn't come out with a shotgun and a bad attitude after the last thirty minutes or so of extremely loud activity, but I guess I can't fault his prudence). When he got no answer, he tried to doorknob, jiggling it some, then shrugged before kicking the door in. I couldn't help but wince at the sound of shattering wood as the door was reduced to splinters. I really hoped this wasn't someone's summer retreat.
Dog was also less than impressed, his face a picture of silent rebuke, but Heavy seemed unbothered, merely laughing as he took point and went inside, shotgun at the ready, to clear the interior. Dog, Rambo, and Prague followed, directing me to wait outside with the supplies. Which I did. In the biting wind and snow, an endless sea of fog on one side and a nearly impenetrable wall of forest and mountain on the other, and Banita's mash-up aircraft standing by to get us out of Dodge (or leave us to die, a voice in the back of my head noted). At least they'd loaned me a shotgun to defend myself with in case something came out and decided I looked tasty.
I breathed a sigh of relief when they came back out, declaring the area clear, and we started moving the equipment out of the cargo bay. The team and I got to work unloading our supplies - food, medical supplies, tents, cold weather gear, flash lights, radios, shovels, chisels, boxes for anything we could recover, and so forth, as well as weaponry and ammunition for the team in case we had to deal with anything unfriendly. Once we'd finished unloading, Banita said her farewells and took off, disappearing into the clouds. We did a radio check before she got too far out. Dog determined that the signal was poor but serviceable. We could only hope the weather would clear up and things would be better, or at least no worse, when she returned.
Before long, the roar of Banita's engines became a memory, and I was struck by just how quiet it was here. There was a fair amount of wind whistling through the trees, sure, and the sound of crunching snow and the team's and my exertions, but it was still utterly silent beyond that. No cars backfiring, honking horns, shouting pedestrians or shootings or tourists oohing and awing at capes flying above. I thought that was good. Nothing to distract us from our prize.
Our new base of operations sent me into a coughing fit as we entered, and for a moment I had a sense of deja vu bringing me back to your family estate. The dust was thick here. Clearly we were the first visitors in a long, long while. I was surprised we didn't find a hibernating bear or some other animals inside. I was somewhat less surprised by that, in hindsight, when I saw a large, stuffed head mounted on the wall opposite the door. I nearly shot the thing on sight, but Heavy put a hand on my shoulder, laughing, saying that whoever owned this place before had gotten to it first. I couldn't help but laugh with him a bit, tension bleeding out of me.
Still, the mounted head was an intimidating thing. And extremely confusing to look at. It looked like someone had taken a bear, stretched out its muzzle, and put antlers on it, sweeping back from its skull. My confusion must have shown on my face, because Rambo suddenly went into a rambling explanation about taxidermy and creature hoaxes, something that was more common in the old days by hoaxers looking for fame and cash, giving us such creatures as the jackalope, furred trout, and platypuses. I wasn't sure if he was joking about that last one or not.
The bear-wolf-deer overlooked the main room we occupied from on high. What was left of a bear rug carpet stretched over the center, and dusty bookshelves and tables lined the walls. A fireplace dominated one side of the room, it's fires long dead, although Prague seemed to be working on changing that. The splintered remains of a bed sat in another corner. In another corner was a ladder, leading to a door in the ceiling for an attic. Near the bottom of the ladder was another door, for a basement. Both doors had been opened, allowing for a cursory inspection by the team when they first entered.
We moved the supplies inside, stretching an insulating blanket of some kind over the doorway Heavy had busted down, and setting up a generator outside. We had brought heaters, but with Prague working on the fireplace we decided to conserve fuel until we were sure we'd need it. Rambo and Heavy were clearing off tables for use, setting down maps and supplies, while Dog set up a radio on another table. I set up the sleeping bags.
Feeling useless, I decided to go exploring the rest of the house while the team continued their set up. The basement was, of course, absolutely freezing, and seemed to have been some kind of workshop. I found a work table down there with an array of tools. I imagined that if we went digging around outside we'd find some manner of forge as well. Besides the tools I also found the remains of a large axe, a saw, and a couple old guns. They were those old, flint lock kinds, which I guess was a good indicator of just how old this place was. One was a pistol, the other was a lot bigger and, I guess, meaner looking with a larger muzzle. When I showed the team, Dog called it a blunderbuss. Basically an older kind of shotgun. He joined me in digging around out of curiosity. I guess the guy has a thing for guns, which makes sense. We didn't turn up any more weapons, but we did find a box of black powder and shot.
The attic was much less interesting, holding only moth eaten blankets, some clothes, and an old top hat that Heavy insisted on wearing as we ate our dinner that night. If the circumstances were different I may have laughed, or at least enjoyed his antics, but I just wanted morning to come and for us to start our search. I guess I was hoping to find something else in the cabin, something that might tell us more about Yharnam and Cainhurst. Or I just need to do something, anything at all.
For now, I'm sitting in my corner, writing to you, Annette. Or to whoever reads this. Taylor, maybe, if - no, when - she gets better. I hope she finds it in her heart to forgive her old man for being so useless when she needed him. Hopefully I can tell her this story myself. She'd probably get a kick out of it.
The team has gone to sleep, except Rambo, who insisted on taking the first watch. I can see him lurking outside, through the windows, smoking a cigarette, the tip burning orange in the night. I should be getting some sleep as well. I should be tired. And I am. I just don't want to sleep. I'll try though. Need to be on top of my game tomorrow.
This place smells like dog, and something sickly sweet.
I love you, Annette. I love you, Taylor. Wish me luck.
February 6th, 2011
The team is eating breakfast as I write this. Sleep didn't come easily last night. Part of that, I think, was the combination of the deathly silence outside and the cacophony of Heavy's snoring inside. Then there was the smell of dog. Worst was the dreams. I dreamed about you and Taylor again. Your family's home, except the corpses had your faces, and the blood was fresh. And that damn head, looming over it all, licking at your wounds, red dripping from its teeth and its antlers. Sleeping underneath it probably wasn't the best idea. When I woke up in the middle of the night, breath catching and in a cold sweat, I decided to relocate to the basement. It was quieter at least. But there was no escaping the smell. Whoever lived here last must have kept hunting dogs. I've cleared off the workbench to act as a writing desk, and got some breakfast for myself early. MREs aren't the best thing to wake up with but they do the job.
Dog was awake already, and said we'd look into heading down once the sun had risen. He hopes that it'll burn off some of the fog. He suggested I stay behind, man the radio, keep an eye on the place. Insisted he and the team would report in if they found anything, then we could regroup. If they found the city they'd just come back and we'd all go together the following day. I didn't say anything, but the look on my face was enough, I guess, but the look he gave me in return wasn't promising. I think he knows I'm not just here on an academic research expedition. Why he hasn't confronted me about it, I'm unsure. Maybe it's his power? It's not like I'm in this to betray them or screw them over. Or maybe he just doesn't want to look too closely at where his paycheck's coming from until something really bad happens to make him question my intentions.
We have a general idea of where the Castle is from our current position, we've got the satellite maps and the old maps from the family estate. The plan is to see if we can find some kind of trail, or failing that, otherwise climb down from the cliffs and head north and west, trying to find the lake. If we follow the shoreline we should be able to get to the remains of the bridge, and from there the castle, using an inflatable raft we're bringing along. We'll be using flags and other markers to track our path. If we find any roads or other paths, we'll mark them as well. Hopefully they'll lead us to Yharnam itself, and from there maybe we can find something useful, or a better path to Cainhurst. Trekking through the wilderness is not ideal. We're bringing a camera as well to record our progress and document what we find. Sells the idea that this is an academic effort to the team, and it'll be useful regardless for my real purposes. I suppose it wouldn't be terrible to come clean about my real reasons for being here. They got their down payment, and I can still pay the remainder of their fee when this is over, especially since I'm willing to let them get a cut of any proceeds of what we find. All I care about is finding a way to help Taylor.
I need to finish my own preparations. The team is getting ready now.
I love you.
Moonlight
From the Journal of Daniel Hebert
February 5th, 2011 (continued)
Banita was as good as her word. We're on our way south now. She's taken us above the cloud layer for this part of the flight, so things are pretty smooth. Looking out the window it's hard to believe we're even on the same planet. It's bright up here, and we're soaring above an endless field of puffy white clouds. Maybe I can show Taylor something like this, after she gets better.
The team arrived with time to spare for Banita to finish her preflight checks, loading their equipment and filing in. It's pretty clear they're used to working together at this point. Once we finished the climb the team made themselves comfortable and got to sleep. Heavy advised I do the same. He calls me "skinny man." Friendly guy, reminds me of some of the more gregarious, salt of the earth dockworkers back home, but there's something in his eyes that's nonetheless chilling. Doesn't help that the guy could squish my head between his thumb and forefinger like an egg. They all have that look, though, Dog especially. He has that quiet, focused kind of intensity, like I see in some of the ex-military guys at the Association. Rambo's twitchy. Not in a druggy, tweaker kind of way, more just hyper aware and double checking anything and everything. Honestly reminds me of a bird, the way he moves. Prague's more difficult to get a read on, talks the least of the group. Only conversation we really had was him asking if I had any allergies, what my blood type was, and if I had any health conditions he should be aware of. Called me out on being too thin and obviously sleep deprived, but I insisted I was fine. He let it go. To my credit, I did try to get some shut eye, but sleep's hard to come by most nights ever since Taylor was hospitalized. All I see in my dreams are her face, bloodless and pale and still, or yours, hating me, before turning into your mother's mummified rictus, or the ruins of your sister.
I gave Kurt and Lacey a call before we left. Woke them up, because of of the time difference, but they wished me luck and said they would visit Taylor and keep her updated.
Where the Team and I are situated – The Tube, as Banita calls it – I've got the maps and copies of your sister's journals spread out. I've gone over the maps a thousand times already with the entire crew, and Banita has a flight plan already for getting to the general area we think Yharnam and Cainhurst are in and conducting a search, but I need something to do on the way over. So I'm going over everything again.
Yharnam itself was built in mountain valleys east of a lake. From what we could gather, it was founded due to an influx of immigrants after some medical and scientific breakthroughs at a place called Byrgenwerth, located in a forest by the lake. Cainhurst Castle predates the city and the college, having acted a patron to the latter – so the Professor thinks – and was built in a small island just off shore. That should make locating it somewhat easy, although it does beg the question of why nobody's found it before now. Or if they have, why there isn't more information on it. I could almost believe a city like this just disappearing into obscurity because of the terrain, but we live in an age of airplanes and satellites. One theory was that the city is in ruins, buried in rubble and snow and rock, over the forests reclaimed it after the city was abandoned. That, combined with a fairly consistent cloud lair trapped by the mountains would make it difficult to find from above. As for ground expeditions or historical records, there just isn't much to go on. If the Soviets ever found anything they never put it out, and the actual states in the area had nothing either. As far as the team knows, this is some kind of historical expedition. Which I guess, to an extent, it is. Your sister seemed convinced that this invitation would be good for something, as if Cainhurst were still occupied. I guess we'll find out.
Probably not in our best interest do be doing this in winter. Banita and the team said as much, at length, but the promise of a paycheck soothed their objections. Taylor doesn't have time for me to wait for things to be safer. The down payment cut deep, but talking with the Appraiser convinced me we'd be in good shape when all was said and done.
I'm going to try and get some sleep.
I love you.
We've landed and made a base camp, barely.
Banita woke us once she began our descent through the cloud layer, flying just above or around mountain peaks thanks to her instruments. Once we cleared the cloud layer it was all forest and mountains below us, and my stomach didn't take well to the increased turbulence or maneuvering as we began our search. Using the maps and some satellite imagery we were able to pull, we had a general idea of where Yharnam was, allowing us to navigate the twisting spires of rock and snow that carved up the land. Navigating visually wasn't easy. While we had gotten below the ceiling, as Banita called it, there was still a lot of mist and fog over the ground, and the visibility wasn't great. Banita tasked us with looking out the windows to help her navigate, and asked we keep an eye out for mountains, cliff faces, other aircraft, birds, or "other flyin' varmints." She split her own attention between the radar and the windshield. When she made a vaguely disgruntled noise, I asked what was wrong. She said we'd lost GPS, and her wet compass was acting up. Apparently not that big of a deal, or even unusual. Still, it meant we had one less means of navigation to rely on, although she insisted the inertial system would keep track of where we were, somehow.
I had given everyone a description of the landmarks we'd be looking for, particularly the Castle and anything that looked like a big Gothic city, which I imagined wouldn't be hard to recognize. The fog layer made that problematic, even if we were still able to get eyes on the peaks and cliffs and valleys in general. Banita told us we had only a couple of hours of search time at this altitude and airspeed, max, if I wanted her to drop us off, then leave as planned. She could stretch that out and stop at an alternate airfield more close by, but that'd ultimately cause some delays and push up her fees. I wasn't concerned about the money, but having her stuck someplace else needing time to either get the equipment she needed to properly refuel or making it herself on the spot were delays I couldn't abide. I told her we'd stick with the plan, and we'd prioritize finding a place to land, settle in, and meet her next week. The team (or at least Dog, who was calling the shots) agreed.
We did manage to find a lake as we continued our search, with the help of Banita's radar, and it seemed to roughly correlate with the maps I'd brought. Banita steered us over the water, then, and we followed along the shoreline. Eventually we started getting returns of something that might have been the bridge, island, and castle, according to Banita, not that I could tell. The radar screen just looked someone had thrown a bunch of snow on it. We made our approach at that point, attempting a flyby to get eyes on it and figure out a landing zone. Through the mists I could make out a looming silhouette, high walls and turrets piercing the sky like an animal's teeth emerging from the waters. As we came closer, we were struck with sudden, violent turbulence, forcing Banita to steer us away from the island and climb. After stabilizing, at my insistence, we tried once more, and were met with similar results, and Banita declared we would not make a third attempt, tapping the clock with her finger to remind me of our schedule. The Castle fell behind us, disappearing once more into the fog.
I managed not to curse or howl in frustration - we were close, so close! Still, this was progress. Great progress. I was more than reasonably confident that we had found Castle Cainhurst, which meant Yharnam was also close by, hidden under the fog and snow, and probably decades if not centuries of overgrowth, ruin, and neglect. We went back to following the coastline, forced to climb as we approached the cliffs. It was at this point we had to make a decision. Banita said she wouldn't attempt a landing through the fog, so we would have to find a suitable landing zone somewhere on the mountains. Fortunately, her aircraft was capable of VTOL (vertical take off and landing, as she told me), so we didn't need to find a natural runway or anything like that.
As we searched for a suitable landing spot, a glimmer caught my eye. Grabbing a pair of binoculars and looking through one of the windows, I looked for the source, eventually finding what turned out to be a cabin, situated on a cliff looming over the valley, a ways south east of the lake. The snow and fog made it difficult to pick out against the mountainside, but I showed it to Dog and the others, and Banita double checked with her radar. Next to the cabin was a clearing, a little more than large enough for us to land safely. As we got closer, Dog used his own binoculars to eye the cabin, pressing a switch, commenting that the "chalet" didn't seem inhabited. He figured it was a hunting lodge of some sort, and seemed in good enough condition, and easy enough to spot now that we knew it was there. Banita prepared to make her approach and told us to strap back in. This time around there wasn't as much turbulence, or at least nothing Banita couldn't handle, and she set us down smoothly. Once she had us on the ground and declared the aircraft safe to exit, the team and I unstrapped ourselves and made our way out.
We weren't sure if we'd run into people here. After all, Yharnam as far as anyone could tell before was little more than a myth, and we sure as hell weren't picking up any radio signals out here, or any other signs of modern civilization. That could mean the place just hadn't seen human habitation for decades if not almost two hundred years, or it could mean the people who did live here had their own thing going on and had no interest in the outside world. And that's not to mention the wildlife here. We were all a long way from the city, or even rural civilization. This was most likely beast's domain, not man's, as Rambo said during the flight over. And we were coming as invaders and plunderers, not guests.
Still, we'd made it. The hunt was on.
A big part of me wanted to just grab what we could carry and make our way down the mountain. The smaller, wiser, and ultimately more persuasive part of me knew that was a bad idea. We'd been traveling for hours, it was getting darker, the weather was still garbage, and we still needed to set up some kind of base. The cabin - or chalet, as Dog said - was a blessing. Heavy had already knocked on the door, asking if anyone was home (which, I figured, was a pretty clear no, given they hadn't come out with a shotgun and a bad attitude after the last thirty minutes or so of extremely loud activity, but I guess I can't fault his prudence). When he got no answer, he tried to doorknob, jiggling it some, then shrugged before kicking the door in. I couldn't help but wince at the sound of shattering wood as the door was reduced to splinters. I really hoped this wasn't someone's summer retreat.
Dog was also less than impressed, his face a picture of silent rebuke, but Heavy seemed unbothered, merely laughing as he took point and went inside, shotgun at the ready, to clear the interior. Dog, Rambo, and Prague followed, directing me to wait outside with the supplies. Which I did. In the biting wind and snow, an endless sea of fog on one side and a nearly impenetrable wall of forest and mountain on the other, and Banita's mash-up aircraft standing by to get us out of Dodge (or leave us to die, a voice in the back of my head noted). At least they'd loaned me a shotgun to defend myself with in case something came out and decided I looked tasty.
I breathed a sigh of relief when they came back out, declaring the area clear, and we started moving the equipment out of the cargo bay. The team and I got to work unloading our supplies - food, medical supplies, tents, cold weather gear, flash lights, radios, shovels, chisels, boxes for anything we could recover, and so forth, as well as weaponry and ammunition for the team in case we had to deal with anything unfriendly. Once we'd finished unloading, Banita said her farewells and took off, disappearing into the clouds. We did a radio check before she got too far out. Dog determined that the signal was poor but serviceable. We could only hope the weather would clear up and things would be better, or at least no worse, when she returned.
Before long, the roar of Banita's engines became a memory, and I was struck by just how quiet it was here. There was a fair amount of wind whistling through the trees, sure, and the sound of crunching snow and the team's and my exertions, but it was still utterly silent beyond that. No cars backfiring, honking horns, shouting pedestrians or shootings or tourists oohing and awing at capes flying above. I thought that was good. Nothing to distract us from our prize.
Our new base of operations sent me into a coughing fit as we entered, and for a moment I had a sense of deja vu bringing me back to your family estate. The dust was thick here. Clearly we were the first visitors in a long, long while. I was surprised we didn't find a hibernating bear or some other animals inside. I was somewhat less surprised by that, in hindsight, when I saw a large, stuffed head mounted on the wall opposite the door. I nearly shot the thing on sight, but Heavy put a hand on my shoulder, laughing, saying that whoever owned this place before had gotten to it first. I couldn't help but laugh with him a bit, tension bleeding out of me.
Still, the mounted head was an intimidating thing. And extremely confusing to look at. It looked like someone had taken a bear, stretched out its muzzle, and put antlers on it, sweeping back from its skull. My confusion must have shown on my face, because Rambo suddenly went into a rambling explanation about taxidermy and creature hoaxes, something that was more common in the old days by hoaxers looking for fame and cash, giving us such creatures as the jackalope, furred trout, and platypuses. I wasn't sure if he was joking about that last one or not.
The bear-wolf-deer overlooked the main room we occupied from on high. What was left of a bear rug carpet stretched over the center, and dusty bookshelves and tables lined the walls. A fireplace dominated one side of the room, it's fires long dead, although Prague seemed to be working on changing that. The splintered remains of a bed sat in another corner. In another corner was a ladder, leading to a door in the ceiling for an attic. Near the bottom of the ladder was another door, for a basement. Both doors had been opened, allowing for a cursory inspection by the team when they first entered.
We moved the supplies inside, stretching an insulating blanket of some kind over the doorway Heavy had busted down, and setting up a generator outside. We had brought heaters, but with Prague working on the fireplace we decided to conserve fuel until we were sure we'd need it. Rambo and Heavy were clearing off tables for use, setting down maps and supplies, while Dog set up a radio on another table. I set up the sleeping bags.
Feeling useless, I decided to go exploring the rest of the house while the team continued their set up. The basement was, of course, absolutely freezing, and seemed to have been some kind of workshop. I found a work table down there with an array of tools. I imagined that if we went digging around outside we'd find some manner of forge as well. Besides the tools I also found the remains of a large axe, a saw, and a couple old guns. They were those old, flint lock kinds, which I guess was a good indicator of just how old this place was. One was a pistol, the other was a lot bigger and, I guess, meaner looking with a larger muzzle. When I showed the team, Dog called it a blunderbuss. Basically an older kind of shotgun. He joined me in digging around out of curiosity. I guess the guy has a thing for guns, which makes sense. We didn't turn up any more weapons, but we did find a box of black powder and shot.
The attic was much less interesting, holding only moth eaten blankets, some clothes, and an old top hat that Heavy insisted on wearing as we ate our dinner that night. If the circumstances were different I may have laughed, or at least enjoyed his antics, but I just wanted morning to come and for us to start our search. I guess I was hoping to find something else in the cabin, something that might tell us more about Yharnam and Cainhurst. Or I just need to do something, anything at all.
For now, I'm sitting in my corner, writing to you, Annette. Or to whoever reads this. Taylor, maybe, if - no, when - she gets better. I hope she finds it in her heart to forgive her old man for being so useless when she needed him. Hopefully I can tell her this story myself. She'd probably get a kick out of it.
The team has gone to sleep, except Rambo, who insisted on taking the first watch. I can see him lurking outside, through the windows, smoking a cigarette, the tip burning orange in the night. I should be getting some sleep as well. I should be tired. And I am. I just don't want to sleep. I'll try though. Need to be on top of my game tomorrow.
This place smells like dog, and something sickly sweet.
I love you, Annette. I love you, Taylor. Wish me luck.
February 6th, 2011
The team is eating breakfast as I write this. Sleep didn't come easily last night. Part of that, I think, was the combination of the deathly silence outside and the cacophony of Heavy's snoring inside. Then there was the smell of dog. Worst was the dreams. I dreamed about you and Taylor again. Your family's home, except the corpses had your faces, and the blood was fresh. And that damn head, looming over it all, licking at your wounds, red dripping from its teeth and its antlers. Sleeping underneath it probably wasn't the best idea. When I woke up in the middle of the night, breath catching and in a cold sweat, I decided to relocate to the basement. It was quieter at least. But there was no escaping the smell. Whoever lived here last must have kept hunting dogs. I've cleared off the workbench to act as a writing desk, and got some breakfast for myself early. MREs aren't the best thing to wake up with but they do the job.
Dog was awake already, and said we'd look into heading down once the sun had risen. He hopes that it'll burn off some of the fog. He suggested I stay behind, man the radio, keep an eye on the place. Insisted he and the team would report in if they found anything, then we could regroup. If they found the city they'd just come back and we'd all go together the following day. I didn't say anything, but the look on my face was enough, I guess, but the look he gave me in return wasn't promising. I think he knows I'm not just here on an academic research expedition. Why he hasn't confronted me about it, I'm unsure. Maybe it's his power? It's not like I'm in this to betray them or screw them over. Or maybe he just doesn't want to look too closely at where his paycheck's coming from until something really bad happens to make him question my intentions.
We have a general idea of where the Castle is from our current position, we've got the satellite maps and the old maps from the family estate. The plan is to see if we can find some kind of trail, or failing that, otherwise climb down from the cliffs and head north and west, trying to find the lake. If we follow the shoreline we should be able to get to the remains of the bridge, and from there the castle, using an inflatable raft we're bringing along. We'll be using flags and other markers to track our path. If we find any roads or other paths, we'll mark them as well. Hopefully they'll lead us to Yharnam itself, and from there maybe we can find something useful, or a better path to Cainhurst. Trekking through the wilderness is not ideal. We're bringing a camera as well to record our progress and document what we find. Sells the idea that this is an academic effort to the team, and it'll be useful regardless for my real purposes. I suppose it wouldn't be terrible to come clean about my real reasons for being here. They got their down payment, and I can still pay the remainder of their fee when this is over, especially since I'm willing to let them get a cut of any proceeds of what we find. All I care about is finding a way to help Taylor.
I need to finish my own preparations. The team is getting ready now.
I love you.
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That's an, ah...unfortunate... turn of phrase, Danny. Perhaps your insight is somewhat greater than what I assumed? For with these wretched outsiders disturbing the city of Yharnam, they might just stumble upon and wake up some old nightmares better left forgotten.
(I love the story and the format! Very nice callback to classic gothic horror!)
- Location
- San Diego
I want to see these Old Nightmares wake up, and decide the Golden Man is tasty.
Chapter 5
Moonlight Chapter 5
From the Journal of Daniel Hebert
February 6th, 2011 (Night)
We've made camp in the woods. Progress was slow today, as we tried to navigate the thick trees, fog, and snow covered undergrowth once we reached the bottom of the trail. That eerie silence hasn't changed, either. I asked Rambo if that was normal. He shrugged, saying that he'd expect to at least hear birds, maybe see deer going about or something, but he hadn't been in the area before so couldn't say. Could be we were just scaring them all off, or Banita had with her fly over. Or, they're just so stealthy we haven't noticed them, and we were being stalked by a pack of wolves as we spoke.
Thanks, asshole.
Fortunately we didn't run into any hungry or angry animals after that. But I can't shake this feeling. It's probably just nerves, being this close to either finding something to help Taylor, or finding out this was a big waste of time, in a strange country far away from home with a bunch of trained killers. The endless fog doesn't help, or this damn cold, or this feeling of being watched. It's an electric feeling, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.
If it weren't for our watches time would've been impossible to track, with the skies remaining overcast. Dog called for a break around noon, and we spent a good half hour or so hanging around eating some trail rations. We didn't talk much. I thought about pulling out my journal to write, but didn't want to go through the trouble of getting it out of my pack. Heavy did ask me what I was always writing about. I just said I was recording my experiences. He nodded, a very grim look on his face, before telling me that I better not be making fun of them, or else he "would break skinny man like twigs." And then he laughed. I laughed. The others chuckled. Maybe I'll hire them after this to look after Taylor.
Once we'd rested our legs enough (they seemed more concerned about me, since I'm not exactly a picture of athletic ability, but I insisted I was fine) we got back to it. The deeper we got into the forest, the darker it became as night approached, and the naked branches above us intertwined and formed a canopy even without their leaves. We passed what we thought was a stunted, oddly shaped tree, before Heavy opted to dust off the snow covering it. It was weathered stone statue, shaped vaguely like a person. If it ever had a face, it was impossible to tell. More stones were placed around it, and we dug away the snow. They were gravestones, and like the statue, any identifying features were long gone. Dog crossed himself, before saying we should keep moving.
It was a sobering experience, but it helped my resolve and confidence as well. You don't find statues and gravestones like that just in the middle of nowhere. Yharnam had to be close, and with it a path to the Castle. Eventually, Rambo did notice a trail between the trees. We decided to follow it, and began heading to the north by his reckoning. We ran into more statues, more gravestones, growing in number and density, clustered around towering mausoleums hidden among the trees. The cold had been seeping into my skin all day, but now it was creeping into my guts as well. The statues, I now noticed, were in many cases towering things, holding spears, wings spread. But no faces – at least, nothing recognizable. Perhaps it was just centuries of weathering down, but some of them I got the impression that they never had human features. Biblical angels did have to say "fear not" after all. I guess whatever flavor of Christianity Yharnam was going with took that to heart.
By evening it was too dark for us to comfortably navigate the woods, even with flashlights and lanterns. I wanted to keep going until we got to the city, but it made more sense for us to set up camp and continue in the morning. Once we found a wide enough clearing we set up tents, built a campfire, and ate more rations for dinner. Rambo added some finishing touches to a map he was drawing to track our progress. I found my corner and got to writing all this.
It does bother me how we haven't run into any real signs of life. Not even birds. I suppose they would have migrated for the winter. The lack of people is also disconcerting, but not unexpected. The house we found seemed abandoned, and these trails, while recognizable, haven't seen a lot of traffic. Given all the graves I wonder if there was some kind of plague, and any survivors just fled, leaving the city to waste away. It's easy to believe. I know there are still uncontacted peoples in the world, but that's in places like the Amazon and remote islands. I think if anyone was still here, the world would know about it. Europe's just too old and has had too much happen for an entire, living city to just be invisible. And yet your sister seemed to think this invitation to Cainhurst would do us some good. Then again, she wasn't in the best of mindsets when she said all that, I think. Still. The doctors were doing all they could and it wasn't enough. Same with Panacea. This is the best chance Taylor has so far unless a miracle happens while I'm away.
The others are turning in. Dog's taking first watch tonight. Not sure what the point is, given out lifeless the forest seems to be, but they're the professionals. I should get some sleep myself.
I love you.
February 7th, 2011
I dreamed that the forest was alive again, and I was walking down a cobblestone trail. Lanterns on posts and hanging from trees lit the way. Through the shadows I saw things writhing, and heard something on the wind I couldn't make out. Everything smelled of dog, and something sickly sweet. Something told me I had to run, so I did, my boots smacking against the trail. The trees were full, now, the undergrowth clear of snow. Eventually I saw a man ahead. He had his back to me, holding a torch in one hand and an ax in the other. I tried to call out a greeting, asking where I was, and how to get to Cainhurst. He whirled around just as I reached out to touch his shoulder. The ax tore into my side, and I fell on my back, breathless. He loomed over me, a silhouette against the sky, a wide brimmed hat casting a shadow over his face. The moon was full overhead. I struggled to get away, to move, as my eyes searched his face. He put a boot on my chest, leaning down to grab the ax and rip it out of me. I had no breath to scream. He brought it high, and shouting something, and the last thing I saw was his eyes – bloodshot and wild – as he brought the ax down.
Again, I awoke with my breath catching, in a cold sweat, my clothes and blankets sticking to me. Untangling myself, I pulled out the journal and started writing. I'm staring at it all now, my breath and heart calming. I felt compelled to record it. I'm not sure why. Thinking on it, it was the most vivid dream I've had in a long time.
Looking outside the tent, I saw the others were awake as well. Judging by their expressions they didn't have a good night either. Heavy's brewing some coffee over the campfire.
I'll write more tonight.
February 7th, 2011, evening
The team is spooked. Nobody said anything, but I think we all knew. We all had strange dreams the night before.
After coffee and breakfast we packed up and continued down the trail. We were heading up hill, now, and the trail became a winding, serpentine thing. More gravestones and massive stone structures, which we're still assuming are mausoleums. I took pictures and notes this time, if only for appearance's sake with the team. Some of these hadn't been worn down as much, and I could make out some of the writing. Most of it looked like that script your sister used, but some of the gravestones were actually in English. Or at least, the roman alphabet. I recognized the English of course, but there was also French and German and other languages here and there. Which meant that people from all over were coming to Yharnam, for this miracle treatment I guess, but there had to be more to it. These people didn't just show up, get the cure, then go home. They stayed here, long enough to die, long enough to have people willing to bury them in a marked grave. And yet, all we knew about this place was rumors, vague allusions by transient visitors, and whatever your sister had in her journals. So what about these guys? What made them stay? Were they unable to get cured right off the bat? Or was there something else here that made them want to stay?
Not like I was getting any answers out of the dead. We moved on. Stopped for lunch again, then continued. The trail brought us further and further uphill, and we made another big discovery. It was a windmill, still standing. The vanes weren't moving and were in clear disrepair, but the structure was standing on its own. We got our flashlights out and headed inside, eager to get someplace more insulated for the night. There were a few large grindstones attached to mechanisms around the room, themselves connecting to shafts that shot up into the darkness. Dog had Heavy and Prague secure the area while the rest of us focused on setting up camp. We were interrupted by a shout, Prague calling us over.
In another room, we found them crouching next to a corpse.
Well, I suppose "corpse" is generous. It was only bones at this points, laid out on the floor. Not even the clothes were left. The upper half of the skull was in fragments. Not as gruesome as your family's home, but gruesome nonetheless. Still, my eyes lingered on the shattered skull for a moment, and I braced myself against a wall. I looked away, and saw that next to the bones was the reddish crystal lying next to the remains, and a single, pale flower, its petals silvery-gray like moonlight. Rambo studied it curiously, while Heavy picked at the red crystal, like a scab off the floor.
Dog kept his eyes on the bones, though, sharing a look with Prague, who was kept his flashlight on the bones. I asked what was the matter – besides the dead guy, that is. Prague shook his head and stood, heading back to the main room where we'd set up camp, muttering that it was nothing. The bones just seemed like they belonged to someone unusually tall, he said. Dog walked around the skeleton a bit, then crouched by the wall, digging his fingers into it. I asked him what he was looking for, when he pulled out a bullet. He rolled it around in his palm, rubbing his thumb over the surface, then aimed his flashlight at it.
It was made from silver.
He asked me if, in my research, I had ever discovered what happened to Yharnam, or if I knew what had killed it. I told him I didn't know, and it was true. He grunted, seeming satisfied, before following Prague back to our campsite. The rest of us weren't far behind.
We ate dinner in silence. I doubted the team were strangers to death, or that they were particularly bothered by finding a corpse in itself. But the experience had struck all of us in a stranger way. I thought about what Dog said. Nobody knew what killed Yharnam. I thought about the silence around us. Something itched, like a splinter in my mind. It would have to wait.
Good night, Annette. I love you.
February 8th, 2011
Today was another long day.
I dreamed again that night, but at first I didn't think it was a dream. I awoke in the windmill, alone. The team was nowhere in sight, no campfire either. Just me. I called out their names, but nobody answered. I wondered if they'd left me behind. My feet started moving, then. I had nowhere to go but forward, climbing the stairs to the second level of the windmill. It lead to a large, oak door. On the other side was a clear sky, the moon hanging heavily above. The floorboards creaked behind me, and I ran up the trail. The cobblestone turned into stone steps, wrought iron fencing on either side, and beyond it more headstones. In the distance I saw a stone bridge. There was a whisper, drawing me away, and I took a sharp left, leaping over the fence and through the brush. There was another path here, hidden, leading uphill. I found a stone wall looming above me, the path leading to an archway. A gate hung open, and the wind howled from within.
The scent of wet dog, and that sickly sweet smell. I ran headlong into it, and then I awoke once more at the windmill, sitting up sharply as my breath caught. I pinched myself to make sure I was really awake. Looking around, I saw the others weren't present, but the supplies were still there. After untangling myself from my sleeping bag, I started up a pot of coffee. The team came in a few minutes later, pausing when they saw me, before getting back to their business. Heavy thanked me for the coffee, and we started packing.
We finished our morning preparations in silence. The others, it seemed, were eager to leave the windmill after we found the skeleton.
This is where things get weird.
We climbed the stairs up to the second floor, finding the oak door leading back out. Just like in my dream, although this time it was barred, a wooden plank nailed to the door and the walls around it, set it to prevent it from being opened. Heavy tore it off easily enough. On the other side we found a cobblestone trail, which lead to the stone steps, much of them reduced to worn rubble. On either side, the remains of a wrought iron fence, and more headstones. Before I knew it, I had taken point, my steps quickening. Eventually we came to a gap in the path. The other side of the path a good twenty feet away. It was a long way down.
With a gulp, I looked around. The fog remained, but as I craned my neck up, I could make out a shadow through the fog. The stone wall. I pointed it out to the others, and we headed toward it, finding another path. This one overgrown, but still recognizable as it cut through the tightly packed headstones. An iron gate under a stone archway, this time closed, with old, rusted chains around it to keep it that way. And a pile of bones and dust on the other side.
I managed not to wince as Dog pressed the muzzle of his handgun to the back of my head, cocking the hammer. I raised my hands up, slowly.
"Mr. Hebert. I believe it is time you told us why we are really here, and why it seems you knew exactly where to find this place," he said lowly. I told him I didn't know. Rambo called bullshit, and Dog started talking again. They knew who I was – the Dockworker's Association isn't the biggest of names, but we are an institution in the Bay as much as anything else, so we have a presence on the internet. They'd done their research. Found my story a little strange, but the job seemed low-risk enough, they needed money, and the down payment I provided convinced them I was good for it. They figured maybe I had just gotten into a different line of work recently. Thought it best not to ask for details, as a professional courtesy, but I guess they were spooked enough now that we were face to face with a pile of corpses, on top of everything else. Me basically leading them right to it was the final straw.
I considered my options, and since I'm writing this, obviously I didn't get shot. I managed to talk him down, said it was easier to keep my head together when someone isn't holding a gun to it. He obliged, and I turned around slowly. The team was glaring at me, all of them armed, but at least they weren't aiming at me anymore.
I told them the truth, then. About Taylor, about your family, the letter and journals directing me here, and the research I'd done. I told them I really didn't know what had happened here. And as for how I found the gate, I told them about my dream. Their lack of skepticism told me they'd been having them too, although Dog said mine was apparently the most vivid and, apparently, prophetic, unless I was still lying. But apparently psychic dreams weren't that strange to him, and his power told him I wasn't bullshitting him anymore. I'd never actually pinged as a threat, apparently, but he could tell something wasn't right.
Our arrangement would remain the same. It wouldn't be worth the hit to their reputation to renegotiate here, and I'd told them already I was looking for very specific kinds of documents and the like, anything else they found that wasn't that was all theirs, and I'd follow up with a final payment once we got back to civilization and I could wire the money to them. By then the contents of your family estate would have been liquidated. All Dog was really concerned about, apparently, was if I was leading them into some kind of death trap. As far as I knew, I wasn't. It was a cold comfort on both sides.
They put the guns away, and the tension leaked out of me. Dog said something in Russian, and Heavy walked by me, giving me a friendly pat on the shoulder, before tearing the gate from its hinges with his bear hands and tossing it aside. He put a hand to his face as dust and ash were kicked up from the pile of bones. Prague mentioned, somewhat unnecessarily, that the bodies must have been burned. Among the bones and ash were ax heads and saw blades and pitchforks.
The bones and dust crunched under Heavy's feet as he cleared the way for us, taking point. On the other side were more graves, this time stone coffins built into the floor, and a winding staircase. We ascended. At the top, there was another archway. If it ever had a gate, it was long gone. We emerged, one by one.
The fog had finally cleared, but the sky remained overcast. Towering walls and cathedral-like buildings stretched out into the distance. Majestic, even in ruin and covered in snow. Gothic architecture writ large. And everywhere, there were gravestones and coffins. The city looked like a giant tomb, and was as silent as one, except for the sound of our footsteps, and the occasional comment. But we only whispered when we did speak, as if expecting to be admonished for disturbing the dead here. That scent persists, even now. Wet dog, and something sickly sweet.
We decided to find the tallest, most intact building we could, and we did. A clock tower, the clock itself long destroyed by the elements and whatever had happened here that turned this place into a giant graveyard. On the way we passed old shops, offices, apartment buildings, and churches. The silence was broken by wind chimes sounding as we passed as if announcing our presence. We saw more bones as we went, half-buried in snow. Men, children, dogs. Baby carriages.
The tower was in good enough repair, and we were able to climb the staircase all the way to the top floor, just beneath the clock face. The team set up camp there. I found a ladder At the top, I found the rusted, broken gears of the clock's mechanisms, and more bones. I'm numb to it all at this point. One in particular drew my attention, hunched in the corner. I could imagine, however long ago, this man sitting there asleep. A rifle in one hand as whatever madness this city fell to raged outside. And in the other, a bottle, sealed. Feeling brave, I reached out and took it from the skeletal hand, brushing off the dust and frost. It was something red. I pulled out my pocket knife, flipping out the corkscrew and used it to unseal the bottle. I took a whiff. And then another, my guts starting to freeze again.
I turned around when the floorboards creaked behind me. It was heavy, resting one of his meaty arms on the floor from the trap door. He laughed.
"Skinny man has found wine, yes? Is it good?"
I didn't respond for a good minute. It was then I realized what it was - that scent that had been plaguing me since we arrived here. It was everywhere. The city was saturated with it, into the stone.
It was blood.
From the Journal of Daniel Hebert
February 6th, 2011 (Night)
We've made camp in the woods. Progress was slow today, as we tried to navigate the thick trees, fog, and snow covered undergrowth once we reached the bottom of the trail. That eerie silence hasn't changed, either. I asked Rambo if that was normal. He shrugged, saying that he'd expect to at least hear birds, maybe see deer going about or something, but he hadn't been in the area before so couldn't say. Could be we were just scaring them all off, or Banita had with her fly over. Or, they're just so stealthy we haven't noticed them, and we were being stalked by a pack of wolves as we spoke.
Thanks, asshole.
Fortunately we didn't run into any hungry or angry animals after that. But I can't shake this feeling. It's probably just nerves, being this close to either finding something to help Taylor, or finding out this was a big waste of time, in a strange country far away from home with a bunch of trained killers. The endless fog doesn't help, or this damn cold, or this feeling of being watched. It's an electric feeling, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.
If it weren't for our watches time would've been impossible to track, with the skies remaining overcast. Dog called for a break around noon, and we spent a good half hour or so hanging around eating some trail rations. We didn't talk much. I thought about pulling out my journal to write, but didn't want to go through the trouble of getting it out of my pack. Heavy did ask me what I was always writing about. I just said I was recording my experiences. He nodded, a very grim look on his face, before telling me that I better not be making fun of them, or else he "would break skinny man like twigs." And then he laughed. I laughed. The others chuckled. Maybe I'll hire them after this to look after Taylor.
Once we'd rested our legs enough (they seemed more concerned about me, since I'm not exactly a picture of athletic ability, but I insisted I was fine) we got back to it. The deeper we got into the forest, the darker it became as night approached, and the naked branches above us intertwined and formed a canopy even without their leaves. We passed what we thought was a stunted, oddly shaped tree, before Heavy opted to dust off the snow covering it. It was weathered stone statue, shaped vaguely like a person. If it ever had a face, it was impossible to tell. More stones were placed around it, and we dug away the snow. They were gravestones, and like the statue, any identifying features were long gone. Dog crossed himself, before saying we should keep moving.
It was a sobering experience, but it helped my resolve and confidence as well. You don't find statues and gravestones like that just in the middle of nowhere. Yharnam had to be close, and with it a path to the Castle. Eventually, Rambo did notice a trail between the trees. We decided to follow it, and began heading to the north by his reckoning. We ran into more statues, more gravestones, growing in number and density, clustered around towering mausoleums hidden among the trees. The cold had been seeping into my skin all day, but now it was creeping into my guts as well. The statues, I now noticed, were in many cases towering things, holding spears, wings spread. But no faces – at least, nothing recognizable. Perhaps it was just centuries of weathering down, but some of them I got the impression that they never had human features. Biblical angels did have to say "fear not" after all. I guess whatever flavor of Christianity Yharnam was going with took that to heart.
By evening it was too dark for us to comfortably navigate the woods, even with flashlights and lanterns. I wanted to keep going until we got to the city, but it made more sense for us to set up camp and continue in the morning. Once we found a wide enough clearing we set up tents, built a campfire, and ate more rations for dinner. Rambo added some finishing touches to a map he was drawing to track our progress. I found my corner and got to writing all this.
It does bother me how we haven't run into any real signs of life. Not even birds. I suppose they would have migrated for the winter. The lack of people is also disconcerting, but not unexpected. The house we found seemed abandoned, and these trails, while recognizable, haven't seen a lot of traffic. Given all the graves I wonder if there was some kind of plague, and any survivors just fled, leaving the city to waste away. It's easy to believe. I know there are still uncontacted peoples in the world, but that's in places like the Amazon and remote islands. I think if anyone was still here, the world would know about it. Europe's just too old and has had too much happen for an entire, living city to just be invisible. And yet your sister seemed to think this invitation to Cainhurst would do us some good. Then again, she wasn't in the best of mindsets when she said all that, I think. Still. The doctors were doing all they could and it wasn't enough. Same with Panacea. This is the best chance Taylor has so far unless a miracle happens while I'm away.
The others are turning in. Dog's taking first watch tonight. Not sure what the point is, given out lifeless the forest seems to be, but they're the professionals. I should get some sleep myself.
I love you.
February 7th, 2011
I dreamed that the forest was alive again, and I was walking down a cobblestone trail. Lanterns on posts and hanging from trees lit the way. Through the shadows I saw things writhing, and heard something on the wind I couldn't make out. Everything smelled of dog, and something sickly sweet. Something told me I had to run, so I did, my boots smacking against the trail. The trees were full, now, the undergrowth clear of snow. Eventually I saw a man ahead. He had his back to me, holding a torch in one hand and an ax in the other. I tried to call out a greeting, asking where I was, and how to get to Cainhurst. He whirled around just as I reached out to touch his shoulder. The ax tore into my side, and I fell on my back, breathless. He loomed over me, a silhouette against the sky, a wide brimmed hat casting a shadow over his face. The moon was full overhead. I struggled to get away, to move, as my eyes searched his face. He put a boot on my chest, leaning down to grab the ax and rip it out of me. I had no breath to scream. He brought it high, and shouting something, and the last thing I saw was his eyes – bloodshot and wild – as he brought the ax down.
Again, I awoke with my breath catching, in a cold sweat, my clothes and blankets sticking to me. Untangling myself, I pulled out the journal and started writing. I'm staring at it all now, my breath and heart calming. I felt compelled to record it. I'm not sure why. Thinking on it, it was the most vivid dream I've had in a long time.
Looking outside the tent, I saw the others were awake as well. Judging by their expressions they didn't have a good night either. Heavy's brewing some coffee over the campfire.
I'll write more tonight.
February 7th, 2011, evening
The team is spooked. Nobody said anything, but I think we all knew. We all had strange dreams the night before.
After coffee and breakfast we packed up and continued down the trail. We were heading up hill, now, and the trail became a winding, serpentine thing. More gravestones and massive stone structures, which we're still assuming are mausoleums. I took pictures and notes this time, if only for appearance's sake with the team. Some of these hadn't been worn down as much, and I could make out some of the writing. Most of it looked like that script your sister used, but some of the gravestones were actually in English. Or at least, the roman alphabet. I recognized the English of course, but there was also French and German and other languages here and there. Which meant that people from all over were coming to Yharnam, for this miracle treatment I guess, but there had to be more to it. These people didn't just show up, get the cure, then go home. They stayed here, long enough to die, long enough to have people willing to bury them in a marked grave. And yet, all we knew about this place was rumors, vague allusions by transient visitors, and whatever your sister had in her journals. So what about these guys? What made them stay? Were they unable to get cured right off the bat? Or was there something else here that made them want to stay?
Not like I was getting any answers out of the dead. We moved on. Stopped for lunch again, then continued. The trail brought us further and further uphill, and we made another big discovery. It was a windmill, still standing. The vanes weren't moving and were in clear disrepair, but the structure was standing on its own. We got our flashlights out and headed inside, eager to get someplace more insulated for the night. There were a few large grindstones attached to mechanisms around the room, themselves connecting to shafts that shot up into the darkness. Dog had Heavy and Prague secure the area while the rest of us focused on setting up camp. We were interrupted by a shout, Prague calling us over.
In another room, we found them crouching next to a corpse.
Well, I suppose "corpse" is generous. It was only bones at this points, laid out on the floor. Not even the clothes were left. The upper half of the skull was in fragments. Not as gruesome as your family's home, but gruesome nonetheless. Still, my eyes lingered on the shattered skull for a moment, and I braced myself against a wall. I looked away, and saw that next to the bones was the reddish crystal lying next to the remains, and a single, pale flower, its petals silvery-gray like moonlight. Rambo studied it curiously, while Heavy picked at the red crystal, like a scab off the floor.
Dog kept his eyes on the bones, though, sharing a look with Prague, who was kept his flashlight on the bones. I asked what was the matter – besides the dead guy, that is. Prague shook his head and stood, heading back to the main room where we'd set up camp, muttering that it was nothing. The bones just seemed like they belonged to someone unusually tall, he said. Dog walked around the skeleton a bit, then crouched by the wall, digging his fingers into it. I asked him what he was looking for, when he pulled out a bullet. He rolled it around in his palm, rubbing his thumb over the surface, then aimed his flashlight at it.
It was made from silver.
He asked me if, in my research, I had ever discovered what happened to Yharnam, or if I knew what had killed it. I told him I didn't know, and it was true. He grunted, seeming satisfied, before following Prague back to our campsite. The rest of us weren't far behind.
We ate dinner in silence. I doubted the team were strangers to death, or that they were particularly bothered by finding a corpse in itself. But the experience had struck all of us in a stranger way. I thought about what Dog said. Nobody knew what killed Yharnam. I thought about the silence around us. Something itched, like a splinter in my mind. It would have to wait.
Good night, Annette. I love you.
February 8th, 2011
Today was another long day.
I dreamed again that night, but at first I didn't think it was a dream. I awoke in the windmill, alone. The team was nowhere in sight, no campfire either. Just me. I called out their names, but nobody answered. I wondered if they'd left me behind. My feet started moving, then. I had nowhere to go but forward, climbing the stairs to the second level of the windmill. It lead to a large, oak door. On the other side was a clear sky, the moon hanging heavily above. The floorboards creaked behind me, and I ran up the trail. The cobblestone turned into stone steps, wrought iron fencing on either side, and beyond it more headstones. In the distance I saw a stone bridge. There was a whisper, drawing me away, and I took a sharp left, leaping over the fence and through the brush. There was another path here, hidden, leading uphill. I found a stone wall looming above me, the path leading to an archway. A gate hung open, and the wind howled from within.
The scent of wet dog, and that sickly sweet smell. I ran headlong into it, and then I awoke once more at the windmill, sitting up sharply as my breath caught. I pinched myself to make sure I was really awake. Looking around, I saw the others weren't present, but the supplies were still there. After untangling myself from my sleeping bag, I started up a pot of coffee. The team came in a few minutes later, pausing when they saw me, before getting back to their business. Heavy thanked me for the coffee, and we started packing.
We finished our morning preparations in silence. The others, it seemed, were eager to leave the windmill after we found the skeleton.
This is where things get weird.
We climbed the stairs up to the second floor, finding the oak door leading back out. Just like in my dream, although this time it was barred, a wooden plank nailed to the door and the walls around it, set it to prevent it from being opened. Heavy tore it off easily enough. On the other side we found a cobblestone trail, which lead to the stone steps, much of them reduced to worn rubble. On either side, the remains of a wrought iron fence, and more headstones. Before I knew it, I had taken point, my steps quickening. Eventually we came to a gap in the path. The other side of the path a good twenty feet away. It was a long way down.
With a gulp, I looked around. The fog remained, but as I craned my neck up, I could make out a shadow through the fog. The stone wall. I pointed it out to the others, and we headed toward it, finding another path. This one overgrown, but still recognizable as it cut through the tightly packed headstones. An iron gate under a stone archway, this time closed, with old, rusted chains around it to keep it that way. And a pile of bones and dust on the other side.
I managed not to wince as Dog pressed the muzzle of his handgun to the back of my head, cocking the hammer. I raised my hands up, slowly.
"Mr. Hebert. I believe it is time you told us why we are really here, and why it seems you knew exactly where to find this place," he said lowly. I told him I didn't know. Rambo called bullshit, and Dog started talking again. They knew who I was – the Dockworker's Association isn't the biggest of names, but we are an institution in the Bay as much as anything else, so we have a presence on the internet. They'd done their research. Found my story a little strange, but the job seemed low-risk enough, they needed money, and the down payment I provided convinced them I was good for it. They figured maybe I had just gotten into a different line of work recently. Thought it best not to ask for details, as a professional courtesy, but I guess they were spooked enough now that we were face to face with a pile of corpses, on top of everything else. Me basically leading them right to it was the final straw.
I considered my options, and since I'm writing this, obviously I didn't get shot. I managed to talk him down, said it was easier to keep my head together when someone isn't holding a gun to it. He obliged, and I turned around slowly. The team was glaring at me, all of them armed, but at least they weren't aiming at me anymore.
I told them the truth, then. About Taylor, about your family, the letter and journals directing me here, and the research I'd done. I told them I really didn't know what had happened here. And as for how I found the gate, I told them about my dream. Their lack of skepticism told me they'd been having them too, although Dog said mine was apparently the most vivid and, apparently, prophetic, unless I was still lying. But apparently psychic dreams weren't that strange to him, and his power told him I wasn't bullshitting him anymore. I'd never actually pinged as a threat, apparently, but he could tell something wasn't right.
Our arrangement would remain the same. It wouldn't be worth the hit to their reputation to renegotiate here, and I'd told them already I was looking for very specific kinds of documents and the like, anything else they found that wasn't that was all theirs, and I'd follow up with a final payment once we got back to civilization and I could wire the money to them. By then the contents of your family estate would have been liquidated. All Dog was really concerned about, apparently, was if I was leading them into some kind of death trap. As far as I knew, I wasn't. It was a cold comfort on both sides.
They put the guns away, and the tension leaked out of me. Dog said something in Russian, and Heavy walked by me, giving me a friendly pat on the shoulder, before tearing the gate from its hinges with his bear hands and tossing it aside. He put a hand to his face as dust and ash were kicked up from the pile of bones. Prague mentioned, somewhat unnecessarily, that the bodies must have been burned. Among the bones and ash were ax heads and saw blades and pitchforks.
The bones and dust crunched under Heavy's feet as he cleared the way for us, taking point. On the other side were more graves, this time stone coffins built into the floor, and a winding staircase. We ascended. At the top, there was another archway. If it ever had a gate, it was long gone. We emerged, one by one.
The fog had finally cleared, but the sky remained overcast. Towering walls and cathedral-like buildings stretched out into the distance. Majestic, even in ruin and covered in snow. Gothic architecture writ large. And everywhere, there were gravestones and coffins. The city looked like a giant tomb, and was as silent as one, except for the sound of our footsteps, and the occasional comment. But we only whispered when we did speak, as if expecting to be admonished for disturbing the dead here. That scent persists, even now. Wet dog, and something sickly sweet.
We decided to find the tallest, most intact building we could, and we did. A clock tower, the clock itself long destroyed by the elements and whatever had happened here that turned this place into a giant graveyard. On the way we passed old shops, offices, apartment buildings, and churches. The silence was broken by wind chimes sounding as we passed as if announcing our presence. We saw more bones as we went, half-buried in snow. Men, children, dogs. Baby carriages.
The tower was in good enough repair, and we were able to climb the staircase all the way to the top floor, just beneath the clock face. The team set up camp there. I found a ladder At the top, I found the rusted, broken gears of the clock's mechanisms, and more bones. I'm numb to it all at this point. One in particular drew my attention, hunched in the corner. I could imagine, however long ago, this man sitting there asleep. A rifle in one hand as whatever madness this city fell to raged outside. And in the other, a bottle, sealed. Feeling brave, I reached out and took it from the skeletal hand, brushing off the dust and frost. It was something red. I pulled out my pocket knife, flipping out the corkscrew and used it to unseal the bottle. I took a whiff. And then another, my guts starting to freeze again.
I turned around when the floorboards creaked behind me. It was heavy, resting one of his meaty arms on the floor from the trap door. He laughed.
"Skinny man has found wine, yes? Is it good?"
I didn't respond for a good minute. It was then I realized what it was - that scent that had been plaguing me since we arrived here. It was everywhere. The city was saturated with it, into the stone.
It was blood.
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Chapter 5 Alternate Ending
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Made a minor edit to the ending of Chapter 5.
For sake of Comparison:
For sake of Comparison:
The tower was in good enough repair, and we were able to climb the staircase all the way to the top floor, just beneath the clock face. The team set up camp there. I found a ladder At the top, I found the rusted, broken gears of the clock's mechanisms, and more bones. I'm numb to it all at this point. One in particular drew my attention, hunched in the corner. I could imagine, however long ago, this man sitting there asleep. A rifle in one hand as whatever madness this city fell to raged outside. And in the other, a bottle, sealed. Feeling brave, I reached out and took it from the skeletal hand, brushing off the dust and frost. It was something red.
I turned around when the floorboards creaked behind me. It was heavy, resting one of his meaty arms on the floor from the trap door. He laughed.
"Skinny man has found wine, yes? Is it good?"
I shrugged, and told him I hadn't opened it yet. He waved me over, said we should share it to celebrate. And blow off a little steam, maybe. It'd been a stressful day. It would have been easy to forget he and the others were close to shooting me earlier.
I climbed down after him regardless, meeting the others in the apartment we'd claimed. They actually seemed amused by my find. Heavy went digging into our packs, pulling out the tin cups we'd been using for coffee. I used pulled out my pocket knife, flipping out the corkscrew, twisting it into the stopper before yanking it out. I poured the wine out into the tin cups, and we each took one. Heavy raised his cup, proposing a toast.
"To success, my friends! And riches! Let's hope we make it out of this city better than these poor bastards did! Ha ha ha!"
We responded with some subdued agreements, then took our drinks, and almost immediately spat them out over the table. Except me. I choked on it, for a minute, having taken a deeper swig. I have a weakness for alcohol, and it had been a stressful day. I swallowed before I realized what I was tasting. It was then I realized what that sickly sweet smell had been, the scent that had been plaguing me all this time. I hadn't noticed it when I opened the bottle, as it seems to have saturated the air all around here, deep into the stone.
It was blood.
I turned around when the floorboards creaked behind me. It was heavy, resting one of his meaty arms on the floor from the trap door. He laughed.
"Skinny man has found wine, yes? Is it good?"
I shrugged, and told him I hadn't opened it yet. He waved me over, said we should share it to celebrate. And blow off a little steam, maybe. It'd been a stressful day. It would have been easy to forget he and the others were close to shooting me earlier.
I climbed down after him regardless, meeting the others in the apartment we'd claimed. They actually seemed amused by my find. Heavy went digging into our packs, pulling out the tin cups we'd been using for coffee. I used pulled out my pocket knife, flipping out the corkscrew, twisting it into the stopper before yanking it out. I poured the wine out into the tin cups, and we each took one. Heavy raised his cup, proposing a toast.
"To success, my friends! And riches! Let's hope we make it out of this city better than these poor bastards did! Ha ha ha!"
We responded with some subdued agreements, then took our drinks, and almost immediately spat them out over the table. Except me. I choked on it, for a minute, having taken a deeper swig. I have a weakness for alcohol, and it had been a stressful day. I swallowed before I realized what I was tasting. It was then I realized what that sickly sweet smell had been, the scent that had been plaguing me all this time. I hadn't noticed it when I opened the bottle, as it seems to have saturated the air all around here, deep into the stone.
It was blood.
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- Location
- Australia
Ew, small part of me hoped they'd meet Maria, but I guess Danny may in his next dream. But damn, climbing to the top of the tower? That is a long walk, up through the research hall? I forget exactly, but what about the plip plops, they're immortal, they should still be around. Can't wait for the other shoe to drop.
This was A clock tower, not necessarily that one. And even if it was, they're not in the Hunter's nightmare.
I do not drink... wine.
I've gotten a couple posts now about how drinking what they thought was hundred plus year old wine probably wasn't the best idea, and after doing some cursory research I should have done in the first place I definitely agree, lol. Even if it was the good shit, one couldn't reasonably expect the wine to last that long, even in better conditions. I'm hand-waving it for now as Danny thinking the color and seal looked fine and they just went for it. Wine doesn't spoil so much as turn all vinegary anyway. I myself am not a wine drinker so this was new to me.
EDIT:
While having Danny accidentally drink Yharnam blood is fun, the events leading up to that just don't really make enough sense for me to be satisfied with it, so I'm going back to my first instinct (which, anyone who's smacked themselves upside the head after a multiple choice test can tell you, is usually the right one). I've put in the original chapter five ending, but the alternate one is available in the post following it.
EDIT:
While having Danny accidentally drink Yharnam blood is fun, the events leading up to that just don't really make enough sense for me to be satisfied with it, so I'm going back to my first instinct (which, anyone who's smacked themselves upside the head after a multiple choice test can tell you, is usually the right one). I've put in the original chapter five ending, but the alternate one is available in the post following it.
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I'm quite enjoying your writing so far. It does well the capture the spirit of bloodborne in the overt horror and the subtle disquiet. I can only speculate that it shall be a slow decent into madness with only the anchor of his duty and love for Taylor giving him the strength to crawl back to Brockten bay. Keep it up.
Chapter 6
Moonlight
From the Journal of Daniel Hebert
February 8th, 2011 (Continued)
It was blood I was smelling all along, but it wasn't until then I realized it. Your mother's estate smelled the same, and I think that it's followed me ever since. A specter in my shadow, a constant odor on the wind. Once I opened that bottle, it hit me full force. Maybe I was just denying it until then, dismissing it with the anxiety and nerves, but the bottle stripped away that veil of willful ignorance.
Heavy was concerned at my rather violent reaction, tossing the bottle away from me where it landed and rolled into a corner, the contents spilling into the floor, then whirling around to hang my head over the ledge, dry heaving. He was through the door and at my side in seconds, a big meaty hand on my shoulder, as if he were afraid I would fall to the streets. He called for Prague, but I had mostly recovered by the time he was there. He noticed the bottle and the spilled blood, and was understandably confused. He asked where I got it, and I told him. He looked at the remains of the gunman, and then the bottle.
Blood, I found out, does not last long outside of the body. Obviously it can be stored, under the right conditions. A wine bottle would definitely not suffice, let alone a wine bottle exposed to the elements, and however long it must have been sitting up there in the clasp of a man long dead before any of us were born. And yet, it was undeniably blood, if curiously pungent. We could only assume Yharnam's people had found some way to preserve it that the rest of the world had never stumbled across. And it would fit with the references to some miracle blood transfusion alluded to in what the Professor could dig up.
It was, of course, Heavy who pointed out that it was kept in a wine bottle of all things. The implications were obvious and damning. Upon closer inspection, the bottle was even labeled just like wine. From what we could make out, it had been bottled some time in the 1870s. Dog asked me if I had any ideas. I was still coming to terms with it myself, and at the time failed to make certain connections. A helpless shrug was all I could muster. The wind ripped through us then, and we climbed back down into the building, leaving the spilled blood and the dead rifleman behind.
While I'd been exploring upstairs, Rambo had found a window and surveyed the city from our perch, figuring out a route to take to get from our current location to Castle Cainhurst. From his vantage point he was able to determine that the city's roads were in fair enough condition, which would make our trip a lot faster than the one through the woods. We'd head west, through the city, toward what he determined to be a large, grand cathedral in the center of the city, beyond which was more forest and the bridge extending out to the island on which the castle stood. Among our supplies was an inflatable raft we could use. Another discovery had been made by Dog. The building had a functional and robust elevator system, which he'd managed to unlock and access once we'd made it to the higher floors. I think we were all glad to not have to climb those stairs again.
We plan on stashing our excess supplies in the attic, then heading for the bridge in the morning. We're running short on time. I can only hope that Taylor's still alive, waiting for me back in Brockton Bay. I had told the team the essentials, before we got into the city proper, how Taylor was ill with something nobody could quite figure out, and this was my only lead. Prague and Rambo both seemed annoyed, but held their peace. Heavy, despite aiming a shotgun at my head only hours before, is back to being jolly and friendly. Dog is, as always, difficult to read. He did pull a gun on me, and I admit I'm not exactly comfortable with the team anymore (or at least, not even to what little extent I was before), but it's not like I have much choice. At the very least, they know what my motivations are here, and that I'm good for the money when this is over. All they care about is getting paid. Nothing's really changed, except the visceral knowledge that my life wasn't especially valuable to them. I knew it intellectually before, but it was a cold reminder of just who I was working with.
The tower is creaky and loud, the already frigid temperatures plummeting as the sun has set. I can hear the wind howling above us. It's creepier after the blood. I came here to get answers, but it's turning out to be just like the estate. More questions, and what answers I can try to pull from the air just turn my stomach and make me want to close my eyes and hope I'll wake up, and that this is all just a bad dream.
I need to get some sleep.
February 9th, 2011
I didn't get as much sleep as I'd like. Woke up before the team, which was unusual. I've got a pot of coffee brewing for them.
This is a bad place. I knew that the moment we flew over it. I think I knew what was coming when I first started this whole venture, on some level. Some primitive, animal part of my brain telling me "don't go, idiot." But I didn't listen. Now I'm with a bunch of killers in a tomb shaped like a city, where people bottled blood like it was wine, and I'm losing touch with whether I'm asleep or awake. Ever since we got here my dreams have been of this place, but not. And they're so terribly vivid.
I wrote about the dream in the forest, before. The one where I got hit with an ax. What I didn't write, what I didn't think much of until now, was the stitch I felt in my side as we continued our journey. I dismissed it initially. I'm not in the best of shape. But it hasn't gone away, and it's right where I took the ax, as if the blade was still wedged between my ribs.
Last night, I dreamed again. I was at the top of the tower once more, but the sky was clear, and the moon filled the sky, bathing Yharnam is gray light. I stared at it in a confused stupor, shaken out by the sound of a gunshot. I nearly lost my balance, gripping the stone column to steady myself. Below me was a churning mass of flesh and blood and fur and teeth, gnawing at the roots of the world, hidden in shadow. I heard a snarl beside me, and when I looked, I saw the man with the rifle. He was alive, not just a skeleton but flesh, with a grizzly beard and bloodshot, yellow eyes, loading another bullet into his weapon. He fired into the streets below, bellowing a curse. Beasts, he called them, again and again as he shot. Utterly consumed. He didn't notice me at all. He looked over the ledge, setting aside his weapon for a moment, and reaching into a satchel. He pulled out a bottle, like the bottle I'd found before, and hurled it below, and I saw canine, furry shapes leap from the walls and back to the ground toward where it shattered. He took aim once again and fired. It had been bait.
He wasn't alone, either. As I watched, more figures stood below. Men, tall and lanky and hairy like he was, carrying torches and axes, hurling themselves at the beasts. But the way they moved, and shouted, the rank smell of man beside me, they didn't seem so different from the things they were trying to slaughter. There was no defensive line, no emplacements, nothing separating the two sides. Just a hurricane of violence and blood, men burying axes in beasts, beasts crushing men's skulls in their jaws and feasting on their blood.
The stone streets should have been gray, but they had been stained, and fresh blood made them shine in the moonlight. The icy wind bit at my face as it tore through the sky, ripping through me at the top of the tower, a hellish shriek swallowing my entire world. And I realized, that wasn't just the wind. It was the city, going mad as it drowned in blood. I saw more figures on the rooftops, beyond the slaughter below me. The streets ran wild with men and beasts. And beyond them, beyond the forest, across the water, was Castle Cainhurst.
I woke up, not in my sleeping bag, on the roof once more. Once I was sure I wasn't still dreaming, I made to climb back down the latter. The sight of the bottle, half-filled with blood as it lay on the floor, made me pause. I took a moment to take a rag from the pile of bones, mop up the blood, stuff it in the bottle to seal it up again, and hurl it over the edge, away from us. It was a silly thing to do, paranoid, but it released just a little bit of the tension that had been building.
We should be leaving soon. The others are stirring.
I won't ask them, but I can't help but wonder. What did they dream of?
I hope Taylor's dreams are more pleasant than mine.
I still love you, and I always will, but a part of me wants to not. Forgive me.
February 9th, 2011 (continued)
Whoever finds this, if anyone ever finds this, tell my daughter I love her, and I'm sorry. If it's you, Banita, deliver this journal to my lawyer. He'll see that you're compensated. I urge you to never return to this place, unless you're leading a squadron of bombers to turn it into ash and rubble. Dog, Heavy, Rambo, and Prague are dead or worse. For the sake of keeping my head together, I'll write how it came to this. If my daughter insists, it's okay for her to read it, but I'd be content that she just knows her father loved her and tried his best. I have to believe she'll survive despite my failings.
The team and I left shortly after I finished my last entry. From their expressions, they had been plagued with strange dreams the same as me, but didn't comment on it. Like me, I think, they dismissed them as simply being the products of the imagination, influenced by finds such as silver bullets, bottled blood, and being in what some might call "Dracula Country." Even in an age of capes, superstitious nonsense, the stuff of folklore and myths before the light bulb had gotten popular, let alone tinker tech or people like Bonesaw, and by all accounts Yharnam hasn't seen human habitation in over a century.
The streets were, of course, silent, the sky overcast, thin beams of sunlight barely piercing through the churning gray expanse. Heavy's mass pounded the stone at our feet, and Prague and Rambo spoke in Russian. Dog and I followed silently behind. Obstacles of snow and rubble demanded we alter our path to the castle, busting down old, rotting wooden doors and rusty iron gates, passing through duplexes and apartments and other buildings. The team took a bit of loot along the way. Silver, gold, silk. We were taking a short break in a duplex, on one side a residence whose only inhabitants were dust and silence, and on the other a clinic that hadn't seen any patience since before the 20th century. While the men helped themselves to grave-robbing – an allowance that Dog seemed to make for the sake of morale, I think – I inspected the clinic's contents.
Bookshelves line the walls. Ancient specimen jars, their contents unrecognizable. Old gurneys and wheelchairs, IV poles. A cozy waiting room, the rest of the clinic made up of rooms for patients. I dug through the bookshelves, running my fingers over the spines. Many were in that Cyrillic script. Others in French, Latin, other languages. Very few in English. Medical texts. A lot of them seemed to focus on blood. One in particular caught my attention. "The Elements of Blood Ministration."
The splinter in my mind was back, throbbing, like a heart beat.
I heard the team calling, and I put the book in my pack. We wanted to make it to the castle before nightfall. They'd had their pick of loot, enough that they could carry comfortably and feel like they'd already made a profit from this venture.
We continued our march through the city. There was a great bridge going over a ravine that split the city. The remains of metal gate were were easily circumvented by the passage of time and Heavy's strength. Worn statues watched us go. We passed by the grand cathedral at the center of it all as we went. I shivered, not from the cold, but from the sense that we were walking in the shadows of giants.
As we left the city behind, the brick and stone turned into earth and trees. If there had been a clear path through this forest, it was long overgrown. We pulled out our flashlights as it grew darker, the already dim sunlight dying off into a suffocating blackness. We continued our trek.
The splinter throbbed harder. Like something was opening on the inside. I turned around, and a figure loomed over me. It was a towering, spindly thing, its head and shoulders shrouded in long, wild grown hair. Two glowing white spots where its eyes should have been turned toward me, and it tilted its head, curious, and in my shock I backed away, tripping over a root and landing on my back. The team called for a halt, turning around to gather around me, asking me what had happened. Apparently I had screamed. I pointed at the figure, choking on nothing. Prague said something, said that I'd cracked. I asked how he couldn't see the thing with the scythe.
It wasn't until later that I realized he hadn't been speaking English, but that didn't matter much at the time, as the thing brought its scythe across Prague's throat. The team shouted in confusion as he dropped to the ground, gurgling on his own blood. He aimed my flash light at the thing, telling them to shoot as I scrambled to my feet. Seeing their comrade dying, they didn't ask any questions, and they shot until I told them to stop. I let them shoot for a while, until the thing was a broken pile of hamburger meet in the snow.
Dog was on me in microseconds, shaking me by the shoulders, demanding to know what I saw. I wasted a lot of time asking why they couldn't see it. Rambo was attending to Prague, trying to stop the bleeding, but it was too late. He stood, shoulders slumped, hands covered in arterial blood. Heave loomed above the corpse of Prague's killer, brow furrowed. He pressed his hand against it... and it passed through the broken body, and came back up grasping snow. He let it fall through his fingers, and the thing's corpse disappeared into mist, like it'd never been there.
Dog struck me across the face, demanding answers. I didn't have any. Just that something had appeared, something apparently only I could see. It'd killed Prague, right in front of us all, and after dying it didn't even leave a corpse. Rambo said we should get back to the city. Heavy seemed inclined to agree. Dog took a moment to consider.
Whatever decision he was coming to, it didn't matter. Another sound pierced the darkness then. A howl. And this time, it wasn't the wind. Dog said we had to get somewhere we could defend, then figure out our next move. Heavy picked up Prague's body, and we were running through the trees. I lagged behind, still shaken, and not in nearly as good condition as the team, but fear is a powerful thing.
Too bad this creature was faster. A gust passed over me, and there was the sound of crunching snow under foot and claw. We skidded to a halt. The rest of the team could see this one, for whatever reason, as it stalked toward us. Painfully thin, walking on all fours, its proportions and stride fundamentally unnerving. Fanged jaws hung open, a long tongue darting out and licking at its face, covered in bloody snow. Over its head and shoulders was a shawl, made from its own skin. This thing had been flayed and, it seemed, it used to be a lot bigger. Gleaming red eyes looked at us hungrily.
Dog, Rambo, and Heavy opened fire, letting loose as much lead as they could to put the thing down. It was up and away and flitting through the darkness, almost too quickly to see. I scrambled to get my own handgun out, when Rambo shouted, being dragged off into the darkness. The sound of breaking vertebrae and spilling blood somehow cut through the din of gunfire that followed. Heavy tossed his shotgun to me, crying out at the monster to face him like a man.
This thing was no man, but it met his challenge. It through itself at him from the darkness, and Heavy caught it in a grapple. Vicious claws tore at his skin, cutting through kevlar like butter. More blood spilled upon the snow as Heavy struggled to keep it still. Dog and I took the opportunity to shoot at the beast, and we managed to hit it, that time. Flesh was torn, blood spilled, bones broken, but the beast merely howled in rage and continued to wrestle with Heavy.
It took only seconds for the brute of a man to falter, falling to his knees, trying to pin the monster as he strength left him. Dog and I kept shooting. The beast left Heavy bleeding and broken on the ground, lashing out at Dog, who dodged just in time to miss getting his face torn off by its claws. He fired more shots at the beast from his rifle. He shouted to me to get Heavy back into the city, he would distract the creature. It was a laughable concept, but I didn't have time to argue. I struggled to get Heavy on his feet, and even succeeded as he rallied. We didn't make it ten paces before his bulk came crashing down. He shook, foam bubbling from his lips, eyes bloodshot and body wracked with a coughing fit. He tried to speak before falling on his side, and his breathing ended with a death rattle.
In the darkness, I heard a staccato of desperate gunshots and the beast's howling. The stench of Heavy's blood filled my nose, mixing with the ever present scent of this godforsaken place. It felt slick in my hands, soaking through the gloves. God help me, I ran. The fighting continued, until it was suddenly over, Dog's gunshots silenced and punctuated by a savage howl. I ran until I tripped on the stone steps of Yharnam, falling flat on my face and breaking my nose, then scrambled back to my feet and ran up those steps and through the gate. I didn't stop to breathe, to catch my breath, for fear of the beast at my heels. I ran by the cathedral, through the gate, through the narrow streets. I punched my way through a glass window, scrambling into a house, and in a haze of fear and desperation I barricaded the broken window with shelves and cupboards and tables that I knew wouldn't be worth jack or shit against that beast.
It's out there, now. I can hear it. Baying for more blood, having had its fill of the Team. All those bullets, a combat thinker and a brute, they did nothing to it. And as it continues to howl and scream, I swear I hear other voices joining it. Fresh blood on the ground.
This city wasn't dead. It was sleeping. And I have awoken it.
The howling is getting closer. Louder. It had my scent, and it's following my trail of cowardice to my nest, to kill me like a rat.
I found a couple things in the house. An ax, like the huntsmen of my dreams used. And a pistol, with a box of silver bullets. A mad thought took root, but it's my only option. If I want to survive this night, I can't stay here. I'll need to run. And, if that thing catches me, I'll need to fight. It's hopeless, and foolhardy, and I know I could never kill it, but I'd rather die like a man, on his feet, than like a rat in a trap.
I'm sorry, Taylor. I'm sorry, Annette. I've failed you both.
I love you.
AN: This chapter was a struggle. Not as bad as the One True Motherfucker Martyr Logarius, but still a hard fight. And despite my goal of just pushing out words I rewrote key bits several times trying to figure out just what I wanted out of it. I'd been building up a lot of tension and suspense and a more subtle kind of horror up until now, and this chapter is something more vulgar and explosive. Like popping a zit that's been on your face too long. Still, I find it adequate enough to finally post, and I finally feel like I can continue past this point. Hopefully I'm retaining your interest. See you next time, folks. Now, I drink.
From the Journal of Daniel Hebert
February 8th, 2011 (Continued)
It was blood I was smelling all along, but it wasn't until then I realized it. Your mother's estate smelled the same, and I think that it's followed me ever since. A specter in my shadow, a constant odor on the wind. Once I opened that bottle, it hit me full force. Maybe I was just denying it until then, dismissing it with the anxiety and nerves, but the bottle stripped away that veil of willful ignorance.
Heavy was concerned at my rather violent reaction, tossing the bottle away from me where it landed and rolled into a corner, the contents spilling into the floor, then whirling around to hang my head over the ledge, dry heaving. He was through the door and at my side in seconds, a big meaty hand on my shoulder, as if he were afraid I would fall to the streets. He called for Prague, but I had mostly recovered by the time he was there. He noticed the bottle and the spilled blood, and was understandably confused. He asked where I got it, and I told him. He looked at the remains of the gunman, and then the bottle.
Blood, I found out, does not last long outside of the body. Obviously it can be stored, under the right conditions. A wine bottle would definitely not suffice, let alone a wine bottle exposed to the elements, and however long it must have been sitting up there in the clasp of a man long dead before any of us were born. And yet, it was undeniably blood, if curiously pungent. We could only assume Yharnam's people had found some way to preserve it that the rest of the world had never stumbled across. And it would fit with the references to some miracle blood transfusion alluded to in what the Professor could dig up.
It was, of course, Heavy who pointed out that it was kept in a wine bottle of all things. The implications were obvious and damning. Upon closer inspection, the bottle was even labeled just like wine. From what we could make out, it had been bottled some time in the 1870s. Dog asked me if I had any ideas. I was still coming to terms with it myself, and at the time failed to make certain connections. A helpless shrug was all I could muster. The wind ripped through us then, and we climbed back down into the building, leaving the spilled blood and the dead rifleman behind.
While I'd been exploring upstairs, Rambo had found a window and surveyed the city from our perch, figuring out a route to take to get from our current location to Castle Cainhurst. From his vantage point he was able to determine that the city's roads were in fair enough condition, which would make our trip a lot faster than the one through the woods. We'd head west, through the city, toward what he determined to be a large, grand cathedral in the center of the city, beyond which was more forest and the bridge extending out to the island on which the castle stood. Among our supplies was an inflatable raft we could use. Another discovery had been made by Dog. The building had a functional and robust elevator system, which he'd managed to unlock and access once we'd made it to the higher floors. I think we were all glad to not have to climb those stairs again.
We plan on stashing our excess supplies in the attic, then heading for the bridge in the morning. We're running short on time. I can only hope that Taylor's still alive, waiting for me back in Brockton Bay. I had told the team the essentials, before we got into the city proper, how Taylor was ill with something nobody could quite figure out, and this was my only lead. Prague and Rambo both seemed annoyed, but held their peace. Heavy, despite aiming a shotgun at my head only hours before, is back to being jolly and friendly. Dog is, as always, difficult to read. He did pull a gun on me, and I admit I'm not exactly comfortable with the team anymore (or at least, not even to what little extent I was before), but it's not like I have much choice. At the very least, they know what my motivations are here, and that I'm good for the money when this is over. All they care about is getting paid. Nothing's really changed, except the visceral knowledge that my life wasn't especially valuable to them. I knew it intellectually before, but it was a cold reminder of just who I was working with.
The tower is creaky and loud, the already frigid temperatures plummeting as the sun has set. I can hear the wind howling above us. It's creepier after the blood. I came here to get answers, but it's turning out to be just like the estate. More questions, and what answers I can try to pull from the air just turn my stomach and make me want to close my eyes and hope I'll wake up, and that this is all just a bad dream.
I need to get some sleep.
February 9th, 2011
I didn't get as much sleep as I'd like. Woke up before the team, which was unusual. I've got a pot of coffee brewing for them.
This is a bad place. I knew that the moment we flew over it. I think I knew what was coming when I first started this whole venture, on some level. Some primitive, animal part of my brain telling me "don't go, idiot." But I didn't listen. Now I'm with a bunch of killers in a tomb shaped like a city, where people bottled blood like it was wine, and I'm losing touch with whether I'm asleep or awake. Ever since we got here my dreams have been of this place, but not. And they're so terribly vivid.
I wrote about the dream in the forest, before. The one where I got hit with an ax. What I didn't write, what I didn't think much of until now, was the stitch I felt in my side as we continued our journey. I dismissed it initially. I'm not in the best of shape. But it hasn't gone away, and it's right where I took the ax, as if the blade was still wedged between my ribs.
Last night, I dreamed again. I was at the top of the tower once more, but the sky was clear, and the moon filled the sky, bathing Yharnam is gray light. I stared at it in a confused stupor, shaken out by the sound of a gunshot. I nearly lost my balance, gripping the stone column to steady myself. Below me was a churning mass of flesh and blood and fur and teeth, gnawing at the roots of the world, hidden in shadow. I heard a snarl beside me, and when I looked, I saw the man with the rifle. He was alive, not just a skeleton but flesh, with a grizzly beard and bloodshot, yellow eyes, loading another bullet into his weapon. He fired into the streets below, bellowing a curse. Beasts, he called them, again and again as he shot. Utterly consumed. He didn't notice me at all. He looked over the ledge, setting aside his weapon for a moment, and reaching into a satchel. He pulled out a bottle, like the bottle I'd found before, and hurled it below, and I saw canine, furry shapes leap from the walls and back to the ground toward where it shattered. He took aim once again and fired. It had been bait.
He wasn't alone, either. As I watched, more figures stood below. Men, tall and lanky and hairy like he was, carrying torches and axes, hurling themselves at the beasts. But the way they moved, and shouted, the rank smell of man beside me, they didn't seem so different from the things they were trying to slaughter. There was no defensive line, no emplacements, nothing separating the two sides. Just a hurricane of violence and blood, men burying axes in beasts, beasts crushing men's skulls in their jaws and feasting on their blood.
The stone streets should have been gray, but they had been stained, and fresh blood made them shine in the moonlight. The icy wind bit at my face as it tore through the sky, ripping through me at the top of the tower, a hellish shriek swallowing my entire world. And I realized, that wasn't just the wind. It was the city, going mad as it drowned in blood. I saw more figures on the rooftops, beyond the slaughter below me. The streets ran wild with men and beasts. And beyond them, beyond the forest, across the water, was Castle Cainhurst.
I woke up, not in my sleeping bag, on the roof once more. Once I was sure I wasn't still dreaming, I made to climb back down the latter. The sight of the bottle, half-filled with blood as it lay on the floor, made me pause. I took a moment to take a rag from the pile of bones, mop up the blood, stuff it in the bottle to seal it up again, and hurl it over the edge, away from us. It was a silly thing to do, paranoid, but it released just a little bit of the tension that had been building.
We should be leaving soon. The others are stirring.
I won't ask them, but I can't help but wonder. What did they dream of?
I hope Taylor's dreams are more pleasant than mine.
I still love you, and I always will, but a part of me wants to not. Forgive me.
February 9th, 2011 (continued)
Whoever finds this, if anyone ever finds this, tell my daughter I love her, and I'm sorry. If it's you, Banita, deliver this journal to my lawyer. He'll see that you're compensated. I urge you to never return to this place, unless you're leading a squadron of bombers to turn it into ash and rubble. Dog, Heavy, Rambo, and Prague are dead or worse. For the sake of keeping my head together, I'll write how it came to this. If my daughter insists, it's okay for her to read it, but I'd be content that she just knows her father loved her and tried his best. I have to believe she'll survive despite my failings.
The team and I left shortly after I finished my last entry. From their expressions, they had been plagued with strange dreams the same as me, but didn't comment on it. Like me, I think, they dismissed them as simply being the products of the imagination, influenced by finds such as silver bullets, bottled blood, and being in what some might call "Dracula Country." Even in an age of capes, superstitious nonsense, the stuff of folklore and myths before the light bulb had gotten popular, let alone tinker tech or people like Bonesaw, and by all accounts Yharnam hasn't seen human habitation in over a century.
The streets were, of course, silent, the sky overcast, thin beams of sunlight barely piercing through the churning gray expanse. Heavy's mass pounded the stone at our feet, and Prague and Rambo spoke in Russian. Dog and I followed silently behind. Obstacles of snow and rubble demanded we alter our path to the castle, busting down old, rotting wooden doors and rusty iron gates, passing through duplexes and apartments and other buildings. The team took a bit of loot along the way. Silver, gold, silk. We were taking a short break in a duplex, on one side a residence whose only inhabitants were dust and silence, and on the other a clinic that hadn't seen any patience since before the 20th century. While the men helped themselves to grave-robbing – an allowance that Dog seemed to make for the sake of morale, I think – I inspected the clinic's contents.
Bookshelves line the walls. Ancient specimen jars, their contents unrecognizable. Old gurneys and wheelchairs, IV poles. A cozy waiting room, the rest of the clinic made up of rooms for patients. I dug through the bookshelves, running my fingers over the spines. Many were in that Cyrillic script. Others in French, Latin, other languages. Very few in English. Medical texts. A lot of them seemed to focus on blood. One in particular caught my attention. "The Elements of Blood Ministration."
The splinter in my mind was back, throbbing, like a heart beat.
I heard the team calling, and I put the book in my pack. We wanted to make it to the castle before nightfall. They'd had their pick of loot, enough that they could carry comfortably and feel like they'd already made a profit from this venture.
We continued our march through the city. There was a great bridge going over a ravine that split the city. The remains of metal gate were were easily circumvented by the passage of time and Heavy's strength. Worn statues watched us go. We passed by the grand cathedral at the center of it all as we went. I shivered, not from the cold, but from the sense that we were walking in the shadows of giants.
As we left the city behind, the brick and stone turned into earth and trees. If there had been a clear path through this forest, it was long overgrown. We pulled out our flashlights as it grew darker, the already dim sunlight dying off into a suffocating blackness. We continued our trek.
The splinter throbbed harder. Like something was opening on the inside. I turned around, and a figure loomed over me. It was a towering, spindly thing, its head and shoulders shrouded in long, wild grown hair. Two glowing white spots where its eyes should have been turned toward me, and it tilted its head, curious, and in my shock I backed away, tripping over a root and landing on my back. The team called for a halt, turning around to gather around me, asking me what had happened. Apparently I had screamed. I pointed at the figure, choking on nothing. Prague said something, said that I'd cracked. I asked how he couldn't see the thing with the scythe.
It wasn't until later that I realized he hadn't been speaking English, but that didn't matter much at the time, as the thing brought its scythe across Prague's throat. The team shouted in confusion as he dropped to the ground, gurgling on his own blood. He aimed my flash light at the thing, telling them to shoot as I scrambled to my feet. Seeing their comrade dying, they didn't ask any questions, and they shot until I told them to stop. I let them shoot for a while, until the thing was a broken pile of hamburger meet in the snow.
Dog was on me in microseconds, shaking me by the shoulders, demanding to know what I saw. I wasted a lot of time asking why they couldn't see it. Rambo was attending to Prague, trying to stop the bleeding, but it was too late. He stood, shoulders slumped, hands covered in arterial blood. Heave loomed above the corpse of Prague's killer, brow furrowed. He pressed his hand against it... and it passed through the broken body, and came back up grasping snow. He let it fall through his fingers, and the thing's corpse disappeared into mist, like it'd never been there.
Dog struck me across the face, demanding answers. I didn't have any. Just that something had appeared, something apparently only I could see. It'd killed Prague, right in front of us all, and after dying it didn't even leave a corpse. Rambo said we should get back to the city. Heavy seemed inclined to agree. Dog took a moment to consider.
Whatever decision he was coming to, it didn't matter. Another sound pierced the darkness then. A howl. And this time, it wasn't the wind. Dog said we had to get somewhere we could defend, then figure out our next move. Heavy picked up Prague's body, and we were running through the trees. I lagged behind, still shaken, and not in nearly as good condition as the team, but fear is a powerful thing.
Too bad this creature was faster. A gust passed over me, and there was the sound of crunching snow under foot and claw. We skidded to a halt. The rest of the team could see this one, for whatever reason, as it stalked toward us. Painfully thin, walking on all fours, its proportions and stride fundamentally unnerving. Fanged jaws hung open, a long tongue darting out and licking at its face, covered in bloody snow. Over its head and shoulders was a shawl, made from its own skin. This thing had been flayed and, it seemed, it used to be a lot bigger. Gleaming red eyes looked at us hungrily.
Dog, Rambo, and Heavy opened fire, letting loose as much lead as they could to put the thing down. It was up and away and flitting through the darkness, almost too quickly to see. I scrambled to get my own handgun out, when Rambo shouted, being dragged off into the darkness. The sound of breaking vertebrae and spilling blood somehow cut through the din of gunfire that followed. Heavy tossed his shotgun to me, crying out at the monster to face him like a man.
This thing was no man, but it met his challenge. It through itself at him from the darkness, and Heavy caught it in a grapple. Vicious claws tore at his skin, cutting through kevlar like butter. More blood spilled upon the snow as Heavy struggled to keep it still. Dog and I took the opportunity to shoot at the beast, and we managed to hit it, that time. Flesh was torn, blood spilled, bones broken, but the beast merely howled in rage and continued to wrestle with Heavy.
It took only seconds for the brute of a man to falter, falling to his knees, trying to pin the monster as he strength left him. Dog and I kept shooting. The beast left Heavy bleeding and broken on the ground, lashing out at Dog, who dodged just in time to miss getting his face torn off by its claws. He fired more shots at the beast from his rifle. He shouted to me to get Heavy back into the city, he would distract the creature. It was a laughable concept, but I didn't have time to argue. I struggled to get Heavy on his feet, and even succeeded as he rallied. We didn't make it ten paces before his bulk came crashing down. He shook, foam bubbling from his lips, eyes bloodshot and body wracked with a coughing fit. He tried to speak before falling on his side, and his breathing ended with a death rattle.
In the darkness, I heard a staccato of desperate gunshots and the beast's howling. The stench of Heavy's blood filled my nose, mixing with the ever present scent of this godforsaken place. It felt slick in my hands, soaking through the gloves. God help me, I ran. The fighting continued, until it was suddenly over, Dog's gunshots silenced and punctuated by a savage howl. I ran until I tripped on the stone steps of Yharnam, falling flat on my face and breaking my nose, then scrambled back to my feet and ran up those steps and through the gate. I didn't stop to breathe, to catch my breath, for fear of the beast at my heels. I ran by the cathedral, through the gate, through the narrow streets. I punched my way through a glass window, scrambling into a house, and in a haze of fear and desperation I barricaded the broken window with shelves and cupboards and tables that I knew wouldn't be worth jack or shit against that beast.
It's out there, now. I can hear it. Baying for more blood, having had its fill of the Team. All those bullets, a combat thinker and a brute, they did nothing to it. And as it continues to howl and scream, I swear I hear other voices joining it. Fresh blood on the ground.
This city wasn't dead. It was sleeping. And I have awoken it.
The howling is getting closer. Louder. It had my scent, and it's following my trail of cowardice to my nest, to kill me like a rat.
I found a couple things in the house. An ax, like the huntsmen of my dreams used. And a pistol, with a box of silver bullets. A mad thought took root, but it's my only option. If I want to survive this night, I can't stay here. I'll need to run. And, if that thing catches me, I'll need to fight. It's hopeless, and foolhardy, and I know I could never kill it, but I'd rather die like a man, on his feet, than like a rat in a trap.
I'm sorry, Taylor. I'm sorry, Annette. I've failed you both.
I love you.
AN: This chapter was a struggle. Not as bad as the One True Motherfucker Martyr Logarius, but still a hard fight. And despite my goal of just pushing out words I rewrote key bits several times trying to figure out just what I wanted out of it. I'd been building up a lot of tension and suspense and a more subtle kind of horror up until now, and this chapter is something more vulgar and explosive. Like popping a zit that's been on your face too long. Still, I find it adequate enough to finally post, and I finally feel like I can continue past this point. Hopefully I'm retaining your interest. See you next time, folks. Now, I drink.
