It was with a heavy heart that I stepped back out of the drawing room with Stromany. We said nothing as we opened the door to the west wing and made our way forward. Stromany trembled as he held the lamp before us, and I relit each of the candles as we progressed along the corridor. We passed the laboratory, pausing briefly to peer inside for any signs that Beatrice was hiding silently within, but I doubted she would return there. Continuing on, we tried another door and checked inside. It was a small room containing nothing but filing cabinets and boxes. There was no sign of Beatrice.
Ten more steps took us to the door of Hargraven’s office. Stromany grasped my arm, motioning with his head to the floor of the corridor ahead. Droplets of fresh blood beckoned us like gory breadcrumbs, and I looked up at my companion. His face glistened with nervous perspiration, and the whites of his eyes shone with tears as he shook his head.
“Beatrice!” I cried.
There was no answer. I strained to listen but there were no sounds of struggle. With every passing second I felt the nausea of grisly expectation slither around my stomach. I closed my eyes as if in prayer, but nothing came. Hope had already been stripped from me and I did not know if I could find the courage to take one more step toward what I knew would be the scene of yet more unbearable carnage. But neither did I have the will to turn back. I remained rooted to the spot, tormented by an ever-growing sense of futility and a mind filled with grotesque imagery of Beatrice’s torn body, for I knew from that accursed verse it was her heart the murderer desired.
It was Stromany who moved, and I followed reluctantly. I knew this corridor well. It was lined with many doors, each with a classroom behind it. I had taught pupils in at least four of them. We opened each in turn, spending as little time as possible within each room. The darkness seemed all-consuming, swallowing our words when we called out for Beatrice. The dread was unbearable. Rivulets of sweat rolled down my spine, causing my shirt to cling cold and heavy against my back, and all I wanted was for this to end, yet I knew the conclusion of our search would bring the deepest sorrow.
When we reached the seventh door after turning left down an intersecting corridor, a noise stopped both of us cold. A wet crunch like breaking bones came from behind the door, and I could not stifle a gasping moan as I imagined murderous hands forcing Beatrice’s ribcage apart to reach the organ inside. My mind could not conceive of anything else as we stood there, and I knew from Stromany’s grief-stricken face that he imagined the same. His hand closed slowly around the door handle, trembling as he prepared to turn it, slippery, gripping harder. His breath came in hot, anxious gusts as he looked at me, searching my eyes for confirmation that he should go ahead and open it. I perceived he was desperate to escape the sight that could tip our minds over the edge, but he knew, as I did, that we could not simply walk away. It was not just the fear of seeing Beatrice dead that terrified us; we also feared the revelation of the murderer. To behold evil in the midst of terrible deeds was to be stripped of another layer of humanity and innocence, and I did not know if I could stand to lose what little I had remaining.
But with a single nod, I confirmed the decision to open the door.
Stromany waited as long as he dared, then turned the handle and pushed.
The door held fast. He pushed again, but it was clear that the door was either locked or barricaded. There seemed to be no point in calling for Beatrice again. I could summon no realistic scenario in my mind that would present her salvation. Stromany opened his mouth to speak, but another sound came from the room—a slow, ponderous footfall approaching the door. I stared at the door handle, breathless, unable to move. Stromany snatched his hand from it, and I watched as it moved ever so slightly, as if the presence on the other side was holding it in place. Then there was a thud on the door at head height and the sliding of skin on wood, and I pictured a man behind the door, pressing his ear against the panels, listening to us.
On impulse of either terror or anger, Stromany struck the door with the side of his fist, causing me to jump. After a moment, with the same heavy footsteps, whoever it was walked slowly away from the door, no doubt to return to their macabre work.
Stromany struck the door again and spoke out. “Whoever you are, I curse you, and I swear you will never leave this place alive.”
But there was no reply, and I took his arm, pulling him away from the door. “George. There’s nothing we can do.”
“There is,” he said. There was deadly menace in his lowered voice. “We have petrol. And we have a gap under the door. Stay here, I will get the cans. I will empty one into the room. I will light it. He will die.”
“I don’t think we should separate.”
“There is no danger here now. We have him trapped.”
“And if the beasts come?”
His face twitched with nervous rage. “Let them come.”
“George”—I kept my tone calm and quiet—“you are letting your anger best you. I don’t think—”
“If we leave together, he will escape.”
I was not at all comfortable with starting a fire inside the school. Once it was started, how would we contain it? We did not know for certain Beatrice was inside, and although it seemed extremely unlikely to me that she would still be alive, a small part of me hoped that by some miracle, she could be saved. If I could buy some time, perhaps Stromany would have calmed enough to think more rationally.
“We can barricade the door to the west wing, just like Beatrice said earlier. He won’t get away.”
“But he could hide in any of these rooms if we leave him now.”
“Perhaps we could barricade this door,” I said. “Then we can go together.”
His eyes flicked from left to right, considering my suggestion, then slowly he nodded. “We can take desks from one of the other classrooms.”
Satisfied with the plan, we retrieved four desks from the neighboring room and placed them two deep and two high in front of the door. They would not keep the murderer from escaping indefinitely—the classroom door would open inward—but his passage would be blocked sufficiently long enough for us to prevent a swift exit, and it provided adequate time for me to consider a better option than Stromany’s.
It was silent inside the room when we positioned the last desk, and with the murderer trapped inside, I was able to delay Stromany’s arson for a while longer with a new suggestion.
“Before we do anything else, I would like to read Hargraven’s letter that we retrieved from the Moon Box. It may help us understand what is happening here. I left it in the drawing room next to the box. If we bring everything we need back here, we can keep watch whilst we read it.”
Stromany seemed troubled, but he agreed, and after one final check of the desks, we returned to the drawing room. We did not linger. I retrieved the box together with the cylinder and the letter I had removed while Stromany took one of the cans of petrol, and we headed back to the murderer’s room. We sat opposite each other in the corridor beside the desks, ready for any sign that the person inside was attempting escape.
I unfolded the letter and read it out.
To whoever reads this account, know that I have only a limited time to provide instruction, so my explanations will be brief. The regrettable circumstances which led to my current condition were recorded in my journal, which I have divided and placed into the various dates within this box. Only those friends to whom I have entrusted the workings of the Moon Box will be able to unlock its secrets, for only they will know the depths to which I have fallen and the path of discovery that brought me here. I should not wish anyone else to pursue the same folly.
My mind is succumbing to the terror of the Innominatum, and my ability to keep its influence from my thoughts diminishes with each passing day. I fear that I have mere hours remaining before it controls me entirely, but I die confident in the knowledge that my soul’s captor is as arrogant as it is intelligent, and it does not consider my waning efforts to be a threat.
I have learned much from it since our minds joined. At its inception it was a base instinct in my consciousness, and it has since grown into an intelligence far beyond that of any human mind. But it is still enslaved by its lust to feed its brood—deadly beasts of violent instinct that humanity have been conditioned through the ages to fear as the demonic hordes of hell. The beast does not hunt its prey. It draws its prey into its own black realm, a place alien to me and all mankind, and we are just one of many civilizations it has ensnared. So many have fallen.
It means to do what it has done on countless occasions during the darkest ages of our world: Once it has seeded its presence within its host, it uses them to protect and nurture its growth until it is powerful enough to draw its prey to its place of origin. I do not yet know the extent of its powers or how it is able to traverse such planes of existence, but my investigations suggest that entire communities have been suddenly taken in the past, and I believe that I have placed all of our beautiful county in great danger by succumbing to its influence.
It was once believed that words have the power to undo worlds and to create worlds. It is not words that are the danger, however; it is the thought behind those words—the kindling of spirit and invention and application—that bring about the substance of sentient chaos. It is not a new concept: in the beginning was the Word and the Word was made flesh. So it is with the Nameless Beast.
When it has drawn its prey and satisfied its lusts and the creatures that depend upon it, the beast will attempt to perpetuate its life cycle. It is this which you are tasked with preventing. It will allow one survivor to return to their home, and in so doing, it will plant the seeds of its intelligence into a new place ripe for extraction. If you are that last survivor, I implore you to draw upon the strength that I could not find, and end your life now before you allow the beast to take root in your soul. It will seed itself in your instinct to survive. Resist this, or suffer the same guilt as I.
I have one last warning. The Innominatum has new thoughts now, a different agenda to the one that has sustained it in the long eons past. It is no longer content to feed its progeny upon simple organic flesh. As I have dwelt upon the words given me by Reverend Breswick, so has my captor. I sought salvation, but the Innominatum seeks something else. Breswick’s eloquence has described to me the glories of heaven if I reform. He wrote of the angelic host and of eternal life. He wrote of the perfection that resides in God’s courts and the wonders of that realm, and now the Innominatum shares my desire and yearns for it also. I know nothing of its plans in this regard, and doubt that I will be alive long enough to discover them, but I . . .
It ended there. I folded up the letter, placed it in my pocket, and looked at Stromany. He was staring at the floor, deep in thought as he spoke. “Continue.”
“That’s all there is.”
Stromany met my gaze. “The end of his life?”
“Or perhaps the Innominatum stopped him.”
“But he still managed to fold up the letter and enclose it in the box.”
I pondered this. Did it mean that the Innominatum wanted us to read it?
“What does it all mean?” Stromany asked.
“It could all be metaphor,” I suggested. “A way for Hargraven to explain his obsession.”
“Or it could be true. Perhaps this beast does begin as an idea and grows within a man’s mind. Perhaps it is alive and possessing the murderer we have trapped in this room. It intends for him to be the lone survivor.”
“Then if we do stop him, we end the threat?”
Stromany nodded. “Hargraven’s letter changes nothing. It only confirms that we should do as I said and set fire to the room. Whoever it is deserves nothing less.”
I looked at the desks barricading the door. It was still silent inside, but I feared more than ever the monstrous soul within. Stromany’s plan to burn him alive and risk the school seemed a more attractive prospect than before. And if we died in the inferno, perhaps that would be for the best. If the murderer died, would the Innominatum change its plans and somehow transfer its will to me or Stromany? If it possessed Stromany I doubted that I could prevent him from killing me.
But there were still too many questions left unanswered. What was the Innominatum’s true intent? It seemed to be protecting us from the creatures outside, but even with this dubious protection, we were not safe from the murderer. Why did it not protect us from him? There was also the mystery of the cellar, and still one other factor I had forgotten.
Stromany stood, giving the jerry can a single shake. “Do you agree?”
I stared back at him, remaining seated and silent. After a moment’s pause, Stromany unscrewed the cap of the can. He looked back at me one more time, perhaps hoping I might sanction his action, and when I looked down, I heard the glug of petrol as it left the can. He shook out the last few drops and threw the can aside so that it clanged loudly in the corridor. Stromany lit a match and said, “Stand back.”
If I had any inclination to stop him, this was the moment I needed to act, but still I obeyed and got to my feet, moving three long paces away. Stromany was about to set a series of events in motion from which I doubted we could turn back, and a fresh fear for my life came over me. Hargraven warned against the temptation of self-preservation, but the notion seemed foolish—that need for survival is a fundamental trait of every living species. How could one discern if the urge was natural or the evil seed of which he wrote? I made my decision at that moment to stop Stromany, but it was too late; he had thrown the match.
Flames whooshed up to surround the desks at the door and I knew the fire would have started inside the room. We watched the door, expecting a reaction, convinced it would provoke the room’s occupant to attempt escape, but there was no activity save the hypnotic lapping of bright flames as they climbed the walls. Smoke thickened across the ceiling as we retreated along the corridor, but even as the fire held our attention, an eeriness fell. It was a tangible presence, thick and heavy and oppressive like a pit of tar. As we saw acknowledgement of this change in each other’s expression, the spell broke. At first it was little more than a rumble, like the complaint of a distant storm, but the boom that followed was not the sound of overhead thunder. It was the percussion of brick and mortar split apart by an explosive impact then raining heavily to the ground. A gravelly roar followed and I gasped at the shaking of the walls.
“The big demon!” Stromany pointed at the ceiling and I witnessed the jagged evidence of imminent collapse. A fine curtain of brick dust sprinkled from the crack.
“This cannot be a coincidence,” I said. “We have to leave.”
“But where can we go?”
“The shrine. We have to—”
Another boom chased my words aside and a widening crack snaked all the way across the ceiling to the opposite wall. Chunks of plaster tumbled down.
“Quickly,” I said. “We have to go. Now!”
Stromany was moving before the next tremor assailed us, but I laid eyes upon the Moon Box, not yet consumed by the fire near the door, and I faltered. Stromany stopped to observe me, the warning in his eyes insisting I leave it. I made a dash to retrieve it and thought for a moment he would stop me. He may have, too, had it not been for another deep shuddering of the walls which tipped our balance and sent chunks of burning wood crumbling to the floor. While Stromany braced himself between the walls of the corridor, I covered my mouth and nose with my jacket and braved the heat to secure the box.
I ignored the strongman’s look of objection as we headed at pace back to the door that would lead out of the west wing and to the colonnade. We stopped after passing through it when new mayhem was revealed. A huge section was missing from the east end of the colonnade wall, and amidst the destruction, covered in brick dust and surrounded by its sibling beasts, the Behemoth stood like a titan general observing his troops on a battlefield. We were trapped between fire behind us and the Behemoth and its lesser kin ahead.
A clutch of the creatures circled the Behemoth like crouching bodyguards, and beyond this radius, other beasts tore and bit into each other, their great jaws stretched wide in efforts to devour each other. Above the tumultuous roar of falling architecture at the Behemoth’s hand, the howl and screech of savagery filled the air. There was anarchy in the ranks. The beasts were not united.
Old Man Tarky—if his testimony could be relied upon—had spoken of the Behemoth’s rebellion against the Innominatum. Could this creature really be a potential ally? Still now amidst the chaos, as if my own brief analysis of this fearful thing had attracted it, it set its gaze upon me. It studied me, probed me with dark psychic feelers as if testing the muscles of its mental capacity to connect with another being. I clutched harder at the Moon Box. There was rage buried deep in the Behemoth’s mind—an insidious treachery driving into my mind like rusty nails—but I was simply a proxy. Its stilled fury was not meant for me but for another, and I sensed the anger of a child’s rebellion crushed by the cruel hand of a ruthless parent. I tore my eyes from the giant. My shame at remembering Tarky, and what I did, was great enough even to shake me from the gaze of something so obviously evil. I could feel its touch even as Stromany shook me and urged me on, but with the advance of enemy beasts to challenge it, the Behemoth turned its ire upon them and returned to its rampage across the grounds, tearing apart chunks of the school to use as clubs and missiles against the opposition.
Stromany and I staggered along what was left of the colonnade, too frightened to scream or think, terrified that the beasts might stop fighting amongst themselves at any moment and turn their attention upon us. Through the madness, one objective filled my thoughts now: to end this nightmare any way we could. We had to reach the wine cellar and Hargraven’s shrine. I had no idea if attacking the stamen could mortally wound the Innominatum, but there were few options available. Its underground home would at least shelter us from the carnage erupting here.
Before we reached the end of the colonnade, the terrible howl came like the screech of a giant banshee and brought us to our knees. It afflicted the beasts too—even the Behemoth. Whether it was the intent or not I cannot say, but it served to stir the fighting to greater frenzy. Worse than this, though, was that Stromany and I were no longer unnoticed. A guttural cry was directed at us and two of the beasts instantly forgot their feud to stalk us.