The hum of the shutters signified the beginning of Alec’s day. He would always awaken early and lie awhile, listening to them rise amidst the soft lamplight of the room. No happiness awaited him. No laughter, no friendship, no surprises. In a mere ten hours the security system would lower them again. The night was a guillotine suspended. These dark and dismally short autumn days were not something he cared for. But he had learned to endure them. They made the mornings all the more special.
Alec set his mug down on the desk and went about his ritual of drawing back the curtains. There was no misdoing more unforgivable than a morning wasted. Some days, elements permitting, he was known to venture outside and steal a few steps from his front door, breathing in deep the fresh air denied to him during the night. On this autumnal day, however, given its inclemency, he was content to open the window closest to his desk and sit there while he enjoyed his coffee. Simple chores such as preparing his own French press and the daily admittance of daylight gave the man a wonderful sense of independence.
Ribbons of light spiralled through the trees, dribbling across the lawn like honey. Clouds were as gunpowder, sprinkled here and there amidst the mellow blues and pinks of a sky now awoken. Sunlight and rain were a near magical sight to behold. Moments like these, Alec remembered. Few men appreciated every sunrise as he did. He felt, always, as a prisoner released, for a few hours at least.
Alec brought his mug to his lips as he eyed the myriad books beside him, their every spine coated in a fine veneer of powder grey. There was order to the man’s library, akin to all facets of his life. The uppermost shelves were reachable only by ladder, and so here he had placed the books that he wished to keep, but not for the purpose of reading again: rare titles, rarely touched. Some shelves were dedicated to the classics. Valuable editions had been collected over the years as a hobby of sorts. Alec enjoyed more so the chase than the capture. Others dealt with the realms of science, history, and astronomy. And there was the largest section of them all – the one that drew his eyes now as it did every morning, calling to him, taunting him. Here he kept the books that few reputable libraries would ever list in their catalogues and each one had been procured by Alec at great expense.
Such dark knowledge was not to be studied without due caution. It could corrupt just as easily as it might enlighten. Volumes encompassed beliefs both ancient and dissolute. They detailed experiments and theories that civilisations had burned for centuries, and yet had survived nonetheless, as man’s penchant for evil wills it so. These books Alec would return to often. Year after lonely year had been dedicated to examining and re-examining their pages, searching for answers, finding only more questions.
Numbers had long proved a lasting play on Alec’s mind. The more he researched, the more his obsession grew. The creeper had always respected, be it by duress or obeisance, the three sightings. This number alone was too complex to unravel in a single lifetime. The devil tempted Jesus three times; a messiah who in turn held the threefold office of prophet, priest, and king. Judaism called for three daily prayers. Shabbat ended when three stars were visible in the sky. Religion and moral decency be damned, soldiers in the trenches shunned the flame if they were the third to spark their cigarette from the same match. Everywhere the number three commanded some mystifying power.
But of all the numbers – that never-ending puzzle expanding beyond space and time – Alec’s fascination was drawn to the number nine. Pythagoras identified it as the beginning and the end. If Alec’s life was one such cycle then he sought that end like a drowning man yearned for air.
Hell was home to nine circles. Likewise, the Mayan and Aztec underworlds each descended nine levels. Norse mythology divided the universe into nine worlds. Beliefs were invented. But there must have been some cause for such widespread effect. Christ died, or so it was written, at the ninth hour. Nine represented completion, derived from the Trinitarian and Divine number three. It was the culmination of wisdom and experience. It was the beginning and the end. But it was not yet the answer.
The creeper was once a man – flesh and blood like any other – corrupted centuries ago by something truly malevolent, enslaved and mutilated in both body and mind. If only Alec knew what was responsible, maybe then he could conceive some means to release its curse. However, after a lifetime of intellectual pursuance, he sat beside his wall of books none the wiser, sipping coffee that was still too hot.
The creeper’s legacy of menace and murder escaped every tome and decrepit journal in Alec’s possession. At times, the man felt a rising madness, a self-doubt brought to bear by the singularity of his plight. Had no other man of words and mind ever suffered the same horror? Such was the man’s obsession that he saw the creeper everywhere, during his dreams and all waking hours.
Countless towns and villages in Ireland’s troubled history had fallen foul to misfortune. Populations were ravaged. Over the course of a single week, whole communities ceased to be. Disease and famine were the obvious explanations. But what if this wasn’t the case? Should knowledge of the creeper have spread to an unknowing society, then they could be wiped out in a few short nights. Fear would disseminate through every household. The curse would spread through their voices, and all knowledge of it would die with them. Alec often found himself in this wildering predicament – too many questions, not enough answers.
The rotary phone chimed. Alec correctly supposed the caller’s identity.
‘Good morning, Detective,’ he said. ‘You know that I don’t appreciate being disturbed in the morning unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
‘Yes, Doctor, I know, and I do apologise, but it’s regarding what we spoke about yesterday evening.’
‘Did they contact you as I anticipated?’
‘They did,’ Barry replied.
‘And what did you do?’ Alec asked him.
‘I did as you said.’
‘Which was to do nothing, yes?’
‘Not exactly,’ the detective said nervously. ‘I drove to the housing estate where Chloe Coogan lives and I parked by its entrance, just to keep an eye on their movements.’
‘I see, and were there any movements?’
‘They left the city at first light. I followed them for a while, at a distance, naturally.’
Barry relayed the route that Mr French and Ms Coogan had taken up until he lost sight of their car. Of course, Alec knew it well. It was the exact journey that he had marked out for them.
This was a first for any team. The difference being that he had shared with them the creeper’s origin. Why hadn’t he thought of this sooner? Mr French and Ms Coogan were industriously seeking out a means to subvert the inevitable. What other reason would have drawn them back to Tír Mallacht? They were doing his work for him.
‘Very good, Detective,’ Alec said, taking a wary sip of his coffee. ‘I would like to commend you on demonstrating such welcome initiative. Your efforts of this morning shan’t be forgotten, I assure you. And in view of this intelligence, you can collect any documents and devices from Ms Coogan’s household as soon a time as it suits you.’
‘Didn’t you want me to wait until Monday?’
‘Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary anymore. Good day to you, Detective,’ Alec said, dismissing the man. ‘I will expect to see you at a time when you know you are welcome.’
The phone’s receiver was returned to its home before Barry could disturb the morning any further. It was a hallowed time for peace and reflection.
Alec let his old bones ease into his chair. He listened to the rain playing timorously against the windows. It had become a common practice of his to send a team to Tír Mallacht every two years. But now, given this latest revelation, his excitement wouldn’t wait. The following year, in the spring, he would try again.
‘Whatever is he planning?’ he whispered, watching the steam rise from his mug.
Mr French’s scepticism had obviously been rattled the night before. Alec could only assume that they had both beheld the creeper’s face and the fear of it had instigated their departure. He was acquainted with its many descriptions, from his father and past recruits. But he had never seen it up close himself. To do so was to die, of course, and so Alec was content to make do with the accounts of others. And yet, throughout his life, his curiosity regarding the creeper’s appearance never waned. Could it possibly be as terrifying as they say?
Success was highly unlikely, and it was reasonable to assume that Mr French and Ms Coogan were doomed to die that night. The villagers would prove as disobliging as ever. And with such scant daylight to keep them safe, Alec couldn’t imagine any action on their part that would benefit his own circumstances. The next team, however, would prove more promising.