Blind One's Faith

It was an early morning. The sun had just appeared over the horizon, and its bright rays painted the rooftops of the houses with a dazzling orange hue. Life was already bustling on the streets of Arkham, filled with residents hurrying about their business. One of the townspeople, a dark-haired twenty-year-old man, went to work earlier than usual, hoping to avoid meeting his boss at the police station.

He was one of the first to arrive, so the surrounding silence was only occasionally interrupted by the voices of a few colleagues starting their day. Sunlight filtered through the slats of closed blinds, filling the entire office with an orange gloom. Our hero found this atmosphere suitable for his discreet task, which required utmost secrecy. But he had to stay vigilant – every shadow might be concealing his boss.

The young man took the prepared folder with the report and set out on his journey. He walked at a steady pace to avoid attracting unnecessary attention, silently stepping on the soft carpet. Stopping near the door to his boss’s office, he listened cautiously. Not a single sound came from inside. Although his boss was known for his soundlessness and inconspicuousness, possibly hiding in his lair, our hero decided to take a risk and enter. He took out a spare key hidden near a flowerpot, carefully inserted it into the lock, and turned. Access to this office was strictly limited while its owner was away, because many documents stored here were highly confidential, and no one should see them. However, the key was always nearby, and every department employee knew about it. Just in case. Besides, all important papers were securely hidden in a blast-proof safe, standing proudly in the corner in all its dark steel glory.

The young man cracked the door a little and peeked inside. The office looked exactly the same as usual: impeccable order, and every item on its place. Only the owner was absent. Our hero approached the desk, carefully placed the folder exactly in the middle, as if the boss had left it there himself, and hurried towards the exit. However, as soon as he reached for the handle, the door swung open, almost brushing against him, and the tall, slender figure of his boss appeared in the doorway.

– Ah, Richard, good morning. What a fortunate meeting, – he said nonchalantly and glanced at the table over his employee’s shoulder. – I see you’ve prepared the report.

The boss was almost a head taller than Richard, and although he didn’t look a bit older, perhaps even a little younger, he always instilled in him a certain horror and awe. Perhaps it was because of his perpetually calm expression, almost complete lack of emotion bordering with coldness, and the aura of mystery surrounding him. Nobody knew anything about this man, and many didn’t even know his name.

Noticing Richard’s usual petrification at their meetings, he barely smiled, made a graceful hand gesture inviting him to sit, while gently pushing the employee with other hand toward the chair. Then he sat at the desk, opened the folder, took the report, and began to read.

Richard couldn’t move from worry. Like a rabbit in front of a snake, he patiently awaited his fate. And every time he found himself in this office with his boss, he received a reprimand for some shortcoming in his work. Many colleagues assured Richard that the boss highly valued his talents, but he couldn’t tell for sure, looking at that perpetually cold and seemingly insensitive face of a man who valued meticulous following of all rules above everything, no matter how foolish they might seem to others.

– “Dear reader, I am delighted about our new meeting, where with great pleasure I can present to you another story about my extraordinary adventures in the field of investigating occult incidents,” – the boss read aloud and barely smirked. – Richard, you’re incorrigible. You should have chosen a different profession at university; perhaps you could have become a decent writer. Nonetheless, we are not a publishing house but a police station, and we have certain rules. But let’s get back to the report. I hope you’ll stay while I check it? You don’t have anywhere to go today, as far as I know.

– Well, if only for lunch, – Richard said, trying to make a joke.

The boss gave him an assessing look and stared silently, unblinking, for a while. Then he slightly smiled, to let his subordinate relax a bit.

– Naturally. Well, let’s begin.

Dear reader, I am delighted about our new meeting, where with great pleasure I can present to you another story about my extraordinary adventures in the field of investigating occult incidents. My name is Richard Charles Warring, and I am an occult detective working in the city of Arkham, Massachusetts, one of the most mysterious cities in the world. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, truly worthy cases are not so common, and most of the time I find myself either idle or solving old abandoned cases with nothing supernatural involved. However, those few incidents that truly deserve attention and a formal report are the ones that make it to our modest department.

This case began in 1912 when, among the unsolved crimes by my colleagues from other departments, I discovered on my desk one interesting case, which seemed unremarkable only at first glance. but after rubbing my eyes and rereading it again, I became intrigued and immediately informed my superior about my suspicions. Eventually, this evolved into a full-scale investigation by our department, while the case itself accumulated data on new victims of a mystical criminal. But let’s go through everything in order.

As I mentioned, among the ordinary unsolved crimes, there was one that caught my special attention. It was a murder case: the perpetrator ambushed the victim at night in a dark alley and stabbed him several times with a knife. However, all the victim’s valuables remained with him, ruling out robbery. But one fact about the victim’s condition at the time of death puzzled me so much that I decided to personally talk to the forensic pathologist.

I never liked the department where he worked. The place breathed a lifeless cold, the air carried the constant smell of disinfectants. Gray walls, dim light, and the absence of any interior details, except for instruments and the operating table, made this place an embodiment of gloom, seemingly even closer to absolute lifelessness than a crypt. Dr. Eustace Mort, the only employee of the forensic pathology department, was a sharp contrast to his workplace: his movements were nimble and precise, his voice lively, and his face radiated youth and confidence. I never understood how someone like him could enjoy working in a place like this.

– Hello, Doctor. I came about the murder of Dr. Roger Dan.

– Oh, yes, I remember him. Strange case. At the time of death, the deceased had profuse bleeding from the mouth, nose, eyes, and ears, so I decided to perform a cranial autopsy. I’ll get him now.

– No, no! There’s no need for that, Doc. Just describe the situation.

I still can’t stand the sight of the murdered. It seemed that after a year of working as a detective, I should have gotten used to it, but I never managed. Moreover, each of them reminds me of that horrible day in Pinewood. Eustace just shrugged.

– As you wish. The point is this: upon opening the cranial box, I noticed that the victim, although receiving knife wounds while still alive, did not die from them but from massive stroke. The trauma was so extensive that it spread to almost all capillaries in the head, leading to severe bleeding. I highly doubt it could be caused by a knife blow to the abdomen, and I found no traces of any poisons in the blood. There were no external head injuries either. So, the cause of death is solely this sudden stroke that killed him.

– I suppose during the police investigation, the deceased’s medical history was examined? Was there any predisposition to a stroke? Perhaps similar cases in his family or something in his medical history?

– We thoroughly checked everything and found nothing. He was as healthy as a bull, even at fifty. And most of the surviving blood vessels in the brain seem strong enough and fully capable of withstanding a very sharp and strong blood pressure spike.

– Have you ever encountered a case where a healthy person could suffer such an injury? What could have caused it?

– Well, I don’t even know. Typically, it should be a severe blow to the head or a sudden blood pressure spike, but in this case, there was neither. Unless the victim was frightened to death, or shown something completely unimaginable, but then he would more likely have had a heart attack.

– I see. Thank you, Doctor; that’s all.

Although our conversation did not provide new facts or bring me closer to catching the criminal, it fully confirmed my assumptions about this case, particularly its possible supernatural nature. I immediately returned to my department and went to the boss to report my suspicions.

– I definitely think supernatural forces are involved here, – I said, handing the folder to the chief.

– Yes, it does look quite unusual, – he replied, examining the photographs. – It’s good that it has already been transferred to our department. Have you discovered anything?

– Yes. First: nothing was stolen from the victim, so it’s not a robbery. Second: he died from stroke, meaning the knife wounds were intended to divert attention. Third: the bleeding is unnaturally extensive, indicating the involvement of supernatural forces.

– Why specifically supernatural?

– According to the pathologist, the victim could not have suffered a stroke of such magnitude.

– Fine. However, everything you listed was already mentioned in this case, – he returned the folder to me. – And it has already been transferred to our department and, specifically, to you. What’s keeping you?

– Well, there are several more cases…

– Ah, of course. Don’t worry about those, derive your full attention to this case. Arm yourself accordingly.

I eagerly put aside the remaining unsolved crimes and focused closely on this case. The first step was to inspect the crime scene to get a better sense of what happened and, perhaps, find some leads. The alley, situated between two closely spaced tall buildings, soon turned around the corner. Because of this, darkness reigned here round the clock, and rainwater stagnated in foul-smelling puddles. On either side of the alley, there were piles of decaying boxes, rags, debris, and other trash, and I couldn’t fathom why the victim chose to take this disgusting path. I found no new evidence, of course; even the body itself could have remained here unnoticed until very winter, and only by sheer coincidence it was discovered several hours after the murder.

Incredible that such a disgusting place was only half a block away from the Arkham Historical Museum, which possessed an impeccable reputation and respect not only in the city but also throughout the whole state. I glanced at the case papers again: as I suspected, Dr. Roger Dan, a doctor of historical sciences, worked there. I rarely visited this place myself because, although my duty requires me to spend a lot of time in various corners of the city, unfortunately, it was usually not in the best places, and certainly not in the museum. Although now I was going there, I’d prefer for circumstances not to be so dark.

The first time I saw the museum, it made an indelible impression on me. Colossal, it was towering over the surrounding buildings like a Goliath. Its pediment, adorned with whimsical statues, rested on giant columns, and the massive museum gates were hidden in its shadow. A marble staircase led to the base of the columns, giving the museum the appearance of an ancient emperor enthroned among his subjects.

The first hall was no less impressive: marble columns lined the walls, supporting the atrium on the second floor, the floor was tiled with colorful tiles, and an intricate molding decorated the high ceiling. I truly admired this place, and at times, I regretted not being here more often.

Unfortunately, today I was brought here by a tragedy, the cause of which I had to determine. Noticing a security station near entrance in the first hall, I’ve decided to talk to guard for a start, because who, if not him, sees everything and everyone whose life is in any way connected to this building. He was an elderly man with a face lined with numerous wrinkles, his tousled gray hair cut short. The in places worn-out uniform still looked quite well-maintained. A wide smile never left his face, and he attentively scanned every passing person.

– Good day. My name is Richard Charles Warring, – I said, showing my badge. – I would like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.

– Ian Swiftword at your service, – he replied. – No trouble at all. You can’t imagine how rarely I get the chance to have an interesting conversation since the crisis due to the civil war led to cuts in state payments for various trivial things, such as salaries for museum workers. In those years, I recall, many went to war, including security guards, and only a few returned. The remaining ones, left with practically no money, scattered, looking for better jobs. I meet my old friends from time to time, or get a message from those who moved to other cities, but it happens less and less. Old Age is no joy, as they say. My back and knees are killing me since forever, and my old friends have already, you know, met their forefathers one by one. And I’ve nothing to say about these newcomers; nowadays anyone who goes into security is some gloomy thug, the complete horror! If one of them just looks at you, you might turn gray again. That’s why I have to sit here alone most of the time, only entertaining myself with newspapers and various books. Occasionally, however, it happens that one of our prominent historians drops by in a spare minute, and we talk about something. I’ve picked up quite a bit from them, I could probably teach history in school myself, but how could I change my profession now? And who, tell me, would sit here, except me? Young people haven’t been interested in such work for a long time, and no wonder why – they pay peanuts. And youngsters need to build their lives, grow, develop. I’ve been a security guard for so long that I can’t even remember. Almost the entire history of the States has passed through the doors of this museum, and I know all our important relics like the back of my hand. Sometimes however, they bring something in closed boxes so that no one sees what’s inside, and when you ask, they say, ‘It’s a secret, you’re not supposed to know.’ But they usually don’t keep secrets from me; I’m not just an old chatterbox, I’m a real Cerberus! I guard our secrets and our treasures equally; no spy or villain will pass me by or take anything. Well, don’t be afraid, I won’t bite! I see you’re a good guy. But sometimes there are types here who make your eyes pop out! Just what brings them here? There’s no hint of intelligence on their faces, eyes empty, like two buckets, and what are they even interested in at the museum? Usually, to be honest, they just trample at the entrance, maybe look at something, spit on the floor, and leave. I won’t look for trouble because of such trifles, but still, it’s unpleasant. But! – here he raised his index finger and made a significant pause – But if any of them tries to steal something from the museum, I guarantee I’ll catch the scoundrel, let him know who he’s dealing with. No thief will pass me by, not one! There were cases, and I showed ’em. But truth to be told, a couple of days ago, one of our prominent historians, Roger, came up to me and asked if I had seen any suspicious people. I said, ‘No, what happened?’ And he – take it and say that something had disappeared from the storage. I am old, but I still know my job, you know. So, I told him, ‘Roger, I’m old, but I know my job, you know! Nobody from outsiders could have taken anything past me. If you think something is missing, either it’s lying around somewhere in the museum, or a museum worker took it out officially, and no other way.’ And you, I see, are a patient one? – The old man smiled. – Few visitors can listen to my ramblings for so long without interrupting. Well, put down the pen, tell me, at least, what was your question.

Throughout this time, I carefully noted down every word he said in case he mentioned any important details that would later prove crucial to solving the case. To be honest, by the end of his monologue, my hand could hardly feel anything except a strong, dull pain from fatigue, and I was glad to give it some well-deserved rest.

– It is very fortunate that you mentioned Roger. I assume you meant Roger Dan?

– Yes, him. He was one of our historians, specializing in the history of the Middle East. I’ve known him since he was young; he loved history all his life and literally grew up in our museum. And then, poof! He flew out like a fledgling from the nest, started traveling around the world. Not many in this profession do that; they often sit in libraries, but he loved freedom, may his soul rest in peace. It’s unfair that young ones like him perish while old wrecks like me are still kicking. Yet, I’m not in a hurry to the grave; I’ll live a bit longer. Poor Roger. So, he liked to travel, had been to Egypt, various deserts, even China, even though it seemed slightly beyond his field. And most importantly, each time he brought back some curiosity, along with a whole story. Various statues, mysterious locked chests, coins, and other trinkets, but for each one, he could tell so much, as if he had lived with them from their creation until now. Yes, he loved to talk about his work, especially after a long journey. Sometimes, he stayed up late working when he can’t figure something out, then he came here and said, ‘Well, Ian, we’ve stayed up late. Thought I’d solve this puzzle, but it just won’t work for me,’ and I say, ‘Maybe I can help?’ and then we sat and fiddled with that thing, figuring it out. I don’t know anything special, but I’ve long noticed that when Roger starts explaining something to me, it’s like a thunderclap, and the idea immediately appears on its own, and the puzzle – is solved. Oh, I’ll miss those days... I’m chattering again. So, what did you want to ask about him?

– You mentioned that in one of your recent conversations...

– In the last one, – Ian corrected.

– Alright, in your last conversation with him, he stated that something was missing from the storage. Did he specify what exactly? It’s possible that the search for this artifact led to his demise.

– Funny that you said that. Yes, indeed, that could be the case. I remember he mentioned that this statuette came to him recently and was hidden in that puzzle box, which I helped him unravel a couple of months ago. Holy saints, that box was creepy! I shuddered when I saw it; even Roger himself handled it only with gloves. But he didn’t let me look inside, not that I wanted to. And when the lock clicked, and we exchanged glances, I immediately understood from his eyes that I shouldn’t peek in there. He probably knew what was inside but never told me. I suppose I should be very grateful to him for that. I’m too old for all those mystical horrors.

– Is there anyone in the museum who might know about this artifact? Perhaps a subordinate of Dr. Dan or someone else among his colleagues?

– Well, there’s Dr. Fiddly, Augustus Fiddly, his supervisor. Usually, he was the one giving permission for various research. Although, truth be told, Fiddly is a small man, and Roger decided everything for himself. He could easily convince his boss that a distant expedition was worth it, and Fiddly just signed the papers. But, to be fair, Roger never let him down; he was a responsible man and seemed to sense whether a particular expedition was destined for success. So, I recon, Fiddly trusted him, no doubt. Everyone here trusted him; may he rest in peace.

– I’m sure that’s the case. Where can I find Dr. Fiddly?

– He should be in the east wing right now. We have an exhibition of Eastern antiquities there, – the old man chuckled.

I thanked him for his help and headed in that direction. Numerous exotic artifacts surrounded me from all sides, captivating my imagination: massive sarcophagi, intricate clothing, various ornaments, shards, coins, different weapons, ancient boxes, and scrolls. These items, closely related to modern ones in essence, were sharply differed in their implementation, and I would have enjoyed staying here, but there was no time to explore everything, and I was looking in these halls only for the person I needed. Soon I found him near showcases with some ancient Chinese trinkets, coins, and medallions. Seeing him at work, I understood what Ian meant by “a small man.” Dr. Fiddly might have looked more dignified if he at least didn’t hunch so much. His hands and legs seemed thin and feeble, sparse hair was slicked to his head, though in some places it carelessly stood on end, and a meager beard and mustache hung sadly from his face like pale moss. At that moment, the doctor was doing something, either cleaning his coins or picking off the dried old dirt from them – in short, engaging in some petty business that made him resemble a scraggly wet rat even more. When he turned to me, I saw that the expression on his face was just as sad and gloomy as the rest of his appearance.

– Good day? – he uttered in a weak voice. – Can I help you with something?

– Good day. Are you Dr. Augustus Fiddly?

– Yes, that’s me.

– My name is Detective Richard Warring. I would like to talk to you about the death of Dr. Roger Dan.

– Oh! – he cried. – It’s such a terrible loss for our museum and community! It’s only been a few days since the police tortured us about this terrible tragedy, as if we were the ones who ruined him.

– I by no means want to accuse anyone of anything. I just need to ask a few questions, that’s all.

– I understand, Detective, – Fiddly sighed heavily. – Go ahead.

– Alright. First, tell me what you know about Dr. Dan’s recent work.

– It was something incredible, at least that’s what Roger claimed. He was quite secretive about his work, especially after the statuette went missing.

– So, he was working with some statuette? Tell me more about it.

– This thing was a creation of an unknown sculptor from the Middle East. It depicted some ancient deity, and according to Roger, it possessed special powers. He thought that with its help, he could delve deeper into the history of the vanished peoples of the eastern Mediterranean. I can take you to the part of the exhibition dedicated to such artifacts, the origins of which are either unknown or related to lost cultures and are almost impossible to classify. Many inscribed tablets will probably never be deciphered.

– Perhaps we can take a look. Lead the way.

– I have no doubt you’ll find them interesting, – Fiddly replied, weakly smiling. When he spoke about history, he even livened up a bit and didn’t look as pitiful anymore. – As for his research methods, since it’s somewhat related to occultism, Roger tried to delve into that direction and borrowed a lot of literature from the library on the subject. At some point, another colleague of ours, Eric Fitzgerald, who is working with ancient Maya manuscripts, got involved in the work. Surprisingly, he claimed to have found a connection between these works and...

Unexpectedly, a barely noticeable creak followed by a crash came from one exhibit and caught us off guard. As it turned out, the lid of an ancient wooden sarcophagus standing near the wall had opened, slipped, and crashed to the floor.

– But it was sealed... – Fiddly whispered. – Let’s get closer. We need to figure out what’s going on.

We approached the exhibit, and the doctor stayed close behind me. Then he finally dared to step forward and examined the former junction point.

– All torn. Some barbarian broke into it. I don’t know what’s inside, but it’s worth checking. Open it, just be careful. I grabbed the lid of the sarcophagus and tried to lift it to shift, when realized that it began to fall on me with its full weight, as if something was pushing it from the inside. Naturally, I jumped aside, dropping it to the floor, unfortunately. The old man screamed loudly and hid behind me once again. A human body fell out of the sarcophagus, but it was by no means an ancient mummy. A tall middle-aged man, his face and chest covered in blood. I recognized signature of Dr. Dan’s killer.

– Oh, God... – Fiddly mumbled. – It’s... Dr. Fitzgerald.

And, losing consciousness from fear, the old man collapsed to the floor.

He came to his senses only when the police had already taken the body away. Ian kindly prepared tea for the doctor and brought him a warm blanket to ease the shock. When he seemed to have calmed down a bit, I decided to ask a few more questions.

– It seems they were conducting research in a very dangerous area. However, neither of them was prepared for what awaited them on this path.

– D-definitely, – the doctor replied with a trembling voice.

– Both died because of this statuette. It seems someone doesn’t want its secret to be unraveled. Tell me, did any suspicious individuals...

– What’s going on here?! A stocky man with a thick mustache and a completely bald head, smooth as an egg, burst into the room. His neatly tailored suit reflected the latest fashion trends. He cast a threatening look at the chalk outline near the sarcophagus, then at me, and finally fixed a piercing gaze on the doctor.

– Fiddly, explain yourself!

– Director, let me introduce you, this is...

– I don’t give a damn who this is! What’s going on, and why are these vandals destroying the museum?!

– My name is Detective Richard Warring, – I said, showing my badge.

The director unexpectedly recoiled as if struck and stared at me.

– This is the director of our museum, Dr. Robert Buckman, – Fiddly said.

– Dr. Buckman, there’s been a murder in your museum. The victim is Dr. Eric Fitzgerald.

– Fitzgerald’s death is, of course, terrible, but it doesn’t give you the right to crush everything here! – the director roared, and approached me closely. – If something like this happens again, you’ll answer for it, mark my word!

– If something like this happens again, it’s possible the museum will be closed until the investigation is complete. It’s in your best interest...

– It’s in your best interest to shut up! I’ll file a complaint against you and your department!

– I can arrest you right now for obstructing justice.

The director turned completely red; his cheeks inflated so much like he was about to burst.

– By the way, where were you in the last few hours? – I continued.

– I was at a meeting at Miskatonic University, and I have plenty of witnesses, so your empty threats don’t bother me! Fiddly! If they break just one more here, I won’t be responsible for myself! Goodbye!

And as swiftly as he came here, Dr. Buckman left the room.

– Perhaps I should have arrested him after all. Doctor, how do you work with such a director?

– Oh, Dr. Buckman became like this only recently. The museum’s funding has been cut, and on top of that, the tragic death of poor Dr. Dan. It all hit him hard, and he started lashing out at everyone around him.

– Recently, you say? Interesting…

– Yes, not more than a week ago.

– Around the same time the ill-fated statuette arrived in Arkham?

– Do you think it’s related?

– It might be. In any case, I find the director’s actions extremely suspicious. Was he interested in Dr. Dan’s work?

– No, he mainly deals with administrative matters. Few knew about the statuette; even its presence here was practically a secret from everyone.

– Who exactly was in the know? Did anything unusual happen to them?

– Only I, Dr. Dan, and apparently, Ian knew. Nothing unusual happened, except for a series of gruesome crimes... – Fiddly sobbed. – Three attacks and two murders!

– Three attacks?

– Didn’t I mention? Before Dr. Dan’s death, some mad savage with a knife attacked one of the porters when he was alone near the crate containing the chest.

– You didn’t mention it.

– All these horrible murders. I still can’t come up to my senses, Detective, – and the doctor loudly blew his nose into his handkerchief.

– When did the first attack happen?

– On the day the cargo arrived, last Tuesday.

– Thank you, Doctor. I’ll talk to him, and you might be better off going home for rest.

– Maybe you’re right. I just don’t know what the director will say about it.

– I’ll manage to convince him, don’t worry.

I won’t go into the details of my subsequent conversation with Dr. Buckman, especially considering that it was quite brief. The director simply stated that he doesn’t care and that “I could go to hell with Dr. Fiddly and this damned little town.” I considered it as consent.

Back at the department, I checked all the police reports on the day the cargo arrived. The person I needed, Joe Beef, was just an ordinary dockworker who occasionally went to sea for some more profitable gigs, but most part of his time, especially in the evenings, he spent in the same place as all the respectable port workers of our city – the pub.

By the time I got there, the day was leaning towards evening, and most of the patrons were already in high spirits. I never particularly liked the port tavern: it was gloomy, crowded, and reeked of spoiled fish and the general lack of hygiene of its visitors, who drank incessantly all days through. After pushing through to the bar, I asked the bartender where I could find Joe, and almost immediately felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. The man sitting next to me was at least a head taller than me and twice as broad in the shoulders. His hands were as thick as logs, and his palms were like two frying pans. The man’s face was broad, with large and rough features, his small eyes slyly squinted.

– What do you want Joe for? – he asked.

– For an important matter, – I replied as calmly as I could.

– What kind of matter?

– As far as I know, some time ago, he encountered an armed man during the unloading of museum artifacts. We suspect that the attacker may be involved in a recent murder, and Joe’s assistance in identifying the criminal will be invaluable.

It seemed that I managed to get the man on my side, one way or another. At least, I didn’t offend him.

– Alright. What’s your poison?

– None, thank you. We’re not allowed to drink on duty.

– Well, your loss, – the dockworker downed his mug, then extended his hand to me. – Joe Beef.

– Nice to meet you, – I replied. – Detective Richard Warring.

– So, Rick, what do you wanna ask?

– Please describe, as detailed as you can, the circumstances of the incident and the appearance of the attacker.

– Well, ‘twas an ordinary day, like any other. Quite gloomy and damp. We unloaded a crate, boys went on to deliver various stuff, while I stayed for a bit to light my pipe. Job was almost done by then. So, leaning on the crate, I brought a match to my pipe when suddenly heard some rustlin’ in the alley, among the garbage. I looked ‘ere, saw some skinny guy in rags sneakin’ towards me. He had a knife in his hands, and on his head – some kind of mask, like those in Africa. And he started babblin’ somethin’ crazy, like “you don’t understand the value of the crate,” and “how dare you touch it with your filthy hands.” Well, I didn’t look that he was armed and told him to sod off. He jumped at me, so I smacked him in the head on the fly. Served him right!

– My thoughts exactly, – I agreed.

– Yeah. So, he wriggled on the ground, then jumped up and started cursin’ at me, sayin’ I’m a pathetic worm, and a great ancient forefather will come and punish me, and he’ll be rewarded, and other nonsense. I told him that if he didn’t scram right away, I’d tear his head off, and no one would reward him ever. The threat worked, and he disappeared, but I didn’t leave the crate just in case. You never know, he might try to steal somethin’ else, and they’ll put blame at me.

– Did he mention anything else about the “ancient forefather”?

– Nope. Ah, and why would I care?

– I see. Where did that cargo come from?

– Eh, also from somewhere in the East, or Africa, I don’t remember. Better ask that scientist who traveled with it.

– Roger Dan?

– Yeah, that guy. He’d know for sure.

– I have no doubt about that, but unfortunately, he’s dead. So, now I’m relying on you.

– And no one else to ask? Well, fine, gimme a moment. There was somethin’ written on it, like Siam, but from Africa. Something... Suez! Exactly. Like the canal. The cargo was from Suez.

– Suez... Excellent. I don’t have any more questions for now. Thank you very much for your help.

– Glad to help. You know where to find me if you need anythin’.

We said our goodbyes, and I went home with a clear conscience. The sun had already sat behind the horizon, and the sky was rapidly darkening, so I wouldn’t learn anything new that day. I planned to return to the museum in the morning and talk to Dr. Fiddly about that shipment, and at the same time, inquire more about Dr. Dan’s mission in Suez. It’s quite possible that with new information, he might be able to shed light on this mystery and more accurately determine the purpose of the statuette. After that, all that remained was to track down the criminal.

But the next day, as soon as I arrived at the department, I learned that another crime had occurred at the museum overnight. And who do you think became the victim? Of course, it was Augustus Fiddly. Fortunately, unlike the others victims in this case, he was lucky and survived. I hurried to the hospital to visit him. While I was genuinely concerned for the old man’s health, I also had my own selfish reasons for this meeting – to continue our conversation about the mysterious statuette.

I never liked hospitals since childhood. Each of my stays here was invariably associated with one of the numerous childhood injuries I, like any active boy, had in abundance. Aside from the exhausting boredom that always accompanied me here, I consistently felt the depressing atmosphere of suffering and death. Although most patients here recovered from illnesses and injuries, some never made it.

I tried to push away these dark thoughts and quickened my pace. Next to the room where the doctor was resting stood a police officer, tall and straight as a rail, with a helmet pulled almost over his eyes and unruly black hair sticking out from under it. His elongated face maintained an impassive expression, as if he were a marble statue. I approached him to ask about the details of the incident.

– Hello. I’m Richard Warring – a detective.

– Officer Andrew Boyle. I was assigned to watch over the doctor while he’s here.

– Good. Was the criminal apprehended?

– No, he disappeared without a trace, as if vanished into thin air.

– Have the police searched the crime scene? Any evidence?

– No, sir, neither traces nor weapons. However, while we were investigating, the museum director vehemently tried to prevent us from ‘sniffing around’ without a warrant.

– As far as I know, warrant is not needed to investigate a crime scene. It’s quite suspicious that he tried to hinder the investigation.

– Maybe so, sir. He’s more of a cantankerous old man more concerned about the museum’s reputation than justice. At the first opportunity, he’ll try to bury this case, mark my words. We had a dean just like that at our university.

– I see. Can I visit the victim?

– Yes, he’s doing well. Medic said it’s mostly a psychological trauma, and he might be able to go home today.

I entered the room. Dr. Fiddly was in bed with his shoulder bandaged, having his lunch. He looked surprisingly well for an injured person; I would even say better than before. I considered it a good sign and started a conversation.

– Hello, Doctor. How are you?

– Oh, Mr. Warring! Quite well, thank you. My poor shoulder hardly hurts anymore, and they feed me well. And how is investigation going?

– It’s fine. Tell me, can you describe the assailant?

– Oh, yes, I remember him well: sturdy, furious, attacked me waving a knife. I couldn’t see his face; it was covered by a wooden mask from some African tribe.

– Remarkable coincidence. I spoke with Mr. Beef in the port yesterday. He described his assailant exactly the same way as you did.

– So, is it the same person?

– Undoubtedly. According to Beef, he mentioned some ancient forefather who was supposed to punish everyone around, and reward only his mad follower.

– You know, the phrase ‘ancient forefather’ is familiar to me. The savage shouted it at me more than once as I was fleeing from him. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, assuming it might interest you. I remembered an old acquaintance of mine who works in this field. He currently teaches at Miskatonic University, specializing in the ancient peoples of Antarctica or something like that. But believe me, his knowledge goes far beyond his field of work. Ask for Karl Wolf, tell him you’re from me, and he’ll certainly help you.

– Thank you, Doctor, I’ll pay him a visit right away. If you remember anything else, or you’d need my help, call me.

I gave him my work and home phone numbers, bid him farewell and not without joy left the hospital. For the first time in a long while, my work led me to a place where I enjoyed being: Miskatonic University. I had many warm memories associated with it. Even more so because I was still a student; it was my final year of study. Due to the fact that I grasped most subjects in school faster than my peers, I finished earlier than the others and immediately entered the university. Although I was younger than most students, or perhaps because of it, I quickly found friends, and together we explored all the buildings and secrets of this ancient institution, in search of its numerous mysteries. In short, I loved this place, and I knew all the paths and passages quite well. Therefore, I quickly found my way in the history department and soon stood before Professor Wolf’s office.

I gently knocked. Almost immediately, steps echoed inside the office, and the door was opened by the professor himself. He was a tall, imposing figure, with a face that seemed to be carved from stone. His skin tightly clung to his gaunt face, perfectly groomed thin mustaches that sharply pointed upward and a sharp beard emphasized his angular cheekbones and chin. His hair was smoothly slicked back, revealing a high forehead, and his almost black eyes scrutinized me with an evaluating gaze from beneath long, furrowed eyebrows. A straight nose with a small bump completed his eagle-like visage. Professor Wolf’s dark burgundy suit sat on him perfectly, and his impeccable posture and manners made him the embodiment of an ancient Germanic king, looking down on those around him as his subjects. I had only glimpsed at him before, and every time I invariably felt the aura of overwhelming greatness surrounding him. He stared at me without blinking, seemingly without breathing, as if piercing into my soul with his gaze. In presence of such people, I’ve always felt completely insignificant. Apparently noticing this, he decided to take the initiative in the conversation. His well-articulated voice sounded exceptionally clear, as if piercing through my entire being.

– Good day. How can I help you?

– Yes, my name is Richard Warring, I’m a detective, and I would like to discuss a matter related to the recent crimes at the museum. – I blurted out, trying to find my badge in the pocket. – Dr. Fiddly suggested I speak to you.

– Fiddly? Ah, yes. Augustus. I remember him well. In that case, come in, make yourself comfortable.

I followed him. Professor Wolf’s office was decorated quite unusually; an intricately patterned carpet lay on the floor, behind an impressive black wooden desk stood a huge leather armchair, and many cabinets along the walls were filled with various curious antiquities. To my amateur eye, most of them did not belong to any cultures of antiquity known to the general public. I wouldn’t be surprised if they piqued the interest of my superiors...

– Brandy? – the professor asked.

– No, thank you, I don’t drink. And I’m on duty.

– You’re missing out on a lot, – he said, pouring himself a glass. – Well, I’ll have a little. It certainly won’t get me fired. Have a seat. You had a question for me.

– Yes, let me bring you up to speed. A certain criminal, armed with a knife and concealing his face behind an African wooden mask, attacked Dr. Fiddly.

– What kind of mask is that? What does it look like, and from which tribe?

– I... I didn’t ask Fiddly about that. I didn’t think it was important...

– It’s quite odd that you think so, detective. This mask alone could’ve told us a lot about the criminal.

– You see, we doubt that it can give us anything substantial because the criminal obviously uses it without much understanding. He could just as well put a bag with eye holes on his head. However, since he might be somehow connected to the museum, it’s possible that he came up with the idea to take the mask from the storage.

– Let’s assume that. What’s next?

– As another survivor of an encounter with this criminal told me, he mentioned a certain “ancient forefather” who would reward him for his efforts and punish all others. It’s precisely on this matter that I came to you.

– Well, several possibilities come to mind. Could you provide more details about this case?

– The criminal probably stole a statuette brought here from the city of Suez. After its disappearance, the murders began, although one attempted murder happened even earlier, during his first attempt to steal the artifact.

– A statuette from Suez. Well, that leaves only one version. You know, there’s a theory that there are energy lines between continents, places where the power of the Earth’s depths erupts outward. If you trace these lines on the globe, they almost certainly pass through mountain ranges and chains of volcanoes. Many of these places became cradles for ancient cultures because, believe it or not, people somehow felt such energetically strong areas, besides the obvious presence of volcanoes in some of them, of course. Moreover, they might have known how to direct the earth’s energy for their needs. So far, I have no evidence of anything like that, but ancient people definitely believed they had such abilities. But they attributed them to gods they prayed to. I’m telling all this to say that the cult that originated from place just near the location where the city of Suez is today worshipped an exceptionally peculiar god, they called the “ancient forefather.” Their cult was so unusual that it almost didn’t spread from the place of its initial appearance. Many of such ancient religions ended up scattered around the planet and share some similar traits, although they have no obvious connections, as if they were born simultaneously and developed in the same way in different corners of the world. However, traces of the existence of this specific cult were found only there, in the sands of the Sinai Peninsula, – he approached an ancient globe and pointed to the mentioned area. – To put it briefly, their beliefs revolved around the idea that a certain ancient progenitor, if they directed him, would come here and engulf this world, plunging it into darkness and chaos. They, his servants, would gain immense power that would allow them to do exactly what they desired, and no one would be able to resist them. And their main desire was the killing and destruction of everyone and everything, indiscriminately and without mercy. The blind faith of these fools eventually led to their demise, at the hands of those who could have become their allies. Personally, this cult, as apparently to many ancient people, seems excessively cruel and senseless, even for those dark times. Now we have much more constructive goals ahead of us, and even on the path to power, one must keep oneself within some limits.

– I understand.

– I’m sorry, but it seems to me that you don’t actually understand anything, – he replied, throwing a stern look at me. – Was the statuette found just like that, alone in the middle of the desert?

– As far as I know, no, it was in some unusual chest.

– Investigate the chest. Obviously, your criminal, whoever he is, resides in the museum, and if the legends about this cult are even slightly true, he hopes to destroy the Earth. So, try to find the entrance to his lair, and do it quickly. And now, please excuse me, I have to go to a lecture.

– You have classes today? I mean, I’m sorry for delaying you.

– Thank you, of course, but I think that’s not why you’re surprised, – he smiled. – And you know what? For meeting with current students, I should drink much more.

He let me out first, then locked the door behind him and headed to the lecture. I, on the other hand, left the university and returned to the police station. Professor Wolf’s idea about the location of the criminal’s lair came to mind too, but I wanted to have more clues on the case before large scale search.

Unfortunately, a mountain of paperwork awaited me that day. I had hoped to avoid this routine at least during the investigation, but, sadly, I was wrong. Last night, I had not slept well due to a late stroll to the port, and today’s conversation with Wolf in his eerie office drained me completely. That’s why, when most of the paperwork was already filled out, majority of my colleagues had gone home, and the sun had disappeared below the horizon, I didn’t notice how I fell asleep.

I trudged through the pitch-black darkness, navigating the intertwining tunnels. My path seemed endless, and I had passed through the same junctions so many times, that I had eventually memorized the maze of these stone passages. But every time I thought of stopping, I could distinctly sense someone’s presence, as if sensing a foreign gaze upon me. I decided to let this feeling reach its peak, and just when it seemed that the invisible evil would sink its claws into me, I turned around. A pale figure in a mask slipped into one of the passages, at the exact moment I caught sight of him behind me. I chased after him, discovering new branches of the labyrinth, previously hidden from my sight, until I emerged into a dimly lit room.

In the center of the room, whose ceiling stretched into infinity, stood a small statue on a mud pedestal, radiating strong aura of malevolence. A barely audible whisper emanated from it, as if enticing me to come closer. Approaching, I noticed how the statue writhed, its amorphous tentacles intertwining, and numerous blind white eyes bore into me. I reached out to it and felt a piercing pain and chill.

As the killer pulled the blade out from my body, I mustered my last strength, turning around and managing to stop the second strike. The masked maniac lunged at me with all his might, trying to slit my throat. I grabbed his mask and ripped it from his face, revealing an endless sea of writhing flesh, tendrils, claws, and fangs that crashed down on my face with a sharp ringing.

I woke up in cold sweat, safe and sound back at my desk, but the ringing in my head hadn’t gone anywhere. When I understood, that it was my phone ringing, I grabbed the handset without hesitation, convinced that the matter was serious.

– Hello? Richard? – a whisper came through the receiver. – This is Dr. Fiddly. Something is going on here; someone has broken into the museum.

– Are you hurt? Where are you?

– We’re fine, Ian and I locked ourselves in his storage room and hid under the table. Richard, it’s some kind of horrible shadow; it’s darting around as if... – a distant scream was heard. – Oh, God! What is it, Ian? What should we do?

– Hold on, I’m on my way! Don’t leave your hiding place if the criminal hasn’t noticed you!

Hastily getting ready, I rushed through the deserted streets towards the museum. This majestic building, slightly illuminated by the night lamps, now seemed threateningly immense, towering over the square under its steps like an immobile giant waiting for him victims.

I pulled the entrance door, but it was locked. Then I cautiously knocked so that the sound wouldn’t echo through the empty halls, and it could only be heard near the entrance. Soon, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and Dr. Fiddly, after fiddling with the keys for a bit, finally opened the door. Behind him stood Ian, gripping a revolver in his hand, peering into the darkness of the night museum.

– Thank God, you’re here! –the doctor whispered. – You must have some protection against all these monsters, right?

– Yes, don’t worry. Where did the scream come from?

– It seems that from the western wing. Let’s hurry; maybe it’s not too late to catch the criminal.

– Stay behind me. Ian, do you have a lamp?

– Yes, it’s there.

– Great, then take it, but dim the light so that it doesn’t give us away. If we encounter the criminal, open the lamp at my signal and blind him, to catch him off guard.

We headed towards the western wing. I had a revolver with enchanted bullets and my occult detective badge – a five-pointed silver star with a blue tint to weaken the magical forces of the enemy, if they had any. Behind me, gripping my shoulders tightly with his bony fingers, crept Dr. Fiddly, and Ian brought up the rear, ready to obliterate any target with his gun at any second. We moved as quietly as we could, cautiously advancing through the almost pitch-black darkness.

Soon, we heard rustling coming from the hall designated for Mayan artifacts. Next to one of the stone obelisks, I noticed a pale figure bent over a body. We approached as close as we could without drawing the criminal’s attention, and I gave signal to my allies. Ian immediately opened the lamp to its full strength, blinding the opponent, and I aimed my gun and badge at the enemy. Our adversary, thin and wiry, pale as death, covered his face, distorted with a crazed grimace of insane malice. Before I could shoot, he emitted a prolonged hiss and dissolved into thin air, like smoke. There was not the slightest trace of the criminal, only the body of his latest unfortunate victim sprawled on the floor.

– Looks like our new janitor, a Mexican, – Fiddly said. – We never got to properly meet... Richard, what should we do? How do we catch such an enemy? Were all our efforts in vain?

– I think it was just an illusion. The puppeteer is hiding somewhere in the museum, and we’ll need to search the entire building. By the way, Doctor, how did you end up here today?

– To be honest, I was hoping to find some clues myself, – the old man replied embarrassedly. – If I weren’t talking to Ian, there might have been two bodies lying on the floor right now.

– Don’t worry, doctor; the criminal won’t escape now. I assure you that he will get what he deserves tomorrow. But for now, we need to call...

– What is happening?! Who is here?! Dr. Buckman appeared behind us. Seeing me, he became even more furious, quickly approached us, and thrust the lamp right into my face.

– Damn you, detective, I told you not to come here! Didn’t I promise you trouble?

– The trouble is yours! – I replied, pushing the lamp away. – There was another murder, and it happened tonight. How do you explain your presence?

– Another murder?! Damn it, the museum won’t survive this.

– Answer, what were you doing here at night, director?

– That is none of your business, detective! I have a lot of paperwork, and I was dealing with it.

Tell me about it.

– So, no one can confirm your alibi?

– What does it matter? I’m an honest man, and not a fool, unlike you! I won’t let some damn annoying kid hang a murder on me!

– It’s not for you to decide, director. You are under arrest.

I handcuffed his left hand, but I couldn’t catch his right, as Dr. Buckman began shaking the lamp vigorously in front of my face.

– This is arbitrariness! The judge is my old friend, and he will destroy you for this!

– If you have any respect for your “old friend,” then stop resisting arrest and creating unnecessary difficulties for him and for me!

The director froze for a moment, menacingly staring at me. Then he frowned displeasingly, forcefully handed the flashlight to Dr. Fiddly, and extended his other hand to me.

– You will regret this, mark my words! Tomorrow your life will be over!

– You have the right to remain silent, director, and everything you say can and will be used against you in court.

I led the suspect to the police station. It was already deep into the night, the city had long been plunged into sleep and silence. The only sounds breaking the nightly stillness were the echoes of our footsteps and the director’s disgruntled muttering. At the pre-trial detention cell, I removed the handcuffs from him. I wasn’t planning to interrogate him today, obviously. Dr. Buckman rubbed his wrists, and once again, he looked at me with hatred.

– Tomorrow, I will squash you, – he growled through his teeth.

– Sure. Maybe you’d like some coffee and pastry before interrogation? – I asked sarcastically.

– I drink black, with three spoons of sugar.

And he slammed the door shut in my face. I locked it, informed the duty team about the murder so they could retrieve the body, and went home. I needed to get some rest before tomorrow and show up for work as early as possible. Can’t make the suspect wait. The next morning, the first thing I did was lead Dr. Buckman into the interrogation room and brought him the promised coffee, hoping he would be a bit more cooperative.

– Where’s my pastry? – he grunted.

– Sadly, we’re out of those.

– What a lousy place! You’re a worthy son of your department, I see.

The director downed the mug and crossed his arms over his chest.

– Anyway, let’s begin. Where were you on Monday morning?

– What’s it to you?

– I am investigating the murders of three museum employees, in which you are the prime suspect, that’s what. So please, answer to the point.

– I was in the museum, – he coughed. – In my office, working on paperwork.

– Can anyone confirm that?

– The janitor, – he coughed again, unbuttoning his collar, – should have seen me.

– The one who died last night?

– What does it matter – cough – they are all – cough – the same!

– Are you alright?

– Are you mocking me?! Cough – did you poison me? I will – cough – destroy you!

– I’ll call a doctor.

I rushed outside and immediately ran into my boss.

– Good morning, Warring. I heard you arrested a suspect. How is the interrogation going?

– He suddenly fell ill; we need to call a doctor!

– Suddenly?

He even slightly frowned. Boss quickly signaled to one of the officers, and he ran to the phone. Then chief entered the interrogation room and signaled for me to follow. The director was in terrible condition, barely able to breathe, and turned as red as a lobster. However, as soon as he saw my boss, he changed beyond recognition: emitting a piercing scream, he slumped into the chair and became deathly pale. Besides previous horror, I was now in complete confusion. However, my boss maintained composure, and I even thought I heard a sigh of relief. He approached Buckman, brought his face close to his; the director shrank to the maximum but couldn’t take his eyes off my boss. Chief snapped his fingers, and the suspect slumped in his chair. Then my boss took out a small vial from hidden pocket, opened it, let Buckman inhale, and he woke up with a gasp.

– What’s going on, what happened? Where am I?

– Good morning, Dr. Buckman. You are at the police station, – my boss said calmly. – Describe, as detailed as you can, the events of the past few days.

– As detailed? I... it seems like I was working... everything is foggy. I think I saw this guy, his name is Warring... Detective Warring. Why am I here, what happened?

– Unfortunately, in the museum and its surroundings over the past three days, three murders have occurred, doctor.

– What?! – he jumped, almost tipping the chair over.

– Dr. Roger Dan, Dr. Eric Fitzgerald, and Enrique Alvarez have died.

The director covered his mouth with his hand. He slowly sat down, and tears filled his eyes. The boss patted him on the back.

– He was controlled; that explains his unusual behavior.

– You mean that I’m somehow involved?! – the director exclaimed in horror.

– No-no, that’s ruled out. The suspect looks nothing like you. Obviously, someone tried to frame you to cover their tracks. You ended up here only because of some aggression towards Detective Warring.

– For God’s sake, forgive me!

– Don’t worry about, if you were controlled, then I have no complaints against you, – I replied.

– Take a break, doctor. A medic will be here soon, and then you can go. Warring, let’s leave him alone.

The boss walked out with me and closed the door tightly.

– What are your next steps? – he asked.

– For starters I’ll find out, what just happened in the interrogation room. How did you know, that he was “controlled”?

– Fair enough. You see, since we have a special department, which is working with very special cases, all additional activities conducted by me for my subordinates and all our equipment and supplies are in one way or another directed to protect all of us in case of unforeseen circumstances.

– We have a magic sugar?

– We have a magic sugar.

– And the director was hexed?

– So it seems. Some spells are infecting people with foreign entities, which react this way to the antidote. All we need to know, is who hexed him.

– Good. By why did he scream, when he saw you?

– My appearance sometimes scares people. I suppose you know that better than anyone else.

I rubbed back of my head in embarrassment.

– Now, that that’s settled, let’s return to my first question: what are your next steps?

– Well, before arresting Dr. Buckman, I was planning to inspect the museum; I assume the criminal must be connected to him and hiding somewhere in it.

– An excellent idea, go ahead. Oh, and I’ve heard that you had a lot of paperwork yesterday. Do you remember, who brought it to you?

– Um, no, I’m afraid I don’t.

– I see… well, I won’t delay you any longer then. Off you go, arm yourself accordingly.

Actually, I always armed myself the same way and tried never to leave my revolver anywhere again. I checked the cartridges and headed to the exit when unexpectedly a group of police officers blocked my way. A tall, broad-shouldered policeman with short-cropped hair and a thick brush of red mustache stepped forward. His face looked stern and unreadable.

– Detective Warring? – he asked. – Captain David Wallman.

– Am I under arrest?

– What? Oh, no, of course not. Officer Boyle told us about the case you’re working on, and we’re all interested in helping catch the criminal.

– Nice to hear that. But how does Officer Boyle know about it?

– Dr. Fiddly told me while I was guarding him in the hospital.

– I see. Well, I’m only happy to get help. Who will be on our team?

– You already know Boyle, also we have Timothy Nut, Edwin Bud, Mike Kaltman, and Robert Spines as volunteers.

I couldn’t say anything special about Nut, Bud, and Kaltman. Overall, they looked like ordinary average men, no stronger than me. But Spines stood out quite a bit, although not in a way I would have liked: I had never seen such a pale and scrawny police officer ever before. But I thought that extra hands wouldn’t hurt, so I just approved Wallman’s decision, and we set out on the road.

It was somewhat awkward, being accompanied by a crowd of policemen on the street, under the surprised looks of passersby. I don’t actually look like a policeman myself, so I felt more like I’m being convoyed somewhere. I even felt some relief upon entering the museum. In the first hall, near the guard’s post, Dr. Fiddly was talking to Ian. He looked more cheerful than usual, and upon seeing me, he even smiled.

– Ah, detective! Have you already interrogated the director? And who are all these gentlemen?

– The director was being mind-controlled. We don’t know by whom, but I suspect it’s the same person who is the real murderer. And he must still be hiding in the museum. We came here to find him.

– So, the case is not over yet! – Ian exclaimed joyfully. – I’m ready to go right now!

– Your enthusiasm is contagious. Let’s go towards the Maya hall, carefully examining everything on the way. If we don’t find anything there, we’ll search the rest of the museum.

We immediately got to work. Although, of course, we treated the exhibits with care, we moved them, examined each one, peered into every crevice, trying to find any hint of a hidden door, lever, button, or the like. In the absence of Director Buckman, Fiddly took on the role of defender of antiquities, constantly reminding us to be careful and occasionally, getting irritated, giving a lecture on the value of a particular artifact. At some point, the search started to seem futile, but suddenly, the necessary thing appeared.

– Well, I’ll be! – Ian exclaimed, looking at the obelisk made of greenish stone. – I know this pattern! It’s exactly the same as on that darn chest of Roger’s. Come on, big guy, help me out!

Wallman put the tiny old man on his shoulders and approached the obelisk. Ian took a pencil from his breast pocket and began tracing it along the massive tangle of lines carved on the surface of the stone near the top. Each time the pencil reached the right place on its path, a clear click sounded, and all together they formed a kind of eerie melody. The final note sounded, and the stone surface of the obelisk split with a loud crack, its parts sliding away to reveal a secret passage. My companions were so amazed and inspired by this find that I decided not to draw anyone’s attention to the fact that I had just checked the obelisk, and it was leaning against a solid wall. The portal obviously had magical properties, so it was up to me to step into it first.

We found ourselves inside a poorly lit tunnel with an earthen floor, wooden walls, and a low wooden ceiling. Ian decided to stay behind in case the door suddenly closed and went to fetch a ladder.

Our group boldly set off into the thickening darkness. We had several lamps with us, but even with their help, we could barely see the path. Darkness seemed to thicken, enveloping us like thick jelly. At some point, I noticed a fork ahead, leading to a narrow tunnel with bare stone walls.

– Well, how could it be otherwise...

– We must split up! – Bad suggested. – I’ll lead the second group. Kaltman, Spines, Nut, follow me!

I would’ve never expected Bud to be a good leader. Stout, a bit hunched, with unkempt mustache, and loose hair carelessly sticking in different directions. Since this morning, he had been trying to stick close to me but had not said a word. Now he suddenly decided to take the initiative.

– Maybe you’ll take Boyle or Wallman with you to balance our groups? – I suggested.

– No, we’re fine without them.

– May I with you? – said Fiddly. – Both Mr. Warring and I know more than anybody about this expedition’s goal, I might be useful.

– Fine, come with us instead of Nut. Let’s go!

Bad cheerfully led his team into a narrow branch, while we continued down the main corridor. The darkness began to gradually dissipate, and soon we reached a dead end – a wooden wall. Wallman decisively knocked it down, and we found ourselves in one of the museum’s internal storerooms. But after carefully examining the shelves, we saw no traces of the criminal or his lair. The only thing that caught my attention was a solitary door.

– Judging by the sounds behind it, this is the main entrance to this storage. Locked. We need to somehow let people outside know that we’re here, so that later...

Suddenly, I was interrupted by a shrill scream coming from behind, so deafeningly loud and piercing that we covered our ears with our hands and couldn’t come to our senses for some time when it stopped. Behind us, in the middle of the room, stood Dr. Fiddly, holding a huge knife in his hand, and next to him, on the ground, like a pile of rags, lay the lifeless body of Spines.

– You? Seriously? – I exclaimed.

Fiddly didn’t answer me and rushed towards the gap in the wall, but Wallman blocked his way. In the next moment, the doctor lunged at him, trying to cut the giant’s throat, but only cut the strap of his helmet instead. The strong hand of the policeman quickly disarmed the old man, but the villain, unexpectedly twisted his whole body and managed to slip out of the giant’s grip, tore the helmet off his head, and disappeared behind numerous crates.

We barely had time to think when knives, spears, axes, and other weapons from the priceless collection of antiquities came flying at us. We took cover behind the shelves, trying to find a favorable moment for a counterattack, but the old man turned out to be surprisingly agile, and we couldn’t find a single second even to aim. At some point, everything fell silent. Boyle peeked out from behind a crate to assess the situation, a gunshot rang out, a bullet whizzed through his helmet, and the policeman stretched on the floor.

When you see the death of someone you knew, someone you had just talked to, it leaves an indelible impression. Violent death is both startling, horrifying and just so unnatural, that you can never get prepared, nor get used to it, especially when it happens to someone on your side. I almost screamed but barely managed to control myself. I roughly estimated Fiddly’s hiding place, and gestured Nut to take a shield and slip along the wall to drive the old man into the center of the room where we could attack him. While the policeman cautiously crawled to the specified location, I set an antique beartrap in the passage, where I believed Fiddly would end up.

At the right moment, Nut pounced on the opponent. Then a dull whistle sounded, followed by a cry of the policeman, and the old man rushed into the passage in search of new cover. It would be impossible to aim at him while he scurried like a cockroach, but a well-placed trap clamped onto his leg with a loud crack, immobilizing him.

I emerged from cover, pointing my weapon at the enemy and gripping in the outstretched hand my badge, which is capable of weakening some types of magic. Unfortunately, it had almost no effect on him. He blew into a reed pipe, and a small dart pierced my neck. The poison instantly entered my body, completely immobilizing me and giving the criminal time to pick up a stone axe. He had already swung it to throw at me when suddenly I felt a strong hand on my shoulder, which at the last moment pushed me aside. The old man threw his axe, and it hit Wallman right in the forehead.

I had never seen anything like it. The weapon that would easily have split my skull in half stuck in the solid forehead of the policeman, who, blinded by pain and rage, emptied his revolver into the opponent. Although he couldn’t see where he was shooting, he didn’t miss a single shot: four bullets hit the doctor in the abdomen and chest, one in the shoulder, right into the recent knife wound, and another shattered the old man’s knee. Even as he fell to the ground, David threw his weapon at the enemy, hitting him square in the head. At that moment, I firmly decided that if we survive, I would recommend Wallman for an award.

It was with great difficulty that I managed to overcome the paralyzing effect of the poison and remove the dart from my neck; the projectile turned out to be some wriggling poisonous creature. I noticed that it weakened by my badge, which apparently allowed me to free myself. Without much thought, I smeared the creature on the floor. To my greatest surprise, the wounded Fiddly broke free from the trap to that moment and disappeared into the depths of the tunnel, leaving a bloody trail behind. I helped Nut get rid of the paralyzing dart and ordered him to carry Wallman out of here, while I rushed in pursuit.

The tracks led me to the place where Fiddly’s group had separated from ours to explore the dark tunnel. The further I went, the harder it was to distinguish spots on the floor, which was almost completely covered in crimson stains, leading to various branches from the corridor. I was going almost intuitively, remembering my dream, and when I heard a thunderous scream of horror, it only solidified my further choice. Undoubtedly, it was Dr. Fiddly screaming.

He was in a small room where dim light penetrated through a barely noticeable hole in the museum’s roof. In the middle of the room stood a crooked clay pedestal, next to which, in a pool of his own blood, lay my enemy, shuddering with sobs and clutching a sheet of paper in his hand.

– Someone stole it, stole it! – the doctor wheezed. – My Master is gone! How could this happen?!

– You shouldn’t have left it unattended, – I sharply replied. – What do you have there?

He handed me a crumpled and blood-stained sheet of paper, and I began to read, trying not to lose sight of my enemy. It turned out to be a note left by the thief.

“When I separated from our group, I soon realized that I was lost. But that was only until I met Him, my Master, who showed me the true purpose. I came across His image, calling to me, and took it in my hands. The whole world passed by me as I got closer and closer to the Master. He appeared before me in all His monstrous beauty, amid darkness and emptiness, surrounded only by those like Him, His creations, His slaves, His food. And He accepted me as His own, and I became His faithful servant. I know what will happen when Fiddly dies, that the Image will be lost, and our Cause will fail. I will hide the Image for a while, but then we will return, and our Cause will be completed. E.B.”

– Why here, Fiddly? Almost in plain sight? – I asked.

– Here, the energy gathers in a vortex, feeding the Master! No one would think to look here; nothing is ever visible under your nose!

– Very well. We will go to the police now, and as for your ‘master,’ I will return to it soon. I won’t be surprised if I find it right here.

– You won’t see anything here tomorrow! – Fiddly exclaimed maliciously.

He began chanting some spell, but I shot him in the head, and the old man fell silent. However, after a moment, as if some unknown force had driven the spirit back into his lifeless body, he resumed his sorcery and burst into flames. The fire quickly spread in all directions from his writhing body, and I made a few more shots, using up all the remaining bullets, putting an end to the life of my enemy, once and for all.

Meanwhile, the fire was raging more and more, and I had to run. On my way back, I stumbled upon Kaltman’s body in one of the corners, with his throat cut. Somehow, the fire had already reached him. Apparently, Fiddly ruthlessly murdered everyone he went with and intended to do the same to us when he reached the storage room. This unfortunate policeman had long been dead, but, even though I could no longer help him, the feeling of regret and sight of his lifeless face engulfed in flames would haunt me to the end of my days.

The way back through the portal was blocked by the raging fire, and I had to run towards the storage room, hoping to find a way out through there. There was no one left in the room but me and the flames following in my footsteps. I found a halberd and began chopping at the reinforced door of the storage room. Most likely, as soon as I broke it, the fire, having found a new source of air, would spread throughout the room almost instantly, but I had no time to save the artifacts.

When the door nearly gave way, the ancient axe broke. I threw the handle aside and, out of the corner of my eye, noticed what seemed to be movement. The paralyzed Boyle twitched his hand away from the encroaching fires. I didn’t know what awaited each of us, but I thought to myself that I wouldn’t leave him here, whether he was alive or dead. I dragged Boyle to the door, fired several shots from his revolver at it, and then finished the job with a kick, clearing the way to freedom.

The flame bursted outside, and I barely managed to get out myself, dragging the policeman with me. With great difficulty I’ve passed through the last smoke covered corridor with my burden. When I got to the hall, someone had already called the firefighters, and the battle with the fire was in full swing. I don’t remember exactly, who and how got us outside. I did not participate in extinguishing the flame, obviously; the doctors would not let me go back. Boyle was immediately given medical help and taken to the hospital.

Only outside, surrounded by doctors and policemen, I’ve started to come to my senses. The shiver ran through my entire body, fatigue bound my hands and legs. I lowered my chilled head onto hands, unable to catch my breath; my lungs burned from the hot smoke I had inhaled in there.

The fire in the museum was completely extinguished only by the evening, but although nearly all the areas affected by the flames were almost completely destroyed, the vast majority of the exhibits in the epicenter were successfully evacuated by the dedicated museum staff and firefighters. As for the secret corridors under the building, no one mentioned them.

In the end of this whole story, the mystical cult of the forefather once again had sunk into the sands of time, though perhaps only temporarily. And again, as Professor Wolf said earlier, fools were destroyed by their own blind faith. One of them proved incapable of foreseeing his obvious defeat and the betrayal of another, the other disappeared without a trace among the flame-engulfed dark corridors of the secret underground labyrinth. And the main idol of this faith vanished from human eyes, hopefully forever.

– So? Did you keep your promise? – the chief asked, closing the folder.

– What? – Richard had already started dozing off from the quiet and monotonous voice reading his story.

– I’m talking about Officer Wallman.

– Ah, yes. Right before I finished the report.

– Good. I heard that Boyle is now in the hospital. Is he in a coma? Tragic. I hope he recovers. Well, as for the statuette, it’s unfortunate that it disappeared without a trace. We must find it to cut off all possible ways for the cult’s return.

– But it was stolen. Besides, Ian told me that he never left his post near the obelisk for a second, even when the fire appeared from there, and no one, except Officer Nut and Officer Wallman, left it. The statuette is buried there with the thief.

– Still, we have to continue the investigation. I think that by evening we will be able to get into the ruins without violating any rules.

– But if we’re going there anyway, wouldn’t it be better to go straight away and discreetly dig around while the documents are not ready? Just to save time.

– That’s not the way it works, Warring. As soon as I get official permission, I’ll summon you.

The young detective nodded silently, stood up, and headed for the exit. However, at the door, the chief stopped him.

– Richard. I hope you’re going to lunch now?

– Of course I am, sir.

– Then I’ll join you shortly. We’ll discuss some matters regarding this case.

– Certainly, sir.

But Richard lied. As soon as he closed the door to the chief’s office, he headed straight for the site of yesterday’s fire. He managed to sneak past the patrolling police officers and delve into the ruins. There he found the burned storage and the place where the collapsed ceiling blocked the entrance to the tunnels. After about half an hour of digging, he created an opening in the debris, through which he could enter the stone labyrinth. All the walls were covered with a layer of soot. Back then, the fire spread on them as if they were made of wood, but at this depth, there was only earth and naked stone. Undoubtedly, the reason for such rapid fire spread was the power of the magic used by the dying Dr. Fiddly. Despite the surrounding darkness, Richard remembered the way well and easily reached the location of the improvised altar. There, near the clay column, lay the charred skeleton of Dr. Fiddly, and on the altar itself rested the coveted statuette. It depicted some creature of unclear form, simultaneously looking incredibly absurd and terrifying to the point of shivering, a bloated bubble and a tangle of intertwined tentacles. When Richard approached it, he felt like the whole world around froze and dimmed, disappearing like a dream. He took the statuette in his hands, and in the same moment, the ground slipped from under him.

The detective raced through the black space, illuminated only by fleeting stars. He couldn’t slow down or stop, as if some unknown force was pulling him towards it with it’s incredible will. The stars grew smaller, and darkness engulfed everything as Richard discerned a distant rumble. It was a rhythmic beating, inevitable and omnipresent, like the pulse pounding in his ears, but much stronger and more intense. With each passing moment, they became louder and clearer until a monotonous squishy wailing of flutes joined them. Their howling merged into a constantly repeating melody that could drive anyone insane, piercing through the skull straight into the brain. Richard floated through space past giant grotesque creatures, the ugliness of which defied description. They all writhed in their repulsive and eternal dance, playing music for the one lying in the center of their hellish round dance – their Master. The boundless body of the monster changed shape every second, constantly wriggling and convulsing, forming an endless mass of disgusting amorphous flesh, beating with gigantic jaws in time with the music. The spectacle, the sounds, the stench that surrounded him – everything was so monstrous and repulsive to the human being that only the inflamed consciousness of a madman could imagine even a fraction of this horror. And when Richard was on the verge of insanity, he heard a voice in his mind calling him to obedience, to eternal service to this creature – the Master. Flames seemed to engulf Richard’s entire head, and the same words repeated louder and louder inside, as if something was trying to carve this phrase on him. Above it, a distant call of his servants echoed, repeating his abominable name over and over until all this cacophony of sounds merged into a single deafening roar. With all his might, Richard shouted his response.

“NO!”

The cursed crowd twisted into a whirlwind, and the entire Universe was swallowed by this terrible vortex. Richard flew back, Earth rapidly approaching him, and he crashed to the floor next to the altar, clutching the monstrous statuette in his hands. Richard rose. The terrible drumming still echoed in his throbbing head. When he cast a quick glance at the statuette, he could swear it was moving its tentacles, trying to grasp his hands more firmly. “No one else must touch this,” Richard decided for himself. He took off his shirt to wrap the statuette in it and protect everyone else from its influence. As he was doing this, a long blade flashed behind him in the dark corridor.

…