The Chronaculum

It is hard for me to express the insurmountable torrent of fear I felt as I awoke in the arid heat that fateful summer morning. The light breeze that grazed atop the emerald sea of grass offered little comfort as the sun observed my plight from incomprehensible cosmic heights. What those ancient astral bodies must have beheld on that warm, unforgiving morning must have given way to something close to what humanity regards as pity as I forced my heavily bruised and scarred body off the mud-ridden floor, collapsing once again as my weak legs gave way as I attempted to regain some degree of composure. After several minutes of slow yet steady progress, I was able to reach a stable standing position, from which I allowed my eyes a brief moment to recover from the harsh light that had assaulted them when I had first awoken.

As I waited for the blurred palette of colours that lay strewn across my heavily blurred vision to gain a comprehensible shape, I pondered my predicament, allowing a host of questions to flood my train of thought in the hope of glaring some answer as to how I came to awake in such a broken and dilapidated state. This, however, proved fruitless as I quickly diagnosed that I was the victim of some form of trauma-induced amnesia that left me with only the most basic of information to piece together this most intense of conundrums. After some degree of mental debate, I decided that any form of mental calculation or investigation would have to wait until the most present and real danger had been reduced to a more agreeable level and by this point, my vision had cleared enough to see my surroundings clearly.

In front of me stretched an oceanic expanse of green fields as far as the horizon, the grass shifting in the morning winds like a torrent of viridescent fire burning hot against the icy azurite cosmos that stood as our barrier against the infinite we seek so eagerly to explore. At my back stood a structure of some considerable contrast to the pearlescent natural canvas that encompassed it. It was a towering monolith of a height approximately 1000 ft in total. Large glass windows coated the exterior allowing inhabitants to look out over the acres of farmland that surrounded them. I looked on in awe as before my eyes the tower stretched high into the heavens as if to pierce the veil between our world and that of those we cannot even begin to perceive. As I stood there admiring the gargantuan obelisk of steel and glass, I could not help but compare myself to its majesty. How had I come to rest, beaten and scarred, at the foot of this structure? Maybe answers to my predicament lay within its uniform halls and peculiarly absent inhabitants. Without a moment to question the possible implications of approaching such an alien locale, my body lurched forward stumbling towards the structure as if being controlled by aetherial strings fuelled by emotions of pain, hope, and desperation.

My legs creaked and groaned as I lumbered towards the building’s main entrance, a large set of glass doors emblazoned with the company’s logo; a hand reaching to the heavens as if to grab the 3 large tomes that lay just out of reach of its grasp. Along the base of the image lay one word, painted in pristine gold paint; Principium, the Latin word for a beginning or an origin. I raised a feeble hand towards the glass panel and pushed with what little might I could gather almost collapsing through onto the polished marble flooring that made up the main reception area. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust from the harsh light of the unrelenting sun to the now almost clinical lighting that shone down upon me. As I observed the room before me, I realized that, like the exterior, the interior was just as precise and clean. The marble floor shone so brightly, I could almost see my scarred and bruised face staring back at me, half-dead from exhaustion. Dotted around the room lay black leather chairs and coffee tables, a trademark of lobbies you’d see in many high-profile New York office blocks. The carbon walls that surrounded me were adorned with a plethora of portraits in every style imaginable; Egyptian, Medieval, Renaissance, extending as far as modern and contemporary styles that lay beyond my knowledge of artistic works, each captured in solid gold frames.

Upon closer inspection, however, I began to realize that the various artworks seemed to have several things in common. For starters, they all featured iconic historical figures ranging from Kings and Queens and Emperors to Presidents and Prime Ministers, and secondly, they all featured a unique form of deficiency in the brush strokes surrounding the subject of the portrait. Sudden shifts of the shade of colour and stroke direction almost gave the impression that the character was nothing more than a puppet on barely visible strings tugging at their every move. Or maybe it was just me, art is a highly subjective medium after all. However, there was something about it that made me think that maybe the artists had seen something beyond, peering through the veil that this very tower sought to be the bridge across. The thought, whilst seemingly illogical on paper, proved too much for my wounded mind and before long I found my world spinning. Earth became sky and the parts in between fell into a cacophony of white, black, and red as blood oozed down my forehead and into my eyes as I fell with an almighty thud. The world grew dimmer as I faded from consciousness, the sound of faded yet rushed footsteps approaching as the scene drew to a close, and thus did my eyes.

Running. My breath escaped me. Blaring lights of red exchange blows with the vile darkness as I crawl down the seemingly infinite corridor. The pain in my side grows stronger and my head grows weak but I must press on lest I join the horrors of the night.

While the time between my collapse and my now reawakening eluded me, one thing was certain, the environment I now found myself in was far more hospitable and welcoming than the grassy wilds I had awoken in previously. In place of a bed of grass, mud and my own bodily fluids now lay a chaise lounge. In lieu of torn, blood-soaked clothes lay bandages and a silken blanket woven from the finest materials imaginable. To my left on a small coffee table, lay a freshly brewed pot of herbal tea and an ivory mug, ready to receive the warm beverage that sat beside it filling the room with an almost hypnotic aroma. The harsh clinical light had been replaced with a dim orange glow cast by a nearby fireplace that popped and cracked pleasantly as it devoured its evening meal of wood and coal with a ferocity unparalleled by any form of human achievement. I lay there for a moment, savouring the brief reprieve from an otherwise chaotic situation, breathing deep to allow the scented waters of the nearby pot to fill my lungs and caress my throat before rising to view the room fully from a seated position. As I ascended from my sleeping position it became apparent that whilst the room around me was a vast improvement, my condition had not followed suit. The bandages kept the crimson torrent at bay but the searing pain from my various wounds caused me to almost vomit all over the crystalline table ahead of me. My head pounded like a ceremonial drum, beckoning forth demons from my nervous system to torment me for my sins. Among the din of pounding veins and firing nerves lay a voice, piercing through the pain, reaching deep into the recesses of my mind to draw me back from the underworld to face whatever stood before me.

My eyes had yet to focus and the figure before me was still a mesh of black and white clothing standing over me with overbearing authority as if to guide me to my new home amongst the dead. While my mind drew up images of infinite rivers and chasms of impossible geometry that lay in the realms beyond our living world, I was, thankfully, still corporeal. Evidenced as much by the hand that firmly grasped my shoulder to steady me as I began to lose consciousness once again. The figure had stepped forward now and my vision had somewhat returned, shape and colour gained depth and definition, a face appeared from the blurred palette wearing an expression of concern and care within the cage of a pair of youthful hazel eyes. The figure spoke, its voice once again cascading into my head and before long, I could just about make out what the figure before me was saying.

“Can you hear me?” spoke the figure. My lips parted and my throat urged to pour forth acknowledgment to my saviour, yet the nausea of my concussion caused my words to devolve into a series of unintelligible groans. This, however, proved enough of a response to elicit a sigh of relief from the stranger, whose tense expression loosened into a look of restrained happiness as he got up and rushed over to a large desk situated at the far end of the room.

Now that I was properly seated upright, I could properly examine the room I was situated in. It was a large rectangular office, the floor the same polished marble as the reception area where my legs had given way and my head had torn me away into some untempered schism for an amount of time that still eluded me. What was obvious, however, is that it was not dark outside when I first arrived, contrasting to the pitch-black nocturnal view that lay beyond the layers of tempered glass that surrounded me on every side. To my left, lay the fireplace, still ferociously attempting to sate its endless hunger emitting a warm and inviting glow as it gnawed and clawed and seared its way through countless trees worth of logs and charcoal. To my right, the room stretched for a further metre where a large desk carved from the finest mahogany money can buy and polished to a tee. Behind this, sat the far wall of the office, the same style as the ones seen previously in the lobby, complete with a menagerie of unorthodox artworks similar to the paintings I had examined in the hallway just moments before passing out. It was obvious that no expense had been spared on this office. Between the ivory utensils that lay on the table before me, to the polished marble floors and gold-trimmed furniture, I could tell that my rescuer was not one to worry about the perils of personal finance.

After assessing the room, I turned my attention over to the commotion coming from the desk to which my saviour had hastily journeyed upon discovering my awakening. The sound of rustling paper and drawers sliding open was accompanied by growing sounds of discomfort and anger as the figure rummaged through his belongings for some unknown manner of equipment. A moment of hurried exploration passed as more and more papers were tossed and drawers uprooted from their homes until finally, the figure gave out a deep cry of relief and success as he stood up and walked with a brisk pace back to my seat. Again, he spoke, his voice a lighthouse on dark shores guiding me back to reality

“Now, stay still, I need to take a look at you, do you understand?” I nodded, still unable to formulate words inside my head. Without another word, the gentleman raised his hand, revealing a small penlight with which he inspected my eyes for any form of damage or lack of function. I recoiled in discomfort as the light pierced my retina and seared itself upon the back of my eyeball. The man nodded optimistically before moving to unwrap the dressings that covered my various wounds. The pain was nauseating as the cold air flooded into the gaping wounds, violently caressing the exposed nerves of my abdomen and back muscles. I felt myself fading again, the cold dark creeping into my mind in some attempt to retreat away from some perceived notion of danger that lurked just outside of my understanding. In that instant, a warm and welcoming hand grasped my shoulder and shook me awake.

“Hey! Stay with me here” shouted the man, his young voice filled with a sense of grit and determination mirrored by his intense gaze as he inspected the gashes with surgical precision. What felt like an hour passed in the space of a minute as the pain distorted my sense of reality as each wound was carefully examined and washed in order to sterilize any infection that had infiltrated them until finally, the last bandage was replaced and the man stepped back. I took a moment to let the last of the burning to subside before I inspected my assistant fully for the first time. He was a young man of approximately 25 years and medium build, his clean-shaven face and gelled hair suggested that his personality and personal presentation was as pristine and well kept as the office in which I currently found myself interred. His once pristine suit now possessed patches of claret where excess blood from my more serious wounds had ejected themselves violently during the previous examinations. His sleeves sat rolled high up a pair of thick well-muscled arms that ended in a pair of hands that lay coated in a layer of bodily fluids beneath which I could just about make out a large wristwatch and a small gold ring bearing the same sigil I had seen on the entranceway doors some time ago. We paused for a moment, catching our breath before he finally spoke. He remarked on how I was lucky to be alive and introduced himself as one Christopher Morton, Director of Operations for the Principium Collective’s activities in the South East of England. As it turns out, Principium was far more influential than you may first believe, providing funding for everything from community events to being one of the leading pioneers in the fields of environmental and scientific research which was the main purpose for the prestigious “Icarus Tower”, also known as “Icarus 01” that we currently sat at the top of like an eagle on the shoulder of a titan. His voice was elegant, his personality as youthful as his appearance yet I found myself feeling some degree of discomfort around him, despite his actions resulting in the saving of my life.

We conversed for some time, discussing the various events of the day and how I came to end up bandaged and medicated on his penthouse office chaise lounge. He stood there patiently, taking heed of every word I said, trying to piece together some plausible idea as to how my state had deteriorated so much. He told me that his receptionist had found me moments after collapsing and, with the help of his PA, had carried me to the elevator and up to his office on the 85th floor where I now lay and treated my wounds with levels of skill that would make even the most prestigious of medical professionals bow their head in respect. I inquired as to how long I had been unconscious for and if he had contacted the local paramedics for assistance, remarking about the fact that daylight had faded and the darkness of night had crept into to consume the sky. Christopher’s face turned to one of concern once again as he explains that, due to the tower’s nature as a confidential research facility, Icarus Tower ran on its own self-sufficient network with no connections to the outside world. “Part of our plan to reduce wave emission,” he explained.

My heart filled with dread and worry. What if I had a family waiting for me? Were they looking for me? Was anyone looking for me? The questions I had stored in my mind earlier that day began to cascade into my mind like a torrent of electrical fire as my neurons fired frantically, calculating a wall of answers to hold back the tide of anxiety that washed over my psyche. I shut my eyes for a brief moment, took a deep breath, and allowed myself a moment of peace. Christopher had sat next to me now, holding a cup of herbal tea with which he gestured me to drink, explaining that it would help to restore my strength and soothe my mind. I nodded in approval and hesitantly took the cup and permitted myself to embrace the various sensory information from the herbal elixir I now held. A strong minty smell drifted into my nose, caressing my airways and loosening the tight muscles that had held my throat captive since I had awoken. The heat from the ivory cup gently caused my hands to warm, sending pleasurable signals through my nervous system which had slowly begun to recover from the various lacerations across my abdomen. Finally, after allowing my senses a moment to embrace the pleasant assault that had washed over them, I lifted the cup to my broken lips and poured a small amount of the warm liquid into my mouth. It was divine. Like nothing I had ever dreamed to have tasted. Hints of mint and chamomile wrestled with other more alien ingredients to create a seemingly otherworldly concoction that filled my physical and mental presence with a sense of pure comfort and relaxation.

I exhaled in polite approval as a form of confirmation to Christopher that I was enjoying the beverage that he had gifted to me as a sign of care. He smiled and rose from the seat beside me and walked over to his desk to clear up some of the papers he had carelessly discarded in his search for his penlight. He explained that he was planning to retire for the night shortly and recommended that I do the same for there was much to do the following morning in preparation for my departure. I agreed to his request and proceeded to hastily work my way through the cup of tea before relaxing once again upon my makeshift bed in order to get a good night’s rest. The fire popped gently, content with the last dregs of its everlasting meal, its flames dimming into but a simple glow and with time, just like my mind, they slipped away into the aether and into the darkness, we slept.

My energy is spent now, yet still, I press on. Flights of stairs stretch high above me like a bridge between the realms of humanity and those beyond. I hear them below me, the shuffling horrors, forged in the will of a slumbering nothing. I must not falter. Lest my mind falls into ruin and my flesh join the legions of the damned.

With a pounding heart and a lack of breath, I rise bolt upright from my makeshift bed in a fit of panic as the horrific visions of the night wrench me from my slumber back to the all too real and painful reality where my scarred and bruised flesh awaited my soul’s return from the Miasma of dreams and nightmares. I quickly assess my surroundings for any sign of danger, eyes darting from one corner of the room to the other as the morning sun bathed the room in a brilliant orange glow. My heart began to slow, confident that any danger was simply fiction and a product of my own damaged mind. Yet, I couldn’t help but feel concern over the things I had seen in my slumber. Why had my brain conjured such vile scenes? Why did it feel so vivid? Why was it all so...familiar? I pushed these questions to the deep uncharted areas of my mind, eager to banish them from thought, believing them to simply be the product of the nightmare that had poisoned my mind as I had slept.

With my fear suppressed, I once again surveyed the room, the amber glow from the morning sun casting elongated dark shadows across the room like silent beings torn across a surreal plane of existence. My eyes quickly fell on the coffee table beside me, the small expensive tea set had been replaced with a small pile of freshly cleaned clothes topped with a set of personal effects, presumably my own that had been recovered from the foul smelling and torn office attire I was previously wearing. The items were fairly standard; a clean shirt, a pair of black trousers, a pair of warm socks and some rather expensive looking, and freshly polished, shoes. Whilst the gesture of providing me with fresh clothes and shelter for the night was quite humbling, it was not the main focus of my attention which was instead focused on two items in particular; A large black leather wallet and a journalism pass. Inside the wallet was everything you’d expect from something of the sort; a couple of £5 notes, loyalty cards, and a driver’s license. “Hargrove, Simon Alex” read the top two lines of the license, a monochromatic picture of a young man with medium length hair sat beside the identifying information, staring at me with eyes longing to remember. Finally, after a night of questions, answers had found me. My name was Simon Hargrove, a 24-year-old journalist for the South East Chronicle and apparently, judging by my earlier predicament, someone with a target on his back. My brain pulsed as memories squirmed back into place, once blurry mental imagery gained focus. I pushed my questions to one side, justifying to myself that there must be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this madness.

My nails are spent. I can go no further. My life essence has drained. Left spread across the harsh cold marble flooring of that damned tower’s foyer. Am I safe? Please let me be safe. Please, emerald sea, swallow me whole, let me die a man, and protect me from a fate as a monster.

The image was vile. It had slipped into my mind as I had buttoned my shirt. What were these disturbing visions? How could my mind conjure something like this up with no substance? No matter, I thought, it was most likely a side effect of the disorientation I could still mildly feel. I was amazed at how much my condition had improved overnight, the herbal elixir I had consumed had worked wonders on my wounds caressing them to a state of numbness. I must find the recipe for this delightful drink, perhaps when I find my way home, I could make some more to fully heal myself after this peculiar ordeal. My new attire fit perfectly, the shirt clinging lightly to my chest as any well-fitting shirt should, protecting unsuspecting eyes from gazing upon my garish cuts and scars. I looked down, running my hands softly over the cotton cuirass in an attempt to brush out any unsavoury creases, but as I did, my eyes fell on the last of my personal items; A small cracked, slightly blood-stained notebook with a ballpoint pen slid into the cover. Presumably, this was where I was taking notes on whatever story I happened to be researching at the time which, logically, must have been something regarding the Principium Collective and its ongoing presence in the South East area. My hand shakily reached forward, my body showing restraint as to not disrupt my fragile state any more than it already had been. I had already woken up half-dead in the middle of a field with no memory of my arrival or injuries and I did not wish to end up in a similar state again due to my growing hunger for answers.

I sat back down and carefully removed the pen from the cover which, sure enough, wore the silver letters of the South East Chronicle, S.E.C, in italic font on its stem along with the phrase “Right Here in Black and White”. I placed it carefully in my shirt pocket and finally turned my attention over to the notepad, my hand pulling open the cover, the creaking and cracking of the book’s spine amplified by the room’s eerie silence. The first few pages were fairly standard, basic notes on Principium; establishment date, founders, basic history et cetera. The second set of pages that caught my attention contained a list of local towns listed as “black sites” followed by a number ranging anywhere from 1 to 55. The page was littered with poorly written notes which I can only assume was me hurriedly writing as I walked. Words like “Quarantine” and “Dead Zone” lay linked to various town names. Could this be what Principium was researching? The questions I had finally found answers to found themselves replaced with furthermore puzzling questions like some kind of sick twisted rabbit hole leading me towards a moldy rotten carrot. My stomach turned in anxiety as I continued to turn the pages, the notes becoming more and more frantic with phrases like “Call Nick” and “This was a bad idea” posted on pages. Then, I came to the last filled page. I dreaded what I was about to see as this would be my biggest clue as to how I came to be here and why I was here. I turned the page slowly, but it wasn’t the writing that first caught my eye...It was the blood.

I pulled my car into the parking space nearest the entrance, checking my watch to make sure I was not arriving late; 1:05 pm. 5 minutes late. The afternoon traffic had been chaotic. A perfectly normal pain in the arse is what most people would pass this off as...but I couldn’t help but feel that life was trying to warn me of something. A dark portion of my soul hissed quietly as my thoughts began to wander. Should I turn back and just give up? Was this even worth it? My mind toyed with the idea of throwing in the towel. My hand moved shakily towards the key, tempted to just ignite the spark of my car and high tail it out of there. But then I thought about the bodies, the boils, the blood, the tears of the families, I must press on for them. My attention turned to the radio, static bubbling away from its speakers anchoring me to the here and now. With a sudden urge of ambition, I moved my hand away from the ignition, switched off the radio, stepped out of the car, notebook in hand.

The memory had come out of nowhere, piercing my conscience like a bolt from a crossbow, filling my head with heat as adrenaline entered my system causing my heart to pound furiously. The pieces had started to fall together now, a comprehensive timeline began to form yet still remained incomplete. My eyes fell back on the bloodstained pages, drifting away from the crimson splotches and towards the hastily scribbled words that adorned the page and were doing very little to quell my sense of anxiety. In large block letters on the first page was written:

M O R G A N

M O R Y A T

H I M M E L S F E U E R

And on the second page:

D O

N O T

T R U S T

H I M

My eyes were now fixed to the page, being held open by demonic bolts cast deep into my skull forcing me to look at the hellish pages. Do not trust who? Morgan? Moryat? Who or what is Himmelsfeuer? At that moment I felt like I had opened Pandora’s Box as chaotic and misguided thoughts clouded my mind as I tried to make sense of my maddened scrawls. My wounds ached, my head pounded and my heart raced until finally, a voice came from across the room delightfully remarking that I was indeed awake and dressed. I quickly slammed the notebook shut and raised my head to view the new arrival. It was Chris, holding another cup of the herbal tea he had provided to me last night. He smiled and explained that he had organized for one of his staff to drive me to the nearby town where I would be able to catch a train back to London safely. I thanked him for his care and offered to return the leased attire to him once I had recovered fully to which he replied there was no need. Apparently, he keeps a surplus of clothes available in case his staff suffers any damage to their own to keep them from having to leave the office due to silly reasons. I took the cup from his hands and sipped gently, allowing the liquid passage into my system once again to soothe my ailing body, mind, and soul. With a sharp nod, Chris walked over to his desk and took a seat, explaining that he would show me downstairs once I was ready to go before clicking his pen and scribbling on some papers.

I sat there, eyes forward staring out of the glass window on the other side of the room watching the wind brush lightly across the ocean of emerald grass that lay on the fields several hundred feet below, periodically taking a small sip from my ivory cup as I try to formulate everything that leads me to this exact moment. I had come here to see Chris and at some point, I had written the notes on the pages warning me of someone not to be trusted as well as a list of names; Morgan, Moryat, Himmelsfeuer. Something was going on here, something that Principium did not want the public and, most importantly, its investors knowing about. Whatever those nightmarish visions I had seen in my sleep had meant was slowly becoming less of a work of demented fiction conjured up by an injured mind and more like a vision from a path once walked, its journey labeled in the blood-stained footprints that led to an unknown location somewhere within Icarus 01 and I was not about to leave until I found where these steps took me. I drained the last dregs of liquid from my cup and gestured to Chris that I was ready to be taken back to the foyer. He smiled and guided me to his private elevator, punching in his code as he explained that as Director of Operations, he had been blessed with the best seat in the house complete with its own secure access that only he and his closest staff had access to.

My body shuddered slightly as we stepped into the elevator. It was as if the calm and approachable atmosphere that this man had given off when he had first taken me into care here had been removed and replaced with an aura of discomfort and fear like a veil had been lifted in this ceremony of unholy matrimony between the known and the unknown. He observed his watch, explaining that my driver would be arriving in approximately 25 minutes and that Chris would be leaving me in the Foyer as he had much to oversee over the next few hours. While my face outwardly displayed a mask of disappointment and thanks, my mind was nothing short of relieved that I was almost free of this man’s distinctly antagonistic aura that crept into my mind like a foul rotten stench. The soft ping of the elevator hitting the ground floor sounded almost like a victory bell as I slowly stepped from the elevator. Chris smiled and gave his best wishes for a full recovery and raised his hand for me to shake. I had to maintain an air of politeness, so with reluctance, I took his hand. His skin was cold and smooth, his grip tight and threatening as if he was trying to wrench my soul from its vessel for him to consume. Our eyes met once more as a sudden rush of life poured into my skull.

The voice came suddenly, appearing from a nearby elevator embedded into the wall. Its deep and powerful nature reverberating off the walls as the smartly dressed gentleman approached me inquiring if I was indeed Simon. I nodded, asserting to him that by extension that must make him Christopher. He chuckled and raised his hand for me to shake stating that I had certainly done my research and he would’ve expected nothing less from a journalist of the South East Chronicle. He gestured for me to follow him to his office as he was eager to get started with the interview. As the doors of the private elevator drew to a close, I couldn’t help but feel like I had just walked into a trap.

Chris’s expression turned to one of concern stating that it seemed as if I’d seen a ghost. What he was witnessing was, in fact, the sudden memory rush that had once again caused me some degree of anxiety. I assured him that I was fine to which he nodded before reaching over and selecting another floor from his menu. He bid me farewell as the doors shut and from then on, I was alone and silence surrounded me. The foyer was as empty as when I had first entered, it’s harsh clinical lighting still pressing harshly down upon me from a set of large spotlight-like ceiling lamps, reflecting off the impeccable marble floor which could only have recently been cleaned. Ahead of me lay the glass doors emblazoned with the company logo and beyond that, the car park where I had left my car when I had first arrived here. Most sane people would have bolted for the door and never looked back, but something inside me willed me to stay, to find the truth, to expose the sinister nature of Principium and lay this fetid beast of a mystery to rest. If my memory was to be trusted, there was supposed to be a concealed door somewhere in this room leading into the bowels of the building where I would find the answers to my injuries and what exactly was going on at Icarus 01. My eyes glided across the walls, assessing the structure like a lion hunting for a meal it had been starved of for days. There had to be something. Something I was missing. I brush my hands lightly over the walls, searching for grooves or any form of depression in the wall yet found nothing. Was I going insane? Was this all really just my paranoid mind conjuring up images from my own anxiety? I sighed and slumped down into one of the chairs in the lobby, my head placed firmly in my hands cradling my sanity in its weary embrace. And that is when I felt it. A breeze brushing against my foot.

It was cold, far too cold to have blown from the glass doors at the front of the building, especially in the arid summer heat that assaulted the land outside. It was harsh, racing air like that of an air vent or an A/C unit yet there was something off about this particular current. Air currents often carry the sound of their origin with them like whispers in the night or the industrial metal hum of a ventilation shaft but this sounded hollow, a low creaking sound providing an eerie bassline to the soft cacophony that flowed beneath me. My heart begged me not to look in fear that it would confirm the suspicions my mind had created but, as if pulled by hands unseen, my head turned and my eyes fell on a thin vertical crack, barely visible from distance. I stood up steadily and scouted the room to make sure I was truly alone and was not simply walking into a ridiculously obvious trap. Once sure, I returned to the wall, moving the small lounge chair out of the way to allow me full access to my findings. Sure enough, now clear as day, stood the thin outline of a door built into the wall. Its frame was so thin that if you didn’t know it was there, you would never have seen it. My mind reeled with the idea of what lay beyond this secret gateway that had appeared as if hidden in an adjacent plane of existence until it was required. This wasn’t a discovery, it was an invitation. I took a deep breath, placed my shaking hand against the wall...and pushed.

This was it. My moment. Finally sitting down with the Director of Operations with a chance to ask him what was really going on. He sat there, at his desk, patiently smiling as I prepared myself for the interview. He asked if I was nervous to which I nodded. His laugh, while somewhat mocking, couldn’t help but fill me with confidence. He assured me that there was nothing to be afraid of and he was willing to answer any question I threw at him, including about the quarantines he had ordered. I smiled softly as I placed my voice recorder on the desk and pressed “Record” to start the interview.

A wave of cold air rushed over me as the passageway erupted with sunlight from the foyer, sending shivers down my spine and a deep ethereal vibration began to rumble deep in my soul. My breath crystallized as I stood there gazing into the void that lay just out of the light’s grace. The room was large and deep, a thin metallic staircase hugging the wall like a thin serpent spiraling into the unknown depths of our world. Every fiber of my being urged me to turn back, to just meet the driver and go home. But I couldn’t. Not now. Not with the memories that I had recovered. I had to finish this. To complete the story. With a deep breath, I took one sharp step forward, the metal walkway creaking under the new weight that burdened it. One step became two, two became three and before long I had reached a steady and confident pace down the dark, dimly lit staircase. My footsteps reverberated above and below like a call and response between safety and danger, taunting me to go further and urging me to step back. The cold breeze continued to flow, battering me with freezing air like the last defense against the secrets that lay in this unwelcoming abyss. The clinical precision and cleanliness of the main complex had been forsaken and replaced with a harsh industrial concrete wall similar to that of a sewer. At that moment, I remembered the concept of Alchemy. “As Above, So Below” I muttered as I gazed over the edge in search of the bottom. To my surprise, I had reached the base of the stairs at quite a considerable pace considering how deep this place must reach. It must have been half as deep as it was tall, I thought to myself as my feet felt the metallic stairs give way to a flat concrete surface. What on earth could Principium need with such a large subterranean facility? I assured myself that my answers were not far and I began my investigation promptly.

Ahead of me was a long crimson lit passage with a few chambers on each side and culminating in a large metallic vault door at the far end. “Finally,” I thought “Answers”.

As they once had back when I first saw this colossal tower, my legs took on a life of their own, spurring me on, dragging me down the corridor towards the chambers, finally giving in to their hunger for answers. The first door I came to was signed as “Office” which seemed fairly nondescript for a facility such as this but nevertheless, I grabbed hold of the large metallic wheel and turned it. The metallic locks and tumblers clicked and clanged as they released their grasp on the door frame. A ray of warm light slipped from the cracks as I tugged softly on the wheel, contrasting that harsh industrial lighting of the hallway it connected to. The room did little to dissuade this sense of opposition, opting to instead exude a sense of safety. The room looked like some form of study you’d expect from a pre-war mansion. A small fireplace similar to the one upstairs in Chris’ office, crackled softly, chewing on a large pile of coals only recently added. A large leather armchair sits proudly behind a mahogany desk topped with a wide variety of items ranging from pens and papers to a small, familiar voice recorder. My voice recorder. I took a step forward, the slow creak of the fresh leather shoes I wore cutting through the deep silence like a blade through rotten skin. Perhaps it was just the anxiety in my heart, but as I stepped closer to that accursed item, a great weight ran over me, breathing became effort as if fate itself was trying to crush the life out of me before I could uncover the vile secrets lurking in that deep dark undercroft. It felt like an eternity before I plucked up the courage to pick up the recorder, its metallic surface cold as ice as I examined it with my hands, constantly changing the direction to better view it for any sign of tampering or damage. To my surprise, it had been left in perfect condition, the electronic screen beamed into life as I powered it up, looking for the latest recording. From the menu, I could see the newest file was labeled as “21-07-18 1:30 pm” or as my brain correctly assumed, my interview with Chris. My mind was a bittersweet concoction of fear and relief at the fact that I was about to find potential answers to my situation yet I couldn’t help but feel anxious about what lies in this recording. Pushing my fears to one side and taking a deep breath, I raised my thumb over the play button...and clicked.

I flicked through my notepad, listing my question off one by one, grilling Chris for answers regarding the quarantines and the seemingly silent invasion of his workforce into various towns around the South East. This was not just your ordinary interview, it was a war of minds. Every question; a blow. Every answer; a counter strike. His personality was agile, giving nothing away that I could potentially use against him in prose. He told me about the pandemic our country was facing and assured me that any concerns the general public may have about their involvement, they were simply here to give humanity the best chance of survival. He wasn’t wrong. The recent surge in disease had put everyone on edge, perhaps this was just my paranoia looking for a quick answer to our troubles. Something didn’t feel right. And then he asked if I wish to see his research. “Where is it?” I asked. His reply sent chills down my spine for reasons I could not yet grasp. “Sub-level 1. Kept secret from everyone to prevent political opponents from finding it in case this is a biological attack”.

The idea of a biological attack in the South East of England sounded as preposterous now as it had in that moment. Who would think to attack such a rural area with such a vile concoction as the one I had seen afflicting the victims. I turned back to my notebook and the hastily written words that I had seemingly etched in a state of insurmountable fear. While the recorder had provided me with some morsel of information for my amnesia fuelled appetite to feast upon, I could only wonder what manner of research I had been shown here and how it had connected to my wounds and previous physical state. I placed the recorder into my pocket and stepped gingerly back out into the hallway, making sure to leave the rest of the room and its contents as pristine as I had found them. There were two doors left in the hallway, one on the opposite wall to the room I had just entered and the large vault door at the end of the hallway. Desiring to leave the vault door until I could pluck up the courage to open such a looming and potentially dangerous door, I endeavored to explore the second chamber opposite the office. The door was much larger than that of the Office, seemingly much wider as if it was created with the intention of wheeling items similar to those you would find in a warehouse or even hospital beds. Unlike the previous door, my confidence and hunger had grown tenfold and as such, I spared no time in spinning the large wheel in the center in order to unseal the door and pulling it open with intent. This fire, however, drained in but an instant as my eyes were filled with the dark crimson light of the chamber, and the horrors that stood before me.

As a journalist, there are many things you learn to not be scared of. As you report on controversial topics, the bounty on your head grows yet you must stand firm if the truth is to ever be revealed to the masses. I have, on several occasions, had my life threatened, been held at gunpoint by privately hired hitmen sent by those who did not want their vile secrets to be revealed. None of these things, however, held a candle to the wretched beasts that I saw chained, mutilated and hooked before me. Tubes and wires of all sizes protruded from their thick oily skin, extracting vile substances unknown to me. Judging by their form, I have no doubt in my mind that these things were once human, exposed to some forsaken experiment dreamt up by a soul carved from hell’s worst machinations. To even attempt to fully describe them now would not only cause nausea to myself and to anyone who finds this, but even with the greatest literary minds of our time, we would still not have the vocabulary to do them justice. Long thin black claw-like nails protruded from elongated fingers, dangling to the side of a misshapen torso that I daren’t speak of. Whatever they were, they were no longer men of this world and hadn’t been for some time. Despite their gruesome malformities and afflictions, the creatures were still living, exerting deep guttural gurgles that must have represented a form of breathing. One lay chained by the neck to the wall, its elongated and flayed body, strewn across the tiled floor, coating it in a thick viscous mixture of blood, mucus, and perhaps even feces while another hung from a set of disgusting, vile meat hooks. The smell was enough to take even the strongest willed of men out of commission and at times, I couldn’t tell if this noxious odor would knock me out or kill me where I stood but still, I pressed on. The floor squelched beneath me as I carefully shifted my body weight from foot to foot, sneaking as quiet as I could across the crimson-basked chamber. My eyes scanned the room, looking for any piece of evidence I could acquire before making a calculated and timely escape. After a brief inspection, my eyes fell on a metal table with a set of surgical implements on it as well as a small dossier splattered with various visceral fluids. That was the smoking gun I needed, the thing that would solidify this whole venture as more than just the ravings of a madman and thrust Principium into the spotlight for these ungodly experiments. Without thinking, or assessing my position, I stepped forward towards the table. In an instant, my heart stopped dead as my foot pressed hard against a large, solid and sticky substance. Beads of sweat coated my brow as I contemplated what it was I had stepped on and how I was going to get out of it.

The unknown mass shifted slightly in response to my interruption of it’s slumber, low droning fluid sounds fused with turgid yet very human-like groans poured from it’s cavernous maw. The foul stench of living death flowed silently into the room, conjured from the bowels of the abomination. I could not bear to look directly at it in fear of losing what little sanity I had left. That single moment felt like an eternity, my heart as still as the putrid air around me and feet even more still. It is at moments such as these that humankind can truly understand the nature of the passage of time, for it is not in the sight of movement that our brain comprehends it, but in the silence that lingers between what we perceive. Those moments when the very fiber of reality is at its thinnest and time stops for those who see beyond for just a moment. We call this phenomenon; Anxiety. The mass shifted under the weight off my foot, the vile excretions of its skin fizzling as it squirmed softly. For the first time in my investigation, I was truly paralyzed. My breath heavy and shaky as I wracked my brain for a means of escape, all the while the creature shifted and bulged beneath me. “I must stay focused,” I thought to myself “There is not much time”. Feeling the weight of my mission on my shoulders, I took a deep breath, allowing the visceral spores to burn my throat, and stepped forward, releasing my foot from the creature’s tendrils and stepping to presumed safety. The creature howled horrifically, alerted to my sudden movement. Its voice was hideous, guttural otherworldly sounds mixed with the broken screams of a once innocent soul. I closed my eyes and wept as the screams continued, the reality of what these creatures once were biting into my very essence, for these were no howls of pain, they were howls of sorrow and helplessness. This creature was not in pain, it wanted to be saved. But once one steps from the path into the dark abyss of the unknown, the way once clear is lost in shadow.

I stood there in tears for what felt like an eternity, as the creature howled and cried for salvation that it would never truly obtain before finally settling back into its slumber. The silence that followed was painful. The pulsing of my anxious heart thundering through my ears as I gave my all to slow it. This day was not one that I wanted, nor wished to repeat again, yet in order to remove myself from this nightmare, I would have to press on. I breathed deep, the burning phasing me no longer, and looked down at the dossier. Unfortunately, the title of the project had been washed away by the fluids that had seeped into the cover, but I could just about make out the last 2 letters; ER.

I remember it. Those horrid sounds. It spoke not in tongues, nor words, but still, it filled the void of silence with otherworldly knowledge. Where is it? Why can’t I see it? What is this void that perverts my eyes with its paradox? What slumbers in the Empty Something?

My mind drifted, that horrid liturgy teething at the verges of my perception. Toying with my nerves like strings to a puppet. What was it? Where was it coming from? Questions, questions and more questions yet the void never gifted me an answer. What it did give me was the sound of a rifle being cocked. My eyes darted to the doorway, two silhouettes stood there, rifles ready aimed directly at me. I was done for. He’d found me. And sure enough, the next thing I heard was that same calm sly voice. “You hear it, don’t you?” Chris asked, calmly “Even in your memories, you still hear it. Like an earworm you heard on the radio”. His lips tightening into a sinister smile. The radio. The static. Could it be? My eyes widened as I remembered. What had he done to me? He chuckled softly, seeing the fear and realization in my eyes that this had all been just another game for him. He signaled his men to lower their weapons and gestured for me to follow him. My legs stayed planted, refusing to move an inch towards that monster, my mind spinning as I tried to plan an escape. “If you’re planning to try and get out, you’re out of luck” he smirked, “There’s only one way in and out of this facility and it’s the way you came in. You’re welcome to try and escape but I promise you, you have a better chance of leaving if you just come with me”. My eyes glanced at the creatures who had fallen back into their slumber. “Do you like them? They’re a mystery even to us. We didn’t make them, we can’t control them, but we can harvest them” Chris gestured towards the piping I had seen earlier, protruding from the creature’s chest “These creatures appear to be an amalgam of everything human. The soul of these creatures has been twisted and perverted and merged with the flesh through the power of the Liturgy. It’s how we can harvest the extraordinary powers of the human body to do anything. Enhance abilities, undo deformities and even heal wounds”. My mind flickered back to Chris’s office, to the strange elixir that had healed me back to full strength. I had consumed the twisted soul of a human in order to better myself. My stomach churned and I collapsed to my knees to avoid vomiting. “Easy there, Tiger,” Chris said mockingly “We don’t want you getting hurt again” His words perplexed me, what did he mean again? Could it be? My eyes moved over to the second set of hooks dangling from the ceiling. “It can’t be,” I whimpered.

Pain. Pain everywhere. My feet were numb, my body cold and weak. The Liturgy still clawing at my form, twisting it. My eyes flickered open, focusing on the dark red room surrounding me. I looked down at my feet, dangling limply above the ground. The searing pain from my shoulders was unbearable. I looked over to observe it. From each shoulder protruded a large metal meat hook, covered in blood. My blood. My eyes widened, my breathing accelerated, anxiety levels peaking as I realized where I was. I was meat. I was flesh. I was an experiment.

“You remember, don’t you?” Chris asked. “You remember what we did to you? How we strung you up and left you to die as penance for digging too deep”. I remembered. I remembered pulling myself from those hooks, I remember the creatures clawing at me, I remember dragging myself to safety only to be grabbed once more by the vile tendrils of this place. This was all part of the plan, an experiment.

“Come with me. There’s one last thing I want to show you before I let you go” Still I resisted, partly out of choice and partly out of exhaustion and depression. Chris sighed, knowing full well that I was not going to move for him.

“Very well” he grumbled before signaling for his guards to grab me and take me by force. The two men stepped towards me, pulling my arms behind my back and locking them in handcuffs. Through it all, I said nothing. What was the point? There was no escaping now, I was at the mercy of the Collective. Back into the corridor, we went where Chris stood waiting beside the large vault door I had left untouched.

“Since you’re insistent on learning our secrets, I may as well give you what you want,” He said, turning to the keypad and punching in the code. “For over 200 years, the Principium Collective has dedicated itself to the research of something new. Something incredible. Something…” Chris paused as the vault door whirred to life, thundering open to reveal a long, thin metal walkway extending over an ominous void. “Divine”.

As he spoke, a wave of sinister energy poured out of the doorway and down the chamber, bathing me in a vile and unpleasant sensation of dread. I had felt this way before when I had first experienced the Liturgy. That otherworldly anthem of dread and slumber filling my head with its unearthly whispers. My legs collapsed under the sudden weight of my limp body, my soul at the mercy of the Thing in the Void below.

“Just let me die,” I pleaded to Chris.

“Why would we do that? You’re our latest test run. If all goes well, Simon, by the end of today, you will be a God” Chris’s mouth curved into a maniacal smile that defied the laws of human muscle structure. The guards pulled me forward, forcing me out onto the catwalk to take the full force of the Liturgy that erupted from the chasm below. My eyes gazed downwards, trying to comprehend the size or form of the thing producing the sound yet there was none. It was without form, yet it existed. The sheer paradoxical nature of its being burning away any remaining concept of logic from my mind. That great void, deep beneath the surface of our country, that deep slumbering void where even Death itself would fall into the deepest pits of madness. Tears fell from my face as my sanity collapsed, there was nothing left. I could feel the Liturgy resonating with the twisted soul of the creature in my body. It was too late for me. I had heard the cries of an impossibly ancient paradox and reality itself was shifting to its sound. I looked over at Chris, his once manic look had gone, erased along with all other emotions. A blank slate, unfazed by the horrors that arose from the depths. With a quick nod, his guards dragged me from the room with him following shortly behind to seal the door. I hardly noticed the metal latches clicking into place, the claws had fully set to work pulling my soul apart.

“What have you done to me?” I groaned.

“I have given you the knowledge of the gods” Chris replied, his face still blank “And now, you will leave this place, and wait as your new life begins”. I had no energy to resist as the guards dragged me back to the surface and tossed me harshly into the back of a vehicle. Seconds, Minutes, Hours passed. I have no recollection of the passage of time until I regained partial control of my conscience just a moment ago. Everything written prior to these words was a subconscious act of rebellion against the maddening poison that is seeping into my veins and breaking apart my soul. In the next few hours, my physical form will be contorted and twisted till I am unrecognizable as a human, boils will cover my skin and I will be just another victim of the plague. A journalist who got too close. If you are reading this, however, you now know of the secrets that lie beneath Icarus Tower, maybe now I can sleep soundly knowing that the future will be different.

God have mercy on us all

Signed:

Simon Hargrove