Part 7, wherein a tragedy befalls the party - and our minds are opened

A Renewed Resolve

For too long, I have been asleep to the world. Following my father's tragic descent into a catatonic state, and the vile circumstances that brought it about, I must confess I fell into a familiar, dark despair—seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle. 

But no longer. Now that we are closing in upon the men responsible, I find myself invigorated with new resolve. My father shall be avenged. Those responsible will be exposed and punished, and this evil rooted out from the streets of London.

The tunnels and the cavern

Taking the masks and cloaks from the two fallen cultists, we pressed on swiftly and quietly. There was little time to waste; our previous gunfire might well have alerted accomplices further ahead. The tunnel walls were littered with strange, occult symbols. They were everywhere. Recognizing none of them, we remained oblivious to their meaning. Were they a warning? Were we marching toward our own deaths?

Soon, we entered a vast, seemingly natural cavern. Dim light emanated from a looming wooden scaffolding, erected in a half-circle around an ominous black pit. We instantly spotted a figure within the structure, scurrying away into the shadows. Before the scaffolding sat a table strewn with documents, flanked by several large crates. 

Nash and I immediately fell back on our military training. Without need for words, moving in unspoken synchronization, we slipped into the cavern—Nash infiltrating the scaffolding itself whilst I flanked the perimeter.

Nash reached the pit and the table first. The hole was some ten feet across and perfectly star-shaped—a peculiar detail, though hardly our primary concern at the moment. A massive crane and block-and-tackle were suspended above it. To the side sat heavy, sophisticated mining equipment equipped with a large drill. Upon the table lay maps of England drafted by Holcomb Industries. The nearby crates, too, bore the Holcomb seal.

Words were engraved upon a heavy metal lockbox: "Stabilize immediately upon contact."

Among the documents was a "resonance map" bearing five marked locations. Nash drew my attention to a handwritten footnote: "Why is it silent?". Whatever they were searching for, it appeared they had not yet found it. 

I crept around the rear of the scaffolding. Nothing stirred. Then, Major Whitcombe caught up with me, huffing and grunting like a steam locomotive. So much for stealth!

We proceeded to investigate a tunnel extending behind the scaffolding. Upon entering, we heard an eerie, rhythmic chanting. Uncertain of our reception, we retreated to rejoin our companions in the main cavern. The clumsy Major, however, tripped and made a dreadful racket. He has no business sneaking about; making noise in all circumstances is rather more his forte! 

Reggie, meanwhile, had discovered the foreman’s logbook. The final entries hinted at a nervous anticipation: "This is the place..." and "Unease among the workers."

When we reunited, the bizarre, star-shaped pit left the Major astonished and utterly speechless; as an architect, he declared it an "impossible" design. 

Descent into Madness

We attempted to stage an ambush, making noise to draw our hidden adversaries out from the tunnel. Receiving no response, we were forced to press the attack. Donning the captured cloaks and masks, Nash and I hoped to take them by surprise, advancing some ten to fifteen yards ahead of the others.

Good God in Heaven! 

The tunnel curved downward into a smaller chamber where a hooded man awaited us, accompanied by a foul, hideous beast of the darkest nightmare. It moved like a serpent, its multiple mouths screeching. The sight was unimaginable, shaking the very foundations of the mind. 

The man spoke to us, but instantly realized we were not their brethren, despite our limited attempt at deception. Battle ensued. They attacked, but our military reflexes served us well. I fired three volleys; two rounds found their mark in the creature's flesh. They struck true, but caused no apparent distress. Nash executed a brilliant shot to the hooded man's head, dropping him instantly, before landing two more rounds in the beast. It is hard to tell for sure, but it seemed to have an effect. 

The creature lunged. By the grace of God, it missed me by a hair's breadth. Nash was less fortunate; the beast lashed out with vile, pseudopod-like tentacles, though miraculously, they only grazed him.

We surrounded the abomination, emptying our weapons into it. It seemed we inflicted minimal damage, yet it bled—and if a thing bleeds, it can be killed! 

Thus far, we had escaped serious injury. But as it struck again, it latched onto me. Lord above, the agony! It attempted to reel me toward those shrieking mouths. I felt like a hooked fish wriggling at the end of a line, the barbs sunk deep. I was entirely unable to free myself. 

Meanwhile, Nash was knocked to the ground, and poor Thomas Beckett was terribly gored and trampled beneath the monster's bulk. He lay unconscious, looking grievously wounded. We fought on. The beast was a fickle target, its hide extraordinarily thick.

The Price of Victory

Nash managed to reload and land several solid hits. Finally, the abomination succumbed. I was instantly released. Scrambling toward Nash, I inspected his injuries and felt confident he would recover. Beckett, however, was dead! Our loyal foreman's body had been thoroughly crushed beneath the monster's weight, his bones hideously deformed. 

We unmasked the dead cultist—an unremarkable fellow in his forties, a stranger to us all. As we searched his effects, the dead creature began to vibrate, ultimately dissolving into a pool of black slime and smoke until no trace remained. We recognized that foul, black tar at once; it was the same substance we had seen during Dr. Leslie's wretched experiments. It appeared the cultist had been feeding from the beast, his mouth stained with remnants of the black goo!

The cavern walls were lined with symbols, which we copied as best we could. The Major uncovered a ceremonial dagger and a satchel containing a journal upon the cultist's corpse.

Nash was furious—whether from blood loss, the trauma of the moment, or the bitter loss of Beckett. He took my sword and severed the dead cultist’s head, dragging the remains and tossing them into the star-shaped pit. To what end, I do not know, but I refrained from arguing. I had seen that look in Nash's eyes before in Egypt. The battle frenzy. It is best left alone.

A Grim Necessity

We carried poor Beckett’s body home. As we walked, we each felt a dull resonance in our chests. Was it mere fear, or was it connected to the "resonance" mentioned in the Holcomb papers? 

Returning to the workshop, we faced a grim necessity. We staged an accident with Beckett's remains among the heavy machinery. A family requires closure; a disappearance or the truth of a monster's mauling would provide none. Tragic though it is, an industrial accident is the kindest lie we could offer.

Exhausted, we finally slept—but our rest was plagued by dreams. We all dreamt of whispers, of a deep humming far beneath the earth. We sensed it waiting, unseen. A silent understanding washed over us: What is buried shall be known. What is sleeping shall wake.

It was profoundly disturbing. A dreadful question lingers in my mind: are we tainted by this exposure? Are our fates now bound to these foul, occult horrors?

Nash’s wounds proved more serious than initially thought, requiring proper medical attention. Over the following days, we managed the "discovery" of Beckett's body and arranged his funeral. It was a time of immense sorrow. We consoled his family and gave the workshop men a few days' leave. 

A Path Forward

As wounds healed, we reviewed the captured documents to determine our next move. We examined the resonance pattern maps alongside the recovered journal of Edwin Markham (Order of Morpheus, dated Jan 11, 1881—two years prior). It described promising excavation sites in Wales. 

The notes were cryptic: "It all fits but it is silent... This is the place."

Yet they felt something was amiss: "Unease... No vibration... Either we are wrong or it has been taken."

Over food and wine, the days blurred together as we debated our findings. We have set our sights on the prominent players: Colonel Clay McLeland and Roland Haborian. The Pacific Club, founded by Theodore Holcomb, is clearly an occult hub demanding further investigation. 

Meanwhile, the Major had been studying a peculiar book. Finding little practical insight within its pages, he returned to the Soho shop where he purchased it, only to find the establishment entirely vanished. As if it had never been there. Most puzzling, and surely connected to our discoveries. [Merknad Lars: jeg delte aldri denne informasjonen med gruppa]. 

With my father incapacitated and Beckett gone, I have begun arrangements to sell the business. I can no longer maintain it, and I find myself entirely consumed by this mystery. Bringing these conspirators to justice is the only worthy use of my time, and the sale will provide the funds we require to wage this war. 

We have thrown ourselves into researching every clue. Morpheus, we noted, is the Greek god of sleep and dreams. The ceremonial dagger the Major recovered—which he guards with an eerie, obsessive possessiveness—appears to be of ancient Celtic origin. Holcomb Survey and Geology is directed by Theodore Holcomb himself, with its main office right here in London. 

Should we venture to Wales? Nash reached out to his father for information and found himself instantly set up to be betrothed to some young woman. Marriage seems imminent. Poor lad - though I would not put it beyond him to sabotage the betrothal in some way. 

Our next move will surely be scrutinized if we do not take the utmost care. "We must feast" takes on a terrifying new meaning. Why do they do this? What are they looking for? Are they compelled, and by whom?