《The overgrown mansion》 The overgrown mansion part I
Am¨¦lie Dulay 3rd may 2049
It has been years since I came here. The arrival via the overland roads was pleasant, all birdsong and fresh air. I had opened up the Cabrio and bought some groceries from a farm on the way, picnicking at noon halfway to my destination on a hill with vision of a beautiful valley full of fields and woods. Before dusk, I arrived, the crumpled up paper in my hand.
¡°Am¨¦. You are the only one I can ask for this now that most of my students left me. I willed you my property ¨C do with it as you wish, but go there and bring my effects in order. Most importantly, take my research and send it to a university you trust. I know that you have broad interests and of course I thought you as a child, so you should understand enough to make an informed decision. I know you think I am crazy, and my most sincere wish would be to simply leave it at that. Unfortunately, I have no such luxury. Please forgive me. - oncle Pi¨¨rre¡±
Of course, the place wasn¡¯t visible from the road. And of course, the weather had changed, giving the proper backdrop to my task and feelings.
I could have spared myself the arduous track to the house from the townward side of the property by finding the dirt road that entered it from amongst the hills with their dilapidated vineyards, which had fallen into disrepair during the recession of ¡¯24. Of course, the property''s own orchards had been neglected long before that. I knew the old dirt road was still maintained, since I had been the one paying for the maintenance, a not insignificant sum each year, in the vain hope to maintain my uncle¡¯s strenuous grip onto society and a semblance of normalcy. But In my wisdom, I decided to park amongst the villas and housed on the edge of the town, fumbling with the heavy keyring the notary had provided me with. The rusty cast iron monstrosity defied my attempts to open it until I came back with my car¡¯s toolbox and broke off the padlock. I had planned to break the lock, not the fixtures on which it was mounted. Oh well. The obstacle out of the way, I began my ascent to the top of what uncle had named lookout hill. The mansion was visible from there, as was the path needed to reach it through the wooded land. The ancient, weathered stone steps, placed here during the time of the empire were uneven and overgrown, and while climbing, I got the same eerie feeling I vaguely recalled from being a child. Back then I had not been able to tell why the old mansion and the surrounding lands gave me the willies and at the same time held me spellbound. Now, after reading a lot, I can at least partly articulate it: The property seems indifferent if not outright hostile to human habitation. Despite the rainy climate, withered, fruitless blackberry bushes and old gnarled trees, cover half the serpentine path; the erstwhile apple orchard turned into a strange, Lovecraftian vista, the trees, and soil affected with an unknown fungal blight. This, I reckon, is also responsible for the taste of the infested apples I picked. I cannot adequately describe it. It is bitter and putrid, but strangely refreshing and welcome at the same time. Alien and removed from ordinary experience as all here is. Devoid of even birds or small mammals, only bugs and insects thrive here, primarily spiders that were too big for my taste and dark brown moths with white antennae, giving off an acrid smell. Neither as a child nor now was I ever able to determine the origin of the buzzing sound, or the nature of the miasmic, dense air.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. The only thing I can tell is that like a good horror story; the place never let go of me, had sunk its talons deep into my very essence, and haunted both my dreams and waking reveries. I instinctively, with a primal notion, hated the place and yet never could shake the thought and longing to see the things my juvenile mind told me stalked this land when man slept, those things that made the woods creak and the bitter winds blow.
Since I was a child, I dreamt of this place and the stories and secrets uncle Pi¨¨rre would tell me. It was only when I became adolescent that I realized that the brilliant man was losing it. That was when I distanced myself and sought to coax my uncle out into the world instead. Prior to receiving his last will, I hadn¡¯t spoken to him in years. I walked down the overgrown path, struggling with the thorny blackberry vines and dirty gossamer spider webs. The moths continuously divebombed my face, and the unpleasant buzzing made my skin crawl and my hairs stand on end. The ape in me felt a hostile presence keeping their eyes on me, and bawled to turn and leave, while the human tried to laugh it off.
When I arrived at the house, I was covered in small cuts and filth, and it had started to rain. The old pickup stood in front of it, between the main villa and the guesthouse, and reminded me that I could have spared myself the uncomfortable and frankly unsettling track. I again fumbled with the keys, only to have the door open in my face and to be confronted by a haggard old, gaunt man wielding a crucifix and a sawed-off shotgun, seemingly haunted, by what demons I do not know, and unsure which of the objects would protect him from this sudden intruder. That was my first encounter with Olaf Helstrom; mathematician turned my uncles¡¯ student - acolyte? And groundkeeper. The overgrown mansion part II
Am¨¦lie Dulay 4th may 2049
I slept horribly today. In my dream I was somebody else, running from the mansion, my uncle, a younger Helstrom and several other men and women after me. Buckshot whistling overhead, me falling towards the blackberry bushes, then nothing. After the kind of transition that is only possible in dreams, I, myself again, sat on my uncle¡¯s lap long before our fight about his lost tenure. He told me stories of far-off worlds and the secrets of the universe, read me Clarke, Asimov and Dennis E. Taylor. I remember laughing at the story of Bob the spaceship. I wanted to be like him, meet alien civilizations, but the thought of immortality scared me. My uncle grinned and stroke my hair. ¡°We aren¡¯t immortal. Some people think we will be, one day, but I am not among them. But I too want to know the secrets of the universe and meet others.¡± Then he became serious and got a somewhat distant and pained look. ¡°They got it wrong you know - SETI, and all these authors and scientists. We shouldn¡¯t seek others out there, and we likely never will muster the spirit, the courage, and the resources to venture beyond the Sol system. But that is where we come in. Our family, this place, our¡­curse. Those dreamers are all the same; they do not ask the right questions, dare not dream the right dreams. You know what people fear most, what they dare not even consider?...¡±
I awoke with a slight fever. Not the dreams again. I had come back alright.
After sleeping in the guest house, as everybody did, or so I was told by Helstrom, I entered the mansion today. There was a putrid smell in the air, and I soon found the source in the defunct kitchenette. Something had been left standing out. What it had been I couldn¡¯t tell. What it was is a writhing mass of maggots I didn¡¯t dare touch. I was unwilling to open the refrigerator, nor the two additional refrigerators on the stair¡¯s landing labeled ¡°research specimens¡± and ¡°reagents.¡± On this one, a note was pinned. Somebody had over and over scribbled the same binary sequence on it: 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01110011 01110100 01100001 01110010 01110011 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100001 01101100 01101101 01101111 01110011 01110100 00100000 01110010 01101001 01100111 01101000 01110100 00101110 00101110 00101110 than a space and the same all over again. I noticed several guns and religious paraphernalia hanging on the walls. I took one of the weapons down and opened it. Loaded, and in excellent condition.
I steeled myself and went upstairs. Most of the original walls on the first floor had been removed, replaced by a single, circular room fully enclosed in windowed walls in the middle of the vast space. The windows began at the height of my hip and stretched to the ceiling. Before I entered, I took stock of my immediate surroundings. Outside of the inner room, there were several open desks with miscellaneous data, correspondence, and printouts. The outside wall was lined with ancient filing cabinets and pickled specimen jars of all manner of creatures, interspersed with scribbled-on whiteboards. There was a Frankenstein¡¯s monster of a computer, with the core being a very old PC- from the 90¡¯s I would think; and thus from my uncle¡¯s childhood - spliced into several raspberry pies and a modern state of the art high-end computer. The monstrosity was on and displayed a Linux OS on a cathode-ray display. Several apparently self-developed programs, ranging from sensor logs to some form of expert systems were monitoring the inside of the room. I remember that as an adolescent, I had helped write some of the code. Cameras, both analog and digital were mounted on tripods and robotic arms, monitoring the room.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
I picked up one of the sheets on one of the desks. Correspondence between one of my uncle¡¯s erstwhile students with top universities discussing modified M-Theory dated 2032. It hadn¡¯t been until five years ago that modified M-Theory had officially become the theory du jour amongst the scientific community, yet here was somebody discussing the specifics more than ten years before that on behest of my uncle. I looked at the filing cabinets. If I went back far enough, would I find correspondence between my uncle¡¯s predecessors, my ancestors, and Einstein or Hawkins?
I went through some other papers on other workstations. Astronomical and Astrological calculations, Alchemy, esotericism. History and geography side by side with a book about lay lines. The student who had worked here had circled the mansion¡¯s location several times. Another desk. Biological cladistics, including several philia not described by science, a picture of a tardigrade and several samples of the moths and what I assumed was the fungi found on the property. Another one. Logic trees and Algorithms, flowcharts for several complicated programs about signal analysis. Next, a homemade phonograph, and other forms of analog sensor equipment.
I opened the door to the room was greeted by a smell of incense, and the door to the Faraday cage within. There was a single bed on a rug inside. The restraints were not on it at the moment. I went over and touched it, remembering sleeping there after getting involved in the family business. Doing so, the sleeve of my dress slipped, revealing my self-inflicted scars. I angrily covered up again. The rug was new though. Maybe an effort to seem respectable to any visiting academic. I slung it back, revealing the brown circle and the glyphs underneath. Crazy. All of this was mad. I can¡¯t; I simply can¡¯t. I will go tour the property, get some fresh air, unpleasant as it may be, and clear my head. Part III: Reminiscence Am¨¦lie Dulay 4th may 2049 I sat on a lichen-encrusted and weather-worn rock on the southern side of the hill the mansion occupied, still shaded by the bulk of the hill due to the early hour, enjoying that the air was now moist with the evaporation of the last of the night¡¯s dew. I watched as sunlight slowly crept around the girth of lookout hill, the landmark I was on, already illuminating the valley in front of me, working its way uphill amongst dead grapevines, some not only older than me but indeed dead since before I was born. The peculiar, somewhat enigmatic qualities of the property meant that unexplainably, they were almost mummified, preserved against all odds, withstanding the elements and biologic degradation much longer than seemed possible. In a way, they are beautiful, enduring, majestic. If I was poetically inclined I no doubt would have something to say about things enduring and beautifying long after their demise, some allegory for the way aspects of us, or our work, the way we touched the lives of others, our echo can endure after we ourselves are long gone. They were of course almost drowned in the weird ever-present and entirely fruitless blackberry bushes, housing the likewise ubiquitous moths. The air was as objectively unpleasant and subjectively nostalgic- the smell and feel and sense laden and pregnant with bittersweet memories- as it always was. Even the unpleasantness and foulness in itself was a bit of a paradox: it was cleaner than the air of the cosmopolitan metropolis I called home, despite all attempts at cleanliness and restoration, with its still omnipresent byproducts of incomplete combustion, and the fine dust generated by wear and tear of thousands of people walking, driving, toiling, living. A thriving, bustling, teeming warren of life, worn down and thin and ragged by the very same life, only to be replaced and build upon, perpetually burying the old under the new, to continue on, retouching, painting, dressing up and temporarily covering in cheap make-up, aggregating more soot and grime and sorrow, and hiding underlying structural weaknesses along the way. A city, I decided, is a good metaphor for the way a lot of people live their life, melancholic would-be philosophers enjoying morning air smelling very faintly of too old socks and more strongly if unknown more exotic things included, unfortunately. Despite myself, I smirk. Yes, I did miss this place, all my history here and the weirdness and my family¡¯s ¡°eccentricities¡± and secrets notwithstanding. I take a bite of the shriveled apple I plucked, wondering again if I ever saw a normal one in the dilapidated orchard, that particular bounty growing plentiful but aged and decrepit from the start. It was bitter, as all I ever took were, and tasted slightly different than any I had before- just as any of them had tasted subtly different from any other. And as with any other, I felt refreshed by it, not merely because that, too, was a major callback to the time I spent here, talking to my uncle, listening, thinking, theorizing, discussing, and planning. It was not all bad- even dreaming, strapped onto that single bed inside the faraday cage on the mansion¡¯s first floor, monitored by just about any kind of sensor system humanity devised in over two hundred years, and the inability to remember my dreams was not all bad. At least not as bad as monitoring oncle Pi¨¨rre and other volunteers during their shifts on the bed, writhing in stupor and struggling, rearing against their restraints involuntarily, barely within the upper limit of human physicality. That sight in turn was nothing compared to their reactions if you asked them any of the thousands of questions we collectively brainstormed during the day, never knowing what would lead them to the most peculiar epiphanies come morning. Those moments of Eureka, of revelation, of reinforcing the notion that what we did was worthwhile- they were almost worth the ululations and bizarre rambling that always came oh so very close to making sense, but never did to an awake, sane mind.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Reflecting on or, to be completely honest, avoiding my history in the overgrown mansion lead me to think back to other aspects of my childhood. Apart from my visits and work with oncle Pi¨¨rre, religion was the defining feature of my childhood. Not any one particular religion- my parents changed denominations and even base belief systems as others would shop for new clothes. They were driven, haunted. Not by the pursuit of a glimpse of what they would deem a shadow or notion of divine truth. No, they, for whatever reason, looked for divine truth in the hope that it would offer them protection- or absolution, I guess. The same fervor that got them to join just about every guru cum methdealer they could find was what lead them to leave just as quickly. What changed their mind was not the fact that about any one of two thirds of their chosen saviors was an armed paranoid sleazebag looking at their prepubescent daughters as a starving man would a banquet. That any one of them was spouting vague new age platitudes and insisting that for the end of material longing, it was necessary to give your earthly possessions, I mean burdens, to him. That such a person might not be the most trustworthy or enlightened source of spiritual fulfillment- albeit that put those particular individuals in lather lustrous company, now that I think about it. No, it was the gurus¡¯ and snake-oil salesmen¡¯s and would-be cult leader¡¯s and actual cult leader¡¯s inability to answer specific questions. Even more often, it was their attempt to answer them in a predictable fashion according to common cultural depictions in western media or according to whatever mythology they ¡°borrowed¡± from to cobble together their particular narrative- as was expected of the unimaginative, the creatively deprived, the slimy hacks and liars they were. Questions concerning curses and otherworldly entities. I was thankfully roused from my progressively darker reminiscence, and for a moment, I thought it is due to the morning sun having reached me and pleasantly warming me and the soil underneath, light, clear, life-giving and pure and beautiful, reaching even here, despite the superstitious nonsense my irreverent, small father would claim about his brother-in-law¡¯s home. No such luck. What broke through my thoughts is the person approaching me. I have never seen him before, but I have seen people like him plenty of times. It was not the haunted look, or the ever so slightly miscoordinated, clumsy movement. Neither was it the tattered clothing. Any of these could have identified the man as one of the many unfortunate homeless afflicted with mental illness, one of the aspects of city life I just wallowed in sophistry about, one of the aspects of expected wear and tear to be advocated for on social media and op-eds and other soapboxes to display one¡¯s personal virtue and hide one¡¯s unwillingness to do anything substantial- meaning one of the aspects to be covered, paved over, forgotten about. What differed was that this man ignored the perfectly serviceable path not two steps to his side- the dirt road, meticulously maintained on my dime for years now, let me remind you- that he ignored his numerous superficial scrapes and bruises- and the tangle of blackberry vines currently clinging to his unerringly approaching form, cutting his exposed skin, ultimately harmless, perhaps, but most certainly unpleasant. All ignored, disregarded, irrelevant in his effort to move in the most direct line possible to the peak of lookout hill. Part IV Confrontation Am¨¦lie Dulay, 4th may 2049 I slowly stood up from my weathered seat, watching, observing the man entangled in the blackberry vines. He didn''t register it, but he already was hurt, blood painting his otherwise rather fetching face, tickling from a fresh cut on his forehead, which he was still in the process of pressing against the thorny vine that cut him in the first place. Everything about this place, at least every memory I already had reminisced on during my short stay, could be explained by mundane, rational means. Weird blights and fauna are found all over the world. As are eccentric uncles. For that matter, so were shitty parents who focus so much on one thing that they completely lose sight of everything else- including what may well have been their motivation for a given course of action, once upon a time. Yes, mundane, if not outright boring rationalizations. No such luck with the man in the blackberries. No platitudes fed to me by overpaid shrinks, in their arrogance, good-intentioned compassion, clinical mind, or clinically arrogant intention. I often asked myself if I wanted to believe them, to be cured or treated; whatever the hell that even meant. Well, that were hours upon hours on the couch down the drain. I wasn''t quite sure if I was regretful about that, or¡­ liberated. Apart from that certain other thing, the man was irrefutable evidence that my memories were not constructs conjured to hide some childhood trauma. Face the facts Am¨¦. A callback to your childhood stands before you, compelled to flay itself upon the blackberry vines in a mindless effort to reach the mansion behind you. Before I tried talking to him, for all the good that would do, there was something else I could try. Right. The other thing constituting concrete evidence that my psychiatrists were wrong. I reached within and without myself, concentrating on what I expected the man to feel- a compulsion not unlike withdrawal, an inability to feel pain- or rather, the sensation meaningless, drowned in an all-encompassing mire of pain and impressions from all the senses, the means by which humans assessed their environment and their own body- and sensations beyond that. A cessation or at last disruption of all higher cognition, with at best infinitesimal moments of clarity, immediately vanquished by the inability to concentrate, of ever coming further than the realization that something was very, very wrong. Above all else, a sense of unease, subtle and unspecific in this case, but ever-present, imprinted on the man as an inevitable hallmark of any successful organism in an environment where it may as well be synonymous with success and thus survival. A primal sensation, possibly the oldest and most fundamental. Fear. I reflected on that and took a deep breath. The meditative aspect of the act, and the reflection on the intended target may well not be necessary- what I was about to do, I usually could do quite literally asleep- at least, to normal people. But that was the way I trained, so long ago, to my uncles encouragements, suggestions, cheers and good-hearted admonishments, on the very hill I stood on. I verbalized what I wanted, another part of the procedure which may or may not be necessary. ¡°Regardez-moi dans les yeux.¡± I sounded arrogant, haughty, condescending. As if I have no doubt he would do as I say, as if he is beneath me, his own will not even worthy of reflection, much less respect. Of course, while horrible, none of that is false, at least for a command that wasn''t going to interfere with his current compulsion. And of course, that arguably unconscious husk of a man¡­ complied, his gaze snapping into my own, while never stopping to push through the vines, and heedless of the further cuts the motion caused. I didn''t actually know if looking into my eyes had any effect, but it felt appropriate, given the popular depictions of similar acts- and, admittedly, the fact that people I did this with tended to also lock gazes with me. People I did this to, really. Victims of mine, helpless and unprepared in the face of a phenomenon they likely believed to be no more real than UFOs or monsters- and so many more things most people remained blissfully unaware and wrong about. The way we speak, along with our demeanor, communicates a lot, with arguably the majority of communication happening nonverbally. For me- doing what I was doing now- it also changed a variety of subtle things. If I compelled somebody to do something, but phrased it as a plea, it was no less inescapable. However, it is more flexible in its execution, not to mention that it could completely hide what was happening to people I used it on, making them think they were acting on their own free will. The additional leeway given to them made it more unpredictable how exactly they would obey, though. I didn''t plead now, but endowed the next word with every bit of authority and command I could muster, barking an order that would compel the most obedient pauper just as well as a king, president, or holy man: "Dormez!"This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. The man fell forward like a puppet with cut strings. For a second, it seemed that this was enough. But soon he stirred, shaking off the compulsion to sleep, rising in a disconcerting way, almost artistic in its strangeness. His eyes opened, found my gaze, before turning back towards his goal. Figures. As impressive as my ability was in general, and more specifically in this case, able to influence somebody already under something related, my command to "sleep" had interfered with his goal on top of lookout hill, whatever exactly he was compelled to do up there. Not being able to use my power, at least not fully, was¡­ strange. I used to think about it a lot, with the vast majority of people, and everybody not associated with my little world, being susceptible and helpless when faced with it. Not being able to use it in a potentially dangerous situation made me feel vulnerable, exposed. It also led to the soothing realization that regardless of what my depression tried to tell me, I was ultimately human. ¡®Remember the most important insight of your predecessors, Am¨¦¡¯ I heard my uncle¡¯s most repeated mantra echo in my memories. Musings on my humanity aside, this still left me dealing with the man, as a vulnerable, mortal woman. I put on my business smile, not having to fake the note of sympathetic agony, as I sometimes do with the more unpleasant or unreasonable clients. I gave the man an open-armed shrug, despite the fact that he was now more focused on the hill behind me. "Hello. Sorry for that. It was worth a try, and could have made this less complicated for me, and less traumatic for yourself. If you lost consciousness, I could potentially have dealt with the fallout of your current condition in a much more elegant way. Yes, I know what is wrong with you, or at least, I have a much better idea than you likely have. I know you don''t understand at the moment, but you may still remember what I am saying after I help you snap out of this. That would make this slightly less disorienting. But hello, I am Am¨¦lie. I am trying to help you.¡± I hiked my skirt up halfway and took off one of the items strapped to my inner thigh. My uncle drilled into me the need to be prepared for any situation, and I was a studious pupil. I always had a number of things discreetly hidden from plain view, things both mundane¡­ and less so. The pouch I now took out and opened belonged to the former category; it was an assortment of lightweight wilderness gear. I took out a foldable survival knife, opened it, and held it so the man would see it. ¡°No worries, I am just going to help you out of the blackberries you are currently so intimately entwined with." I smirked and winked at him. "You can thank me later.¡± An attempt at awkward humor may or may not go over well, but that was a bridge to cross later. I went to work on the vines, gradually freeing him. Finally, he broke through and stumbled forward past me, uncoordinated but undeterred. I quickly put the knife away and caught up to him. ¡°Yes, sorry. There really is no way to make this comfortable.¡± I grabbed his shoulder. Immediately, he swung for me, as I knew he would. Other than the sleep, which he immediately shrugged off, this was the first time I actively impeded him. Which changed my nature from a pebble on the roadside to what the blackberry vines were- an obstacle to be overcome, in the most direct way, any other option be damned. I turned to the side, caught the arm, guiding it and the man on a new path- face-first into the dirt. He may not react to pain, but a lever is a lever, and as Archimedes said, a long enough lever could move the world, and so much less was needed to floor a man, altered state or not. Not letting go of him, still momentarily stunned and already discoordinated, I changed my grip and joined him on the floor, getting on top, pinning him. Yes, my most obvious means of problem-solving in violent situations might not work, but it is not like I was unaware of this possibility, or unprepared. I was a good student. And I didn¡¯t come empty-handed, using a hand to unholster something while I used the other and my weight to hold him in place. ¡°I sincerely hope you have no heart condition. Again, I am sorry.¡± I jabbed the stun gun into his side, felt him seize, and then go limp. Taking out two of the more unusual items, the next thing I did was again jabbing him. This time with a self-injecting syringe claiming to be a dose of epinephrine for application to counteract anaphylaxis. It very much was not. He may be able to shrug off my compulsion, but try to stay awake against the chemical siren¡¯s call of a generous dose of tranquilizer. As for the other item, I bound his hands with a set of plastic restraints. It wasn¡¯t like I would depend on the tranquilizer working, not on somebody in his condition. So far, however, it seemed to work, which was good because I hadn¡¯t brought a muzzle and was fresh out of cuffs. Sighing, I gave myself a moment to stretch, before beginning to drag the now properly unconscious man uphill. Memories, weird tastes and smells, a mansion with so many secrets, and a man I had to throw and electrify because my supernatural ability to force him to obey didn¡¯t work. Uncle? It seems I have come home alright. Part V Uphill Am¨¦lie Dulay, 4th may 2049 There is more to moving an unconscious human than most people realize. Humans are lanky and cumbersome to carry. Their weight is substantial, making it very hard to lift an unconscious and therefore uncooperative person on your own, to bring them into a stable enough position to carry them in either a princess¡¯ or a fireman''s carry. There is a set of rather acrobatic maneuvers to use the momentum of what amounts to a judo move to end up in a position to lift a knocked out or injured person into a fireman¡¯s carry. I wasn¡¯t about to try that out with somebody heavier than myself, on an incline. Which left me with the option of a rescue hold, putting my arms underneath the man¡¯s armpits and using one of his underarms as a hold and stabilizer, then moving along backwards, his feet dragging on the floor. One step to make a new foothold, one heave of my full body to move the man incrementally uphill, towards the mansion, whipping up dirt and the fine dust of the fungal spores settling on exposed soil on the property. A noise behind myself, like the wind whistling through dried reeds, but loud as though the reeds in question were full-on trees, massive, ancient, and imposing- but dead and decaying. I smelt a tick musk- like dirt and age and mycelial growth. I didn¡¯t turn around. Do not turn around Am¨¦. You know what that is, but it is too soon. Lots of things to do, and you are not ready. You are not worthy. To my relief, the noise dims into imperceptibility, taking the smell, which drowned out all nuance in the olfactory landscape, with it. One part of my family¡¯s history I didn¡¯t need to face, just yet. An opportunity to concentrate on my current task of dragging an unconscious man along. Doing so was not exactly elegant, but doable, if strenuous. I always relished physical labor- it held an inherent purpose beyond self-improvement, as was the case for exercise and training- and could have a meditative quality about it. There was something to the way it forced a time to be free to think, without the demon that was my workaholic nature telling me about the innumerous other things I could be doing. I had no choice but to reflect upon my situation, starting with the man whose trousers weren¡¯t improving from being unceremoniously dragged across the dirt. Face to face with this reminder of the past, of this place, I found myself lost in memory again. Oncle Pi¨¨rre had always insisted that we call them "l¡¯appel¨¨¡±- the called ones- rather than the much more obvious term to call them. He was right of course- an integral part of science was the elimination of observer bias; or at least mitigating its effect on the observation- and regardless of what anybody else said, my uncle was a scientist. So while myself and the other students and assistants often whisperingly called people like this man ¡°les possed¨¦s¡± he was relentless in correcting us, pointing out that using a charged term like ¡°the possessed¡± could influence the way we thought about these people and interpreted their actions. Not that it didn¡¯t seem appropriate, given the man¡¯s current actions and demeanor. But it was through my uncles¡¯ advocacy for good scientific practice that I had a better understanding of these people than most of my predecessors ever had. Not only the family¡¯s fringe, outsiders like my father, but the actual core of the family- inheritors of our family¡¯s tradition, our vocation. People like my uncle. People like¡­ I was supposed to grow up into.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. The thought was painful. My understanding was that people whose family deigns to chose their path in life often, and understandably, grow resentful. That was not what happened to me- rather than having been saddled with unreasonable expectations, I had bitten the hand that fed me, ran away from my uncle. And he had let me. We had hardly spoken. I had to be informed of his death via a godforsaken notary. Even then, the personal letter- he hadn¡¯t told me off, hadn¡¯t told me to grow up- he had asked me to bring his effects in order. Send them off to a university I trusted. Apologized. Of all things, apologized- to me. Included that he knew I thought he was crazy. This might have been a form of subtle manipulation, of social engineering. I usually hated this, hated lies, manipulation, deception- all the more so because I could be unparalleled at it if I so choose. Still, in this instance, I desperately hoped, hypocritically called upon deities I did not believe in, willing it to be my uncle deliberately misleading me, to get me to do as he wished. The mere possibility that my uncle died thinking I believed he was crazy was heartbreaking. I had so often sat down to call him, tried writing a letter- only to shy away, postponed it- there was something I was trying to do, something I felt I had to do. And now, he was gone. I still acutely felt all of the regret I felt when I first read the measly paragraph, the same letter I still carried with me. The same letter I read over and over until the paper was crumbled and dotted with concentric rings of different pigments- impromptu chromatographies, my tears separating the ink into its various constituents according to their physical characteristics. Chromatography. One of the many, many things my uncle showed me, a neat magic trick to one barely older than a toddler, whimsical and funny but still the foundation for a scientific mind to be build, and to expand. When my parents were chaotic, driven, haunted, awful, my uncle had been steady, stalwart, safe. He had taught my so much, showed me so much, things wondrous and terrifying, and at the same time, he had an almost supernatural- considering my family, quite possibly literally so- sense for my limitations. When I got absorbed in my training and projects, too obsessed to realize my own exhaustion, driven not by him, but myself, my want to improve, to prove myself to him- he was there, with a diversion, something relaxing and entertaining, always interesting and almost always still productive, giving me inspiration for other things. My uncle was by my side when I first reigned in my powers, and all the other mundane but still important milestones in an adolescent girl¡¯s life. He taught me to laugh, to see myself not as the monster my parents made me feel like. While he tried to teach me morals and discipline, he also taught me when to relax, goof around, see the levity and adventure in the unknown or even the terrifying. He never got angry, not even when I acted against what he would consider morally right. In any way that mattered, my uncle raised me, not my parents. And still, I left. Didn¡¯t come back until it was too late. The letter arrived and broke my heart. But the worst wasn¡¯t the letter or my missed chance at redemption. My father had always resented his brother. Had wanted to forget what oncle Pi¨¨rre was a living reminder of. Not only did he not grieve, like a decent person- he was relieved. Said that I made the right choice in ¡°coming home back then.¡± He never even asked or cared why I did. I lost it then. That made it more real- that I made a decision back then my father would have made. That I betrayed my uncle. That I was like my parents. Not for the first time in close to two decades, I not only felt shame, but self- hatred. Damn my pride, damn my past, damn common sense. What I would give to have come here, home, even a couple of weeks earlier. What wouldn¡¯t I give? But my uncle had never been one to dwell on the past. Find the lesson, bandage the wounds, express your emotions if you feel like it, and grow, never looking back. I could steep in sorrow and anger and other unproductive things or I could rebuild, move on, starting with the things I could do. Starting by helping the unconscious man I dragged and who really appeared to grow heavier right about now. Part VI medical intervention Am¨¦lie Dulay, 4th may 2049 Helstrom hurried down from the observation chamber and workplace upstairs when I kicked the front door open and heaved the unconscious man over the threshold, grunting in exertion. He arrived wide-eyed, with a look of apprehension and wonder at my companion. ¡°Ma?t¡­ Mademoiselle Dulay, what happened? Who is he?¡± ¡°A guest, of sorts. He climbed the hill- right through the blackberries. I tried to compel him to sleep, but it didn¡¯t work- had to resort to a more crude means of preventing him from carrying out whatever it was he came for. And to prevent him from causing further harm to himself.¡± At that, the former mathematician focused once more on the still bound and sedated man with the multitude of cuts and bruises. His look now eager, feverish. ¡°So he is- I haven¡¯t seen somebody like him in half a decade! Fascinating! You have to let me take a sample- !¡± ¡°No medical experimentation on somebody incapable of informed consent, Dr. Helstrom. We have so few lines, so few constraints. We should cherish those we managed to keep.¡± He turned at that, sharply, having already moved to make his way back up to the workspace, or possibly to one of the refrigerators at the stair¡¯s landing. His back, usually hunched, was now ramrod-straight, the expression on his face neutral, almost concealing the diligently hidden anger. ¡°Mademoiselle¡­ this opportunity is so rare, now. Any new changes could reveal trends and developments we otherwise might overlook for years. It isn¡¯t like it will hurt him. Surely if your uncle-¡± ¡°If my uncle was alive,¡± I interrupted, now also with a deliberately impassive expression, hiding my own anger. ¡°He certainly wouldn¡¯t condone violating somebody¡¯s human rights. You can make do with the blood draws we will need to make anyway over the next few days, and whatever he agrees to once he is awake.¡± Now his anger wasn¡¯t hidden anymore. ¡°You haven¡¯t been a part of this endeavor since before I even arrived here. This is really not a matter for debate-¡± Now I also no longer bothered pretending I wasn¡¯t irritated with the notion of taking biological samples and specimens from the body of an unconscious person. ¡°Oui. C¡¯est vrai. Assistez-moi.¡± When I told him to help me, effectively declaring the discussion over, his body stiffened, then he slumped to my side, and between the two of us, we could pull the man upright by the armpits, to begin moving him upstairs. Well that was- troubling. And certainly unexpected. Not that now was the right time or circumstance to do anything about it. We climbed the stairs, like people helping a drunk; Helstrom now again slumped. A fitting Igor to my doctor Frankenstein, I guess. Despite his gaunt form and advanced age, he likely was stronger than me, if barely. Another interesting detail. Having reached the workspace, I looked around the room, glanced at the individual desks, crammed full of individual clutter and scientific instruments and annotations as they were. After a moment of hesitation, I made my way to the observation chamber. Regardless of its usual function, the bed inside was still a bed, and our guest was past being able to wonder or care about the multitude of observation equipment and sensors pointed straight at this chamber. We entered the chamber, and the faraday-cage within, heaved the man onto the bed. Helstrom went for specialized supplies we would need, stored outside the chamber in refrigeration, and I took out the general medical supplies from the chest underneath the bed. The basic layout of the most important items within the room was virtually unchanged for as long as I remember, which meant I and everybody else who ever worked here knew where the things we would need were located. I promptly bound the man¡¯s arm with a rubber hose. Failing to find any readily accessible veins, I put back the intravenous catheter I prepared. In medical emergencies, time can be of the essence, and getting access to a patients¡¯ bloodstream was critical, and more complicated than most people realize. Fortunately, my uncle had been well prepared for complicated patients and untrained helpers- I didn¡¯t need to waste time trying to sting the guy clumsily, thanks to the very dependable alternative I now reached for. An intraossary needle is a common last resort in emergency and intensive medicine- basically, you just force a needle through the bone on a bonemarrow-rich location of the body; usually on top of the lower leg, just below the knee. There were drill systems and what amounted to a spring-loaded icepick. Painful, but the guy was already unconscious. And foolproof, as I demonstrated by applying it after cutting up what was left of his trousers. I filled a vial with the man¡¯s blood, then affixed an infusion drip and started him on glucose. Due to the nature of the injection site, I also applied a pressure system to the infusion bag, to ensure it flowed at an acceptable rate.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Helstrom came in and placed a case on the floor, opening it. A blinking light in the lid showed that the recorder that was included in this kit for documentation was now active and recording. I looked over, reiterating what happened. ¡°Primary responder, Am¨¦lie Dulay, no formal medical training, but nobody more qualified on-site. Patient wandered up the hill in an altered state. Subdued by myself physically, then cuffed and rendered unconscious via type D universal tranquilizer. Initial blood sample and application of glucose via intraosseous infusion, pressure system affixed to increase the flow rate. Patient still unconscious. Over to my secondary.¡± Helstrom moved to my side and began talking while taking the vial of blood from me to slot into a device. ¡°Secondary, Olaf Helstrom. Not a direct witness to initial apprehension of the patient. Received blood sample, analyzing. Applying monitoring equipment.¡± He got busy applying sensors for common vital parameters on the patient. Meanwhile, I went on documenting. ¡°Patient has multiple superficial lacerations, and similarly damaged clothing, which consists of formal wear. I personally witnessed the man wounding himself on the local blackberry bushes. I am looking for identification.¡± I went through the man¡¯s pockets. ¡°Found a wallet.¡± Taking a card from inside, I continued. ¡°German driving license. Patient¡¯s name is Alexander M?ller. Not an absolute indication of his origin, but the last name is indicative of german, or at least german-speaking ancestry if I am not mistaken.¡± Putting the wallet aside, I began systematically cutting his clothes off to save time for Helstroms¡¯ subsequent duty of documenting and treating any superficial wounds. At that time, the device Helstrom was in charge of signaled preliminary results. He glanced at the readout. ¡°Initial blood sample shows high levels of a variety of appel¨¨-associated proteins and a-proteinic-compounds. I am giving my formal approval as the secondary for application of immunosuppressants to my primary.¡± With that, he handed me a glass ampoule with a break-top and the gear to inject it into the existent infusion line. While I was doing that, he went over bandaging superficial cuts and bruises, commenting on what he found and did. After a while, the patient began breathing oddly, and vomited. The both of us immediately turned him to his side and got out equipment to protect his airways: On one hand, a medical vacuum system to prevent him from asphyxiating on his vomit, and to prevent him from breathing in smaller quantities which could lead to infection. On the other, the tool to intubate him, as well as the tubus itself, and an oxygen supply. I probably should have done this to start with, as it was standard procedure in actual surgery. I really didn¡¯t want to do this as the amateur I was. But this process, treating the called, usually didn¡¯t lead to vomiting. His breathing was- peculiar. I vaguely recalled one of oncle Pi¨¨rre¡¯s lessons on medicine. ¡°¡­ an odd type of gasping for air. The original clinical description was Kussmaulatmung, which translates to Kissing-mouth breathing¡­¡± Following a hunch, I grabbed the man¡¯s wallet again, found what I feared I would. ¡°Merde. Found a medical alert card. The man is a diabetic.¡± Helstrom joined me in cursing. ¡°Dritt. We don¡¯t have insulin here, and to be honest, I don¡¯t know how that would play with the other components of this process anyway.¡± ¡°I agree, we should avoid introducing unknown factors, neither of us is a medical or biomedical expert.¡± He nodded. ¡°But extreme high blood sugar can be fatal.¡± I nodded, glanced at the readout of the patients¡¯ blood sample. ¡°He has to already have stage threes active, if early ones. Those eat sugar- that is the whole reason we give the possessed- the called- so much of it in the first place. We only never had a patient whose body itself is so vulnerable to high sugar. We should have thought of the possibility. But stage threes eat sugar¡­¡± He scowled at me. ¡°You were the one who said no to medical experimentation.¡± ¡°Yes. I was. Get me a mature stage three.¡± He grimaced. ¡°In this case and for the record, I should point out that this is a deviation of protocol and neither of us has expertise in relevant fields.¡± I looked at the patient, seemingly gasping for air. ¡°So noted. Bring me a mature stage three.¡± Helstrom moved downstairs, came back with a specimen jar and one of the syringes we usually used to take samples. The syringe was one derived from veterinary medicine, with an absolutely massive gauge size. The specimen jar contained a small solid mass, suspended in a striated cloud of viscous material of different densities and structures, bizarre looking, but not without order. Outgrowths of goo had affixed themselves to the glass of the jar itself, keeping the solid in the middle. The nutrient liquid in the jar was slightly cloudy itself, but the delicate web of interconnected, hair-like growths was still vaguely discernable, even in the more gelatinous parts of the cloud. It was more noticeable because it twitched and pulsed, and because some of the growths seemed to try to move towards Helstom¡¯s hand, lured by his warmth. I knew that without the glass, and in a liquid or otherwise electroconductive environment, his bioelectricity would have been just as attractive. I took both, opened the jar, and used the syringe, careful to get the solid part, the network of fine hairs- mycelioids- being capable of replacing themselves, I knew. I looked at Helstrom again. ¡°Any secondary opinion on optimal implantation site? He thought about it for a moment. ¡°Liver.¡± I nodded. ¡°That is what I was thinking. Ideal conditions; and a lot of blood passes through there before being re-oxygenized in the lung and being pumped back outwards.¡± I stabbed the man, my patient, yet again, injecting the content into his side. It was a deviation of protocol, but inaction or introducing other untested factors may be similarly dangerous to him. Now, we wait. Part VII An uninvolved party Alexander M?ller, 5th of May 2049 Alex awoke, thoroughly disoriented. That in itself is nothing new; it had become his de facto normal over the last- however long it has been. What was abnormal was that he was capable of realizing his own confusion- he was used to only be able to get a vague sense of wrongness before losing his train of thought, utterly incapable of concentrating or meta-cognition- such as realizing he was disoriented. He had¡­ He sat upright, vaguely registering that the sudden movement had dislodged an infusion line from the back of his hand, leaving a steady trickle of clear liquid running onto the floor. He was inside a cage of sorts, albeit one that didn¡¯t seem like it was built to hold a person. He registered a solid hip-high banister of sorts encircling the cage, topped by glass the rest of the way to the ceiling. Through that window, he saw the unfeeling, electronic eyes of a veritable swarm of cameras aimed at him, possibly watching, leering. The cage, flimsy as it looked, sent a sudden spike of claustrophobia through him. But the entrance was visibly unlocked, the door standing ajar. So he wasn¡¯t trapped. Neither, he realized, was he alone. Two people were with him, sitting in folding chairs at his side, themselves roused from their sleep by his sudden movement. The woman wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and gave him a feeble smile. Alex¡¯s heart was going a mile a minute. She was beautiful, if reserved in her appearance and demeanor. A skirt and blouse of good quality but not exceptional aesthetics, dressed for comfort rather than appeal. Her only ornament a sort of clasp and pin combination holding her smooth brown hair in a bun. She had ever so slight frown lines and dimples from laughing, making even her current tentative smile incredibly endearing. Her eyes were slightly darkened, possibly from lack of sleep. These ¡®imperfections¡¯ placed all the more emphasis on how she looked overall. Her eyes, incredibly dark brown, had a sparkle that didn¡¯t fit with the signs of stress, of insecurity, or the fact that she seemed to have just woken up. He would estimate her to be in her mid-thirties, but clearly having lived through a lot of stress, but also a lot of joy. Alex stammered- ¡°Was ist- ¡° She raised both palms in a placating gesture. ¡°Meine Deutsch- nicht viel. Was ich muss erkl?ren- ist? Komliziert. Sprechen Sie Englisch oder Fran?ais?¡° Alex would have found her accent adorable under other circumstances. Her german was far from perfect, but understandable. But she said that she had to explain something complicated and asked whether he spoke English or French. Fair enough. ¡°English is fine; my own French would be way worse than your german. What happened-¡° Fragments of memory. A longing for a place or thing. A journey, unending, feverish. A long, long time in which he wasn¡¯t himself, only following some compulsion he couldn¡¯t even recall. Being entangled in thorny vines so close to whatever it was he was drawn to, biting at his flesh, but irrelevant. A woman on the other side of the brush, giving commands in a language he barely understood, using words he never heard- but yet understood, somehow, even while drowning, deranged, caught in a nameless, overwhelming need. A woman who had told him to look at her, to sleep. And he did. The need had roused him. But she had told him to sleep, and he had. The very same woman he was now speaking to. He jolted, scooted to the far side of the bed, now realizing he was naked under the thin sheet, again aware of the multitude of cameras, voyeuristically directed at him. He scrunched up the sheet to hide behind, from the cameras, but also the woman. Why did he react so much to her appearance? Yes, she was beautiful, but was that all? Had she told him to find her attractive? Was he misinterpreting a stress response of his body, similar to how a broad range of terrifying experiences could be seen as pleasant? Was he afflicted by Stockholm syndrome? She had sprung up from her chair with a worried expression when he startled, reached out for him, but seemed to reconsider. Slowly she let her hand drop, backed off, and, upon seeing it, bent down to pick up the infusion line he had inadvertently ripped from his body. Following her movement, he momentarily glanced at the floor, where whatever liquid they had put into him while he was incapacitated had pooled. It had partially dissolved some of the symbols painted there in some kind of rough, flaky, brown dye. Was that- blood? He thought back to that fragmented memory. What had hit him the most were her eyes. Her eyes. Impossibly deep pools of darkness, bordered by brown calderas. Eyes that filled his mind entirely when he looked at them, that he seemed to fall into, like- bottomless pits or maybe some lake of primordial ooze from before the existence of light. No, not merely black- black only denotes an absence of reflected light. These eyes didn¡¯t reflect light, true, but beyond that, they seemed to absorb things they shouldn¡¯t have been able to, like thought, like desire, like any impulse customarily associated with an independent will. His memory of looking into her eyes was even more vague and incoherent than most of his recent memories.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. He was aware of that. But something very old within him- the oldest parts of his brain, his most rudimentary survival instincts from before his ancestors had a need of pack bonding and cooperation, let alone higher cognition and self-reflection- screamed and whimpered in terror. More recent additions to himself- old mammal instincts- were telling him contradictory things, like seeking the safety of the herd, conflicted with the notion that he couldn¡¯t lead something so dangerous to others. The rest of him- the parts of his brain that were not home to the most fundamental survival instincts of his lizard or early mammal ancestors- tried, and failed, to understand. To convey the experience in allegories and images and conjecture. What he knew for a fact was that he had looked into these eyes, these eyes that scared the lizard in him so much, that made the mammal in him contemplate whether to seek help lest he endanger others. He had looked into these eyes, and, at a single word uttered by her, complied with what she had commanded. Her demeanor had been entirely different than her current apparent shyness, arrogant, regal- inhumane. His weird state before, and now possibly symbols drawn in dried blood- Alex spoke the first thing that came to mind out loud. ¡°Are you a vampire?¡± Completely caught off guard, she burst into a giggle, albeit she tried to stifle it immediately. Even the other person in the room, an older man, snorted. ¡°I most decidedly am not a vampire.¡± That is what a vampire would say. ¡°You commanded me to sleep. And, for a moment, I just fell like a marionette with cut strings.¡± All levity now gone from her face, she nodded. ¡°Yes.¡± He gulped. ¡°You are not human.¡± At that, she looked genuinely hurt. Nevertheless, she tentatively nodded. ¡°That is not entirely accurate, but also not completely wrong, in a manner of speaking. I am human. I have a family, friends- not many-¡± she gave a tortured smile at the self-deprecation or maybe the thought itself- ¡°the same needs and wants as yourself, the same flaws, the same insecurities. But there are differences. In a technical sense, I am not completely human, I suppose.¡± That admission seemed to trouble her. Another memory. ¡°You tried- whatever it was- and it didn¡¯t work. Not entirely. Then you threw me to the ground.¡± ¡°Yes. I had to get you under control. In the state you were in, you were a danger to yourself, and quite possibly to others. I- I know a bit about what happened to you. At least in broad terms. You are not the first to come here in your- condition.¡± His condition. The aberrant mental state and the need to come- here. ¡°I remember. You said something about that before you threw me.¡± ¡°Yes. I will try to answer any questions you may have. I also have to point out that what I am telling you must not leave this room, and that you are still in need of medical help. We will provide this help, but if you would rather not know, treat this like a fever-dream, that is of course perfectly alright.¡± He scoffed at that. She had said this in a neutral, matter-of-fact, nonthreatening manner. Still, he was not one to give in to ultimatums quietly, without objection. Not even here, even though he found her terrifying and was still questioning just what she could do to him. ¡°It must not leave this room? What are you gonna do, order me to stay quiet?¡± Her gaze didn¡¯t lose its emotional quality, remaining guarded, but her mouth twitched into a slight, lopsided smirk. ¡°I could certainly do that. But I wouldn¡¯t have to. It is, in fact, illegal to disclose information about what I can tell you.¡± Not even a hit of a lie. Of course, that may mean nothing, especially given that she could influence his mind in some way. It was still sobering. ¡°Illegal? By what law? And where?¡± ¡°There are some laws that are not on the books, that are themselves need-to-know. Some things require regulation, but also a lack of a paper trail, and an abundance of plausible deniability. They were passed behind closed doors, but otherwise compliant with the normal legislative process, and I assure you, they are quite legally binding. As for where- basically every polity that existed at the end of the 18th century? If there are problems in other countries, they can be easily enough convinced. It happened before. Oh, not due to me or others directly telling them. There is a lot of diplomatic leverage to be had from those who already are in the know.¡± She leaned back in her seat. ¡°Is there something you want to know?¡± Alex¡¯s mind was racing; he himself, overwhelmed. ¡°Yes but- I don¡¯t know where to begin.¡± The woman again put on a feeble smile. She looked sympathetic, but he had seen her look so different. He had seen her act so different. Was that, this insecurity, this compassion, this warmth, or the disdain when she first told him to do things who she really was? She seemed genuine enough, but what did that mean for a woman who could quite literally assert her will over another? And who seemed to be able to have sovereign countries pass secret laws even without using whatever it was she did? ¡°That is understandable. It is a rather complicated matter. I guess I should first introduce myself. My name is Am¨¦lie Dulay, and my family has conducted a multigenerational endeavor for- well, over eight hundred years at the very least, possibly way before that. The exact nature of this mission changed over time; you could say that my family business currently is research into certain supernatural, or rather, unexplained or insufficiently explained matters. There was a lot to learn that directly or indirectly helped others, and a multitude of dangers we needed to understand. Your condition being one of them.¡±