The Essence of Darkness Page 6

  He remained prostrate, unable to make another move.

  His tears continued to flow, as cold as the rain that had just started to fall gently, as if washing the soiled stones. Then an object caught his attention behind the altar, at the bottom of roughly carved steps. A wave of clarity overwhelmed him brutally—a tsunami.

  The book.

  Cooper jumped to his feet. His movements were no longer coordinated. All his energy went to the few powers of deduction he had left. He stumbled down the stairs like a disjointed puppet and collapsed at the bottom, his face in the mud. He dragged himself over to the voluminous work, whose leather cover shone in the rain. He grabbed it, rolled onto his back, and hugged it to him. Then he wiped it and covered it with his jacket, just as he would have done with one of the surviving children.

  This book must contain the explanation for what was happening to him, the process, whatever it might be, of these bloody transformations. The text would lead him to the author—or at least to a follower who could interpret it.

  He jumped up and climbed back up to his camp, not forgetting to gather up his weapons and the rest of his equipment scattered throughout the ruins. He folded his tent and analyzed the bloody scene one last time. Investigators would identify his DNA on the witches’ remains; that was a given. He could try erasing any trace of his presence, but a cover-up would get him nowhere. Even if he were able to keep his colleagues at bay, it would only be for a while.

  He needed to play the truth card.

  And to do that, he first had to shed light on the metamorphosis he had seen at work on the priestess before it had seized him.

  The main thing was that he was not responsible for the atrocities, he was certain about that, including from a legal perspective. But he could hardly prove that something outside—some powerful force—had taken control of him. The nature of these phenomena was beyond his comprehension, however, this was the atrocious reality.

  Cooper was sure of that fact : somewhere, there was a rational explanation for all of this.

  7

  “Can you repeat the last part, Cooper—the part where you shot down a metamorphosed witch who was devouring a child? I think I misunderstood you. Plus, it’s four in the morning.”

  Colin Andrews was the only effective team member with whom Cooper had completed several missions. Over thirty years old, he was a sports fanatic too. He and Cooper looked like brothers. Andrews was technically flawless, like Cooper, and used to working solo. He was Cooper’s perfect reflection, as if it had detached itself from the mirror and materialized in his professional life. There wasn’t real camaraderie between them; it was more of a rivalry that pushed them to outdo each other. But there was nothing unhealthy in their competition, just a drive for perfection and a sharing of good practices.

  Cooper desperately needed help. He needed to present the facts to an agent who would feel the duty to be objective. For him, it would be inconceivable to hide what had really happened in those ruins, and he also felt an overwhelming need to get it out.

  “Listen, Colin, I’m not asking you to understand. I myself don’t have any idea what’s happening to me. I’m just asking you to listen to me.”

  “Okay, Eliott, no problem. It’s just that I didn’t catch everything. I must not be completely awake yet; that’s all.”

  Cooper took a deep breath to lower the adrenalin shaking his entire body. “Okay, I’ll take it slowly from the beginning, Andrews. Have you heard about the St. Marys investigation?”

  “Of course. Did you know Mullay wanted to put me on the case?”

  “You’re lucky he didn’t. Ever since I arrived in the town, I’ve felt something was wrong. When I started my research in the woods, things really started to get bizarre.”

  “Why in the woods, since four of the kidnappings took place in town?” Andrews asked.

  “Actually, the first four cases all have the proximity of rural areas in common. That’s what guided the investigation. The fifth case only confirmed it.”

  “Timothy Pearson, age five. I have the investigation summary report in front of me.”

  “Exactly,” Cooper replied.

  If his colleague had made the effort to connect to the FBI network, it meant that he had gotten out of bed and was taking things seriously.Cooper continued with renewed confidence in his voice.

  “So here I am in the woods, where I’ve been living in a forest ranger cabin.”

  And he laid out the facts with an unwavering concision, without forgetting the slightest detail, all the way to the end.

  A few seconds of silence between the end of his story and Andrews’ reaction.

  “My God, Cooper. . . Tell me this is a joke.”

  “I’d give anything for it to be a joke. I need your help, Andrews. I feel like I’m about to lose it.”

  I . . . This is a fucking nightmare. No one’s going to believe that, buddy.”

  “Do you think I’m crazy, Andrews?”

  His colleague didn’t answer.

  Cooper clenched the phone so hard that he almost shattered it in his hand. He screamed, “Andrews, do you think I’m out of my mind? Answer me, damn it!”

  “I think you’re not well. Where are you right now?”

  “Shit, you think I should be locked up, don’t you?”

  “You definitely need help.”

  “Listen, I don’t give a damn what you think! I have to present the facts as I experienced them. The people who analyze this discussion will verify my sanity.”

  “If I can give you some advice, you should wait right where you are until some agents arrive. Is that clear, Cooper?”

  “Fuck off, Andrews.”

  He cut the call, opened the case of the cell phone he had just used, his personal one, and ripped out the microchip. He got up and threw it into the crackling fire in the stove.

  Less than an hour later, he set out to travel twenty miles north and relocate to another cabin almost identical to the first one. He had made sure to rid the first one of any traces. From now on, he would have to do the same for any place he stayed, even for just a few hours. The time until all the state police forces would have his portrait posted in their offices was very short: he figured under two days.

  He had lost all hope of finding the other children from St. Marys alive. In any case, he was no longer in any position to continue his investigation. Right now, he had to think seriously about how he was going to get out of this situation. He had sat down and was staring at the only object on the table in front of him.

  The book.

  It looked like a worn grimoire—a book of magic spells—with a cover of thick brown, almost black, leather, polished by the years or maybe even the centuries. The cover bore a series of symbols unknown to him, probably belonging to some mystical alphabet of another age. The yellowed pages formed a stack at least three inches thick; it was coarsely made, with a strong musty smell. He hadn’t opened it; he settled for looking at it, feeling intense repulsion at the thought of going through its pages. Just seeing it, he couldn’t stop the flood of abominable scenes from coming back up in successive waves. The images submerged his thoughts, and he remembered the monstrous greed with which he had devoured the priestesses, or rather the greed of the creature inside him that had taken over. The taste of blood in his mouth, the screams, and the pleading had excited and enraged him even more. How could such a thing have taken control of his being? And if that transformation could reoccur, when would it happen again?

  His life had turned upside down in a kind of unreality where not every moment fit into temporal linearity. The doors of a diabolical dimension had just closed behind him.

  Most striking was the clarity with which he viewed this horror as a whole. He was entirely aware of what had happened to him. The events were all the more appalling. He wasn’t physically weak; on the contrary, he had reached the second cabin in under four hours. His physical abilities even seemed to have increased. A mixture of adrenaline and an energy he felt a
s evil, syrupy, and black flowed through his veins. His body was full of unspeakable sensations he had never experienced before, undoubtedly caused by the transformation. The pain wasn’t localized, but it moved around under his skin and inside his body. It caused waves of intense tingling, like larvae stirring and wriggling in his flesh. His muscles contracted compulsively under the effect of widespread spasms, and his bones felt pulled in opposite directions. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the severe stress that would not let go of him.

  He got up abruptly and searched his bag. Feverishly, he pulled out the voice recorder and switched it on.

  “Day Sixteen. I’m no longer able to fulfill my mission in these woods. I will try to be concise and clear, as clear as possible, to explain the metamorphosis occurring in my body. I am unable to resist it. The cause of this transformation seems to be a volatile cloud of black particles, a cloud no more than three feet in diameter. Or else it’s the incantations. How do I know? I clearly remember that after I had neutralized the creature and was making sure I had killed it, the cloud of black particles descended on me. The last clear image I have is the imploring look of the other two women paralyzed by fear. I only now realize what their eyes were begging for—my mercy—because the metamorphosis had changed me into—”

  Convulsions suddenly seized Cooper’s body. He was wracked with coughing. Blood dribbled from his mouth. He jumped up and ran to vomit a stream of hemoglobin out the cabin window.

  “Shit!” he swore. He twisted in pain and slumped against the window. “This is never going to end!”

  He took an old rag from a cupboard and roughly wiped his mouth. Then he sat back down, his eyes clouded by his determination to get out of this hell by any means possible. He cleared his throat and continued as calmly as he could.

  “I myself find it hard to believe the words I’m about to say, but this is all very real. After the malevolent cloud engulfed me, it transformed me in turn into a creature similar to the one I had just killed. I remember a reddish veil distorted my vision, pounding to the rhythm of the filthy heart of the beast I had become. I remember the icy burning, a devouring hatred that consumed the body I found myself in. By the dancing flames of the torches around the pentagram, I can still see limbs splintering in my greedy jaws. I caught the witches by their hair and slammed their bodies against the stone until I dismantled them. I clearly remember my dismay and my total inability to control my actions, or more accurately, the actions of this flesh-eating creature. I still have the gruesome feeling of blood spurting under my teeth and flowing down my throat, the vile pleasure of tasting it as the most delicate of nectars. Oh, God, forgive me!”

  He stopped talking and paused the recorder, short of breath due to his efforts to control himself, to keep himself from snapping. He was perspiring and felt other convulsions waiting to overwhelm him.

  “All this nameless horror. Why?”

  He collapsed into sobs, unable to stop, as if a mechanical need to empty himself of this emotional overflow was draining all his tears. When he emerged from this semivegetative state, he realized that over half an hour had passed. Dully, he went to fill a glass from a bottle of bourbon collecting dust on a shelf. He downed it all at once, emitting a mindless grunt. He hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in years. It wasn’t a solution, much less a cure for his pain. He shook himself to come to his senses.

  His gaze returned to the book sitting exactly where he had left it on the table. For the time being, this book was the only key he held, the only one that could open a door out of this nightmare. If he found the author, that person could break the spell that possessed him. For what he felt growing deep inside him, shaking the depths of his soul with abject turmoil, was indeed a spell lying in wait. It was a sleeping beast watching for the moment to take complete possession of him.

  *

  Again, he sat down in front of the book on the table, took hold of it carefully, and opened it. He turned the first few pages with trembling fingers. The symbols on the yellowed paper were as meaningless to him as Egyptian hieroglyphs. They were finely calligraphed in black ink, but time had erased many. He turned the pages until he came to what must have been the prologue to the book. There was an engraving in faded colors, but he could still distinguish a slender creature with carbon skin, twice the height of a man. Black curls of smoke intertwined around it. The dark figure presided in a sovereign posture on a massive throne carved out of a black rock. Below, a mass of hybrid beings crowded the throne, some with animal attributes, others naked men, or women with lascivious curves, entangled in an unbridled carnal ballet. The rest of the book was a convoluted series of paragraphs and subparagraphs. Cooper assumed they were instructions for performing various rituals and ceremonies, each one no doubt more occult and evil than the last. Among them was surely the one Eliott had witnessed, the one in which he had been an involuntary subject. He closed the book with resignation and accepted that he couldn’t gain any useful information from it.

  Still sitting in his chair, staring into space, absorbed in his thoughts, he thought about what he would do next. Then he suddenly started and grabbed his computer. He connected to the intranet of federal files using jamming software he had acquired from a young hacker but had never before had the chance to use. The program seemed to work perfectly because a window showed him the automatic changes to his IP address every twenty seconds. A few minutes later, the screen displayed the results of his research:

  Sir Wilbur Ravenwood, Expert Paleographer, 756 Middlebury Road, Rochester, New York.

  The profile of Sir Wilbur, a retiree in his sixties, was more than interesting. With a degree in archaeology from the prestigious University of Cambridge, he specialized in paleography, the study of ancient writings. A confirmed Egyptologist, he had also recently distinguished himself at various conferences around the world for his translation work on the Mayan cities of Tulum and Coba on the Yucatan peninsula. His latest publications dealt with writings from the esoteric spheres of the former Mongol Empire.

  Cooper decided to go meet Sir Wilbur Ravenwood. The eminent specialist would certainly be qualified to translate the contents of this book.

  Rochester. Population, 210,000. The city gave him a sense of security, probably because he could blend into the mass of its population. The town was situated on the shores of Lake Ontario. Crossing the state border would shake off the Pennsylvania state police on his tail. That was a definite advantage. As for the FBI, they would keep searching for him in the forests for quite some time. His colleagues and superiors knew him as a specialist in this type of terrain. He estimated this respite would last a maximum of two weeks. Then he would have to be even more vigilant and cautious on the run. He didn’t like the term, but that’s what it was. He was now the same as those he had hunted down in the past. Even worse, the FBI wouldn’t do him any favors; it would track him down with even greater relentlessness because he was one of its agents.

  The city of Rochester was 148 miles away. The question of transportation deserved careful consideration. If the metamorphosis occurred while he was driving, an accident would be inevitable. On the other hand, if he was on a bus or train full of passengers . . . No matter how long his journey to Rochester took, the point was to get there alive and preferably without eating anyone.

  He could only solve his problem objectively through cold analysis and judgment. He had to strive at every moment to remain detached to find clear and effective solutions. Giving in to panic, fear, or discouragement was not an option for a special agent conditioned to cope with the worst situations.

  He pulled the wool blanket off the bed in the cabin and cut a large square to wrap the precious grimoire. He then stowed the book vertically in his backpack, securely wedged between his computer and his water pouch.

  The safest way to get to Rochester was by foot—at most, a six-day hike along trails. His notions of time and distance had strangely expanded, almost evaporated. They seemed to extend away from his consciousness to a sp
ace unknown, without limits. He attributed this feeling to his interrupted research. It drove him around in endless circles in the woods like a hamster on a wheel. Even if it wasn’t official yet, he was no longer part of the FBI. As paradoxical as it might seem, he felt a jubilant liberation. All his bearings felt tossed into the air, blown over like an ephemeral house of cards. The moment he stepped through the cabin door to leave, he felt inordinately free.

  He headed north, taking care to rid himself of unnecessary and cumbersome equipment. He threw the excess into a hole between some rocks away from the path. The bundle hit the edges of the shaft several times, emitting increasingly faint thuds as it fell.

  Along the path, he saw some birds flying between the trees and even heard a deer snorting or grunting in the distance. Life was slowly reclaiming its rights over the desolate areas

  He would use journey time to try to understand, or at least anticipate, the process operating within him. So he applied himself to focusing closely on his sensations while he walked. If the evil rose inside him, maybe he could try to control or stop the process with nothing but the power of his will.

  The trail gradually emerged from the deep woods, where the light exposed it in large clearings. Tall fields of grass waved in the wind. This October morning was relatively clear but cold. The sun remained hidden behind a translucent layer of clouds. Was it because he was paying such close attention to his sensations that he felt changes happening in his body? The tingly feeling of teeming larvae had given way to larger movements that felt more like worms or snakes that might have spawned throughout his veins.