Having just fired the shot, the silver pistol’s muzzle, still warm, quickly reddened the forehead it pressed against.
Yet, the purple-haired woman betrayed not a trace of fear.
“I truly wouldn’t dare to shoot.”
Ramsey drew the pistol from her grasp, sliding it into its holster.
“I can also surmise,” he continued, “that you lacked the confidence to initiate the ritual in front of so many of us. That’s why you used your daughter’s life as a threat, keeping it hidden until now.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
The purple-haired woman’s arms lifted subtly, and all around them, the earth beneath the gravestones began to heave, as if something monstrous struggled to break free.
The agents, who had rushed over, weapons drawn at the sound of the shot, now recoiled from the gravestones, their eyes wide with terror.
From the disturbed earth, hands clawed their way out, followed by heads whose eye sockets, mouths, and ear canals teemed with red-eyed rats, until finally, entire corpses emerged.
In mere moments, the ‘living’ dead had tripled the number of occupants in the graveyard.
Every agent stood poised, guns trembling in their hands, awaiting their captain’s command.
“This dream ritual requires a human vessel for its activation.”
Ramsey’s voice remained unnervingly calm, a subtle flicker of disdain in his eyes.
“Is it ‘you’?’ he probed, ‘Or these former and current colleagues of mine? Or perhaps… your daughter?”
“You certainly possess knowledge of rituals, and are far more experienced than I had imagined, ‘Captain’.”
Just then, the purple-haired woman’s voice deepened, taking on a markedly older, more ancient quality.
“How about we make a wager, then? Let’s bet on who will emerge victorious over there, and whether that doctor from the hospital department can truly protect the nun.”
“You seem to have already concluded that Director Anthea will not intervene, or indeed, that she is already dead…”
Ramsey, unhurried, withdrew his pipe from his pocket and lit it, a plume of smoke unfurling.
“So, what are the stakes?”
“This city is destined for destruction, regardless, save for a precious few.
If she succeeds, my daughter will perish.
If she fails, however, my daughter will live, for after all… I, too, am a mother.”
“I believe we can raise the stakes even further.”
A slow plume of smoke drifted from his lips.
“What if we added your life and mine to the wager?”
****
At the entrance of 101 Lily of the Valley Street.
Retrieving the key from a wooden box hidden beneath a stone, they unlocked the door to find the interior precisely as it had been left.
After only half a day, Ghervil found herself returning to the house that, in her heart, she considered home.
With no symptoms having manifested, Dr. Callan had simply scratched her nose lightly, much like one might playfully rouse a small bird, and Ghervil had slowly, languidly awakened.
While Ghervil was still in a haze, Dr. Callan had already entered the house to conduct a thorough inspection.
The water glass on the table.
The fruits and vegetables in the kitchen, yet to be stored in the cellar.
The cleanly gnawed apple core in the trash bin.
The upstairs doors and windows.
Having completed a meticulous sweep of the interior, Dr. Callan descended the stairs, illuminated the space, and gestured for the two waiting outside to enter.
“Everything has been thoroughly checked,” she reported.
“There are no traces of anything having been rummaged through; those things likely wouldn’t be so meticulous.”
“Huh…” Ghervil mumbled, rubbing an eye with one hand and stifling a yawn.
“Did you go up to the third floor? What’s up there?”
“It was locked tight,” Dr. Callan replied.
“I considered forcing it open, but ultimately decided against it.”
She flexed the fingers of her right hand, a gesture that suggested she was contemplating some rather unsavory methods.
“You haven’t been up to your own house before?” Helm asked, his brow furrowing with a touch of bewilderment.
“I don’t have the key,” the young woman said, spreading her hands innocently.
“Speaking of which, the first time I encountered the Director was connected to this very matter, and to both of you.”
She turned her gaze to Helm.
“Do you recall coming to me, seeking Blood Rose petals, because of your brother’s case?”
“Ramsey?” Helm murmured, quickly recalling the clandestine deal they had struck on the balcony that day.
“Yes, he informed me that a weapon left by the Director might be hidden somewhere in the house, instructing me to find it myself.”
“I meticulously searched every room on the first and second floors, yet the key to the attic remained elusive, so I opted to descend into the cellar instead.”
“Consequently, my plan to locate the weapon was thwarted.”
“And it was there, in the cellar, that you encountered her?” Dr. Callan asked, her blue eyes fixed intently upon the young woman.
“Oh, I distinctly remember that day wasn’t a Sunday!” Helm suddenly exclaimed, his strange cry earning him displeased glares from both women.
Feigning a cough twice to steer the conversation elsewhere, he urged, “Don’t just stand there, let’s make haste for the cellar.”
“Just because the house appears safe doesn’t guarantee the cellar is,” Dr. Callan cautioned.
“Bear in mind, the backyard adjoins the forest outside, and rats could have slipped in and concealed themselves at any given moment.”
She moved to the window overlooking the backyard, pulled open a narrow slit in the curtains, and peered out, her body turned sideways.
Amidst the weeds, faintly touched by a thin veil of moonlight, the shadowy cellar door was barely discernible.
“Perhaps they never even considered venturing down there,” Helm murmured, lowering his voice as he followed close behind.
“If Director Anthea truly resides within, their descent would be nothing short of suicide.”
With their opinions clearly diverging, both their gazes settled on Ghervil.
“How about…?” she began tentatively.
“I descend alone, and you two secure the entrance?”
“Absolutely not!” they both exclaimed, denying her in perfect unison.
“What in the world are you thinking?” Helm demanded.
“You don’t even possess a proper weapon for self-defense; what could you possibly do if danger arose?”
‘Weapons were irrelevant; the crucial factor was the individual wielding them,’ they reasoned.
‘If a person possessed sufficient strength, even a slender blade could resolve any predicament.’
Their reasoning was not without merit.
Having witnessed the rats’ cunning firsthand, they were now compelled to exercise extreme caution before making any critical decisions, lest they fall into another trap.
“Stop it!” Ghervil cried, unable to endure their incessant nagging and bickering any longer, her voice cutting sharply through their argument.
“Dr. Callan, you’ll accompany me to the cellar,” she declared.
“Helm, you are to attempt opening the third-floor attic; see if the Director left anything useful up there. I’ll even permit you to shoot the lock open!”
“That should be acceptable, shouldn’t it?” she pressed.
This seemed a far more reasonable arrangement: Dr. Callan’s strength would minimize the danger in the cellar, while Helm, after investigating the third floor, could then provide watchful support from outside.
“Take this, and be cautious,” Helm said with a light chuckle, tossing over a tin flashlight.
“Should anything arise outside, I will alert you both immediately.”
He then drew his gun and a wooden-handled dagger before striding purposefully up the stairs.
A cool breeze swept through as Dr. Callan opened the back door.
She slipped a metal ring onto her index finger, then turned and presented her back to the young woman, disappearing into the shadows.
Hesitating for just a moment, Ghervil then lowered her head and dutifully followed.
‘A more cautious approach, perhaps, would have been for Dr. Callan to descend into the cellar alone, leaving Helm and me to explore the attic,’ Ghervil mused.
After opening the cellar door, they exchanged a silent glance.
Dr. Callan, flashlight in hand, descended first, alone.
Thirty seconds later, the beam of light flickered upwards, a clear signal for Ghervil to follow.
Before venturing further, Ghervil, ever practical, remembered to bring down an oil lamp and ignite its flame.
In such a largely enclosed space, using a flame to gauge the oxygen levels was an absolutely necessary precaution.
“Here,” Dr. Callan’s voice echoed.
Following the flashlight’s beam, Ghervil saw her crouched in a corner, intently observing something.
Drawing closer, Ghervil discovered a gray-furred rat, half-buried in the damp soil.
Its body was shriveled and largely decomposed, suggesting it had been dead for a considerable time.
“Go find a shovel,” Dr. Callan instructed.
Without a word of protest or question, Ghervil, understanding the unspoken urgency, clutched the oil lamp and clambered out of the cellar.
Three minutes later, a metal shovel, easily taller than a person, clattered down into the depths.
As Ghervil descended the steps, two sharp gunshots from upstairs startled her, causing her to miss a step and nearly tumble onto her backside.
Not entirely unexpectedly, she was caught by a pair of steady hands.
Setting the young woman gently aside, Dr. Callan retrieved the iron shovel, braced one foot, and plunged it with powerful force into the earth near the rats.
With each forceful scoop, more rats were unearthed, and a putrid stench—a sickening blend of damp earth and congealed blood—slowly began to permeate the confined space.
Ghervil, holding the flashlight aloft, recoiled, pinching her nose as her stomach churned violently.
The skin of some rats was crawling with wriggling maggots, which detached and fell into the soil during the excavation.
Dr. Callan remained utterly unfazed, her hands working with undiminished speed.
Approximately ten minutes passed, and a pit, occupying a fifth of the cellar’s floor, now lay open, nearly a hundred rat corpses piled beside it.
“Aside from these disgusting things, there’s absolutely nothing!”
With a clang, Dr. Callan tossed the iron shovel aside, refusing to dig further.
Ghervil had already noticed as well; any deeper excavation would only reveal more earth and stone.
“Why were they buried here?”
“I don’t know…”
“Because of some power…”
A voice, ancient and eerie, like a throat torn open, echoed from the darkness.
“Whoosh—”
The oil lamp extinguished, the flashlight flickered, and a gust of腥风 (TL Note: A foul, fishy, or bloody smelling wind) swept through the cellar.
The eye sockets of the piled, deceased rats began to glow red, and they writhed, tearing at each other’s bodies, their shattered forms sprouting fleshy tendrils and rapidly fusing in a grotesque manner.
Limbs, torsos, heads.
Ultimately, they coalesced into the form of an old man in white robes, with deeply sunken eyes.
Dr. Callan immediately shielded the young woman behind her, retreating to the wall, her gaze fixed intently on the figure.
From her lips, a name escaped:
“Morsian-Sartre!”