The telephone rang once, stopped, then rang again. Daniel de Jager let it ring a third time before answering; the office line was not widely circulated and those who had it tended to use it sparingly. “De Jager Antiques.” he said. “Daniel,” Croker replied. His voice was clear and unhurried. “Good afternoon.” “Afternoon, you caught me between . . . things.” “I apologise,” Croker said. “Did you receive the email I sent this morning?” “I saw it come in, I haven't opened it yet.” “Would you mind doing so now?” Daniel rolled his chair back from the desk and reached for the mouse. The computer took a moment to wake. Daniel opened it and scrolled. He read slowly through once, then again from the beginning. When he…
Mrs. Rabastandratana’s squeaky wheels and excited whoops tempered the fear storm spreading around the hall. Making her way to the front of the crowd, she leaped from her chair to perform a spasmodic jig in front of Rosie and the beast before taking a bow. My father’s face was incredulous, though fear had gripped him enough to not intervene. “Let’s sing a song from the old country” she bellowed joyously. The piano, still intact, became the new focal point in the room as Mrs. Rabasandratana launched into a haunting, operatic vocal and slammed her hands on the keys, creating an unholy din. The sounds were unsettling, with some residents placing hands over their ears and prompting knee-bending in others. My own bowels felt loosened by…
Rosie looked different. Strong and upright, the slight hunch and awkward gait was gone. Her carriage reminded me of an encyclopaedia illustration I once saw of Joan of Arc rallying troops; beckoning confrontation. Towering beside her, the worm stood in an S-shape, its cavernous mouth dripping fluids onto the parquet flooring. Its breathing was a slow, rhythmic pulsing. Ripples passed through its pale pink body, each ending in a rush of air that sounded like breath pushed through cold fingers on a winter morning. I could feel my body preparing to flee. My vision narrowed. I could hear my heart - and then I wasn’t sure where I was at all. According to my father, I turned to him and asked if we were having…
At 4 p.m., sandwiches distributed, I found myself staring out of the windows again. An old-fashioned lamp on the driveway had come on, likely on a timer to light the way on short winter days. Rain fell with impossible ferocity, though the windows remained free of droplets. Bushes were dragged in every direction across the shingle, pulling small stones and dried leaves from the ground which became briefly airborne, giving the uprooted flora the form of a living creature. I couldn’t work out if any of it was even happening. I saw Mr Column’s car moving up the shingle path, this time accompanied by a fire truck and a police car a short distance behind. Relieved, I waved excitedly at them. I was surprised to…
I sharply pulled my hand from the pages. I couldn't be sure what I'd seen or how I had seen it. I had travelled between consciousnesses, seeing through the eyes of people I had never met and at a time I could never have present. Curiosity got the better of me and was about to place my hand down on the page again before I heard a door swing. I watched Mrs. Tapscott stride across the room to the bottle green door. As she went through, I noticed Mrs. Rabasandratana had joined me in the room. She glared at me for several minutes. As much as I tried to avoid looking directly at her, I couldn’t for fear of losing track of her. The mental…
Mr. Column stood beneath a suspended plant pot, positioned atop the window outside, seemingly impervious to the heavy rain that cascaded around him. Neither his scraggly shoulder-length hair nor his coat were blowing with the wind. By this point, the rain was so heavy that large pools of water had formed in dips in the shingle where cars had driven through. I could see rainwater dropping onto his shoulders as it spilled from the pot, but there appeared to be no impact splash. He stared back and shrugged, as if to suggest I should be doing something I wasn’t. Then he pointed toward the entrance, pushed his index finger against his thumb, and made a turning motion with them. I promptly informed Mrs. Tapscott of…
Rosie showed no interest in the story, and despite thirty minutes of persistence, her agitation was palpable. Mrs. Tapscott kept asking what was wrong, and each time, Rosie glanced at the bearded man, almost as if seeking permission to speak. She’d adjust her sitting position and temporarily stop scanning the room. This pattern repeated itself. I noticed Mrs. Tapscott shooting disapproving looks at the man, who remained absorbed in Rosie. The encounter was unsettling - as if all three were waiting on some unspoken action that never came. Eventually, realising the futility of continuing to read, the bearded man stood and announced there had been enough excitement for the morning. He led Rosie away, crossing the hall and disappearing through a bottle green door. I…
We were somewhere in rural Surrey. A thick morning mist made visibility poor, and there were several stops to allow deer crossing the road a safe path into the adjacent meadows. Mr. Column, the school caretaker, was driving, with Mrs. Tapscott in the front passenger seat. My father had warned of the potential for travel sickness, giving a detailed description at the school gate of the time I projectile vomited onto the back of his head as we drove toward our static caravan in Great Yarmouth. Before too long, I could feel my stomach churning. Every now and then, Mrs. Tapscott would turn her head around, smile, and ask if I was doing alright. I nodded, afraid that opening my mouth might encourage a now…
The Prefect of the Vatican Apostolic Archives, Monsignor Aurelio Vescari, adjusted his spectacles as he examined the padded envelope that had arrived without insignia or return address. The handwriting was English, neat and deliberate. Inside were a folded letter, a stack of photocopied police documents, and a compact disc in a cracked plastic case. Across its surface, written in black marker, were the words: “Summonitores Libro - testimony of Daniel de Jager.” He sat at his desk beneath the frescoed ceiling of the Archivum Secretum, the morning light reduced to a trembling line across his papers. For a long moment, he stared at the CD. Few things arrived unrecorded in the catalogue, and fewer still were accompanied by warnings. The letter bore a crest once used…
