Somewhere in Time
The silty sand and Cheval de fries defenses blurred, serpentine trails of yellowy light stretched out towards him.
He allowed himself to fall, a thousand images bombarded his psyche before he regained his sight.
The sky of course was grey, the usual malaise prevalent, he trotted up the wide stone steps, unlocked the heavy wooden door and entered.
The mansion was build in the style and fashion of some great Grecian or medieval keep, yellow sandstone walls, mock antiquated woodwork and Mediterranean tile floors.
He had met its owner Gordan Tremaine at a number of museum functions, a slightly annoying man of considerable business acumen, but relatively harmless.
On the other side of the mirror Tremaine started, looked up from his armchair and amusingly shouted that any ghosts were trespassing and to keep the noise down, he was trying to read.
Vincent smiled actually he quite liked Tremaine, there seemed to be a sense of humor, perhaps it was the businessman’s solitary nature, four wives later it seemed that he preferred his own company.
He waited until Tremaine had settled back into his book and reached across, as far as he knew only he could reach between, crossing the mirror and interacting with the world of color.
In this case ignoring the sparks that flared over his arm he lifted the decanter of brandy and brought it across, an action he repeated to obtain a glass.
It was good expensive stuff warming as it tickled down, he breathed out, centering himself and banishing the script appearing at the edges of his vision, recently he’d learned some techniques that allowed him to delay their onset.
That crazy elf had proved useful for something, his strange songs had provided some helpful inspiration.
Pouring himself another, he then tensed and pushed the decanter back across the mirror, he winced as the glass chinked noisily on its silver tray, he quickly withdrew his hand the mirror closing back into a grey hazy wall.
Tremaine had risen from his chair, cautiously he approached the drinks cabinet and then looked suspiciously at the brandy “Damn ghosts” he muttered, however Vincent was one of the few who could hear across the mirror.
Standing next to each other Tremaine was in reality a world away, he appeared as a grey smudge bearing the vague characteristics of a person, inhabitants of the dark Smoking Mirror would only see him as such and very rarely be able to affect him.
In most situations the inhabitants of each world saw each other as ghostly blurs, like something from a Edvard Munch painting, only rare individuals had the gift to look through.
From the corner of his eye he saw the grey smudge paintings begin to run, as if the very paint and image contained were flowing into the room, coalescing into a figure.
“You have returned!” it said
“How observant” Vincent replied caustically
“How was your journey” it continued, Vincent noted that the shadowy furniture of this side had started to animate and wander around, which was quite normal
“Many stops, the visions constant” he replied wearily “What of here?” he added
“The walls have been thick, the prowlers howl their frustration, attacks upon the shades have been many, the pale ones have had to hide themselves very well, it has been bad”
Vincent nodded, he hated this place but yet was drawn to it, and for that he hated it, not a day passed where he try to abandon his visits, yet stupid loyalty drew him back.
His respite was travelling to the other worlds at least he could escape the perpetually misery of The Smoking Mirror, the weight of which he felt even on the other side.
He knocked back the second glass and shuddered with the welcome warmth.
“Grandmother wishes to see you”
“The Atwell creature?” he responded warily
“The same” the white shade replied
He silently cursed how had the creature leaned of him, as if hearing his thoughts the shade answered “The museum mirror” it stated
Vincent looked puzzled “What of it”
“You will need to see for yourself” it replied, Vincent moved his leg to avoid the shambling motion of an ambulatory footstool.
Dark Worlds
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arcanus
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Dark Worlds
Parallel Minus 2XB5
Stuart Street, Bay Village – Boston 2011
At 2.15am in the morning and due to its lack of traffic the Bay Village was peacefully quiet.
Despite nearing his sixtieth year Rod didn't normally wake in the night, however on this occasion he did, attended to a call of nature and noticed that the spare room where Suzie and Charlie were asleep was ajar.
He smiled and peered into the room, his eyes adjusting to the gloom and he frowned in puzzlement, laid upon the rug was his son in law Dan, ‘strange’ he thought ‘perhaps one of the kids couldn't sleep and he’d fallen asleep settling them.
Rod slivered again, he looked up from Dan towards Suzie’s bed and blinked, stood over her was a smudge, a distortion.
It was like being submerged deep underwater and trying to see something or someone in the dark murky water, as he concentrated he began to make out the blurred incomplete form of perhaps a man.
He flung the door open and switched on the light, less adrenaline might have prompted caution but Rod wasn't sure what he was looking at, in response the blur turned, a distorted mouth seemed to silently shout or roar in anger.
Dan was motionless, the kids didn't stir, Rod grabbed a heavy reference book from the nearby bookcase, charged towards the apparition and swung.
Rod had half expected the book to pass through thin air, a figment of his tired imagination.
Instead the book met with a slight resistance, the same as if pushing your hand through water, again a silent roar, a blur of a distorted arm lashing out at him and then it was gone.
Stuart Street, Bay Village – Boston 2011
At 2.15am in the morning and due to its lack of traffic the Bay Village was peacefully quiet.
Despite nearing his sixtieth year Rod didn't normally wake in the night, however on this occasion he did, attended to a call of nature and noticed that the spare room where Suzie and Charlie were asleep was ajar.
He smiled and peered into the room, his eyes adjusting to the gloom and he frowned in puzzlement, laid upon the rug was his son in law Dan, ‘strange’ he thought ‘perhaps one of the kids couldn't sleep and he’d fallen asleep settling them.
Rod slivered again, he looked up from Dan towards Suzie’s bed and blinked, stood over her was a smudge, a distortion.
It was like being submerged deep underwater and trying to see something or someone in the dark murky water, as he concentrated he began to make out the blurred incomplete form of perhaps a man.
He flung the door open and switched on the light, less adrenaline might have prompted caution but Rod wasn't sure what he was looking at, in response the blur turned, a distorted mouth seemed to silently shout or roar in anger.
Dan was motionless, the kids didn't stir, Rod grabbed a heavy reference book from the nearby bookcase, charged towards the apparition and swung.
Rod had half expected the book to pass through thin air, a figment of his tired imagination.
Instead the book met with a slight resistance, the same as if pushing your hand through water, again a silent roar, a blur of a distorted arm lashing out at him and then it was gone.
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arcanus
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Dark Worlds
Homeline - 2027
117A Pulver Avenue, Flint, Michigan State.
Plaster work had fallen away from the wooden wall struts, patches of dampness, grease and animal urine the sources of decay, the tenement like hundreds of others a dilapidated zone of neglect. 117A was also the latest to become a murder scene, although in Flint Michigan unfortunately that wasn't a rare accolade, Officer Hart showed his badge to the cop on the door and slowly entered.
The smell of Vaseline succeeded in overpowering the scent of filth, beneath the petroleum the sickly sweet tang of dead meat, steeling himself he scanned the stairway extending up the wall to the left of the passage, the crime scene officers in the kitchen at the end of the hall, the careful unseen movement in the room to his right.
Satisfied he’d got his bearings and centered himself Hart moved up the stairs to the second floor, the sickly sweet smell grew stronger and despite his years of training he could feel a queasiness in his stomach. Reaching the top of the stairs he stepped through the incident taped door and into the crime scene.
Adena Porter stood at the end of the bed, hers was a willowy frame, thin due to poor diet and a constant lack of quality sleep, her curly black hair kept in a unruly but short bob to avoid unnecessary preening.
Looking down upon the cadaver she shivered uncontrollably, FBI Agent William Nason watched her reaction with interest while the CSI officers carefully made their way around the bare room trying their best to avoid disturbing her.
The brutalization was horrific the hands and feet both hacked off, the cadavers torso sliced open and the skin almost peeled open up to the underside of her chin.
Adena shuddered again her eyes not leaving the body, Nason nodded to Hart before turning back to her.
“Such confusion” she stammered, “He’s lost, someway between rage and apologizing”
“This just happened came upon him, no build up just one day the thought came to him”
Nason frowned but refrained from commenting
“This isn’t right, not multiple personalities, a change but not complete, decency hidden beneath the surface, the arrangement of the body, cleaned, fresh sheets among the filth”
It was Hart’s turn to frown, Nason pressed “Why does he kill?”
Her skin was clammy now, sweat beading across her brow “Rage, inner darkness, he needs, wants to show them, show them the darkness” she blinked uncontrollably before continuing “He’s trying to purge it from himself, get it all out” she croaked
Porter composed herself and moved to the back of the room, Nason exhaled and gestured to the CSI to step in before turning to Officer Hart – “You’re the ICop right?”
Hart nodded “Not sure why I’m here though” he replied
“Lewis drive Miss Porter home would you!” another agent dressed in an FBI jacket nodded and followed the nervous woman as she left the room, taking one final look at the body Nason stepped out of the room before turning to Hart.
The ICop looked expectantly at the Fed, Nason cleared his throat “Your aware that Homeland Security run satellite sweeps for Parachronic energy signatures”
“Yeah complete waste of time considering the interference and how many corporate conveyors there are”
“Well HLS passed us some data, an unusual act of cooperation, a Parachronic energy reading in this area at about the time of the killing”
“So your thinking this is a traveler” replied Hart
“Officer Hart I’m not sure what to think, but Porters last reading made less sense than normal”
“She’s borderline behavioral psychosis you know” replied Hart
“Yeah, she runs a fine line, but her empathy is the only thing we've got on our guy so far, which is why I’m guessing your office send you, seeing as you have expertise in behavioral science”
“Not sure how long I can give you Agent? I’m due offworld in 48 hours”
“Nason and I hope to god we catch this one before 48 hours is up, I need you to determine whether this guy is offworld or the satellite sweep is unrelated”
“I’ll need to talk to Miss Porter will she be okay with that” Hart noted
“We can do that in my office tomorrow, she needs to feel safe when meeting people”
Hart frowned in puzzlement “Yet she visits murder scenes”
Nason shook the ICops hand “Yeah, she’s fine with dead people it’s the living that freak her out, see you tomorrow, sleep well” said the agent as he made his way down the stairs
“Fat chance of that” Hart muttered to himself
117A Pulver Avenue, Flint, Michigan State.
Plaster work had fallen away from the wooden wall struts, patches of dampness, grease and animal urine the sources of decay, the tenement like hundreds of others a dilapidated zone of neglect. 117A was also the latest to become a murder scene, although in Flint Michigan unfortunately that wasn't a rare accolade, Officer Hart showed his badge to the cop on the door and slowly entered.
The smell of Vaseline succeeded in overpowering the scent of filth, beneath the petroleum the sickly sweet tang of dead meat, steeling himself he scanned the stairway extending up the wall to the left of the passage, the crime scene officers in the kitchen at the end of the hall, the careful unseen movement in the room to his right.
Satisfied he’d got his bearings and centered himself Hart moved up the stairs to the second floor, the sickly sweet smell grew stronger and despite his years of training he could feel a queasiness in his stomach. Reaching the top of the stairs he stepped through the incident taped door and into the crime scene.
Adena Porter stood at the end of the bed, hers was a willowy frame, thin due to poor diet and a constant lack of quality sleep, her curly black hair kept in a unruly but short bob to avoid unnecessary preening.
Looking down upon the cadaver she shivered uncontrollably, FBI Agent William Nason watched her reaction with interest while the CSI officers carefully made their way around the bare room trying their best to avoid disturbing her.
The brutalization was horrific the hands and feet both hacked off, the cadavers torso sliced open and the skin almost peeled open up to the underside of her chin.
Adena shuddered again her eyes not leaving the body, Nason nodded to Hart before turning back to her.
“Such confusion” she stammered, “He’s lost, someway between rage and apologizing”
“This just happened came upon him, no build up just one day the thought came to him”
Nason frowned but refrained from commenting
“This isn’t right, not multiple personalities, a change but not complete, decency hidden beneath the surface, the arrangement of the body, cleaned, fresh sheets among the filth”
It was Hart’s turn to frown, Nason pressed “Why does he kill?”
Her skin was clammy now, sweat beading across her brow “Rage, inner darkness, he needs, wants to show them, show them the darkness” she blinked uncontrollably before continuing “He’s trying to purge it from himself, get it all out” she croaked
Porter composed herself and moved to the back of the room, Nason exhaled and gestured to the CSI to step in before turning to Officer Hart – “You’re the ICop right?”
Hart nodded “Not sure why I’m here though” he replied
“Lewis drive Miss Porter home would you!” another agent dressed in an FBI jacket nodded and followed the nervous woman as she left the room, taking one final look at the body Nason stepped out of the room before turning to Hart.
The ICop looked expectantly at the Fed, Nason cleared his throat “Your aware that Homeland Security run satellite sweeps for Parachronic energy signatures”
“Yeah complete waste of time considering the interference and how many corporate conveyors there are”
“Well HLS passed us some data, an unusual act of cooperation, a Parachronic energy reading in this area at about the time of the killing”
“So your thinking this is a traveler” replied Hart
“Officer Hart I’m not sure what to think, but Porters last reading made less sense than normal”
“She’s borderline behavioral psychosis you know” replied Hart
“Yeah, she runs a fine line, but her empathy is the only thing we've got on our guy so far, which is why I’m guessing your office send you, seeing as you have expertise in behavioral science”
“Not sure how long I can give you Agent? I’m due offworld in 48 hours”
“Nason and I hope to god we catch this one before 48 hours is up, I need you to determine whether this guy is offworld or the satellite sweep is unrelated”
“I’ll need to talk to Miss Porter will she be okay with that” Hart noted
“We can do that in my office tomorrow, she needs to feel safe when meeting people”
Hart frowned in puzzlement “Yet she visits murder scenes”
Nason shook the ICops hand “Yeah, she’s fine with dead people it’s the living that freak her out, see you tomorrow, sleep well” said the agent as he made his way down the stairs
“Fat chance of that” Hart muttered to himself
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arcanus
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Dark Worlds
Gotha 7
Waltham Forest – The County of Middlesex 1512
Clouds of moist breath snorted from the horses, the sun cast a pale shuttered light fleetingly through the trees, the damp forest emitted no sound just unnerving silence.
Not a bird sang, the great hounds strained restlessly against their muzzles and leash, six armoured figures sat waiting, in the middle of the pack sat the King who bridled with impatience, but his huntsman was the best in the Counties.
Clad in drab slate grey attire the hawkish Elias Cole watched and listened, as silently as the grave (which was apt) he readied his longbow, drew a bead and fired into the shadowy foliage.
The silence was immediately broken as a snarling figure burst from the treeline, stumbling with the arrow shaft firmly impaling its chest it broke into an alarmingly quick sprint towards Cole.
Its features were contorted, any resemblance to the man it had once been gone, its eyes watery, face heavily lined, skin and teeth caked with carrion and filth.
Cole winced as the first Matchlock roared, Compton’s shot flying wild however Thomas Boleyns shot finding its mark exploding through the gaunts jaw and emptying its brainpan.
Sirs Brandon, Carew and Guildford released a volley into the woods stirring the nest as the gaunt mob broke cover, some charging the party whilst others fled.
“YAAAARRR” roared Henry Tudor digging his feet he spurred Governatore into a terrifying charge, at 18 hands Henry’s favoured Great Horse thundered into the slowest gaunts, The King grunted in satisfaction as he impaled two of the beasts on his lance before drawing his mace.
His Lords were now engaged with the braver gaunts as he pursued the escapees, his Knights having waited until blood had been drawn thundered after him, cutting a swathe through the scattering pack. The King raced into the throng swinging his mace alternately from left to right whilst Governatore cantered in a circle preventing the beasts from grappling or dismounting his master.
Minutes of guttural growling and the crunching of bones ended the bloodlust as over a dozen gaunts lay slain, Cole made his way from corpse to corpse ensuring each’s head was severed, once done his retainers dragged the remains to a clearing where they assembled a pyre.
The problem with the gaunts was if you didn’t destroy them utterly, they rose again as reeks.
Cole rose, turned towards heavy hooves trotting toward him and promptly bowed, Henry VIII's ornate Italian plate armour was covered in splattered gore, raising his faceplate hard eyes surveyed the scene and fixed on Cole.
Removing his gauntlet Henry Tudor pulled the cloth mask from his nose and mouth “A good hunt Master Cole!”, the huntsman merely nodded as the king trotted on, this attention turning to mirthfully admonishing Compton on his poor aim.
Waltham Forest – The County of Middlesex 1512
Clouds of moist breath snorted from the horses, the sun cast a pale shuttered light fleetingly through the trees, the damp forest emitted no sound just unnerving silence.
Not a bird sang, the great hounds strained restlessly against their muzzles and leash, six armoured figures sat waiting, in the middle of the pack sat the King who bridled with impatience, but his huntsman was the best in the Counties.
Clad in drab slate grey attire the hawkish Elias Cole watched and listened, as silently as the grave (which was apt) he readied his longbow, drew a bead and fired into the shadowy foliage.
The silence was immediately broken as a snarling figure burst from the treeline, stumbling with the arrow shaft firmly impaling its chest it broke into an alarmingly quick sprint towards Cole.
Its features were contorted, any resemblance to the man it had once been gone, its eyes watery, face heavily lined, skin and teeth caked with carrion and filth.
Cole winced as the first Matchlock roared, Compton’s shot flying wild however Thomas Boleyns shot finding its mark exploding through the gaunts jaw and emptying its brainpan.
Sirs Brandon, Carew and Guildford released a volley into the woods stirring the nest as the gaunt mob broke cover, some charging the party whilst others fled.
“YAAAARRR” roared Henry Tudor digging his feet he spurred Governatore into a terrifying charge, at 18 hands Henry’s favoured Great Horse thundered into the slowest gaunts, The King grunted in satisfaction as he impaled two of the beasts on his lance before drawing his mace.
His Lords were now engaged with the braver gaunts as he pursued the escapees, his Knights having waited until blood had been drawn thundered after him, cutting a swathe through the scattering pack. The King raced into the throng swinging his mace alternately from left to right whilst Governatore cantered in a circle preventing the beasts from grappling or dismounting his master.
Minutes of guttural growling and the crunching of bones ended the bloodlust as over a dozen gaunts lay slain, Cole made his way from corpse to corpse ensuring each’s head was severed, once done his retainers dragged the remains to a clearing where they assembled a pyre.
The problem with the gaunts was if you didn’t destroy them utterly, they rose again as reeks.
Cole rose, turned towards heavy hooves trotting toward him and promptly bowed, Henry VIII's ornate Italian plate armour was covered in splattered gore, raising his faceplate hard eyes surveyed the scene and fixed on Cole.
Removing his gauntlet Henry Tudor pulled the cloth mask from his nose and mouth “A good hunt Master Cole!”, the huntsman merely nodded as the king trotted on, this attention turning to mirthfully admonishing Compton on his poor aim.