Chapter 2 -Old Diaries
"I'm sorry," Madam Mourch said softly, her voice trembling under the weight of an emotion she couldn't yet name.
Celia lowered her gaze, her fingers curling into the hem of her coat. Fear, sadness, and a gnawing unease swirled within her, each vying for dominance.
For a moment, the silence between them was deafening, heavy with unspoken dread. But Madam Mourch broke it, her tone low and strained, as though she were bracing herself for the inevitable blow.
"Who is it this time?"
Celia hesitated, her lips parting as if to stall for just a moment longer. Finally, she looked up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Mr. Grint's daughter."
The air seemed to freeze.
Madam Mourch's face went pale, her breath catching audibly. The words hung in the air, sharp as broken glass, cutting deeper with every second. Her hand flew to her chest, clutching at the fabric of her shawl as though it might anchor her.
"His daughter..." she whispered, the disbelief in her voice almost a plea for denial. Her knees threatened to buckle, and she staggered a step back, her wide eyes flickering between Celia and the shadows beyond.
For a moment, her lips moved soundlessly, struggling to shape words that refused to come. Then her expression hardened—grief buried beneath a mask of fury. Her teeth clenched, and her breath came in sharp, shallow bursts.
"This—" Her voice cracked before she forced it steady. "Its.. Unbearable.."
Celia could only look down, her hands trembling as guilt and helplessness warred within her.
Madam Mourch closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath through her nose, and exhaled slowly, as if forcing herself back into control. When she opened them again, there was a cold determination in her gaze.
"Come on," she said, her voice firmer now, though the cracks still lingered. "You and your sister need food. Staying out here will do no good."
Celia nodded hesitantly, her shoulders hunched under the weight of the moment. She turned toward her house, her steps slow and heavy.
Madam Mourch followed in silence, the box of provisions balanced carefully in her arms. But as they neared the end of the path, she stopped abruptly, her attention caught by the looming silhouette of Mr. Grint's house.
The windows were dark, the structure cloaked in an unnatural stillness. Madam Mourch's gaze lingered on the doorway, her expression a mix of sorrow and regret.
She swallowed hard, her lips parting as though she wanted to say something—to the house, to its absent occupants, or perhaps to herself. But no words came.
Instead, she let out a shaky breath, her face hardening once more. With one last lingering glance, she turned and resumed walking, her steps resolute but heavy.
----
At the other hand, Fort, who had been painstakingly working on the Latin manuscript, finally managed to decipher several lines of the cryptic text.
16th October
The Church knows far more than I could have imagined. They've classified those who wield this strange power into distinct categories.
If they wanted, they could use this knowledge to make the world a better place—though it seems they have other plans. This power, rooted in what they call Imagination, is shrouded in mystery.
---
17th October
I stumbled upon something unexpected today: an informant within the Church itself.
This changes everything. Information from within their ranks will now flow directly to me.
"Lucky me," I muttered, unable to contain a grim smile.
---
18th October
The informant's first revelation was remarkable. In less than a day, he delivered a treasure: a recipe for what the Church calls the Six-Sensed Potion.
This potion, according to him, grants sight beyond the human realm—to see spirits, ghosts, and what lies beyond mortal comprehension.
I had always dismissed the stories of a "sixth sense" as fanciful myths. But now…
The recipe was simple yet strange: boil two strands of human hair, three olive seeds, two petals of the hysteria flower, and any tree bark. Once the liquid turns black, place three drops into each eye, then close them immediately.
I couldn't resist the temptation to test it for myself.
After acquiring the ingredients, I followed the instructions to the letter. I boiled the mixture, watching as the water turned an ominous black. Carefully, I applied three drops to each eye and shut them tight.
It began immediately. Footsteps echoed nearby, growing louder, accompanied by a low, droning hum.
The informant had warned me: "No matter what you hear, do not open your eyes until the sound fades completely."
When the noises finally ceased, I opened my eyes cautiously.
What I saw defied explanation. Twisting, grotesque shapes writhed within the walls, their translucent forms pulsating unnaturally. Some floated silently, their eyeless faces turning toward me as if sensing my presence.
Then, a knock at my door. Gentle at first, it grew louder, more insistent, until it shook the entire house.
My heart raced as I remembered the incantation:
"Noli vexare, videam mundum tuum, noli me infestare, unus sum multorum, transgressor."
As soon as I uttered the last word, the knocking stopped.
It worked.
These beings—whatever they are—can be repelled by specific words. Latin, perhaps? Or something more ancient?
---
Fort snapped the book shut, his thoughts swirling. A sixth sense, spirits, ghosts… this world is far from ordinary.
Realizing he had spent hours immersed in his translation, he finally noticed his growling stomach. He decided to grab something to eat.
---
After purchasing bread from a nearby shop, Fort returned home, his mind restless. He couldn't stop thinking about the recipe.
Gathering the ingredients, he boiled them again, watching as the mixture darkened. Once the potion cooled, he followed the instructions precisely, placing three drops in each eye and closing them immediately.
A voice echoed, soft and indistinct, growing louder until it became almost unbearable. Then, silence.
When Fort opened his eyes, he saw it: strange figures, some translucent, others dark and menacing, drifting through the fog outside his window.
And then, a knock. Soft at first, it soon turned into a violent pounding.
Remembering the incantation, he recited it:
"Noli vexare, videam mundum tuum, noli me infestare, unus sum multorum, transgressor."
The noise stopped.
( Is it worked?) Fortis murmured
Looking out the window, Fort's breath hitched. A woman stood at a neighbor's door, her long, tangled hair obscuring her face. Her black dress flowed unnaturally, and though she seemed human, she hovered inches above the ground.
Cellie's words echoed in his mind: "Every night, someone will hear a knock. If they open the door, they disappear."
The woman knocked softly, but as time passed, her strikes became violent. Shadows flickered as the terrified residents lit their lamps.
Then, with a deafening crash, the door splintered. The woman glided inside without a sound.
Fort grabbed his revolver and ran out into the night.
---
Inside the neighbor's home, the air was heavy with dread. The hallway was dim, and the faint growls of something inhuman echoed in the distance.
Fort found her—her face pale and stretched into a grotesque grin, her sharp teeth gleaming. She held a child, her clawed hands lifting him toward her blood-stained mouth.
Without hesitation, Fort fired.
The bullet struck her head, tearing through her skull. With a guttural shriek, her eyeball dangled from its socket as she staggered, clutching her face.
(it could get hurt!) Fort's thoughts raced as he observed the creature ahead, its grotesque form struggling to stay upright, swaying as though on the verge of collapse.
What kind of abomination is this...? he thought, his gaze unwavering.
Moments later, the creature shifted, its unnatural frame twisting as it slowly turned to face him.
Despite her shattered form, a guttural growl escaped her distorted mouth, her voice twisted and unearthly.
Before Fort could aim again, she lunged. He barely dodged, with a sudden burst of unnatural speed, she vanished into the dense fog, leaving behind an air of chilling silence.
Though frustrated at her escape, Fort knew better than to chase her blindly into the mist.
Fort stood still in the silent room, his body feeling as though it were weighed down by lead. His hand, still gripping the revolver, trembled slightly—not from exhaustion, but from the lingering tension coursing through every nerve.
He glanced at the child lying unconscious in his father's arms, the boy's pale face a stark reminder of how close death had come. For a moment, Fort simply stood there, his thoughts spiraling in disarray. When he finally stepped outside, the cold, damp night air wrapped around him, carrying the oppressive scent of the fog. Yet, he barely noticed it.
---
Under the dim glow of the streetlamp, Fort stopped, tilting his head to stare at the overcast sky. Something dreadful crawled through his bones, like a slow-moving poison. He had seen death before—natural and unnatural, human and otherwise—but this… this was something entirely different.
As Fort walked home, his thoughts churned. The creature wasn't just some ghostly apparition; it had substance, blood—if the black ichor splattered on the neighbor's floor could be called that—and it had reacted to pain.
But it wasn't dead.
The incantation had stopped the knocking, but it didn't destroy the creature. His revolver had hurt it, but not enough to kill it. What kind of abomination was he dealing with?
He reached his house and locked the door behind him, leaning heavily against it. His mind drifted back to the translated text. The Six-Sensed Potion had worked, but it had opened his eyes to a world he wasn't prepared for.
The words of the incantation echoed in his mind. "Noli vexare, videam mundum tuum, noli me infestare, unus sum multorum, transgressor."
(It wasn't just a prayer—it was a command. A ward. But against what?)
His words were swallowed by the mist, but the image of that woman—if she could even be called that—remained vivid in his mind. Her twisted face, that unnatural smile, and the way she fled despite her grievous injuries… It all replayed endlessly. Closing his eyes did nothing to stop it.
"Undead," he said to himself, his voice low, almost disbelieving. "Or something worse."
---
When he finally returned home, his fingers moved automatically, unlocking the door. Inside, he leaned against the cold wall, letting himself slide to the floor. The hard wooden planks pressed against his back, but the discomfort barely registered. His breathing was heavy, ragged, as if he had just emerged from a grueling battle.
He stared at the window, its curtains drawn, but the faint shadows of the outside world still danced in his mind. The creature had escaped—but where to? Would it return? The questions churned in his thoughts, yet no answers came.
Fort looked down at his own hands. The faint tremor persisted, a stark reminder of how fragile his control truly was. He clenched his fist, willing himself to steady.
"Creatures like that…" he murmured, speaking more to himself than anyone else. "Why are they here? What do they want?"
---
Fort inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, allowing his mind to drift back to the book he had been translating earlier that morning. The Six-Sensed Potion… Imagination… What had seemed like theoretical nonsense just hours ago now felt disturbingly real. After tonight's encounter, he couldn't shake the feeling that what he had read barely scratched the surface of something far deeper and far more dangerous.
A thought surfaced, cold and inescapable.
"What else is out there? " he said while looking at the ceiling of his house. . .