Chapter 2 : A glimpse beyond the Veil

The night stretched on like an unbroken shadow, thick with secrets, as Alistair sat at the edge of Lord Whitmore's desk. He had spent the last few hours meticulously examining every document, every scrap of paper that had been left behind in the wake of the man's sudden disappearance. Yet, despite the array of notes, symbols, and cryptic sketches, nothing had provided a clear path forward. 

The chair's movement lingered in his mind, as did the strange sensation that had washed over him when his fingers brushed against Whitmore's sketches. He couldn't dismiss it entirely, not when his gut told him there was something more here, something that defied the rational explanations he'd tried to impose. 

His gaze fell to the flickering lamp beside him. The small flame sputtered, casting long, stretching shadows across the room, but the shadows—unlike the lamp's warmth—felt wrong. As if they weren't quite attached to the walls, but hovering just beyond the reach of reason. 

Alistair let out a breath, pushing the unsettling thought aside. He wasn't here to entertain whims. He was here to find the facts. 

He picked up a few more pages and began to scan them, his eyes darting over the uneven handwriting. Whitmore's writing had become increasingly erratic, as though he had been scribbling in haste, desperate to capture something fleeting before it slipped from his grasp. 

"I see it now. The edge of the world, the boundaries of reality. I can almost touch it."

"They know. They are waiting. I can hear their voices in the walls. They grow louder, closer…"

The further he read, the more fragmented the notes became. Alistair frowned, his sharp mind working to piece together a narrative from the broken sentences. What had Lord Whitmore discovered that had driven him to this point? Was this merely the ramblings of a man on the brink of insanity ? Or was something far more sinister at play? 

He glanced again at the chair. It was still in its original position, but the shadows seemed to play tricks on his eyes, as if the room itself were shifting. 

A sudden sound from the hallway jerked him from his thoughts. It was soft at first, a whisper of movement in the dark, then louder—a footstep, followed by another. Someone was coming. 

Alistair reached for the brass key the butler had given him and unlocked the door. He swung it open just in time to see a figure emerge from the hallway. 

The butler. 

His face was pale, eyes wide, and there was something in his demeanor that struck Alistair as… off. 

"Mr. Lockwood," the butler said, his voice tight, barely above a whisper. "I… I must speak with you. In private." 

Alistair studied the man carefully. There was an unease about him, a nervous energy that didn't quite fit with his usual calm demeanor. 

"Go ahead," Alistair replied coolly, stepping aside to allow the man into the study. He kept his voice neutral, though he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. 

The butler hesitated, glancing over his shoulder as if making sure no one was watching. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. 

"Sir, I have… I have seen it," the butler whispered, his voice trembling. "The thing that… that took Lord Whitmore." 

Alistair raised an eyebrow, an edge of skepticism creeping into his voice. "You've seen it? What are you talking about?" 

The butler swallowed hard, his hand shaking as he reached into his coat and produced a small, crumpled envelope. He handed it to Alistair without saying a word. 

Alistair took the envelope, his fingers brushing the rough paper. There was no seal on it, only a crude, hastily drawn symbol that looked disturbingly like one of the shapes from Whitmore's notes. 

Without waiting for permission, Alistair opened the envelope and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The words inside were barely legible, scrawled in a frenzied hand that echoed Whitmore's own scribblings. 

"It is not what it seems. It calls to me. From the walls. From the dark."

Alistair's pulse quickened as his eyes flicked down to the bottom of the page, where something far more disturbing was written. 

"If you read this, you are already marked. The path is set. There is no turning back."

The air in the room grew heavy, as if the very walls were closing in on him. He felt it again—the unsettling sensation of something beyond his understanding, lurking just out of sight, waiting. 

The butler's voice broke the silence. "I heard the sounds too, Mr. Lockwood. The whispers… they're real. I didn't believe it, but now… I can hear them. And I know it's not safe here. I had to leave. I had to warn you." 

Alistair's mind raced. He had seen the same patterns in Whitmore's writing, the same sense of something growing closer, something that could not be explained by rational means. Was the butler losing his mind as well? Or was there a truth buried in these cryptic warnings, a truth that transcended everything Alistair knew about the world? Something that could explain how a fully grown man could *dissapear* in a locked room.

Alistair's fingers tightened around the paper. "Stay here," he ordered. "Don't leave this room." 

The butler nodded, but there was a tremor in his hands that betrayed his fear. Alistair turned and moved toward the far side of the study. He would need to search deeper. There had to be more. 

His eyes scanned the room, falling on the bookshelf. The books here were mostly old and useless tomes of noble history, some travel guides, a few novels that hadn't been touched in years. But one book, wedged between two thicker volumes, caught his eye. 

It was an old leather-bound tome, its cover weathered and cracked with age. No title adorned the spine, but there was something unsettling about it—a sense of wrongness that tugged at Alistair's mind. He pulled it from the shelf and opened it carefully. 

Inside, the pages were filled with diagrams and complex equations, some of which seemed entirely out of place. Several of the diagrams matched the shapes from Whitmore's notes—impossible, twisted forms that defied logic. 

At the back of the book, there was a handwritten passage in a familiar, frantic script: 

"They cannot be stopped. The truth is here, at the edge of the world. You must open the door. You must see it. Only then will you understand."

Alistair's breath caught in his throat. The door. What door? Was this the answer he was looking for, or was it merely another step toward madness? 

The sound of something scraping across the floor snapped his attention back to the room. 

The chair. 

It had moved again. 

Alistair's heart raced as he turned toward the chair, the same creeping unease returning. This time, it was no longer just an inch. It had moved several feet across the room, its back now facing the desk as if someone—or something—had been sitting in it. 

He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he examined the movement. The rug beneath the chair was disturbed, the edges of the fabric curling as though it had been dragged across the floor. 

Alistair took a steadying breath. There was no rational explanation for this. No logical reason for the chair to have moved. 

But there was one thing he was certain of, he was no longer dealing with a simple disappearance. He had crossed a line, and there was no going back. It was time to follow the trail, no matter where it led. Alistair Lockwood never back down from a case