The Black Elixir

[size=+1]The blood on his shoes.

The look on both the boy's face and the sailor's.

I think I know what has transpired, even before I've viewed the scene for myself.

Setting the pint down on the counter, I snatch up my briefcase and begin to make for the staircase.
"Forgive me, miss," I call over to the barmaid as she attends to the trembling teenager, "I shall go and see what the commotion upstairs is." With hurried steps I ascend the stairs, trying not to look down at the bloody footprints the boys shoes have left as they sailor led him down not a minute before.

Still wet and crimson red. Freshly spilled.

Instantly, I am quite certain that nothing I find upstairs will be to my liking.

The hallway at the top of the steps is dark and cold, the candles that once illuminated it having been blasted into submission by the howling wind that emanates from Room 4. Bag in hand, I slowly walk down the hall towards the open door. There's blood on the floorboards here as well, even thicker, and a bloody smear down the wall next to the doorway where someone had been sitting not long ago.

As I pass through the door and into Room 4, I suck in a hiss of breath at the scene that greets me. The young investigator stands not far away from me, transfixed or horror-struck by what we look upon, and I find myself wondering if this is the first time she has seen such a sight in her career. Two more of the sailors stand on either side of the bed, one having lit a lamp that's sealed by glass from the wrath of the wind.

It acts an eerie, trembling glow over the body of the dead woman and the gore that spatters the room.

The white sheets are soaked crimson, as is the nightdress she wears. Beside her corpse is the knife used to bring her to such a gruesome end. I have seen more dead bodies in my time than I would care to remember; pieces of men floating in dark red puddles, wide-eyed faces contorted into gasping death masks from the mustard gas they could not escape in time, boys as young as sixteen cut in half by automatic fire. But even beside such terrible sights, this woman died a brutal death.

Sighing and squaring my shoulders to the task ahead, I move past the investigator and over to the bed. I set my bag down on the desk next nearby, careful to avoid as much blood as possible, and remove my suit jacket before rolling up my sleeves. "Would you please inform the owner downstairs of what has transpired?" I say out loud to no-one in particular as I open the bag and retrieved a set of black leather gloves.

This is not what I was anticipating when I set out from London for this desolate place.[/size]
 
I sucked in a deep breath and stumbled back. My eyes were glued on the corpse of the woman. The way the blood spattered about added to the disturbance. I had never seen such a thing and never wanted to again. I closed my eyes and staggered closer to the body. I had a feeling that I had gotten myself into something that I couldn't get out of now.

I heard footsteps coming and jumped slightly. I spun around, ready to defend myself. I let out a sigh of relief when I saw it was just the man from downstairs. I could tell he wasn't expecting something like this either. I bit my lip, trying to decide what to say or do.

"Sir, please go inform Miss Oswald of this....atrocity. I am going to stay up here and investigate,"I muttered, trying to hold the tears of fear that had came to my eyes. I turned back to the body. The nightgown she had been wearing was drenched with blood, it was if she had been swimming in a sea of it. There was a look of terror on the woman's face, one that I wouldn't forget for possibly the rest of my life.

Rain and wind from the window was disturbing my thinking, so I hastily made my way over to the window and shut it. I then made my way back over to the corpse. I wiped the tears off my face that had began to run freely, and told myself to be strong and stop it. I picked up the knife, and blood began running down it and onto my hand. I looked at the glinting blade with much care. The killer really wouldn't have had to stab the woman as many times as he did to kill her in fact, it was overkill.
 
[size=+1]I look up from my bag as the investigator speaks, asking me to head back downstairs in a voice close to cracking. Young and unaccustomed to the sight of dead bodies, it seems. If only we all were so lucky.
"I think it best I remain here for the moment, miss," I say politely, a rather sombre smile across my face, "my medical knowledge might be applicable to this situation." I do not leave the issue open for debate, turning to the body on the bed and beginning my examination.

The wound across the carotid artery is the one killed her, one of the final slices going by the pattern. She's likely to have bled out in seconds, going by the number of cuts. The clotting on the wounds is level, consistent with each slice; this was a fluid, fast attack, each of the dozens of wounds being made within seconds of each other.

To take a life in this way, with such speed, skill and brutality, takes both skill and experience.

And a complete disregard for human life.

Whoever killed this woman is not someone I wish to cross.

Reaching over into my bag, I retrieve a magnifying lens and an apparatus with which to measure the cuts. These are long, thin slices, yet their depth surprises me; almost to the bone in some cases, through arteries and muscle. No wonder this room is soaked in gore. I would be surprised if there is any blood left in the body at all. Like a hunter, hacking open the throat of their prey.

The young lady with the well-spoken London accent not too dissimilar from my own is viewing the scene now as well, reaching down to pick up the blade next to the body without anything to cover her hands. It's a good few seconds before I look up from inspecting the corpse and notice. "Have a care, miss!" I exclaim at the sight, dropping the magnifying glass and reaching for my bag once more. "They can check items such as that for fingerprints in the cities these days; it would not do for you to get yours all over a potential murder weapon."

Retrieving my spare set of gloves, I hand them to the woman and take the knife from her hands. It's a thick, stubby little blade, a fisherman's knife by the looks of it. Used for gutting fish, not half eviscerating women in the dead of night. I don't even need to measure this weapon to tell that it's not what was used in this killing; too wide to inflict such thin wounds, and too short to cut into her as far as she has been.

This murder grows even more disturbing.

Someone is trying to throw off any investigation with a false lead.[/size]
 
The man took the knife from my hands, and gave me a pair of gloves. I bit my lip and put them on. I should have remembered, but I didn't in all the shock. I knew I was coming off as inexperienced, and slowly backed away from the body, and looked around the room. I was embarrassed by my irrational and ill- thought actions.

"I apologize for my actions, sir. I just didn't expect to find well...a corpse."I muttered. I straightened my back, and made my way back to the body.I looked up at the doctor "She died quick...right?"I couldn't justify why I was trying to make little talk, but I was. I decided to say no more, and examined the wounds.

I was almost revolted at the sight of the wounds, but didn't say a word, or cringe, or make a face. Professionalism was key in times like this. I had definitely lost that touch for a few moments, and regretted it. I realized I ought to have not closed the window, and looked up at the doctor once more"I was a ninny and shut the window. The open window could have been evidence. Should I reopen it?"I asked bitterly. I was quite annoyed with myself.
 
[size=+1]"I fear that is your department, miss," I say with the same sombre smile in response to the woman's question, "I am no investigator. Just a doctor." I scan my eyes over the corpse one final time, but my study seems about complete; there is little more I can garner from this scene, and I would very much like to not have to behold it any longer.

"And yes, she died quickly. Not well, but quickly. Whoever did this was very fast. She will have bled out in seconds." A very, very small mercy, but when surrounded by darkness one clutches for even the tiniest glint of light. Sighing, I place my equipment back in my bag and remove the gloves. When the Masters of the Order sent me here, I had been anticipating trying to care for an elderly man.

Now I find myself examining butchered corpses with false trails trying to lead me away from any answers.

I fear I am not prepared for what else might await me in this place.

Removing the gloves and unrolling my sleeves once more, I glance back over to the body of the woman. It occurs to me I do not even know her name, where she was from or why she was here. I wonder if she had any family, friends who must be alerted. Perhaps that boy downstairs knows who she was. Not my place to ask, I fear.

As I pull my suit jacket back on I realise I still do not know the name of this young investigator from London I find myself conducting a murder investigation with, either. Her inexperience may be showing, but I note that she is handling the presence of a corpse far better than I did when I saw one for the first time. "My name is Doctor Kingsley, by the way. Sorry to meet you under such grim circumstances." My eyes are drawn back to the corpse on the bed, some sick revulsion not allowing me to look away for too long.

She lies where she died, contorted in pain. I am fortunate in that I cannot see her face from this angle, but I can remember still the expression locked across it. "We should cover the body," I mutter, crossing to the closet in the corner of the room, "Give her some semblance dignity, at the very least." Pulling open the closet door, I locate a small pile of spare sheets for the bed and snatch up the top one before returning to the bed.

"Do you wish to examine the body further, or shall I...?" the question remains hanging as I find myself staring down at the corpse again.

I had hoped I would not have to bear witness such brutal sights again.[/size]
 
I rushed over to the window and threw it open,"This isn't exactly my pot of tea either," I mumbled "Most of my work has consisted of trying to locate missing people, long lost relatives, and dogs, and getting a pretty penny for it,"

I took off my gloves and listened to what he was saying. I bit my lip hard. I couldn't imagine coming to a fate such as this poor woman.

I wasn't paying attention when the doctor began to speak once more. It gave me quite a scare, and I almost jumped. "Pleased to meet you, Doctor Kingsley, m' name is Marina Payne. I am sorry for being a dimwit,"

I let Doctor Kingsley cover the body, even though I wanted to protest the action. When he asked me if I wanted to examine the body, I shook my head, I didn't want to look at it anymore.

I had noticed something rather peculiar about the knife that didn't fit the scene quite right. "That knife isn't what killed the woman, is it?" I said, pointing at the knife. Without waiting for a reply, I added "Do whatever you want, I am going to go get my notepad and go question the inhabitants of this place, even though I don't think it is exactly my business to do so,"

I exited the room and opened the door to mine. As if a murderer were to be in there, I threw my bags in the room, leaving myself with only my briefcase. I made my way down the stairs, slowly but surely.

I glanced around at the people, taking note of the boy I saw in the hall. I cleared my throat, "An unspeakable horror has occurred. I would appreciate your cooperation."
 
[size=+1]Unfolding the sheet carefully as Miss Payne exits the room, I am about to spread it over the body when the light from the flickering lamp catches something poking out of one of the wounds. Small enough for me to have missed during my examination. Grunting, I drop the sheet to the ground and go for my case, pulling my gloves back on before retrieving my magnifying glass and a set of tweezers.

Amidst the gloom of Room 4 it is difficult to make it out. It is small wonder I missed it the first time; only by chance did I spot it a moment ago. Bending down, I peer through the glass at the cut, trying to make out what it is. Small and dark, with a sheen to it that is occasionally caught by the dim light. Reaching down with the tweezers, I pull it free and carry it over to the light so that I might get a better look. Gazing down, it takes me several moments before my eyes finally register what they are looking upon.

A single fish scale, gore still covering the bottom half where it was embedded in the wound.

My mind is racing with possibilities. How did such a curious thing wind up in the body? Left there by the killer as part of his decoy, perhaps, to make investigators think it came from the fisherman's knife. Or perhaps part of the macabre modus operandi the killer operates under, a mark or token to mark his victim.

But no, neither possibility makes sense. It is too small and bizarre to act as a mark, and if the killer was trying to throw us off the trail they would have wanted to keep it simple, as they did with the knife.

This was not left here on purpose. The killer did not intend for me to see this.

However interesting a development, though, all it does with leave me more questions with no answers forthcoming. Reaching over to my bag, I retrieve a small glass case and drop the scale inside. What significance it truly has I can only guess for now, but it may be of some use later.

With that I strip of the gloves and retrieve the sheet.

Silently, I spread the fabric over the dead woman, feeling the eyes of the two sailors watching silently from the door as I do. Immediately the white material starts to blossom with red stains as the blood still coating the body seeps into it, but at least the poor woman is covered now. I do not wish to leave her just like this, however, a butchered corpse with nought but a bedsheet draped over her. I close my eyes and begin to mutter one of the prayers I can remember reciting every 11th of November at the Lodge.

"Oh Lord, we commend into thy mercy this woman, who is departed hence from us with the sign of faith and now does rest in the sleep of peace: grant unto her, we beseech thee, thy mercy and everlasting peace. Amen."

With that, I take up my bag and walk out the door, nodding to the two sailors as I pass.

This, I am beginning to suspect, is going to be a long night.[/size]
 

"Amen," muttered one of the sailors in the doorway. He understood enough of the language and inference to know that Doctor Kingsley had said a prayer for poor Martha Hughes.

And while he lit a cigarette his companion revealed a greater comprehension still.

"Mason," the man said, causing the doctor to turn on the landing. The sailor, older and taller than the others, held the blood-flecked map that had lain on Martha's night stand. He motioned to the ring that Kingsley wore, where the symbol of the Masonic Orders glinted. "You.... like them." Then to the map where the peninsula headland showed the location of Cargwyn Manor.

Then finally he pointed to his nose, where the bridge line was crooked and purple-swollen. "They break."

He discarded the map, tossing it down on the bloody floorboards, then took a cigarette from his friend. The two men smoked and stared at the covered body. "Bad men," was all the man would say further.



* * * * *​



As Marina returned downstairs, she found Vicky pacing around the table where Eugene sat.

"I've just heard. Oh God, this is horrible. Just horrible..." She wrung her hands nervously, looking at the floor as if answers might be found there. "We can't even call the police in this bloody storm! It'll be days before a coroner can get to the coast. Oh God..." She took a seat next to the pale Eugene, sitting for a moment before springing up again and pacing once more. "She didn't hurt no one. She was only here two days. Who would do such a thing?"

In the corner, the other sailors simply watched the barmaid's antics, glancing occasionally at the boy and Marina. Their expressions were hard to read, and there was no telling how much they understood of what was happening. Their eyes were empty, like the mounted fish and china mermaids that decorated the pub wall.

"I asked what brought her to Penryn," Vicky continued. She was biting her nails now, and staring through the rattling windows as the storm ravaged the beach. "All she told me was that she was looking for someone. And that she wanted a room that faced away from the sea. On both mornings she left early and spent the day traipsing around the village. God knows what she was looking for. Oh, you poor lad..."

She crossed back to Eugene and threw her arms around his shoulders. The boy barely noticed the hug. He was staring ahead with his face was drained of colour.

It was a few moments before Vicky looked up again, still holding onto Eugene. She locked stares with Marina. "It wasn't the sea she wanted to face away from. It was the manor. Those bastard Cargwyns! They've been kidnapping and killing women for a bloody century! Just like my sister!"

Then she put her head on the boy's shoulder. They were fellow victims now, sharing the tragedy of loved ones lost.



* * * * *​



It was stinging pain, like vinegar and salt rubbed on wounds. It twisted his sinews this way and that. The words of Vicky and Marina were like distant echoes, as if hearing something through a body of water.

He screwed his eyes shut.

His heart quickened, stuttered, calmed. His blood ran cold. He felt goose pimples, then a fever in the next moment. His stomach lurched.

His mother was gone, and in the space she left, like an abyssal vacuum, came only pain and disorientation.

Then the ringing started... ringing in his ears... growing louder and louder. It came with agony exquisite. Like his brain was being shaken into dust. Like acid had been poured on the skull.

And, strangest of all, it was coming in first through his right ear. It was coming from a specific direction. Eugene turned and peered through the window, to the headland where Carqwyn Manor was wreathed in lamplight.

And the very sight of that place caused his skin to shiver.

Breaking suddenly into sound and motion, Eugene threw Vicky's arms away and clutched both hands to his head. "SOMEONE STOP THAT NOISE!" he cried.
 
Jorell.jpgHis stomach dropped once his eyes fell upon the Bible littered with the scribbles and he suddenly felt a sweep of shame swallowed him whole. He should have come earlier, he should have come to his dear friend's aid after that first letter that had left a sour taste in Jorell's mouth. How could he have waited this long? Jorell had to cover his ears when the old priest broke out in a howl. He watched Father Marrak in horror, frozen as though the chill of the church had taken hold of him.

It was when his friend spoke of the old case, in which he had helped Jorell with, that he could breathe again and remember this ruin of a man was his dear friend. All he could do was listen patiently, repeating every word Father Marrak said in his mind. Something horrible had truly swept over this place, and again, he agonized over his procrastination in venturing to Penryn, for having waited until the last straw. Behind gritted teeth he gasped outward, exhaling from the horror of the story—his dread stretched the wrinkles on his face. His clothes were heavy from the rain, body chilled, but the goosebumps covering him were not from the cold, but from the words sobbing from Marrak's mouth.

The wet cough sent Jorell sprinting forward and dropping, but he hesitated before placing a hand on Father Marrak's back as he bawled on the pew. His heart throbbed in his throat, face stricken with the panic that swelled up inside him. 'They burned him? What kind of sickness has taken over this place?'

"You need help." What Father Marrak really needed was good medicine that would help him get over this cold or flu. It was rational, too rational—and somewhere, deep in the back of the detective's mind was the cruel reality that no medicine could help the priest. It was time to calm down and assess the situation if he was going to be able to help his friend. "And you need rest."
 
[size=+1]The utterance of the word 'Mason' stops me dead in my tracks as I stare at the man who spoke it.

An astute one, this sailor. Deceptively so.

His face is weathered and lined, honed by years of exposure to the spray of the sea and the unbridled wrath of the sun. Yet it is his nose that draws the eye; swollen and bruised, the bridge twisted viciously to an awkward angle. This is a recent break. And though he speaks little by way of English, he knows enough to let me know who is responsible.

And the Order we have in common.

As he drops the map to the ground, I suddenly recall it is presence on the desk beside the body. Seems that both myself and Miss Payne managed to miss it as we occupied ourselves with examining the corpse. Bending down, I pick up the folded paper and examine it for a moment before sliding it into my jacket pocket. When I am downstairs I will be sure to take a proper look.

Stepping out of the door again, I am about to head backstairs when something compels me to turn back to the old sailor with the broken nose, looking him in the eye.
"Mason, yes," I say to him, a certain determination now in my voice compared to the sombre tone I spoke in earlier, "But no. Not like them." I am fairly certain his English is adequate enough to understand that.

Without another word I move back towards the stairs and begin to descend into the main room of the inn, a dead woman's map in my pocket and questions burning in my mind.[/size]
 
I tried to figure out what I was to do. I was wondering if I should step up and try to solve the murder, even though it wasn't my job, or if I should just stand back and see what happens. I made my way over towards Miss Oswald slowly,"Well, someone clearly had a grudge against her. What is the poor woman's name?" I muttered, getting ready to write.

I listened intently to every word that Miss Oswald said. I could clearly see she was distressed about the unfortunate event. I pulled myself out a chair and sat down, ready to write down anything that she said. I heard her bring up the Cargwyns once more, and got really interested. Who were these people and why did Miss Oswald believe that they were the cause of all of this? "Miss Oswald? Who are the Cargwyns and what do you believe they have to do with all of this?"

The next thing I knew, the boy was screaming. In confusion I jumped up and ran over to him. "What noise? What's wrong?"

 
Again Father Marrak moved with sudden speed, as if desperation itself had oiled his bones. Turning, he gripped Jorell's comforting hand.

"No..." he whispered and his upturned face was veiled by the beekeeper mask. Behind it Jorell could make out only shadow and the odd patch of scar tissue. "No rest. There is none for any of us. The villagers suffer with me. Our wounds do not heal. Our spirits are broken. Can you not see it, friend?"

Jorell remembered well enough. He had crossed Penryn's only street on his way to the church, and behind each window were shadows; haunted figures staring briefly before ducking into darkness. Like Marrak they were pale and frightened. All the village was gripped by some nameless dread.

"The Black Cross." A peel of thunder went with Marrak's words, as if God himself had taken offense. The name seemed to echo in the church ruins. "Lord Cargwyn has placed it, in the upper room of the mansion on the hill. And since that day we have lived in frailty."

Just for a moment it was like old times - the priest's superstition at odds with the detective's reason. But Marrak had never gripped Jorell as hard as this, nor with such urgency. His voice hissed in his burned airways. "It is a spell, Jorell! A curse he has placed upon this village. Once we prospered. Once we smiled. But now... there is only the Black Cross, watching over us, draining us, devouring all souls."

His hand fell away, shaking with arthritis, and he turned his back once more. The strength that had allowed Marrak to tell his tale was spent. "Please Jorell..." he whispered. "End our suffering... destroy the Black Cross..."



* * * * *​





He couldn't breathe. His heart was racing, his blood at once like lead being squeezed through vein and artery.

Eugene hunched over and put his head on the table, groaning at the pain. Not that he could hear it, with the ringing in his ears.

And in his mind images began to race. He saw again the window of the pub, rattling as the storm rushed in. Then his vision seemed to move, hurtling across the village through rain and shadow. His mind soared above the rooftops, over the old fishing harbour, past the rocks and along the headland. Then clean through the railed wall that marked the edge of the Cargwyn Estate.

His heart pounded at his ribcage, drumming in his ears. His vision accelerated, across the manicured gardens of the mansion, up the Edwardian walls, past the lamp-lit rooms and decorative eaves.

And then he beheld the upper window, the observatory room that crowned the mansion.

And in a flash he saw the shape of the thing behind it.

And his mind screamed.

"Black Cross..." Eugene murmured, and as the pain left him he sagged against the table, panting for breath.



* * * * *​



"Oh, you poor boy..."

Vicky had put her arms around Eugene again, hushing him as he finally ceased his writhing. She kissed the top of his head. "Just like the others."

The sailors in the corner lowered their heads, as if understanding what the barmaid meant. And before Marina could question it Vicky looked up at her. "The villagers said the same thing, before they stopped coming here. They complained about some Black Cross or some such. It was causing 'em headaches."

Through the window of the pub, waves crashed around the headland, falling short of the glowing manor.

"The Cargwyns are the noble family who've owned these lands for generations, dear. Back when we still had trouble with pirates and witches, they woz the ones who kept us safe. And they owned the tin mines, and helped us pay upkeep on the fishing boats. The old lord, Jago Cargwyn - he was kind to us. We prospered under him. More fish than we could eat - more tin than we could sell. They woz good times, back when I were a girl."

She put her hands on Eugene's shoulders, squeezing them affectionately. And as Doctor Kingsley returned downstairs Vicky looked to the window, a little sneer in the direction of the mansion. "Then his son, Randolph, took over. We never 'eard from the old lord again. Randolph Cargwyn shut the gates of the estate, closed down the mines and him and his servants have been cooped up in that mansion ever since."

There was a flash of white beyond the window, a great wave striking the rocks and washing over the fishing harbour. The storm was swelling, bringing fog and turmoil to the coast.

"Then things got worse. The fishing catch dried up, the miners couldn't find work, the storms got fiercer, and everyone started keeping to themselves. 'Course, we tried to reason with Lord Cargwyn. I 'eard the old priest even went to talk to 'em a few weeks ago, and he got set on fire for his troubles! They're monsters. Ungodly people. An' they say the Lord has a Black Cross in one of his rooms what keeps the villagers under his power."

She urged Eugene to drink a glass of port she had set down, stroking his hair as he sipped it. "But this boy's mother suffered a fate worse than that priest. The Cargwyns are devils, all of 'em."
 
[size=+1]I can tell something is wrong with the boy Miss Oswald stands over even as I stride down the steps and into the main room of the inn.

The heavy breathing, the manner in which he has slumped over the table; I am unpleasantly reminded of military hospitals and young men who's minds have been broken by their experiences on the front. His face mirrors theirs, the look of a boy who has seen far too much, too fast. Things no child should ever be forced to bear witness to.

My ears also catch the end of Miss Oswald's rant as she tends to the boy, describing the Cargwyns as 'devils'. Such a description does not bode well for me, I fear, given that I soon shall have to confront these devils in person and learn what I can.
"Terribly sorry to intrude, Miss Oswald," I chime in as I reach the bottom of the steps, "but may I inquire as to what priest you are referring to? What fate did he meet?"

Something about the way she said it makes me fear that I do not wish to know the answer. Yet it could be important later so I ask all the same, moving over to the table and kneeling down next to the boy to examine him. "He witnessed the... the scene upstairs, I take it?"

A pointless question. One need but look at him to receive the answer.[/size]
 
Jorell.jpgAll the while Father Marrak spoke, Jorell's jaw hung, eyes wide and watching. He yearned to speak, to try and calm his friend out of this frenzy, but words escaped him. The old man was virtually stunned and rubbed his arm where his old friend had squeezed. The reaction, however, was involuntary as the only thing he could think about was the display of utter irrationality by his dear friend. There were no words he could say. Father Marrak put the blame of Pengryn's fall into a broken-down town on an object. The very idea of it had the retired detective exhausted from this ludicrous notion. Towns fall apart; it was just a fact of life. Places don't flourish forever. Jorell shook his head, knowing there was no way to talk his friend out of believing this madness.

"Father Marrak," He began, his good hand raised in a calming manner. Marrak needed rest, good solid rest. If he were to keep this up it would surely kill him, but he knew telling the man to rest, again, would do no good. He needed to reassure his frightened colleague.

"I'll look into it, okay?" Realistically you can't just walk into someone's home and make demands, but the ordeal had destroyed his dear friend. Jorell had to do something. Marrak may have had his moments of superstitious foolery, but never like this. No, this had turned a good man's life upside-down.

The church shook again with a crackle of lightning. The bright wicked light flashed through the windows. Jorell's old eyes burned. The wild weather had a way of making his used joints ache, and he let out a groan as he returned his attention to Father Marrak. Watching him then, digesting the broken man's suspicion, he felt something inside him pulse. It was the argument that what if his old friend was telling the truth. It was a feeling Jorell could not encourage. No, it was far too dangerous to believe. Magic, spells, curses, it was all product of a child's imagination. Yet, in spite of all his years of uncovering the unbelievable to be false and finding the truth, he harbored that gut feeling deep down inside that maybe this time, he'd stumble across something that would shake every foundation that made him the skeptic he was today. Regardless, he would investigate this Black Cross. He had to. He could not chance losing Father Marrak.
 
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