The hand that hauled Charles was not of a father, but a manacle forged of flesh and bone. Jean-Baptiste's cold hand wrapped around the collar of his shirt, hauling him through the corridors of their home before dawn had properly broken. No words were shared, only the dissonant sound of footsteps echoing within that narrow space. His father's steps heavy and sure, his own, light and stumbling against the cold stone floor. There are no ghosts in this house, only the lingering taste of blood haunting him. Charles was dragged down spiraling stairs that he never knew existed in their home. Only to be thrown in front of two large doors, towering above him.
Jean pushes the doors open, grunting as he is forced to use more of his strength than normal. The sound of metal grinding on the floor pierces Charles' ears. Jean's hand reaches for the lantern placed beside the door and drags him inside the room. The darkness would disperse when Jean came close with his lantern, placing it above what looked like a study table. His hand rummages on the lower side of the table, retracting it with an oddly shaped key in his possession. The key was in the form of a silhouette of a man, but the feet formed the part to be placed inside a keyhole and the neck had no head. To open the drawer, Jean held the key by the neck and inserted the feet into the hole. A series of gears churned before he pulled the drawer open. Inside, rests a singular book bound by goatskin parchment and a red thread.
"Charles, come over here," he said.
Charles felt the cold instantly leave his body. The temperature of the room suddenly turned to that of a warm summer's day. He idly walked to his father's side. In one motion, Jean grabbed his shoulder and forced him down into the room's only chair. He undid the thread and the parchment, placing the book in front of Charles.
"I'll leave this here and after, you'll recount to me all that is in it," Jean instructed.
Jean walked to the door, leaving the lantern next to Charles. Before walking out, he slightly turned his head to look at his son through the corners of his eyes. Then what filled Charles' ears was the sound of metal doors closing shut. Charles soon felt the warmth he had gained immediately recede. His gaze glued to the brown cover of the notebook: Archives de 1725 : Un programme de douleur. Written in a large dark font, the ink was bleeding in some areas. Charles did not want to look at its contents. But something felt wrong. The darkness was not simply the absence of light but the fact that no ordinary light could avoid being devoured by this darkness. The light in the lantern is what kept him from being eaten. And who knew how long the light would last? It was not a normal flame, he realized, but a light that darkness could not extinguish. But he knew all flames, no matter how magical, eventually burn out. He quickly flipped open the book, daring not to think of staying here a second longer.
"When there is life, there is the inevitability of death. Where death is, however, life is not…"
Those words were written on a singular black page with white ink. And at the bottom was an almost blackened out text, signed "Sanson". Charles was no stranger to the history of his family but those two sentences weighed on his shoulders. It was heavy. A weight that fell on his shoulders by pure chance. A 50% chance that the person born would be Charles-Henri and not another person. He turned the page and this is where the recordings from year 1725 really began:
–Janvier 1725
Serial murderer, Pierre, would tap on his victims windows at night, luring them out before bludgeoning them to death with a stonemason's hammer.
The execution was a new revelation. The ancestor of today's criminal was executioned but instead died a horrible death at the hands of faith. He had fallen from a roof onto a spiked fence, a post impaling his skull through his left eye socket. Father, as the Monsieur, screamed in pain for the first time, a tear running down his left eye socket. The accused didn't bleed from wounds but his ears, eyes and nose. He spent his final moments tapping frantically at his cranium, in an eerie bloody rhythm.
–Février 1725
A notorious aristocrat built her wealth by falsely accusing rivals of treason, sending them to the Bastille to be forgotten. Her ability to be cunning and mischievous is quite impressive.
The execution was revelation never recorded before. It seems her ancestor had died from being consumed alive. Her ancestor was the same as her, he scammed and tricked individuals into debt. Locals tied him to a tree and left him in the wilderness. A wolf pack on the verge of starvation came across the heinous criminal and ate him alive. The descendant was also subjected to the same torture, as well as Father, but he merely felt a tiny fraction. Her skin was torn off by invisible fangs and her windpipe fell near Father's feet.
–Mai 1725
A lecher used to frequently get into the homes of numerous victims, men, women and children to harass them. The number of victims he has is unattainable.
The revelation shown to father was nothing short of tragedy and horror. This criminals' ancestor died a mysterious death. Although the ancestor was not a vile person, his death allowed it to be given to such an evil person. I watched as Father began to vomit slight amount of food he ate in the morning and some blood. This was only a slight presentation of what was to come. The criminal bent over like a starving man, hugging his stomach. He then began to vomit large amounts of blood. At first I suspected poisoning, however, what followed cleared my initial impression. A kidney spilled onto the floor. Then another, then a lung, the pancreas, vocal chords. Father faced the criminal and I think it's the first time I'd ever seen him scared. I also didn't want to be there. The criminal passed away on the floor."
Charles was at a loss of words. Surely, the records must be fake. Death cannot be as cruel as the notebook is making it seem! His shock was even more elevated as he saw the next record.
–Mai 1725
No! He isn't dead, the pain was too much to bare and he only fainted. Soon after passing out, he began to seep blood out of his nether regions and rectum. Then…his rectum stretched itself inside out, followed by the colon, then the ileum, jejenum and finally the duodenum. His intestines were inside out and outside his physical body. He looked like a deflated animal bladder. And…his head suddenly emploded. I…
That's all there was to that recording. Charles' throat clenched tight but to no avail, he turned to face the side to avoid vomiting on the book. He knocked the lantern over to the ground and it lay next to his wasted dinner on the floor. The darkness slowly approached Charles, a rising tide that gently kissed the floor, lapping at the edges of the small island of light. The flicker of the flame slowly began to gain its luster, but not fast enough. The darkness that breathed in the corner of the room was no longer a patient, sleeping beast. Charles sprung towards the door, leaving the lantern behind as the beast gave chase.
"Father! Open the door!" His pounding on the door rising in volume. "Please, Father! It's cold! I'm begging you!"
The darkness hummed, a low-frequency vibration that seemed to resonate not in the air, but in the marrow of his bones, a sound that predated the evolution of ears.
"It's moving! Father! GET ME OUT! I READ THE ARCHIVES! ALL OF THEM!" He shouts. Every word scratched it's way up his raw throat like a shard of glass.
Cough! Cough!
Jean gazed at the red dying his palm. His coughs buried by the sound of his son's screams. Could he hear them through his gritted teeth? The doors opened with a long, metallic screech. The sound of rusted giants grinding their teeth. Jean had difficulty in opening the door. When the light from the outside hit the interior, the darkness dispersed. In the corner, Charles crouched over flipping the pages of the records repeatedly:
–Août 1725
–Septembre 1725
–Octobre 1725
–Novembre 1725
–Novembre 1725
–Décembre 1725
The edges of his lips curved slightly. His eyes were wide, glassy orbs, the pupils dilated so dark they resembled the very darkness he fled. Tears magnified that bottomless fear, making his eyes look like those of a startled animal caught in a snare. At the end of the notebook was tiny handwriting on a page stained by watermarks: "Compiled by Jean-Baptiste Sanson." Jean's shadow hovered above his son's figure, forcing him to raise his head. His pale lashes stuck together in clumps, wet with the tears of terror, creating a stark, spiky frame for the twin pools of liquid blackness that were his eyes. He was so afraid he couldn't blink. His white lashes didn't obscure the view for a single second, leaving the darkness to flood directly into his unguarded gaze.