Twenty years ago, I sought to master English, my third language. Back then, the Internet was still young, and online resources were quite limited, unlike the tsunami of content we enjoy today. After some research, I found a decent online pen pal website. Among the numerous correspondents I’ve had, one peculiar Englishman going by the name of Henri C. stood out.
Henri was wealthy, possessing numerous residences, luxury cars, you name it. A world completely opposite of mine. Amidst all his possessions, he was missing one thing: a nobody like me who could become his friend, his confidante to whom he could express his innermost thoughts to. His unwillingness to learn a foreign language made him distinctively unique as well. Although it wasn’t in the spirit of language sharing, his intriguing character was too captivating to simply ghost.
The most fascinating part of his life by far was an old manor, nested in the heart of a vast forest. The estate, passed down from generation to generation, was shrouded in the strange tale of a curse. It said that every male head of the family had mysteriously disappeared, never to be found again. Despite this, Henri felt an attraction to his heritage and decided to renovate the manor, much against his wife’s protests.
As the inspection of the old manor progressed, Henri’s messages became increasingly unsettling. He wrote of “the voice”, a call from the depths of the forest that he found himself inexplicably drawn to. Fearing his wife’s reaction, I was the only one he confided those occurrences to.
With every new message, I urged him to seek professional help, to no avail. Henri was stubborn. He was convinced that those happenings were a figment of his imagination due to stress. But when the time came to turn his attention to the forest, things began to worsen.
In my last message I warned him rather strongly to keep his distance from that forest. My message was left unanswered, as were all subsequent emails. I thought he’d probably had enough of me, so I moved on. Henri had become a memory that would occasionally pop into my head.
That was until last week when I received the following email. I immediately replied but was answered with an automatic error message stating that the email address doesn’t exist.
Here’s a copy:
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Dear Caleb,
You’re very persistent, but so am I.
The mansion’s inspection is finally complete. It was in a surprisingly decent shape, a testament to the sturdy craftsmanship of our forebears. Stark contrast to today’s buildings, constructed with cheap materials by plonkers who think of nothing but slouching in front of the TV quaffing packs of canned beers.
But I digress. A team will arrive on Monday to handle repairs and modernization. Despite my love for the past, I couldn’t deny myself modern comforts such as air conditioning and central heating. Fireplaces look great, but they’re nowhere near as efficient as modern heating. Besides, I’ve always hated the smell of burning wood.
The forest, however, was a different story. Overgrown trees obstructed an old path, making it hard to navigate. As I walked on, I discovered statues reminiscent of those you would see in Rome or Athens. There was also a moss-covered fountain and ancient graves that I am eager to restore and document. Some of them date centuries back! A true genealogist’s dream.
I continued, and only too late did I realize that I had been led by the voice, growing stronger with each step. I stumbled upon a hill scattered with boulders. The topology combined with massive ancient trees obscured the place with shadow. Thereabouts, nestled between two massive boulders hugging each other, was a cleft leading into an unknown darkness.
Even though I couldn’t see ahead, I decided to go inside. The moment I stepped in, I was immediately startled by strange noises and bolted it. Those sounds… They were indescribable. They were inside my head. At that time, I blamed it on fatigue from the day’s explorations and my lack of fitness. Ironic, isn’t it? I, who was so unpleasant to my wife, was now the one being frightened.
The next morning, I returned to the cave and ventured inside with a torch. I slowly delved deeper until something caught my eye. A notebook. Not any rubbish, thrown away by one of those who hate nature as much as the face they’re stuck with for the rest of their lives, no, that notebook was my grandfather’s.
I picked it up and whispers filled my mind, the cave pulsing with darkness, akin to a slowly withering heart. Fear gripped me again, and I ran, I fled, until I reached the safety of my car. My heart pounded not only from exertion, but from the terror that was consuming me. That day, I was grateful for the British morning sunshine – quite the rarity.
Back at the hotel, I directly examined my grandfather’s notebook. It was a diary, filled with intriguing entries detailing his life. I was particularly interested in his final entries, and, as I read, I realized that his corpse must still reside within that accursed cave.
You see, Caleb, when you’re affluent as I am, you rarely sigh. Pardon me if I’m insensitive, but sighing is a solace for the poor, imprisoned in the mundane of life, with no way to escape their own misery. Yet that night, I found myself sighing deeply, over and over again. My fingers ran absentmindedly through my hair, leaving it disheveled. I looked atrocious. That’s what those last entries had done to me.
He, too, had returned to the estate, disregarding the warning of his loved ones. Even the warmth of my luxurious hotel room couldn’t ward off my creeping unease. Night had yet to fall, but I switched every light on. Darkness, it seemed, had become my greatest foe.
In his penultimate entry, he mentions the boulders and his inability to enter without light. The final entry, however, sent chills down my spine, akin to the feverish shivers of hyperpyrexia. I won’t paraphrase. Instead, I will transcribe his graceful cursive handwriting in its entirety. But I caution you against reading it in the dark.
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TRANSCRIPT:
Same Day, Time Unknown
Aided by light, I braved the descent through the narrow passage at the base of the inverted heart-shaped boulders. The stairs were slick and partially eroded, demanding careful navigation. The deeper I ventured, the louder the voices grew. Some urged caution, while others invited me further into the mouth of the abyss.
The passage twisted and turned, growing narrower until my shoulder brushed against the stone wall. Eventually, I reached a platform that led to another tight passage. Despite the warning voices growing louder, I pressed on, drawn by an inexplicable force.
The passage narrowed to the point where I had to squeeze through before it widened into a fork. Right being the righteous path, I said goodbye to the left passage. Instead, I should’ve remembered the Holy Bible: “Turn not to the right hand nor to the left: remove thy foot from evil.”
I continued my descent till I reached a long room. I shivered, for it was cold and damp. When I looked to my right, I uttered a cry. A mummified skeleton was seated next to the wall, neighbored by many others. The corpses were going as far as my light’s observable universe, as my good friend George Lemaître would have said.
Every cadaver was the same. Seated naked on my right, with a golden plaque on top, hammered into the hard rock. There was something inscribed on them, looking like a long-forgotten language.
I ought to have turned back immediately, retreat from this accursed place. Curiosity killed the cat, and I marched on. After a while, I began to see corpses wearing rudimentary clothes. Slowly, the inscriptions began to make sense. Names from different eras lined the walls. Roman names such as Ianus and Quintus, to more contemporary names such as Willelmus, Egidius, and further down Richard Nicholas, John Henry, Thomas Edmund William, and many others.
Suddenly, I read names that struck a chord – Christopher Charles Cuthbert, my great-grandfather. Andrew Walter, my grandfather, and Gregory Alexander, my father. Their mummified remains filled me with dread and sorrow. Part of me wished to give them a proper Christian funeral.
Then it came to me. Surely, my name would come next. And surely, the mummy below could not be mine, for I was still alive.
I looked. My father was the last corpse sitting underneath a plaque. Nothing under mine.
I read the next name. Lo! Charles Adrian, my son’s name. And lo! Another name. Could it be my grandson would be called Henri Colton?
As I continued down the passage, the letters began to change into an unreadable script. Panic set in. Still, I marched on. Nay, I was running, each step echoing onto the cold walls of this endless room, with nothing but a singular source of light betwixt shadows.
With no end in sight, I ran back until I returned to my plaque. I shuddered. If all my ancestors were here and had disappeared, my fate was surely sealed as well. Had I not vanished from the surface of the earth the moment I walked in?
But I wasn’t dead yet. I had to escape. I sprinted past the remains of my ancestors, their attire changing with each era until the earliest ones lay bare. As I ascended the stairs, a guttural growl paralyzed me with fear. The rocks shifted, widening the narrow passage. From the edge of my light, I saw two eyes, red as ruby, and a shadow darker than darkness.
Transfixed, I watched the shadow revealing viscous rows of ivory tusks. The prospect of my imminent death made me snap out of my stupor. I ran back to the depths, only to find out that the right way was shut. My only option was the left path, leaving me in a narrow cul-de-sac.
Thus, here I am, trapped. The creature’s lukewarm breath sickens me. Its ruby eyes are hypnotic. I cannot look down as I write. The eyes. They syphon my sanity. I must escape the attraction. Oh no. Something vile regurgitates fr–
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His last lines were hastily scribbled, ending in a blot of ink.
I share this lengthy message with you, Caleb, as I’ve resolved to explore the cave myself. Since reading this entry, the voices seeping out of that cave have become irresistible. They feel like the serpent in the Garden of Eden, tempting me with the forbidden apple.
I cannot resist. Even my dreams showed me that the cave would shut if I entered with others, never to be opened again. I must enter alone, Caleb. My wife has been informed about my intention to explore it tomorrow.
And let’s admit: if it all was real, imagine the wonder of seeing all my ancestors and the names of my descendants. Another genealogist’s dream come true.
May you not hear from me again, I wish you a wonderful life. Perhaps, one day, you could write my epitaph.
Just joking.
Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.
I will keep you updated very soon.
Take care,
Henri.
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That was the last I heard from Henri C.
Since reading this email, I feel inexplicably drawn towards England, in need to find Henri. I searched everywhere online but found nothing about a wealthy British man who disappeared in the early 2000s. However, there was another problem. I experienced a strange tinnitus whenever I searched for him. It was as if Henri’s whispers had reached me, even though we are not related.
Like him, I began to keep all lights on during the day and can’t fall asleep when it’s dark. My curtains remain closed because I feel a constant gaze upon me from outside. At times, I swore I’d seen a flash of red, like two ruby eyes prowling for me outside. Each time I look, there’s nothing. Sometimes I even see the eyes inside my home. But I know I’m alone. Just me and my faithful dog.
The hugging boulders haunt my dreams, pointing to a certain location within the British Isles. But what will I do if I find them? I don’t know. The urge to go is strong. But I have a good feeling. A feeling that I’ll be able to break this curse. The whispers grow louder by the day, and even though I fear what might happen, I can’t ignore their call any longer.