Prologue

A small, hand-held electric lantern breaks the heavy blanket of darkness in the hall, swaying with each footstep of the gentleman carrying it. He wears a fitted dark grey pinstripe suit, adorned with the golden chain of a pocket watch, a small red bowtie, and a pair of fine, well-polished dark red leather shoes. He is not a stereotypically handsome man, several small scars lining his stubbly cheeks, and short dirty blonde hair slicked back out of his face with either sweat or some kind of oil; it’s hard to tell.

Tattered and mismatching floral wallpaper frame the man as he walks, each step accompanying a muted squelch on the thick moulding carpet. The gentleman’s discerning eyes reflect the light that’s illuminating the hall in front, belying their dark blue colour. The hall ends with a door, its light-coloured wood features cracked and dry, slightly ajar and dark as pitch beyond.

“Excuse me, is there anyone in here? I seem to have gotten lost.” His soft and smooth voice, like silk rolling out deceitfully as he pulls out a small ornate knife that seems to have an odd symbol carved onto the hilt. The symbol is reminiscent of a five-pointed star but with curved lines and an eye in the centre. He continues approaching the door, holding his lantern ahead to push it open, and his eyes carefully scanning every new inch of the room that is slowly revealed to him.

The darkness in this room is almost choking, like a fog, stemming the flow of light to barely a few feet from the lantern itself. He halts, as a faint tapping begins to sound from the corner of the room. The hand holding the knife instinctively flexes around the handle. The light from the lantern faintly outlining the silhouette of what appears to be a tall thin man, standing in the corner of the room, closely facing the walls.

“Sir, perchance is this the homestead of Thomas Thackery? I have been requested by the estate of Mayweather to investigate this home for signs of infection?” The gentleman inquires softly, keeping a distance.

The tapping persists. The gentleman quickly realising that it is not coming from the figure in the corner, it is coming from a brass-framed mirror lying on a small wood table in the other corner.

The reflection in the mirror shows a haggard and frightened younger man, staring straight at the gentleman. He is slamming a hand on the inside of the glass frantically, pointing to the figure.

Caught in a momentary confusion, the gentleman retreats a step back toward the doorway, his face paling as the reflection is most certainly not his own. He finds himself pressing his back against a door that has closed without his noticing, his eyes widening in horror as he turns frantically back toward the figure in the corner. It steps backward, a long and careful step; its joints creaking audibly as it approaches the light. Its figure becomes clearer, still facing the wall, revealing tattered and worn clothes, along with its hair. It matches the man in the reflection.

Chapter 1 - Dr Bentley

 “I’m afraid I must regretfully inform you that your application for an inquiry as to the location of one of our employees has been declined, Dr Bentley.” A young, well-dressed woman with a small clipboard and a sour expression relays to a tall man wearing a simple outfit; shirt, suspenders and fitted, straight-pressed trousers.

The man seems to be distracted by something momentarily, not noticing the woman until she clears her throat and repeats herself, his eyes focusing and responding.

“Oh, I see, do you know if there is a provided reason for the Mayweather estate declining my application?” Dr Bentley’s dark brown eyes squinting quizzically at the woman, seemingly slowly coming around from a daydream.

“I’m afraid, Sir, that as you are not, or cannot, prove your relation to the employee in question, we cannot provide details of their whereabouts. We at the Mayweather Estate appreciate your application, you can find your coat and belongings at the post on the left on the way out.” The young woman recites, as if reading off a script, before turning sharply and moving on to another man just down the row of seats.

The building itself is a large mansion that has been just recently fitted with a brand-new static electricity generator, to power the lanterns around the foyer, which has been refurbished to resemble a reception area. Small wooden pews sit in lines before a number of desks, manned by four women all dressed in similar clothing.

Dr Bentley quickly collects his dark brown leather briefcase and woollen scarf, striding out of the large lavish doors, wrapping the scarf around himself hurriedly. The city is dark at this time of night, the lights from the estate fading fast behind him as Bentley quickly walks down the cobbles of the street, holding out a small lantern, keeping him out of the encroaching shadows.

-

A small wooden door, with a sign reading “Dr A. Bentley” set onto a clouded glass window creaks open following the rustle of keys. Bentley sets the lantern on a small hook just on the inside, locking the door behind him. Pulling off his scarf, he leaves it on a coat rack in the corner. The room has clearly seen better days, an unused therapy sofa sits pushed into the corner, with a number of open boxes filled with stacks of paper strewn about the room.

Bentley is a tired looking man, thin, early thirties, with short curly brown hair, fair skin and thin, square, silver-framed glasses sitting on his nose. He sits down behind the desk, untucking his shirt and setting his briefcase down atop it, pushing aside an ink pot and a few brass pens. Opening it up, a small golden pendant hangs down from a chain from the upper half, showing the image of a young blonde man with slicked back hair and scars across his cheeks. Bentley pulls out a small ornate wooden box a few inches long, along with a few sheets of paper filled with tight, well-written script and a drawing of a curved five-pointed star.

“Bloody idiot, what did you find yourself caught up in?” Bentley mumbles under his breath, looking at the pendant, before opening the box gently. A small dark red jewel glistens in the lantern light, the jewel is maybe an inch across with thin onyx inlays crawling across it like veins. He pulls out a piece of paper from within the box, alongside the jewel.

 “Andrew, keep this with you at all times my love, my blackened heart will protect you.” He reads from the paper, chuckling to himself. “He always did like to joke about how I corrupted him.”

He assesses it for a moment, his fingertip caressing it softly before he lets out a sigh, plucking it from the box and slipping it into a pocket.

He begins to rifle through a few of the sheets on his desk, comparing the image of the curved star to other drawings from eye-witness accounts and descriptions received from crime scenes around the city. Bentley finds his eyes slowly closing, resting his head on the desk, and falling asleep as the lantern's oil runs out.

-

A dark room, with faintly shifting walls and floor surrounds him, the expanse outside the semi-translucent walls shifting with thousands of figures and movement. Dr Bentley stands within, his eyes drawn out to the distance outside the glass walls, toward a single burning point of light. He stares until his eyes begin to burn, unable to draw his gaze away, only being shaken from it as a soft whisper caresses his ear, and a tapping sound starts on the glass behind him.

“Andrew…..Andrew I’m here.”

“Andrew, I’m here bloody well wake up!” Bentley awakens with a start to the sound of his younger sister outside the room, wrapping her knuckles on the glass door. A sheet of paper stuck to his face by a drop of not fully dried ink falls off, landing back on the desk as he quickly rises out of his chair. Stumbling over a box in the dark, he gets to the door and opens it.

“Good heavens brother you look a right mess, you’ve ink dried on your face. When was the last time you ate? You resemble a stick.” A young woman; small and waifish, dressed in a long conservative blue dress, her brown wavy hair falling to her shoulders, aside a thin gold chain.

 “Sorry, Ida, I must have fallen asleep whilst I was working, I didn’t get the chance to eat yesterday, and I was busy trying to get my application approved at the Mayweather Estate”

“That place is giving you the runaround, is it because you can’t prove your connection to him?”

“Ida, if I told them we were partners they’d hand me over to the police and I’d end up being committed and told I’m deranged by one of my former colleagues” says Andrew, rubbing the ink stain off his face “But regardless, treat me to a meal? I’m frightfully low on funds right now.”

“Very well, but you owe me one. Any luck figuring out what that symbol is, the one you found in William’s briefcase?” Ida begins to walk down the hall, Andrew locking the door behind him to follow her.

“From what I can tell it seems to be connected to some sort of cult, but I don’t see why William would be investigating a cult considering he was working for the Mayweather Estate as an expert on infectious diseases.” The two continue on, out of the building and down the cobbled streets bickering away.

Finishing lunch, a small meal of some breakfast sausages and crispy fried eggs, Andrew and Ida separate once again after a long embrace, Ida having to meet her Fiancé to arrange some things for her wedding. Dr Bentley finds himself back in the dimly lit study, unsure of what to do, having no leads or new reports of similar disappearances within the last few weeks. He finds himself staring quietly at the small image of William within the pendant, deep in thought, thrumming his fingers against the desk.

Once he returns to himself, shaking out of the deep daydream, he stands up to prepare a glass of water. That is when he catches a glimpse, briefly, of himself in the mirror on his wall. Within the reflection he notices the very faint ink dots on his face from where he fell asleep atop a page, and just before he goes to scrub them off, he realises there is something odd about them.

They don’t appear random. He turns confused to the paper, still left on his desk, it lays face down, and he turns it over.

“What in God’s name is this?” Shocked, staring at the sheet, the ink on the page still wet somehow, and dripping slowly onto the desk. The splotched ink has run off the page in many lines, and just above this is a very small hole that looks like it’s been burned through the paper with a magnifying glass.

 “What was I drawing last night, and why would I use so much ink? I ought to attempt a better sleeping schedule.” Confused, he sets the paper down into the wastebasket off to the side of the desk.

A few hours pass, Dr Bentley engrossing himself in research, before another wrapping of knuckles against the glass door breaks the tense silence.

“Dr Andrew Bentley are you in? I have something for you, sent from the Mayweather Estate.” A coarse and thickly accented man calls out through the door.

“Just a minute!” Replies Dr Bentley, climbing his way out from the many boxes littering the floor, the door opens to reveal a portly man with a large moustache and thin wisps of hair on the sides of his head, holding a package.

“Sign here then sir, and I can be on my way.”

“Oh right, yes of course.” Bentley quickly scrawls a signature on the clipboard, pulling the box away from the man.

“Tween you’n me, Sir, my youngest just got a job there as an expert on infectious something or rathers. Does that place seem on the level to you?”

Bentley stops stunned for a moment, thinking to himself.

“I couldn’t rightfully say I’m afraid, not sure myself why they’d send for me.” The lie rolling unnaturally off his tongue in response, clearly falling flat on the man as his face pales slightly.

“Oh, right… well have a good night, Sir”

“And yourself, thanks again!” Bentley closes the door behind him, leaning against it. He carefully moves to the desk, mulling over what he just learned whilst he opens the box.

From within he first pulls out a small letter, addressing Dr A. Bentley, sealed with a meticulous M pressed into dark blue wax. Quickly opening the envelope with a small ornate letter opener on a stand next to his ink pots, he reads it aloud, mumbling the words under his breath.

 “To the address of Dr Andrew Bentley,
I am sending this letter in regard to your recent inquiries toward the whereabouts of our employee, William Hargrave.

I have checked your credentials and found you to be an upstanding citizen as well as having been put down as William’s emergency contact. I have deemed it likely that I can trust you. I am afraid to inform you that I too am concerned about William’s whereabouts.

I have worked with him for a few years now, as his student and then his partner, he has taught me a great deal about the work we do here in the Mayweather Estate and I think it is right for me to tell you personally what in fact this work is, as it is not what I imagine you expect.

I have enclosed a card with an address for us to meet, as well as a few things you should keep on your person as a layer of protection. I can only assume as a close friend of William you are a superstitious man to some degree, and I hope you trust me that whilst unlikely, the items I enclosed will prove helpful.

I look forward to seeing you on Thursday of this week, eight in the evening is when I will be there.
With regards,

Irene Baxter.”

Dr Bentley pulls out the scrap of paper hidden behind the letter, reading aloud the address of “Ninety-three Butchers Street” and setting about pulling the other items out.

They are as follows: a small and unique static electricity lantern that requires hand cranking to charge its miniature chemical battery, a small iron pendant with the symbol of the curved five-pointed star and a book; title reading “The Burning Stolen Light”.

“A handheld electrical lantern? Those are rather expensive to just be handing out like that.” Bentley remarks, marvelling at the new technology. “And that symbol keeps popping up everywhere, the eye will protect or something in that regard.”

He sets the book and items aside, reading the letter over again, sighing loudly, his concerns about his partner most assuredly being confirmed.

Absentmindedly, he starts thumbing the red jewel in his hand, curiously reading the first few pages of the book, quickly losing interest and setting about his notes, looking for information relating to the name Irene Baxter from the employee list of the Mayweather Estate.