The Portal - XII

Part 1

Empathetic was a word that Thomas would use to describe himself even from a young age. He was always one to help a friend in need, a stray animal on the side of the street, his mother when she was ill, or the old man across the street when he fell hard onto the pavement. He felt a strong connection with the weak and oppressed since he was often seen, with his condition, as being weak and easily taken advantage of or torn down. Empathy though wasn’t the reason he scoured the streets of London looking for the crippled James, or the large man named Reginald. A different emotion, a stronger driving force pushed his feet past the pain and his muscles past the strain of days without proper rest. He was being willed by a sense of self preservation, a selfishness that he never truly felt in himself before this moment. After stepping out of that old house he left to burn and overcoming his Tourette’s as though it was a hangover instead of a lifelong affliction, an instinct to fight to survive had kicked in. The feeling, like throwing coal into a steam engine, churned itself over and over in his heart and mind pushing him forward.

                The image of the room full of strings stayed in the forefront of his thoughts as he walked the streets. Half dazed by exhaustion and in a trance of sight beyond sight he felt he was still holding the string of James, betwixt his fingers. Tugging him closer and closer to his prize. On the bus ride he tried to figure out what he would do when he actually found them. He had recalled the scene he witnessed in the mausoleum that, despite having read the journals of those in the past, and seeing things in his own dreams, he scarcely understood even now. From what he could piece together from the journals, his own eyes, and dreams, James was a vessel for something sinister. A creature that fed upon the weak and the oppressed. Reginald, whom Thomas couldn’t explain away beside being an insane man, was taking care of James? This Thomas couldn’t rightly explain or understand but he knew one thing. Deep in his heart and burning from his soul, he had to save James.

                “That bastard has blood on his hands, but I have to.” Thomas said recalling the scene from the morgue. The bodies on the floor, Dr. Starcross against the wall covered in blood. The blood on Reginald and James. The look in their eyes as they reveled in it.

                A tug on the string pulled Thomas out of his reminiscence and he nearly hit the pavement.

                “They’re moving again.”

                The mist that had permeated the streets had turned to rain and the cold was biting Thomas to the bone. The string wrapped tightly in his fist pulled him forward and he knew that he was close on the trail. Weaving in and out of the alleyways he found himself seeing parts of London he had never expected had he ventured here of his own volition. Back ways, dark corners, wretched hives. As though the men he followed were careful of being seen out in the open. Or maybe because of their proclivity to shadows they felt more at home in the darkness cast by the towering buildings. The string was tight for a good hour as he moved, assumingly the same time as the others moved towards their destination.

                The rain finally stopped and the string went slack at around four in the afternoon. Thomas caught glimpse of a clock on the main street as the string lost its pull. He was sure he was close and finally ventured out into the open to get his bearings. He didn’t’ know much of London but to his luck a glass window stood in the center of the sidewalk with a map encased within it. He studied it quickly, deeply, and found his location. South of the Thames in a residential district split up by the train stations nearby. A quick look around the street he saw the faces of great mansions that had been standing for decades peering down at him. He had an inkling that they were in one of these around him. With eyes closed he pulled with his right hand trying to tug on the string making it taught so that he’d get an idea of which direction to go. After reeling it in it pulled him west. The building in that direction was Victorian and large beyond what Thomas had ever seen in Westknell. Beyond the shrubbery that hit the man door from the street Thomas could see the top of a man’s head as it ascended the stairs carrying a man in his arms. With a quick glance from side to side Reginald looked from side to side then pushed open the door letting himself in.

                A pit opened in Thomas’ stomach as the realization hit him that his journey was over. What lay ahead was surely dangerous. The bodies of the dead he had witnessed and the words form the pages he read swam in his head. His resolve doubled however when the surge of empathy erupted in his bones. He had to do this. He was the only one who could do anything. He took a step forward and moved past the shrubbery. He found an alley to the back of the house and found a way in. Like a cat he crept into the house, like a mouse he hid in the shadows, like a child he was scared out of his mind.  

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