Geist, p.19
Geist, page 19
“We know the Dollmaker killed her,” Victor said.
“Until now, we’ve assumed Edgar is the Dollmaker,” Charles continued. “I dunno, man. He’d need a motive to kill Ingrid. Throwing us into the Inferno to ‘save our souls’ is consistent enough. Doesn’t Edgar indirectly fund the Powder Kegs just by keeping Yoshiwara open? Fucking with Ingrid isn’t his brand of stupid.”
“He is, however, insane,” Victor muttered.
“How do we know that?” Beatrice asked. “Is he crazy? Or is he being manipulated? Edgar’s got serious problems. There’s no denying that. But, back to Ingrid, she was pretty stable until something broke her in the Inferno. When she was possessed by an entity.”
“The Director of Pestilence,” Charles added. “Wait. They’re both—”
“Pestilence and famine.” Beatrice nodded. “I guess their chosen horsemen don’t get a lot of say. We know Ingrid was one for the former. Edgar has some sort of connection with the latter. I think they’re like…pawns in a cosmic game of chess, inching towards a strategic goal.” She slouched over her coffee. “Christ, this turned into a metaphysics course.”
The door opened with a chime as a crew of meatpackers strolled to the front bar, most of the blood wiped off their jackets and gumboots.
Victor stirred his whiskey. “Worst part is, it makes sense. By Edgar’s twisted logic, he failed to save Yuko. That much I know. But he also succeeded in saving you two. He might’ve viewed the Inferno as ‘safer’ than the city.” Nausea engulfed him as if he leapt off an epiphanic cliff. “Maybe he thought he was actually helping?”
“That’s…freakishly in character,” Charles added. “Do we even know who killed Fukuhara? Other than, ‘the Dollmaker,’ that is.”
Victor was about to speak up but thought better of it, catching the fallacies in his approach faster than they could be articulated. “No,” he sighed. “Objectively speaking, we don’t. Still, what are you insinuating? Is there another culprit besides Edgar? A true killer?”
Beatrice took a long sip from her coffee. “And what would prove that?”
Victor contemplated with closed eyes, letting his thoughts probe the deep archives of possibility. Something had to stitch it all together. Hidden in plain sight. A single thread tying every kidnapping and corpse to a common root—
Of course.
“The letters,” Victor blurted. “They read like Edgar wrote them, but….” He shuddered, not out of frustration—rather, stifling his regret. “I’ll need your help on this. If we can talk to him, we might learn if he wrote them or not. What’re the asylum’s hours?”
#
Alchemilla was quieter than usual, though the staff seemed on edge. Victor lingered in the lobby, fidgeting with a pen, as Beatrice talked to the receptionist. Light bounced off the freshly painted walls, white and medical green. Charles sat on a corner chair, opening a dime bag of various strains. Victor kept close, trying to “play it cool.”
“You’re doing great,” Charles said.
“How are we looking? You’re better with body language.”
The stoner chuckled. “Not by much. Shit seems okay, though. Receptionist is probably gonna call over Cronenberg. Talking to the doctor might be easier, actually.”
“They have to be suspicious,” Victor said. “People don’t just break their legs in solitary. You don’t have to be a doctor to know that.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like the cameras were on then.”
Victor’s eyes were fixed on the beige carpet, trying to tune out the murmurs of patients. Maybe it was his anxiety, but everything seemed off, such as the shifting eyes of nurses behind the desks, until Beatrice joined them, sitting on a wrinkled couch.
“We should be clear.” She kept her voice low. “They asked a new slew of questions, though. Had to adlib a few answers. They’ve tightened security a fair bit.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s just about Edgar,” Charles said. “Everyone’s been more than a little on edge since the rations started, especially after the fog rolled in.”
Beatrice nudged Victor’s side. “Hey, I know it’s a lot to ask, but stay frosty.”
“Beatrice Morrison?” the doctor called as she shut the door behind her. “Ah,” she walked up to the visitors, “there you are. What brings you in today?”
“Is Edgar in condition for visitors?” Beatrice asked.
“Well,” Cronenberg mused, “he’s still on suicide watch. And I take it you’re not the only visitor. However, Edgar has made substantial progress given his symptoms and—” She paused, eying Victor as if deliberating over her next words. “In light of Yuko’s death, I can make an exception under surveillance. Stay close.”
Victor sighed in relief. “Thank you.”
Without a word, the doctor led them down the corridors, taking a sharp left to intensive care. Victor dodged a stray gurney in an effort to keep up, ignoring the cries of madmen and urgent physicians, deeper into the crisis ward. The aura of wrongness intensified, reminding Victor of the quarantine zones; however, these weren’t lepers.
A different kind of plague?
Moaning in mutual anguish, the patients were locked in padded cells, emaciated yet bloated. Some cradled themselves in damp corners, while others chittered their teethm, eyes dry and yellow as if infected by unknown parasites. Mouths agape and limbs covered in bite wounds, they were unable to eat or drink, famished in body and soul.
“What the hell happened?” Charles called.
“It was…sudden. Powerful radio surges may correlate with these ‘symptoms.’ We call it, Gaki syndrome. However, I do not believe the afflicted to be contagious—”
“Look out, he’s loose!” a nurse screamed.
“Hurry,” said another. “Get the tranquilizer!”
Victor spun around as the clattering roar of metal filled his ears. Following a terrified team of staff was Brutus, tangled in broken restraints, eyes wide with delirium and fury. With a howl, the hulk charged at Victor, only for his stitches to tear in a splatter of blood and exposed sinew. He collapsed, unable to trudge past his injured leg, strength castrated by agony. A squad of nurses injected several needles into his neck, subduing Brutus in a pool of his own gore.
“B…brother,” he whimpered.
Before Victor could even speak, the hulk was hauled off. His friends asked the doctor a series of questions, most of which he didn’t register, buying time to catch his breath. Victor forced the dull ring out of his ears, salvaging his courage, and followed the others up the stairs and down to Room 633, refortifying his mind for another kind of confrontation.
Poor bastard.
Shock aside, Victor pitied his assailant, knowing full well that Brutus was a victim as much as he. A stunted simpleton with the face of an ogre, fooled into the service of evil, but the likelihood of Edgar being a mastermind was slim to none.
“Thanks again, Doctor,” Beatrice said. “I know this can’t be easy.”
Cronenberg smiled wryly. “Edgar would’ve been released a few days ago if not for the relapse and sudden fracture in his kneecap.” She shot Victor an aside glance. “Given the circumstances, I will turn a blind eye. Just don’t take me for an idiot.” She withdrew a set of copper keys, approaching the door. “Please wait. He may not be coherent yet.”
#
Edgar was lost in his own abyss. Naked in the dark, he let the undertows carry him from one shameful memory to the next: a hall of broken glass. He did not flinch at the blurred shapes of “approved visitors.” They seemed so far away, islands across a sea of anesthetic, although it kept the pain at bay. His shattered knee was mummified in a cast, dangling like a marionette, its bandages a reminder of his crimes. Just then, a voice reached his ear.
“Edgar,” she called. “There’s something we’d like to ask you.”
He tried to reply, but only a whimper escaped his lips. His eyes narrowed, almost recognizing the form at his bedside. Short blue hair, black clothes, bits of silver, perhaps a leather jacket, punctuated by the smell of stale cloves and coffee.
I remember you.
“It’s tempting to think you’re the Dollmaker,” Beatrice said, curt yet calm. “And to be frank, we hoped you were. But we’re not here to get revenge. Help us out.”
Edgar swallowed the phlegm in his throat, forcing his lips to form language. “W…what? What do you want to know?”
“Is ‘saving’ someone killing them?” another asked.
Edgar recognized the second voice; harsh, underpinned with hate, looming as the judge that Edgar deserved. Rightfully so. Beatrice stood between the tall shape and the bed.
“No,” Edgar said. “If I don’t save them, they’ll be killed.”
“Is that why you put us in there?” Beatrice added.
In there…. In there….
Those words looped inside his skull endlessly, like a torture device of his own making. Only the faint scent of hash oil anchored him to “reality.”
Him too?
“Yes,” Edgar said. “That’s exactly why I did it. But the rest were killed,” his lower lip trembled, “because I couldn’t save them. Not even her.”
“Who’d you ‘save’ first?” Charles asked.
Edgar heaved as if anchored under leagues of open ocean. Drowning in his own guilt. And yet, despite its weight, he raised a finger. “Y…you.”
“Me? Shit, alright-a.”
“So,” Beatrice said, “after learning of Fukuhara’s death, plus the others, you realized that the Devil’s Hour and the surges were tied to the murders. So, you ‘saved’ Charles by kidnapping and shoving him into the Inferno. When he survived, you rinsed and repeated, until Yuko’s death.” She paused. “Why start with Charles, though?”
My, my. Aren’t they a curious lot?
Something sucked at Edgar’s sanity like a swarm of leeches, bleeding his thoughts dry. He tried to force it out of his skull, knowing the “hunger” sought to manipulate him once more, restringing him as a puppet for vile powers. Tearing at his fingernails, Edgar kept himself aware. The hunger would not wrench control of him. Not this time.
“Who killed them?” Victor asked.
“I wish I knew.”
“And why did you use the Inferno?”
“Trust m…me,” Edgar stuttered. “I never thought it’d be that kind of place.”
“Did you write the warning letters? What about the old tripery?”
“Easy.” Charles stepped into vision as if holding Victor back, a blur of lime greens and purple, with a long silver mane. “We gotta reel him in, remember?”
Victor was accusing him of the wrong crimes. The hunger growled as if unnerved by the concept of truth. Edgar knew better, almost able to speak with conviction. Meanwhile, in his mind’s eye, serpentine shadows encircled him, constricting his resolve.
They cannot be trusted.
Victor took a deep breath. “We need to know, Edgar. Who’s really behind all this. Did you write the letters? Like the one I gave you. The night you tried to ‘save’ Yuko?”
“What? W…wait. Do you believe me? Did you find him? The Dollmaker? The monster who took her?” Tears rolled down Edgar’s cheeks. “F…fukuhara….”
“It’s okay,” Beatrice said. “Take your time.”
Charles nodded. “We know about the Inferno, man. Actually, we might be the only three people in the entire city who’d understand the fuck you’re talking about.”
Edgar chuckled sadly. “I don’t deserve to be heard.”
“I’m willing to listen anyway,” Victor said.
Terrified as he was, Edgar would give a full account and confession. He owed Victor that much. Breaching the surface of madness, Edgar was rewarded with a lungful of air and sharper vision. He reached for a glass of water and took a sip as the hunger writhed in disgust, imprisoned by mood stabilizers and willpower. If only for a time.
“V…very well,” he said. “I’ll start from the beginning. Several months ago, Fukuhara and I were forced to take a break. Celebrity marriages are complicated. We couldn’t be seen together without being slandered by some tabloid.” He stared into the plastic cup, bombarded by hailstones of memory as he remembered the old office. “One night, I was lounging with her in my thoughts, watching my own reflection on the screen.”
Edgar’s eyes were fixed on the clock, watching the hands twitch at odd intervals, recalling the crossfade of opium and despair.
“Suddenly, the world went black. The kind of darkness you feel in a nightmare, and yet I was wide awake. Time itself had unraveled. Fukuhara’s image flashed in the static. She was writhing in pain, being engulfed by this terrible black fog. Without thinking, I reached out and touched the glass. It rippled, but the screen shut off. I thought I just having another episode, but….” He clutched his forehead; the image was stitched into his memory. “Her body was found in the morning. Tangled in telephone wires. Mutilated. And that mask.”
“I see,” Victor said. “Was that your first time experiencing the Devil’s Hour?”
“I’ve heard the rumors,” Edgar continued, “but the Thirteenth Frequency isn’t acknowledged by the Imperium. How do you explain the existence of a hidden hour? The short of it is, you don’t.” He rolled his eyes. “I petitioned for aid, and for a few days, Yoshiwara had a midnight curfew. That went about as well as you might expect. Regardless, the victims piled up. You’ve read the journal,” he listed. “Sally, Violet, Margret, Olivia…. They’re just who I can name offhand. Fukuhara’s death broke my heart, but the others, they broke my mind.”
A crack in resolve was all the hunger needed, worming its tongues into Edgar’s mind, corrupting his vision and perverting the surrounding sights. The three visitors towered over him as jagged specters, their motions exaggerated at odd angles, every sound amplified into a Shephard tone. Foul ulcers and cysts burst from cracks in the walls, as masses of chattering teeth formed against the windows—the mouths of famine.
Your crusade stands upon the edge of the knife….
Speak, and you’ll betray all that you’ve struggled for….
What would Fukuhara say? If only she could see you now….
“Take it you weren’t on meds,” Beatrice said. “Not that I blame you.”
“It wasn’t absent-mindedness.” Edgar shut his eyes, silencing the entity. “Part of me thought I didn’t deserve happiness. Rumor and hearsay were the only clues. My influence and wallet were the only things in the Dollmaker’s way. I suppose my isolation left me vulnerable to darker thoughts.” He shuddered as the hunger bit with sudden force. “L…like the voice.”
“You mean, the Director of Famine?” Victor asked.
“The hunger,” Edgar tried to explain. “It wasn’t all in my head—well, not entirely.” He paused, catching his breath. “But yes, ‘the Director of Famine.’ My decisions were my own, but the deeper I dug to find the truth, the stronger it became. Honestly, it was seductive.” He looked Victor dead in the eye. “You can’t imagine how powerful it made me feel. I was amounting to far more than a business magnate. My delusions led me to discover the Inferno. All it took was touching the screen again. Where it led didn’t even occur to me.” He turned to Charles and Beatrice. “How or why, I don’t know, but you both appeared on the day of Fukuhara’s death. Shadowed by suspicious characters more than once. When Victor appeared a month later, the happenings all seemed connected.”
“That’s a pretty big leap in logic,” Charles said. “What was the last straw? I mean, something had to tip you off. Did you consult anyone?”
Edgar shook his head. “No one took me seriously, but that didn’t stop me from reaching out. Whatever ‘the otherside’ was, it had to be better than ending up slaughtered, so….” He took a deep breath, pointing at Charles. “Brutus and I drugged and dragged you into my trunk, under cover of the Devil’s Hour, and threw you into the screen. The Inferno. I kidnapped you.”
“And given you saw me later,” Charles said, “it worked.”
“I won’t try to hide it,” Edgar said. “I believed my calling was that of a saint. Chosen by the Grand Conductor. That only raised the stakes.” He pointed at Beatrice. “You were the next target. It was hard to cover my tracks with the Inquisition, considering I had to sabotage a prison convoy after your bombing mission. And the results were the same.” He shuddered, not daring to look Victor in the eye. “For a while, the world seemed normal again, what with Xanadu’s opening—not a murder in weeks. And then…well, you know the rest.”
“No,” Victor said. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have tried to kill you. Keep talking. You seemed particularly determined to save Yuko. Why?”
“I….” Edgar’s heart jolted with the flow of adrenaline, a last resort of the hunger which sought to enslave him. “Y…yuko was designed to replace Lady Fukuhara at the Sunset Pagoda. Of course, her sentience wasn’t exactly planned, but as time went on, Yuko developed her own identity. Though at the time, I only saw an ersatz of Himiko. A doll. But when you showed me the letter, I couldn’t stand by either.” The hunger’s hold was weakening as tears flowed down Edgar’s cheeks in a torrent of shame. “It doesn’t matter. I am the reason Yuko is dead. That cannot be fixed.” He sobbed. “I am truly sorry for putting all of you through such terrible ordeals. I swear, I will take responsibility and kill myself for it.”
“No, you fucking won’t,” Victor spat.
“W…what?”
Victor grabbed him by the wrist, eyes burning with grief and rage. “If I didn’t kill you back there, it’s because you didn’t deserve to die. We’re still alive, despite what you’ve done. But not everyone can say that. You have no right to run. As of now, your every breath is a piss on Fukuhara and Yuko’s graves. Don’t end it here. If you really want to ‘take responsibility,’ help the people you’ve hurt and better the world for its own sake. Not for profit.”
