Chapter 100: What is Real?
That a stained-glass window should possess a moving eye was, by any measure, an unnatural phenomenon. The great Gothic edifice stood sentinel beside the public square, and from its rose window, a single, painted eye scanned the populace below; yet they, in their blissful ignorance, carried on with their games, entirely unaware.
I led Jared to a flock of pigeons that had gathered nearby, where a number of people were scattering breadcrumbs. We pretended to watch the birds, just like the other children who were gathered there—the well-dressed sons and daughters of the wealthy, of course. I had since formulated a maxim for my own survival: to whatever strange sights I might bear witness, I must feign blindness, as did all those around me. In this way, I reasoned, the city's monstrous denizens would have no cause to take an interest in me, for I had no quarrel with them.
“Brother Jared,” I whispered, my eyes fixed on the pigeons. “The eye in that church window. Can you perceive its movement? Be careful. Do not be obvious in your looking. Do not let them know you see.”
He cast a casual glance towards the building, his expression carefully neutral, then lowered his head to speak to me. “No,” he whispered back. “I see nothing, Parula. It is just an ordinary stained-glass window.”
It was as I suspected. The sights that were visible to me were not the same for him. His newfound sight was a conditional, fleeting thing, perhaps only granted under the most specific of circumstances, like when his eyes shone with that strange, golden light. To confirm my theory, I led him to another peculiar scene, a place of greater risk. We walked back to the alley where the girl with the gouged-out eyes had been murdered. Her ghost was still there. Every time I passed, she would turn her head, and her black, empty sockets would fix upon me. I held the distinct and chilling suspicion that she was aware of my perception, yet she never approached. Perhaps even among the restless dead, there was a code of conduct—that a spirit's grievance was only with its own tormentors. If so, I was fortunate indeed to have encountered such a reasonable apparition. Keeping a respectful distance, so as not to disturb her vigil, I spoke to Jared. “At the entrance to that alleyway. What do you perceive?”
“Eh, is that not the place of the murder?” he asked, his voice hesitant. “Am I meant to be seeing something?”
“Simply tell me what you see,” I instructed. From his tone, I could tell he was perceiving something, but was uncertain of its nature.
“I see… a shadow,” he said at last. “A patch of darkness, where the light itself seems to bend and distort. Within it, I can faintly make out a human figure. A woman, I believe.”
“And if I were to tell you,” I said, my voice a low whisper, “that I see a girl with no eyes, would you believe me?”
“I would,” he said without hesitation. “After today, after the ghost in the box, I would believe anything.” The events of recent days had clearly shattered his simple, brutal philosophy. He had always believed in ghosts in the abstract manner of one who hears tales told by the fire, but there is a vast and terrible gulf between belief and sight. A ghost, to him, had always been a distant, theoretical thing. It's like learning from the newspapers that there's a crazed killer on the loose. Most people will remark on how brutal it is, but they won't be truly afraid. But if you discover in reality that the killer is right beside you, then of course you'll panic.
“Very well. Let us not disturb her,” I said, pulling him away. “And from this day forward, Brother Jared, you must remember: whatever you see, no matter how strange, you pretend you see nothing. Unless the creature comes for you first. Do you understand?”
Once one steps into this world of shadows, there is no returning to the sunlit world of the blissfully ignorant. And I was certain this was but the beginning for him. If he could perceive the shadows now, soon he would see the things that cast them. Sooner or later, his world would be as full of horrors as my own. After all, he had already taken the most difficult step—the step from blindness to sight. But for that matter, could I truly see everything? Was my perception the true and complete one? I thought not.
It was just as it was with the brand on my arm. Before, I could only see the maggots writhing; now, I could see them actively crawling. Jared, however, could still only perceive the slow, subtle writhing. There were levels to this sight, to this madness. He could not see the eye in the window move, but I could. But was that the extent of it? Or was the entire stained-glass saint a living, breathing thing, its limbs of glass and lead moving in a slow, imperceptible dance, and I was just not yet mad enough to see it? Or worse, perhaps it wasn't a saint at all, but some terrible, unknowable entity, and my mind, in a desperate act of self-preservation, was rendering it as something I could comprehend. The more I considered it, the more uncertain I became, until I began to doubt the very fabric of the world around me. Was I being granted a glimpse into a deeper, truer reality? Or were my own senses betraying me, my descent into madness merely accelerating? Which was the truth—the world that I saw, or the one the oblivious masses inhabited?
“Parula! Parula!” Jared’s voice, sharp with alarm, broke through my spiraling thoughts. He was shaking my shoulder.
“Wha-what is it?” I asked, looking up at his worried, serious face.
“We’ve arrived home,” he said. “And a moment ago… you almost walked right into the canal.”
I looked down. My toes were inches from the edge of the stone platform. The black, stinking water churned below. The memory of the drowned things, of their cold, dead hands, sent a fresh wave of terror through me.
“And your countenance…” he continued, his voice hesitant. “You were smiling, but… it was a strange, unsettling expression, Parula. Not your own smile at all.” He had been frightened enough by the ghost in the box; my own strange behavior was clearly unnerving him.
“It is alright,” I said, forcing a reassuring tone. “You did the right thing. If you see me like that again, you must shake me awake. Do you understand?”
Back in the relative safety of our hovel, I began my preparations. The haunted cosmetics box was a ticking time bomb. The sooner we were rid of it, the better. I commenced the grim work of inscribing the summoning circle upon the floor, painstakingly copying the intricate and alien geometry from the witch's grimoire. It had to be perfect. I erased and redrew the outer circle several times before I was satisfied. Jared assisted me, using the tip of the dagger to carefully etch the lines into the stone. My own body was still too weak; a few moments of concentration left me breathless.
At last, it was done. A perfect circle, at least in appearance, inscribed with the true name of Gremory. We placed the cosmetics box in the center. The preparations were complete. All that remained was the final step: a drop of my own blood. But I hesitated. I wished to wait until the dead of night, when Bartholomew’s men were asleep. And besides… before I summoned a demon, there was another, perhaps safer, path to power I had to try. The Bible. I had not even opened it since we had taken it. But if Jared could gain a miracle just by looking at its pictures, then surely I, who could read its words, could do the same.
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