The recording ended in silence. Monsignor Vescari removed his glasses and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Outside, Rome’s bells tolled the Angelus, their echo faint against the stone. The air in the study felt charged, as if the words he had heard still lingered, unwilling to leave. On the desk, the CD spun its final rotation, whispering to a stop like a dying breath. He sat motionless for a time, the letter open before him, until decision overcame caution. Rising,…
Mrs. Rabastandratana’s squeaky wheels and excited whoops tempered the fear storm spreading around the hall. Making her way to the front of the crowd, she leaped from her chair to perform a spasmodic jig in front of Rosie and the beast before taking a bow. My father’s face was incredulous, though fear had gripped him enough to not intervene. “Let’s sing a song from the old country” she bellowed joyously. The piano, still intact, became the new focal point in the room as Mrs.
Rosie looked different. Strong and upright, the slight hunch she’d always carried was gone. Her carriage reminded me of an encyclopaedia illustration I once saw of Joan of Arc rallying troops - resolute, beckoning confrontation. Towering beside her, the worm stood in an S-shape, its cavernous mouth dripping fluids onto the parquet flooring. Its breathing was a slow, rhythmic pulsing. Ripples passed through its pale pink body, each ending in a rush of air that sounded like breath pushed through cold fingers on a…
At 4 p.m., sandwiches distributed, I found myself staring out of the windows again. An old-fashioned lamp on the driveway had come on, likely on a timer to light the way on short winter days. Rain fell with impossible ferocity, though the windows remained free of droplets. Bushes were dragged in every direction across the shingle, pulling small stones and dried leaves from the ground which became briefly airborne, giving the uprooted flora the form of a living creature. I couldn’t work out if…
I heard a door swing and lifted my eyes and hand from the page. I watched Mrs. Tapscott stride across the room to the bottle green door. As she went through, I noticed Mrs. Rabasandratana had joined me. She glared at me for several minutes. As much as I tried to avoid looking directly at her, I couldn’t - for fear of losing track of her. The mental stimulus had already come thick and fast, and I felt close to a meltdown before a…
Mr. Column stood beneath a suspended plant pot, positioned atop the window outside, seemingly impervious to the heavy rain that cascaded around him. Neither his scraggly shoulder-length hair nor his coat were blowing with the wind. By this point, the rain was so heavy that large pools of water had formed in dips in the shingle where cars had driven through. I could see rainwater dropping onto his shoulders as it spilled from the pot, but there appeared to be no impact splash. He…
Rosie showed no interest in the story, and despite thirty minutes of persistence, her agitation was palpable. Mrs. Tapscott kept asking what was wrong, and each time, Rosie glanced at the bearded man, almost as if seeking permission to speak. She’d adjust her sitting position and temporarily stop scanning the room. This pattern repeated itself. I noticed Mrs. Tapscott shooting disapproving looks at the man, who remained absorbed in Rosie. The encounter was unsettling - as if all three were waiting on some unspoken…
We were somewhere in rural Surrey. A thick morning mist made visibility poor, and there were several stops to allow deer crossing the road a safe path into the adjacent meadows. Mr. Column, the school caretaker, was driving, with Mrs. Tapscott in the front passenger seat. My father had warned of the potential for travel sickness, giving a detailed description at the school gate of the time I projectile vomited onto the back of his head as we drove toward our static caravan in…
The Prefect of the Vatican Apostolic Archives, Monsignor Aurelio Vescari, adjusted his spectacles as he examined the padded envelope that had arrived without insignia or return address. The handwriting was English - neat, deliberate. Inside were a folded letter, a stack of photocopied police documents, and a compact disc in a cracked plastic case. Across its surface, written in black marker, were the words: “Summonitores Libro – testimony.” He sat at his desk beneath the frescoed ceiling of the Archivum Secretum, the morning light…
