Through the Veil Transcripts

You were on the far west coast. Behind you, the long stretch of the highland hills. Ahead of you, the ocean waves smash against the rocky shoreline and further out, everything fades to the flat gray of fog. At the very edge of your vision, a pair of dark shadows low and long across the water reveal the presence of islands.

Through the fog, it’s more like feeling that they are there than actually seeing them. Just north of you, a few small fishing towns dotted the shoreline, and to the south, the mountains and moors and wider country. Standing here was like standing at the edge of the world. The only thing beyond the shore where you stood was the cold water and the bare rock islands that dotted the coast.

You would normally be fishing, either the sea or one of the nearby, smaller lochs. But today, you were resting. Recent days had been plentiful and you were taking a well-deserved break.

You wrapped your coat tighter around you, and continued your walk. Your destination, a cliff overlooking the ocean, one of your favorite spots to visit. On a clear day, you could see for miles from the point.

You liked it here best in the autumn. After most of the tourists had gone home. It wasn’t that you disliked them, or that you didn’t want people to come and see this beautiful place, it was just that it was so much louder when that many people were here. Most were here for the novelty of the thing, and most people were perfectly happy to give them that.

You were happy to go about your business and let them go about theirs.

But now, with summer fading and behind you, and autumn right around the corner, it was mostly quiet here. Certainly there were a few visitors, but the number was drastically reduced from even a few weeks ago.

With things quieting down, you always took the time to walk the shoreline. Paralleling the road that followed a short distance away. You would make your way through the small towns, stopping to chat with a few of the other locals, occasionally sharing a short conversation with one of the late-season tourists.

But while it was always nice to see the towns and the people, they were not the focus of your walks. No, you were here to watch autumn happen, to watch the highlands shift around you as the season changed.

This was your favorite time to walk the shores of Loch Ness.

You walk the streets of Edinburgh’s Old Town. A place steeped in history. The long stretch of the Royal Mile lays before you. Behind you, Edinburgh Castle, and down the long road that runs the ridge-top, the Palace of Holyroodhouse. To either side, the remnants and foundations of the Old Town.

Glancing around, you can see the tourist-trap stores peddling the wares of Scotland. Their storefronts hiding some of the history. But it’s there. All it takes is a closer look. Some places show it with pride, others are hidden away in closes and courtyards.

Others wander the streets as well, they pop in and out of shops and attractions. They are not here for the same reasons as you.

You are here with purpose. You are here to find something.

Edinburgh is reportedly one of the most haunted cities in the world. You are here, to find their ghosts.

You came here often. To think, or explore. To get away.

The trees stretched in every direction. The path itself was a narrow, meandering trail. It wound up and throughout the barrens, avoiding the lower and wetter portions as best as it could. You knew the area well, even if you didn’t know this particular path. It was a new one you were trying. So far it was a lovely day. The sun was out, the path was clear with the exception of a few small patches of mud.

It was a place of seclusion. A place far from the world, far from the cities, far from the noise.

It was peaceful, and although it was beautiful, it had a haunting desolation to it.

You were taking a walk. It was a path you knew well. Out from your front door, down the gravel road, and then a meandering path beside the old two-lane highway. It made its way past several large fields, where some of your neighbors kept goats and other livestock.

Some days, they would wander out as far as the fence. On others, particularly rainy days, you wouldn’t see them. Generally, you didn’t really pay attention to them, just noted that they were there.

On this particular rainy afternoon, you were surprised as you made your way down the path. You saw several goats, it looked like they were lying in the field. It was odd. The way they were lying seemed strange, not to mention them being down near the fence in the rain.

As you closed the distance, you tried to get a better look. Your stomach rolled. They were all motionless, lying dead in the grass.

They were… you didn’t really know how to describe it. The word that came to mind was shriveled, dessicated.

You could hardly imagine a better day for a hike. A better weekend for a trip like this. The weather was beautiful.

The sky was clear, the sun shone merrily down, its heat abated by a low breeze and occasional cloud. But no storms were forecast. You were incredibly pleased. The group you were with, all of you friends, had been planning this trip for a long time. There were six of you making the trek, hiking back into the mountain forest, camping near a lake for several days, and then returning.

The hike was long, but it was generally easy, and without a storm on the horizon to worry about, the whole weekend was looking like it would be a massive success. You were looking forward to a long weekend of relaxing, swimming, and hiking. Being away from the city was going to be great.

You are driving along an empty highway. To either side, the thick trees press close. Only a small ditch separating them and their reaching branches from the road. The fog sits thick tonight, it built over the last hour or so, and had grown enough that you are going slower than you otherwise would on the mostly straight path.

You don’t expect to see much traffic. It is, after all, very late. With nothing but the road, the forest, and your music for company, you are relaxed. This drive, just like these woods, is familiar. You’ve done it many times.

But this time, something different happens. As you break free from the tree-line, you look to where the bridge is. You know it’s there, even if you can’t see it through the fog. You can see the point-lights of other cars drifting in the distance.

Then you see the red lights. At first, you think they may be brake lights off the road. But there aren’t any hills nearby that would account for their altitude. You only see them for an instant at first, but as you draw closer they appear again. Floating fifty, maybe sixty feet from the surface of the river, and off to one side of the bridge.

You slam on the brakes as the thing disappears into the fog, but you know what you saw. Connected to those strange, red eyes was a man with massive moth’s wings.

You found yourself on a Friday evening with no plans. Which meant staying in and watching something, or going out for a couple of drinks.

You decided getting out and about would do you just fine. So you got cleaned up, and walked toward a nearby pub you had not tried before.

The place was called the Stoop Inn. Some people called it the Busby Stoop, or just the Busby. You weren’t sure why. What you knew about it was that the place was old. Been around far longer than you had.

You arrived at the old pub, found a small, quiet crowd. They were all engaged in conversation already, sat around a scattering of tables. There were some seats at the bar, and a single chair empty at a table alone.

You decided you would take the table, and were making your way toward the chair when the man behind the bar called out.

“You won’t want to be sitting there! Come on up to the bar.”

You stopped, shrugged, and made your way to the bar instead. The bartender continued once you were closer.

“Sorry about all that, it’s just, the chair is cursed, y’see. Can’t let people sit in it, everyone who does, well, it goes poorly for ‘em.”

While you didn’t buy into things like curses, you weren’t attached to the idea of the table, so you just smiled at the story and ordered your drink.

The call was like so many others. You never got used to it, not really. The siren went off, the crew got ready. That’s just how it was.

So when the call came in, you were ready. The truck was out and sirens blaring in moments. On your way to the house. It was outside of town a short ways, in a nearby neighborhood. As soon as everything was loaded you were on the road.

The call said the fire was still small, just the one room. That it hadn’t spread yet. Good. They also said everyone was out of the house. That was always the news that made your breath catch in your throat, if someone was still inside.

So all in all, it was a best case scenario. When you arrived at the house, the smoke was coming from a low, corner window. Kitchen probably. That was the usual culprit.

You and the rest of the crew loaded up extinguishers, and your masks, and you made your way inside. The smoke and heat were always intense, even for a small fire. The door was shut, and the captain cleared the way and then broke the door down, letting the fire blast out of the door in a back draft.

Then you were in the room, spraying the fire suppressing chemicals at the root of the flames. They were climbing from a low spot on a wall, and had spread across the wall and ceiling of the kitchen. Looked like an electrical fire to you.

The fight was brief. You never had a good sense for exactly how long it took, always less than you felt like it was. And when it was over, and your team was going through the burned areas, confirming there were no more embers or flame that could bring the blaze back to life, you noticed the fallen painting. It was wide and framed, and it appeared to have fallen from the ruined wall. Most of the room was a ruin to be honest, but the rest of the house was safe.

You lifted the painting carefully to check beneath it, and you drew back suddenly. Not because of what was in the frame. No, within the frame was simply a haunting painting of a crying boy, not your personal style perhaps, but nothing particularly eye-catching about it. What caused you to flinch from the painting was a simple, unnatural fact.

The painting was perfect. Undamaged entirely by the flames that had ripped through the room around it. Even the frame was barely scorched.

Your journey had already been long. A days-long snow storm had kept you at a campsite nearly twice as long as intended, and prevented you from making the summit you’d been hoping for.

So, although you were delayed, when the storm broke, you began hiking up toward the glacier that capped the mountain. Your group would be ascending up the ice face, crossing a narrow crevasse near the top of the glacier, and then climbing the last stretch to the summit of the mountain.

The day started early. You and the rest of the climbers packed up camp and headed out. The way was difficult, made more so because of the recent snow, but your guides were good.

By midday, you had reached the bottom of the glacier and began the long climb. Finally, you reached the top. The crevasse and its narrow bridge established by the previous climbing crew were evident. And a small cavern in the glacier’s ice.

Your guides seemed surprised by the cavern, and you opted to go explore it. Although they warned of its dangers, they weren’t going to stop you.

You stooped into the low cave, and found it went deeper into the ice than you expected. You clicked your small flash light on and pressed in, a few more feet, a few more and you were unable to crouch. To continue you’d have to crawl.

That’s when you saw him. The iceman.

You had not made a habit of going to auctions, but tonight, you made an exception. So you found yourself, formally dressed and ready to bid your night away. It was for a good cause, anyway. This was an estate auction of some kind, you hadn’t looked into the details much, beyond the line-up was eclectic and strange.

Most of the night, you spent placing small bids that were rapidly outpaced. You bid for a painting, a portrait of a child that was haunting in a way you appreciated. But the painting must have had a reputation, because the bids quickly went beyond what you were willing to pay for the piece.

You bid on a wooden-chair, it looked heavy, and well-made, that the ticket said was from the 1800s. This bid was far more competitive, but in the end, you decided it wasn’t worth what your fellow bidders seemed to think it was.

Then the necklace was brought out. It was astounding. A chain of precious metals holding a large pendant set with many small diamonds in rings, and in the center, a large blue-violet diamond.

You travel with a small party. Marching up from the rocky coast and into the stone-studded hills. 

Somewhere up there, hidden away in a cave, lives a monster. One of three, perhaps, or maybe it lived alone. But Perseus demanded action. Said the gods asked it of him. You weren’t sure how much you bought into that, but here you were anyway, following him. Up to the cave, up to a monster.

The way was tough, and in several places the path had fallen away in landslides. Perseus was leading the way, followed by you and the rest of your band. The climb was arduous. And soon, even Perseus was showing signs of weariness.

Then, suddenly, you crest a ridge and see Perseus stopped. And ahead of him, a massive cave.

You are here.

You knew Zeus was furious. He had been for weeks. Ever since Prometheus stole fire and gave it to humans, he had held a bitter anger.

Then one day you saw him speaking with Hephaestus. You could not hear the conversation, but his energy was nearly frantic.

Hephaestus was more solemn.

Later, after their conversation was done, Hephaestus gathered his tools while Zeus summoned the other gods.

He told some of the others to bring gifts. For Hephaestus was going to craft a wonder. You waited, excited to see what would come of the work.

When they were gathered, Hephaestus got to work. He sculpted with clay and with water, spinning a form. You realized, you had seen a similar form crafted not so long ago by a Titan’s hands.

At first, they were very similar, the man Prometheus had crafted, and the figure Hephaestus was spinning, but soon they took on differences.

What Prometheus had made was rugged. Hephaestus however, was the god of crafts, and the figure was beautiful. Like all things crafted by Hephaestus, it was perfect.

You were all curious. Waiting and watching to see the Titan work.

You weren’t sure what the Titan was working on, only that he did the work at Zeus’ request.

Zeus was with you all, standing on the slopes of Mount Olympus. Solemn and quiet. The moment felt important, whatever it was, so you watched, and you waited.

Slowly, Prometheus made his way to the bottom of the mountain, one of the only Titans not trapped deep in Tartarus. He carried with him two jars. One, he filled with dirt and mud. The other, he filled with water from the river. He brought the jars to the foot of the mountain, and he began to work.

You watch as the Titan begins to mix the gathered components. He forms them into a large sphere first, and then he begins to shape the mud.

At first, it wasn’t clear what Prometheus was making, the shape was strange. Then, as time went on and he continued to work, well into the night, the object became clear.

He was making a person. Something like the gods. Something less than you and your fellow gods, and yet amazing. When Prometheus is done he whispers something in the person’s ear. What was once dirt and water and mud was suddenly more. The person began to move. Began to live.

You counted yourself blessed. Your fields were filled with crops that grew quickly, and the hills nearby were filled with thick grass for grazing, and beautiful flowers. The year had been kind. The rain was plentiful, and the storms had lacked destructive force.

You spent your days walking the fields and grazing your flock along the hills. You would often sleep along the edge of the hills when the weather was mild. Staring up at the starry night and the distant slopes of the mountain. You felt secure, with the mountain so close, you knew that those that lived there were watching over the valley, and kept your land peaceful.

Normally, you would go for days without seeing another person, your grazing journey marked by lonely contemplation. Then one day, you see someone. A young woman standing at the top of one of the hills. Even from this distance, she is impossibly beautiful, and you realize immediately, she is not human.

She is one of those who dwell upon the slopes of Mount Olympus. She is one of the gods.

You were given the doll as a gift. In many ways, you wished you hadn’t received it.

If you were honest, the doll was off-putting. It was all ragged-cloth, with felt hair and big, black buttons for eyes.

But of course, you did not want to be rude. So you took the doll. You set it aside and promptly forgot about it until later.

Later on, you remember the doll. You return to where it was stowed, and find it sitting upright in the corner where you tossed it.

Knowing it was ridiculous, knowing that it was just coincidence, the doll’s posture made it look annoyed.

You scooped it up and set it in a chair in the living room. With it in place, somewhere slightly more central than where you had cast it, you left the room and put the doll out of your mind.

You are excited about your new job. You found it through a friend. A large, austere house, owned by a young married couple was hiring extra cleaning staff. They paid well, better than similar jobs throughout the city, but oddly their staff was quite small.

It seemed they had trouble keeping people, in spite of the pay. On your first day, you arrived. You were given a key to the staff door by the couple, before they went on their way. You were working this shift alone. You began going from room to room, giving yourself a tour of your new work place.

The first floor was nice, simple and well-kept. The dining room was set modestly, it seemed your new employers did not entertain very often.

Moving upstairs to the second floor, there were a number of bedrooms, their doors hanging open, two closets, and… at the far end of the hall, a shut door.

Feeling only a slight trepidation, you make your way to the door and test the knob. It swings open freely. It is another bedroom, but small. A child’s room. Complete with a bed, a small dresser, and a set of shelves. And there in the window, as if looking out over the city, in a small wooden rocking-chair, was a doll…

You are all going to take a turn. That’s what your gathered friends all say.

You just happened to draw the short stick. You just have to go first.

You’ve been in this hallway a hundred times. Staring down the length at the bathroom has never been cause for concern before.

But this time, even with the small group of your friends behind you, the bathroom looks dark and terrible.

Go on, they urge you in whispered voices, do it.

You take a deep breath and step toward the room. It’s just a stupid mirror, right?

Another step, and another. Your grip tightens on the thin, white candle and lighter bundled in your fist.

Your friends have not followed you, they are waiting halfway down the hall, huddled together, all nervous giggles.

You swing the door shut behind you, for a moment it’s pitch black until your eyes adjust to the dark. You light the candle with a shaky hand, letting the small light fill the space, glimmering off the mirror, you make eye contact with your reflection.

“Bloody Mary,” you whisper in the dark.

“Bloody Mary,” you say again, the conjuring nearly complete.

“Bloody Mary.”

You finally found the house. It was a difficult search, but eventually… it was just right. It was old, but well-kept. Cozy, but not too small.

It had taken time, but finally, the papers were signed, and you were able to move into your new home.

The place was empty, all its furniture gone. Except for one thing.

The old mirror was left, hanging in its place in the hallway. It was a massive (and if you were honest) ugly thing. But still, you liked something about it.

So, you didn’t have the movers take it when they offered to cart it away. You kept it right there.

Where it was, your reflection would emerge clearly when you reached the top of the stairs or when you walked down the hallway and otherwise existed only as a flitting thing at the corner of your vision.

You’ve brought together everything you need.

It wasn’t hard, really. Nearly everything you had gathered could be found in any common home. And the rest was acquired over time.

The table was the small one that you keep in the corner. It does not see much use, so it seemed right that it would find purpose now.

The candles were scavenged, half-burnt already, but with plenty of life left to serve the meaning you intend for them.

The matches you had purchased, the day before. You had spent just a little too long searching around your home before you realized you had run out and had to buy new ones. They sat, the book flipped open and waiting.

The herbs you had gathered were wrapped together with three bands of twine. Their smell was strange combined all together. Alone, each was pleasant, but the grouping was heady.

The mirror… It was not ornate. It didn’t need to be. It was simple and round, leaning from the table against the wall. You tried not to make eye contact with it… because, well, it was the heart of this wasn’t it?

All there was left to do was wait. Wait for nightfall, and for the last component you could not gather, scavenge, or buy. You had to wait for darkness.