Session 24: Who's the Monster?

In the pale glow of a waning moon, the desolate island loomed like a forgotten sentinel in the Aegean Sea. Jagged cliffs rose from turbulent waters, crowned by a crumbling stone tower that pierced the starless sky. The investigators stood at the base of the hill, their breaths forming pale ghosts in the frigid night air. They had fought their way here, through treacherous waters and murderous cultists, to this forsaken place where the Children of the Blood Red Fez held sway.

A tense silence settled among them. The cultists had retreated into the tower, barricading themselves behind thick stone walls and a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands. No windows pierced the lower level, offering no glimpse into the darkness within. Only the upper floors bore narrow slits that served as windows, like empty eyes staring blankly into the abyss.

Madame Zorba stood apart from the others, her eyes closed, her lips moving in a silent incantation. Her delicate hands traced intricate patterns in the air, fingers dancing like pale spiders weaving an invisible web. Clyde Corning watched her warily, the moonlight casting sharp shadows across his rugged features.

“Madame Zorba,” he whispered, stepping closer. “What are you doing?”

She opened her eyes slowly, a glint of something unreadable flickering within them. “Do not worry, dear,” she replied softly. “I’m merely ensuring that the unknown remains unknown—to them, at least.”

Before Clyde could press further, a guttural roar erupted from within the tower, a sound that tore through the night like the scream of a wounded beast. It was followed by panicked shouts and the unmistakable clamor of chaos.

Clyde’s eyes widened. “What have you done?” he demanded, his voice edged with alarm.

Zorba offered a cryptic smile. “Sometimes, one must stir the darkness to see what it hides.”

The tower trembled as more screams echoed from within, some cut short with chilling abruptness. The investigators exchanged grim looks. Time was slipping away like sand through clenched fists.

“We’ve got to get in there and save the boy,” Clyde declared, his gaze settling on the fortress-like door.

Per Oskarson adjusted his spectacles, his lanky frame tense with anticipation. “They’ve barricaded the door from the inside,” he noted. “We won’t be able to force it open easily.”

Clinton Lake stepped forward, hefting a stick of dynamite thoughtfully. “Then perhaps we don’t need to open it,” he suggested. “Perhaps we need to remove it entirely.”

Clyde nodded. “Do it.”

Working swiftly, they placed the dynamite at the base of the door, the fuse hissing ominously as it was lit. “Take cover!” Per shouted, and they all dove behind the remnants of a low stone wall just as the world exploded around them.

The blast tore through the night, a violent eruption that sent shards of wood and metal whirling through the air like deadly confetti. The door was obliterated, the barricade behind it reduced to splinters and dust. Smoke billowed from the gaping maw where the entrance had been, the interior of the tower now exposed to the cold night.

Clinton was the first to his feet, shotgun at the ready. He moved toward the entrance, but as the smoke cleared, he halted abruptly. His face blanched, eyes widening in horror at the scene before him.

“God in heaven,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

The others approached cautiously, peering over his shoulder. Inside, the tower was a charnel house. Blood slicked the stone floor, pooling around the lifeless bodies of cultists whose final moments were etched in expressions of sheer terror. The walls were streaked with crimson, and the air was thick with the coppery scent of death.

At the center stood a monstrosity that defied all reason—a towering figure with a grotesquely elongated head shaped like a Fez, its skin a sickly pallor stretched taut over unnatural angles. A long, flapping tongue lolled from its gaping maw, dripping with gore. It clutched a mangled corpse in one clawed hand, tearing hungrily at the flesh.

Viola Suttcliffe stifled a scream, her gloved hand flying to her mouth. Per recoiled, his rational mind struggling to comprehend the impossible abomination before them. Clinton’s grip on his shotgun slackened, and he staggered backward, the weapon slipping from his fingers as his consciousness faded. He collapsed to the ground in a dead faint.

Amidst the carnage, a movement caught Clyde’s eye—a young man crawling feebly across the blood-soaked floor, his clothes torn and stained. It was Barlas, Professor Demir’s son, the very reason they had braved this nightmare.

“Barlas!” Clyde shouted. “Hold on!”

But the boy seemed oblivious, his eyes glazed with shock. Behind him, the creature turned its head slowly, its empty eyes locking onto Clyde with a predatory focus.

“Run, you fool! Run!” Zorba’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding, though she spoke in Romanian. The urgency transcended language, and Barlas stirred, his gaze flickering toward the exit.

Clyde sprang into action, vaulting over debris to reach the boy. He hoisted Barlas over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, muscles straining as he turned to flee. The creature let out a piercing shriek, a sound that rattled the very stones of the tower.

“Go! Get out of here!” Per shouted, raising his rifle. He fired a shot that struck the creature’s shoulder, barely slowing its advance.

As Clyde raced toward the exit, Zorba moved to Clinton’s side, her face a mask of determination. “We must leave now,” she declared, gripping his arm. With surprising strength, she began to drag the unconscious man away from the doorway.

Viola rushed to assist, her delicate features steeled with resolve. Together, they pulled Clinton clear of the entrance just as the creature lunged forward, its claws raking the air where moments before Clyde had been.

“Get to the boat!” Clyde yelled, his voice carrying over the din.

They retreated down the hillside, the path treacherous underfoot. The creature’s roars echoed behind them, but it did not give chase. Instead, it turned back toward the tower, a new chorus of screams rising as any surviving cultists met their grisly fate.

Reaching the shoreline, they found Nine-Fingered Abdullah waiting anxiously beside his fishing vessel. “We must leave now,” he urged, eyes darting nervously toward the sounds of slaughter that drifted down from the tower.

“Agreed,” Clyde said, laying Barlas gently on the deck. “But first, we need to ensure they can’t follow us.”

He retrieved the last stick of dynamite from his pack. “Per, help me with this.”

They set the charge aboard the cultists’ remaining boat, lighting the fuse and pushing it away from the dock. As they climbed aboard their own vessel, a fiery explosion lit up the night, sending a plume of water and debris skyward.

“That should keep them stranded,” Viola observed, her tone grim.

Abdullah steered the boat away from the island, the sails catching the wind as they put distance between themselves and the horrors they had unleashed. On deck, Clyde and Viola tended to Barlas, whose wounds were severe but not beyond their skill to treat. Zorba knelt beside Clinton, who was beginning to stir, his eyes flickering open to reveal a haunted emptiness.

“Easy now,” she murmured. “You’re safe.”

He blinked slowly, confusion clouding his features. “What… what happened?”

“You fainted,” she said simply. “But we got out.”

Per stood at the stern, gazing back at the island. “Did we do the right thing?” he mused aloud. “Releasing that… thing upon them?”

Zorba joined him, her expression inscrutable. “They chose their path,” she replied. “And we chose ours.”

“At what cost?” Per pressed. “The creature remains, free to wreak havoc.”

She met his gaze steadily. “Sometimes, darkness must be fought with darkness. We can only hope that it consumes itself in the end.”

Back in Constantinople, the dawn brought a sense of uneasy normalcy. They rushed Barlas to the nearest hospital, where doctors assured them he would recover. Exhausted but determined, they proceeded to Professor Demir’s residence.

Demir met them at the door, his eyes wide with fear and hope. “My son?” he implored.

“He is alive,” Viola assured him. “He’s receiving care as we speak.”

Relief washed over Demir’s face, tears welling in his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered. “You have done more than I could ever ask.”

“There is still the matter of the Fez,” Zorba interjected. “Have you completed the translation?”

“Yes,” Demir confirmed, leading them into his study cluttered with ancient texts and scattered notes. “But it is a dangerous ritual. The Fez will resist, and it may have unforeseen consequences.”

“We must proceed,” Clyde insisted. “We cannot allow this curse to continue.”

They gathered in a dimly lit chamber, heavy drapes drawn to ward off prying eyes. Zorba stood at the center, the Blood Red Fez perched upon her head once more. She closed her eyes, steadying herself as Demir recited the incantation’s instructions.

“Remember,” he cautioned, “you must remain in control. The moment you feel it weaken, remove it and place it here.” He indicated a heavy cast-iron pot lined with protective symbols.

Zorba began to chant, her voice low and resonant. The air thickened around them, an oppressive weight that pressed upon their chests. The candles flickered violently, their flames bending toward the Fez as though drawn by an unseen force.

Sweat beaded on Zorba’s brow as the Fez tightened its grip, tendrils of dark energy weaving into her thoughts. She fought back, pouring her will into the words, each syllable a hammer striking at chains.

A sudden release—a gasp—she tore the Fez from her head and thrust it into the pot. Demir slammed the lid shut just as a violent tremor shook the vessel. A muffled explosion sounded within, and wisps of black smoke curled out from under the lid, dissipating into the air with a hiss.

“It is done,” Zorba declared, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Thank heavens,” Viola breathed, her hand clutching at the locket around her neck.

Demir sighed heavily. “We have destroyed this one, but I fear there may be others.”

“Then we must find them,” Per asserted. “We cannot leave this task unfinished.”

“Agreed,” Clyde said. “We need to return to the island and ensure that any remaining Fezes are destroyed.”

Despite their weariness, they set out once more with Abdullah at the helm. The island greeted them with a haunting silence, the scent of death lingering like a miasma. The investigators moved cautiously, eyes scanning for any sign of movement.

Inside the tower, the true extent of the massacre was laid bare. The cultists lay where they had fallen, their bodies bearing the marks of the creature’s savage wrath. But of the creature itself, there was no trace.

“Perhaps it has perished,” Viola suggested hopefully.

“Or perhaps it has simply moved on,” Per countered grimly.

They searched the tower thoroughly, and in a hidden chamber, they found a solitary Fez resting upon an ornate stand.

“This must be the last one,” Clyde surmised.

Zorba stepped forward, her expression resolute. “I will deal with it.”

“Are you certain?” Per asked. “The strain—”

“I am the only one who can,” she insisted.

Donning the Fez, she felt its insidious whispers clawing at the edges of her mind. But she was prepared this time, her defenses fortified. She began the incantation, each word enunciated with unwavering conviction.

The Fez shuddered, its power waning under the assault of the ritual. At the final word, she removed it swiftly, casting it to the ground. It exploded in a flash of dark energy, leaving only a charred mark upon the stone floor.

“It is finished,” she declared.

As they prepared to depart, Per’s attention was drawn to a collection of ancient texts scattered across a desk. “Look at these manuscripts,” he exclaimed. “There could be invaluable knowledge here.”

Clyde frowned. “We’ve seen what pursuit of such knowledge can lead to.”

“Knowledge itself is not evil,” Per argued. “It is how it is used.”

Zorba regarded the books warily. “Take them, but be cautious. Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed.”

Back in Constantinople, they entrusted the texts to Demir, who agreed to safeguard them. “I will study them carefully,” he promised. “And I will ensure that the dangerous knowledge within does not fall into the wrong hands.”

Their mission complete, the investigators found themselves at a crossroads. The bonds forged in adversity held them together, yet each was drawn by different callings.

On their final evening, they gathered at a quiet tavern overlooking the Bosphorus, the city’s lights reflecting off the tranquil waters. The horrors they had faced seemed a world away, though the shadows lingered at the edges of their minds.

“To surviving,” Clyde toasted, raising his glass.

“To making a difference,” Viola added.

“To knowledge,” Per said thoughtfully, his gaze distant.

Zorba lifted her glass last. “To the darkness we leave behind,” she intoned softly.

They sat in companionable silence, the weight of unspoken thoughts heavy between them. Each bore scars invisible to the eye but indelible upon the soul.

As the night deepened, they parted ways, promising to keep in touch, though knowing that the paths ahead might lead them far from one another.

Zorba wandered alone along the water’s edge, the cool breeze tangling in her hair. She reached into her pocket, withdrawing a small, ornate mirror—the one she had carried for years. Gazing into it, she saw not her own reflection but a kaleidoscope of memories: faces of the lost, shadows of the nightmares she had faced.

With a decisive motion, she hurled the mirror into the Bosphorus, watching as it sank beneath the rippling surface. The past was a weight she could no longer bear.

“Farewell,” she whispered to the darkness.

In the distance, the first light of dawn brushed the horizon, heralding a new day—a new beginning.

For now, the Blood Red Fez was no more, its evil extinguished. But the shadows of the world were vast and deep, and other horrors lurked unseen.

The investigators had faced the abyss and emerged, but the echoes of their journey would reverberate through their lives, a constant reminder of the thin veil between their reality and the unspeakable.

As the sun rose over Constantinople, gilding the minarets and domes with golden light, the city stirred to life, unaware of the darkness that had been vanquished in its midst.

And somewhere, in the quiet corners of forgotten places, ancient eyes watched and waited.