We have set a guard. May the monster sleep forever in its sepulchral temple, and may the fourteen fools who brought it here never find peace.
JULY 15, 1930
It sleeps, I drink, the nation starves but we do not.
JULY 15, 1932
It is awake. We did nothing, nothing changed, there was no new ceremony, and yet it is awake. And Tommy said it must eat.
JULY 22, 1932
I had thought the worst moment of my life was behind me, but there were so many more moments to come. In the end, I stood at the temple, weeping, begging for release, and still I saw nothing, and it did not take me.
We were not prepared. We offered a cow and it ate the two men, Frye’s brothers, who brought it in. After that we drew straws. We marched the unlucky ones to their death, two by two. Two a day for seven days and in the end we could not march them we had to drag them. I had to drag them, because I am not damned as they are, I am damned all on my own.
Seven years. They bought us only seven years. Six months for each life given. Is it worth it, Tommy? What has your faith inflicted on us all?
I am executioner now.
Seven years to prepare. We will do better next time. We must.
JULY 22, 1939
The doctor says if I do not stop drinking, I will kill myself. There are faster ways to be consumed by oblivion, I said, but not for me. Not for me. Oblivion does not want me.
Our gamble did not work.
We tried the first day with Rose Harrell’s sister’s maid Doreen, but it left her untouched and prowled to the gate.
In a panic, we threw in Rose’s own sister and Orville’s brother. We could not let it get out. Doreen saw them devoured into nothingness, but it does not matter. Who would believe her? Invisible monsters devouring people whole in the woods. Imagine.
Imagine.
Fourteen years after the original fourteen sacrifices. Their families are the police now, and the senators, and the judges. There will be no consequences. We let Doreen flee, because she does not matter, which is why it is so maddening that she could not be the sacrifice.
It answers the question, though. Only the blood that brought it into being can sustain it.
We had bought a day with our hasty sacrifices, and sent out word. Every family submitted two names, sealed in envelopes—except Rose’s and Orville’s families, which only had to give one now. They did not submit their own names, of course. Their parents and siblings had sacrificed for them—not so they could be sacrifices, but so they could flourish. But the monster had to be fed.
Twelve distant relations, bastard offspring, feeble cousins, shameful secrets hidden no longer. Two by two they were invited into the homes they had never been welcomed into, and two by two they were escorted to the temple. By me, since I cannot be consumed.
It is too much. Surely there is a death faster than the bottle and more willing than the monster. I go to find it. Let Asterion keep its own cursed vigil. I seek the peace of hell, content that even hell is too good for Tommy Callas and we will never be reunited.
God damn Asterion and everything it touches forever. Amen.
Ian turns off his flashlight app and carefully places the loose papers back into the book, as though they’ll know if he doesn’t treat them well. As though he’s being watched.
The meticulously translated writing, the diagrams, the last terrible drawing. It makes sense now, and he doesn’t want it to.
He likes to be a skeptic. Wrapping himself in cynicism is the easiest way to protect his heart as he moves through a world utterly indifferent to him and his dreams. Part of him is embarrassed—knows how humiliated he’ll be later, looking back on this—but the rest of him does not care.
Ian runs straight out of the building, back along the winding, curved pathways toward where the camp is. He gets there as dawn breaks, out of breath but finally certain of what he wants to do: Get the hell out of here. Maybe the bonus for finding this book is a cash prize. Maybe not. Doesn’t matter.
He shoves the accursed book into his waiting bag, throws his things together, makes one last sweep for his stupid motherfucking pen. He even checks Jaden’s things, because he wouldn’t put it past that asshole to have taken it. But it’s not there. It’s not anywhere.
A loud crack echoes through the air, and he jumps, spinning wildly, but there’s nothing there.
Whatever. Time to go. He doesn’t want all the prize money, anyway. Money would ruin his creativity. Make him too comfortable. Artists need to suffer, right? Gorky would approve of this choice.
He lets out a strangled laugh at the absurdity of his fear, the certainty of it. The knowledge he wants to deny but just can’t that something here is very, very wrong. It’s tempting to lie down on his cot, pull the blanket over his head, and go back to sleep. Let them find him there.