Raphaël turned off his Mercedes. Night had fallen, heralding a starless sky. The moon peeked out, somewhere behind the pines. The forest seemed to breathe all around him, undulating to the rhythm of the gentle breeze. He forced the handle of his damaged door and managed to open it with a shoulder push. He got out of the car, careful not to hit the big red pickup parked right next to him. A person walked along the other side of his vehicle to join the crowd. A child passed in front of him, joyfully frolicking around his parents. An excitement, like electricity in the air, began to invade the almost full parking lot where he stood. He looked ahead, seeing the crowd grow bigger and bigger. He raised his eyes and observed the huge illuminated sign depicting a mad scientist electrocuting a family, their hair standing on end. The wind sent a flyer flying straight onto his windshield: he caught it and began to read.
TONIGHT, JUST FOR YOU,
A SPECIAL SURPRISE!!
THE PALACE OF THE STRANGE REOPENS
ITS DOORS, AT LAST!!!
COME IN LARGE NUMBERS, TRANSPORT
YOURSELVES INTO A WORLD OF
MYSTERIES AND ENCHANTMENTS!!
Raphaël crumpled the paper in his hand and threw it at his feet. Then, he took a deep breath and followed the crowd towards the entrance of the park.
***
He was now a few steps from the ticket counters: already, the entrance acted like a funnel, and the crowd clumped together to get in.
“Where do we pay?” someone in front of him asked.
“Where are they? Why is no one here?”
“Do we have to pay later? Is this the right entrance?”
He arrived at one of the counters and noticed it was completely empty: judging by the layer of dust on the counter, it had been so for a while. He looked ahead, trying to rise above the heads: despite the lack of staff, the gates were open, and people were entering. He let himself be guided and crossed the park's boundary in turn. He passed all the cardboard decorations, preventing until the last moment from laying eyes on the attractions. He glimpsed the crowd compacting further ahead to pass under a tunnel, the gaping mouth of the mad scientist, swallowing the visitors one by one. He wanted to slow down, even turn back, but already the people behind him were pushing him like a wall of flesh. He now felt completely powerless, only able to be carried by the human tide, entering straight into the trap without being able to get out.
“Like animals to the slaughter,” he thought.
He plunged into the monstrous throat, followed by the greedy eyes of the scientist until he entered completely into the darkness. The crowd buzzed around him, eager to rediscover the park and its attractions. He walked slowly, following the flow.
He emerged from the tunnel and discovered the main square of the Palace of the Strange: the Laboratory of Strange Energies, the Hall of Shadows, the Cabinet of Curiosities. Visitors exclaimed in joy and wonder at the elaborate decoration, a world unto itself. As he approached the square, the crowd began to disperse to join the queues of various attractions.
“Where are you, Jordane?” he thought, scanning unfamiliar faces. “Will I manage to find you in all this?”
Looking around, he noticed he had not seen any park staff yet. No one stationed in front of the attractions, nor at the snack stands.
“That doesn't bode well,” he thought.
He took advantage of an opening to extricate himself from the throng and find a quieter alley. He continued on his way, the hum of visitors growing more distant. He passed other attractions like the Extraordinary Garden, a large greenhouse filled with colorful plants, or the Flying Carpet, an oriental palace with incredibly elaborate frescoes. However, he paid little attention to them: the fact that the park was open, that the lights were on, the decorations plugged in, but no staff were present to open the doors of the attractions made him uneasy.
“If I were Jordane, where would I go?” he thought. “She went looking for clues. Knowing her, she wouldn't have been afraid to sneak into the buildings. Did she find Oswald's office?”
He quickened his pace to try and reach the back of the park. Already, the silence had made its insidious return, and the darkness seemed more powerful: the attractions were darker, and the streetlights lit less far. He crossed a small bridge suspended over a river and finally found what he was looking for: a security gate. He approached and peered through: the area on the other side was not lit, and he could make out conventional-shaped buildings, concrete cubes, and electric shutters.
“There we go, I found the offices,” he thought.
He tried to force the turnstile, but the entrance was locked. He looked around, and the only way past was to climb over the wall.
“Is that what you did, Jo?” he thought.
He decided it was wiser to make sure. He took out his phone, dialed her number, and called.
Voicemail.
He tried a second time.
“This is Jordane, I'm not available, please leave a message.”
He heard the little “BEEP” indicating the start of the message, but he knew it was a trap: that click was a fake, her voicemail message was still playing, silently. Another person would have started explaining the reason for their call, scrambling to spit out the information clearly, and they would have been cut off by Jordane's voice suddenly emerging: “Got you! No need to leave a message, I won't listen to it anyway!” And then, the person would have heard the real voicemail “BEEP”, followed by a mechanical voice: “Your correspondent's voice mailbox is full, please call back later.”
He put away his phone with a sigh: was she out of battery, or could she not answer? He preferred the first hypothesis, and realizing he had to fend for himself, he clumsily hopped over the wall, landing on the other side with the grace of a drunkard.
On the other side, the pink cobblestone road turned into black tar, absorbing the last glimmers of the park. He advanced cautiously, crouching and walking quietly, but he quickly realized: this part of the park was deserted. The area was full of construction materials, industrial machinery, and pieces of disassembled rides. In the end, apart from the electrical facilities and the portable offices, there was only one building of interest. It was an ugly grey concrete block with square windows that didn't look like they could open. He walked along the harsh grey facade, afraid that a motion-sensitive light would turn on and he would freeze like a frightened animal; but he found the entrance door without triggering anything.
It was a simple white door with a “ADMINISTRATION” sign and a red-blinking card reader. He wondered if there was an alarm connected, and if a simple push on the handle or swiping an invalid card would set off sirens. Would there be cameras inside?
“It looks like I'm going to have to work overtime,” he thought, pulling out his cell phone.
He turned on the Wi-Fi and waited for his smartphone to complete its scan. The device found only one source, named “ADMIN-PRIVATE.”
“Perfect,” he thought, “if they make my job easier on top of that...”
So, power was on in this part of the park too, and the friendly little router was going to be his entry point. He launched his professional software, the one he used to test his clients' security: it had an application that tested vulnerabilities on a Wi-Fi network. The tool started its analysis and listed two dozen vulnerabilities to exploit.
“Why am I surprised, this box must not have been updated for ten years...”
He chose one, and within seconds, he was in the network.
The next step was to find all the online devices: he only listed one. In the meantime, he had already figured out how to get into the router, and he was studying the history of connected equipment: there had been three computers. Nothing more. He retrieved the name of the currently powered device and typed it on the internet: he found the reference, and it turned out to be the control box of the card reader. He downloaded the user manual, and easily found the default master card code.
“So, three computers, plus the badge reader. No cameras, no alarms on the network, nothing else. Or else, everything is on a separate circuit, and I'm screwed.”
Either the building's security was very well done, or it was seriously lacking. It was a bet to make, but he already knew the answer: the truth was that most professional buildings had security no more robust than a sieve.
He then peeled off the silicone case of his phone and took out a white card with a small golden chip. He copied the master code written in the user guide, activated NFC on his phone, launched the writing application, and pasted the code in. He then placed his card against the phone, and a green icon indicated that the software had correctly written the code on the card. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he was really ready, then he placed the card on the reader.
He heard a loud “BEEP,” and the red light turned green.
“It's so easy it's obscene,” he thought, “my boss would have presented them with a two-hundred-page report and a hefty bill...”
He took a deep breath and pushed the door open: when it opened, he was blinded by intense light. He ordered his body to turn around and flee, but he remained frozen. His eyes adjusted to the brightness, and he saw that it was simply neon lights on the ceiling.
“Idiot,” he told himself.
He looked around him: he was in a corridor with white paint, the walls covered with posters or cork boards containing even more posters. There were two doors on the left and one on the right, the corridor ending at a staircase going up on the side and the emergency exit in front of him.
He looked to his left: he saw a cable coming out of the wall where the card reader was outside, going up in a sheath and joining a small box attached to the ceiling, emitting a blinking blue light. There was a switch, and that was all. No alarm box, no camera.
“You see, security was just crap.”
He congratulated Oswald for being so negligent and began to explore the place, thinking that the neon light might possibly attract someone outside, even though he didn't really believe it.
He passed the first door: “RESTROOMS.” He continued to the second. He opened it and found a completely empty office: there was just a large table turned upside down, its legs in the air, and the blue carpet was faded in square patches, where other furniture must have been. He closed it and headed for the third door: there was a sign “HUMAN RESOURCES.”
“It's getting easier and easier it seems...”
He entered the room, and it hadn't yet been emptied: he first saw document cabinets and shelves, then a standing desk, and - hallelujah! - an old computer. The desk was still strewn with personal effects. A red cup filled with pens, a wooden frame with a photo of two young children - were they adults now? - and several piles of documents. He picked up a stack at random and leafed through it carelessly: they were only boring accounting documents, columns filled with numbers and calculations in all directions, but that wasn't what caught his eye anyway. It was the computer. That, he knew how to make talk.
He walked around the desk and knelt in front of the beast: he checked that it was plugged in, and pressed the power button to turn it on. The computer wheezed, an asthmatic fan whirring and choking in the dust, but it started. Raphaël glanced at the old screen: he saw the logo of an operating system from another age, and he let out a diabolical chuckle in his head. He was now faced with a login screen, where only the username 'J. Theodore' was written.
He tried a password: 1234.
No luck.
password.
Still no luck.
No matter: he started rummaging through the desk drawers, turning over papers, binders, pens, and staplers. He finally found what he was looking for, triumphant: a phone charging cable. It was ten years old, but it was compatible with his. He then connected his smartphone to the PC via USB while holding down the power button. With a nimble thumb movement, he launched another software that simulated an embedded operating system. When the computer rebooted, he hammered a key on the keyboard like a madman, and a black screen with white writing appeared. He went to the startup menu, navigating almost with his eyes closed in the strange interface, and removed the PC's hard drive to replace it with the line indicating the secondary operating system, which was actually his phone. He validated, rebooted, and this time the logo was completely different from the previous one: a small purple USB key with cute eyes and a smile, and a lock on its belly. Raphaël's operating system finally launched: now, he had access to all the files on the hard drive, completely bypassing the operating system installed on the computer. He congratulated himself alone, still disappointed not to be able to show off in front of Jordane, and he began to sift through the folders.
After a few fruitless minutes, he frowned upon finding a strange folder named “Investigation.” He double-clicked on it: the folder contained only one file, “transcription.pdf.” Raphaël opened it, and his eyes widened as he read.
OFFICIAL REPORT 04575.
AGENT: R. Rivaldo
PERSON OF INTEREST: Oswald W.
REPRESENTED BY: Attorney ROLLINGS
AGENT - Well, thank you for coming, Oswald. I know you're very busy.
* THE PERSON OF INTEREST NODS *
AGENT - You have agreed to answer some of my questions, concerning the disappearance of Miss Inès Delcourt.
REPRESENTATIVE - Alleged disappearance... You have no proof of any sinister event, she could be on vacation.
AGENT - Yes, yes, you're right. However, we are exploring all possible leads.
REPRESENTATIVE - At the expense of the city's coffers, funded by the residents' taxes.
AGENT - Yes, certainly. Well. Since you highlight this aspect, let's get straight to the point: Mr. Oswald, Inès worked for you, correct?
REPRESENTATIVE - Yes, we have all the information in this file, which we will make available.
* THE REPRESENTATIVE PLACES A BINDER ON THE TABLE *
AGENT - Good, thank you. When did you last see her, Oswald?
REPRESENTATIVE - My client hasn't seen this Inès since the day before the park's opening, it's written black on white in his statement...
AGENT - Yes, yes, it is indeed mentioned. What a terrible incident during that opening... Did you know that the victim was the mother of the missing girl? And her daughter disappears the same night... strange coincidence, isn't it?
REPRESENTATIVE - You won't get far with coincidences and implications bordering on defamation against my client! I have included in the documents the medical file of Olivia. With a dozen psychiatric evaluations from several hospitals. This poor woman was ill. Her suicide is a tragedy, but only related to her mental disorders.
AGENT - We also have access to her file.
REPRESENTATIVE - Then why are you trying to unjustly incriminate my client?
AGENT - I'm just asking questions, nothing more, sir. But I have reasons to believe that these two disappearances are connected. Oswald, some witnesses report a certain radio communication, at the time of the crowd movement. It mentioned a death threat against Inès, because she didn't take her post at the back of the park with the other employees. Some swear they recognized your voice?
REPRESENTATIVE - Enough, my client will no longer answer any questions, we are done here.
AGENT - Are you joking? He hasn't answered any questions...
Raphaël looked at the creation date of the document: it was ten years old. So Inès had been missing all this time? And the story with her mother, her suicide? Oswald's threat...
All these questions swirling in his head were dizzying: such reflections were more Jordane's forte. She was adept at connecting information; he, on the other hand, was far too binary.
He continued his search, but found nothing except Inès's employment contract—Oswald hadn't lied about that—which informed him that she had worked as a security agent, and a photo of her let him know what she looked like. Irritated by such meager findings, he turned off the computer and left the office. He spotted the staircase leading upstairs on his left and headed towards his next destination. He ascended the raw concrete steps between the narrow, white walls to arrive at a lone wooden door, bearing the inscription “MANAGEMENT”.
His heart started beating a little faster in his chest: was this it? Was this Oswald's office?
He placed his hand on the aluminum doorknob, its cool smoothness uncertain, not knowing if he had the courage to push it open. Was he there, waiting for him? Would he find him sitting in his chair, a predatory smile on his lips? There was only one way to find out, right?
He tightened his grip, but a small voice in his head was ordering him to let go, to run away and never return.
“You'll go abroad, start a new life, a fresh start, begin again from scratch,” a voice in his head pleaded.
He was scared, alone in this building, left to his own devices in this park, his common sense screaming at him to get back to his car. But he held firm. Why would Oswald be there? Why would he be waiting for him? He inhaled a long breath through his nose, counting to five, held his breath for a second, then exhaled for five seconds, emptying his lungs. He repeated this several times until the anxiety subsided, almost leaving him entirely. Once his exercise was complete, he opened the door.
***
The management office seemed to be part of the park's attractions: with its green carpet and thick wooden furniture, one wondered how Oswald had managed to fill the room through the narrow stairs. The ebony shelves held strange figurines, some of Amerindian or African origin, and others that could only be from the world of the occult. There were painted portraits of people Raphaël had never seen. A small bar displayed crystal bottles filled with bourbon or whiskey. There was a bookcase full of old encyclopedias: a collection of about thirty thick books with red covers, and two smaller ones bound in blue and gray leather. He moved forward, his steps muffled by the thick carpet, making him even more tense. The desk, placed in the center of the room, was filled with strange or ancient tools, like quills and an inkwell, and even a sextant. It had an emerald green wood and fabric chair, with golden stitching, which looked incredibly comfortable.
“This is the place he should have called the Cabinet of Curiosities,” he thought.
Despite the splendor of the room, it seemed that no one had been there for quite some time.
He decided to walk around the desk, then take the boss's place: the chair was even softer than it looked. He opened the drawers one by one, but all were empty. He shuffled through everything on the desk, also to no avail.
“Okay, so what? Am I done here?” he wondered.
“No,” said Jordane's voice in his head, “the job's only half done, you can do better than this.”
He grimaced at hearing one of her favorite lines, which she had thrown at him countless times, but he had to face the truth: he was in Oswald's office, the one who had encouraged them to find information on Inès, and maybe even the one responsible for her disappearance. If one added the fact that several hundred people were currently swarming in the park, with apparently no one in charge, he had every reason to redouble his efforts to find information.
“What would you do, Jordane?” he said to himself.
She would search everything thoroughly, methodically, without missing anything, that's what she would do.
So what, was he going to pull each of these books from the library until he found one that triggered the motor that would move a cupboard to a hidden door? Lift every trinket until he found a switch that reveals a hidden trapdoor? No, he was so comfortable in this chair that he no longer had any desire to get up. He could have even closed his eyes and taken a nap.
Discouraged, he grabbed a fountain pen engraved with esoteric symbols, the steel nib forming a kind of skull. He examined it, barely interested, and tried to spin it between his fingers, as he did when he was bored in class as a young man. His technique was rusty, and he dropped the pen between his legs, splashing the carpet with a bit of bright blue ink.
“Shit!” he exclaimed.
He knelt down, careful not to get ink on himself, and contorted to retrieve the pen.
“Hey, what's this?” he said when he saw a small wooden button behind the drawers.
He pressed it, and heard a sharp click. He stood up and investigated the source of the noise by opening the top drawer: a panel had lifted, revealing a false bottom.
“I knew there was a story of a secret compartment!” he congratulated himself.
He removed the panel and transferred the contents of the false bottom to the desk: it was pieces of paper, some as old and fragile as papyrus, some rolled up on themselves, others crumpled. He began to unroll one of the papers. Its texture was rough, yellowed by time, and a message was written in black ink and shaky handwriting, as if it had been written by someone in rehabilitation:
DO NOT GO INTO THE YAGGER HOUSE
KEEP LOCKED DO NOT ENTER
He frowned at this riddle, and tried another paper:
ON THE NIGHT OF THE OPENING WAIT
AND CLOSE THE GATES
CALL YOUR SLAVES TO YOUR FEET
AND DO NOT LET THEM APPROACH
AT THE FIRST BLOOD SHED WE
WILL BE AWAKENED YOU CAN
FIND YOUR FREEDOM
What were these messages? Raphaël was more and more lost, but he continued to pull papers from the pile:
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE !!!??!!
WHY WASN'T IT HER
IN THE HOUSE ??
YOU RUINED EVERYTHING
BRING BACK THE GIRL AND BRING HER
AND KILL HER KILL KILL
WE SAID TO KEEP THE
SLAVES AWAY
YOU LET THEM OPEN THE
GATES YOU DEPRIVED US
OF OUR FEAST !!!
Raphaël threw the paper and picked up another:
ON THE NIGHT THE GIRL WILL RETURN
FINALLY TO THE HOUSE
WHEN SHE IS HANGED YOU
WILL CLOSE THE GATES
DID YOU UNDERSTAND THE INSTRUCTIONS?
BE CAREFUL WE ARE WATCHING YOU
WE SEE EVERYTHING
He felt a thought beginning to form in his mind. Pieces moved inside his head, and a guiding thread slowly emerged from the darkness.
Another note read:
OZWALD YOU RUINED EVERYTHING
YOU THINK YOU WERE SPARED
BUT WE ARE HERE WE ARE ALWAYS HERE
WE SIMPLY SLEEP
BUT WHEN WE AWAKEN
WE ARE HUNGRY I AM HUNGRY I AM HUNGRY
A CHANCE TO CATCH YOU
JUST ONE CHANCE
OR THIS TIME IT'S YOU WHO
WE WILL EAT
WAIT FOR INSTRUCTIONS
Raphaël picked up a paper that looked much newer. It was still white and the ink hadn't faded:
OZWALD IT'S BEEN TEN LONG YEARS
WE ARE SO HUNGRY
THE TIME HAS COME IT'S TRUE IT'S
TIME FOR THE NEXT MASSACRE
WE HAVE FOUND THE PERFECT GIRL
IT'S UP TO YOU TO LURE HER
WE WILL SHOW HER TO YOU IN A DREAM BE READY
THIS NIGHT BE PREPARED AND DO NOT
RUIN EVERYTHING LIKE LAST TIME
OR IT'S YOU WE WILL EAT
CALL HER BY HER NAME SHE HAS A DELICIOUS NAME
INES WAS NOT A DELICIOUS NAME
AND SHE RUINED EVERYTHING SHE LET
SOMEONE ELSE ENTER
THE HOUSE AND SHE
OPENED THE GATE BUT THIS GIRL
WILL BE PERFECT SHE HAS A NAME THAT
SOUNDS DELICIOUS
JORDANE JORDANE JORDANE JORDANE JORDANE JORDANE
Raphaël dropped the paper, pale. His brain was racing in all directions, reconstructing the story in his head. He picked up the pile of crumpled papers and read them one by one: the handwriting was completely different, that of an adult - or rather a human - and in the same bright blue ink that had come from the fountain pen he had just dropped:
Dear Jordane,
I am a huge fan of your articles.
I unfortunately had a similar experience, and
Another paper:
Jordane,
You don't know me, but I've read your articles so much it's as if I know you.
Something is happening, and I need your help -
The rest was scribbled. He unfolded another message:
Dear Jordane,
Your articles talk about the supernatural, and I think my story might interest you.
I feel it deserves to be told. My name is Inès, I live in Duli
The next one:
To Jordane:
Let me introduce myself, my name is Inès. Do you know the town of Duli? I was born there -
Another:
Jordane,
I've long been your biggest reader. Your subjects fascinate me, and in a way,
I feel close to you because it's as if I've lived all your stories.
I was born in a beautiful town, Duli; but something happened to me when I was little.
I encountered a monster, but no one believed me. I know you always uncover the truth, that in your opinion monsters don't exist, but today, something terrible is happening in my town. People are disappearing, and at night, in the dark, stories are whispered that remind me of what I saw that night.
I've reached a point where I fear for my life and that of my companions, something evil lives in Duli, and I beg you to hear my story, perhaps lives are at stake.
Raphaël could no longer breathe. He caught sight of the skull-topped pen, grabbed it in one hand, and with the other, he drew a line next to the neat handwriting: it was exactly the same ink color, the same thickness. He threw the pen across the room and swept the papers off the desk with the back of his hand, sending them flying all around: it was indeed Oswald who had written the letter Jordane had received. Deep down, he knew something bad had happened to Inès on the night of the park's opening.
If it was Oswald who had lured Jordane here by pretending to be Inès, then it was a trap. But why?
He remembered the strange messages: Inès and her mother had played a role in the accident at the park's opening. The visitors had been put in danger, but Inès had saved them, apparently against all odds. Her mother had committed suicide. Was that what triggered the accident? But this story of the wrong person... Did her mother go in her place?
He had to find Jordane, and fast. She was in danger, either Oswald, or worse, the correspondents who wrote these terrifying letters had planned something with her.
There was one more rolled-up paper on the desk, which he hadn't read yet. It also seemed recent, so he forced himself to open it:
OZWALD
TONIGHT IS THE BIG NIGHT
HAVE YOU DISTRIBUTED THE INVITATIONS?
THERE MUST BE A LOT OF PEOPLE
TONIGHT WE ARE VERY HUNGRY
I HOPE YOU MANAGED TO TRICK JORDANE INTO COMING
TO THE PARK TONIGHT HER FRIEND IS
GONE WE MADE SURE OF IT
SHE WILL BE ALONE AND I HOPE
YOU WON'T RUIN EVERYTHING
AGAIN
WE WILL LURE HER
INTO THE HOUSE WE WILL TAKE
HER BODY AND WE WILL TRIGGER THE DISASTER IT WILL BE LIKE
TEN YEARS AGO BUT THIS TIME
THIS TIME I BEG YOU DO NOT RUIN EVERYTHING THE FENCES
MUST ALWAYS BE CLOSED
OR WE WILL REALLY
ANGER OURSELVES
IT WILL BE A MASSACRE
Raphaël dropped the paper, and the heavy chair fell to the ground with a crash as he rushed towards the exit of the office.
