Trilby's Notes: The (Un)Official Novelization (Chzo Mythos #3)

Prologue

The following documents are taken from the handwritten notes of Trilby, an STP field operative whose real name remains classified.

       Game over.
       That was what I thought as I stood and watched DeFoe Manor collapse into flaming ash. The ordeal was over. Those five days cost us all so much. Philip and AJ paid with their lives. They were the fortunate ones. 
       Jim Fowler was expelled from school for truancy, a bright future in tatters.
       Simone Taylor took to the bottle. Her broadcasts became slurred, her eyes hollow and unwelcoming. She soon vanished from television screens.
       As for me, I tried to return to life as a cat burglar, but I had been forever tainted by my time spent in that wretched house.
       The memories of my possession came back in my nightmares. Every night I was there again, in the mansion, staring out through unfamiliar eyes as Philip died at my hands. I became convinced that John DeFoe was not at rest, that someday he would return for me. I became so terrified of invisible enemies that I forgot about the tangible ones.

"TRILBY CAUGHT!
Infamous Thief Captured in Police Sting"

       Two slow, miserable years after DeFoe Manor, a barrage of truncheon blows taught me a harsh lesson in reality, and I woke up in the kind of filthy cell I assumed would be my new home. But then he came. The man from the government with his nervous smile, offering an alternative.

       The STP, the Special Talent Project.

       It hadn't been that much earlier that I would have sooner died than entered an obligation with anyone, least of all the government. Had DeFoe Manor changed me so much?
Whatever my reasons, I left my past behind and resolved to give my new superiors nothing to complain about. I spent a year and a half completing assignments, developing contacts, building a reputation. And then, the past caught up.

       In the summer of 1997, I became concerned about Simone Taylor's mental wellbeing. The papers were reporting her continual breakdown, and she had become a virtual recluse. I had no idea if my appearance would assist or hinder. I had, after all, deliberately allowed her to think me dead.

       Presumably, she knew different now, after the media coverage of my arrest, but I would expect her to be bitter about my subterfuge. On balance, I decided that a meeting with an old friend would most likely be beneficial. I came to her apartment building on a warm, stormy night, and braced myself for the encounter...

       The smell of the musty air pervaded my nostrils, and the sickly coloured wallpaper peeled. I couldn't surmise as to why a celebrity would choose to live in such a low-rent accommodation, but I didn't dwell on it at the time. I knocked sharply on Simone's door, to no avail. After a moment of no reply, I knocked again, louder. 

       I was met with no response still. The doorman had assured me Simone was in. I decided it was time to enter by my own methods.

       I reasoned that Simone could have been in trouble, and even if she wasn't, then at worst I was only playing to my reputation. I spent a few minutes feverishly picking the lock, then let myself in.

       Simone's apartment was pitch black. As any reader could assume, the light switch was useless. All I could see was a flash of lightning peeking out from the underside of a window, making a small patch of room glow for seconds at a time and preventing my eyes from adjusting. I reached out like a blind man, using touch to navigate, but groped only empty space. I stumbled and fumbled around in the darkness, haphazardly making my way to the only lit space in the room. I tripped over something that just escaped the light, something soft yet firm at the same time. After reaching out to the walls and spaces, I found a blind pulled down over the window, and after a moment or two of fumbling, I opened it. I immediately squinted, my eyes shunning the newfound light and taking a few long blinks to adjust. Unfortunately, I saw what I had tripped over. Or, I guess who.

       She laid on her side, the flashes of light only granting me a moment or two of visibility at a time. Although I thought she may be passed out drunk at first, I noticed the red stain leaking from her stomach. I felt for any sort of sight of life, and my hands came away stained with long-cooled blood. My fingers traced the outline of a large wound in her torso, slashed by a big weapon, wielded by a big assailant. I called for an ambulance, as futile as it would be, and left before they arrived. 

       Due to me being a clear murder suspect, I was relieved from duty for the week it took for the Ministry of Occultism to inspect the flat and confirm supernatural activity. My superiors simultaneously apologized and assigned me to investigate if there was a connection to the DeFoe Manor incident. Merely reading those three words, capitalized on the front of a loose-leaf file, brought the nightmares back with more intensity than ever. 

       Sure enough, a field agent reported that looters had discovered and sold several artifacts from the mansion, including the wooden idol that housed John DeFoe's soul. To my surprise, no murders had been reported or committed by anyone who had come in contact with the accursed trinket. I did not find this reassuring. I quickly advised James Fowler to go into hiding. He was stunned, but agreed. The boy had sense, and still respected my judgement. This done, I began following the idol's trail. From the pawn shop it had entered the possession of one Professor Abed Chahal, an authoritative historian. He had scheduled some kind of antique fair in the Clanbronwyn Hotel, on a small island off the coast of Anglesy, popular with tourists.

       Assuming the role of a scholar of antiquities, I booked a room.