Page 82 of He Who Sleeps

He made it through the second floor, and then down into the kitchen, the idea of getting something to drink high on his mind as well. Some water would bring clarity, he expected, and padded to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. Standing in the dark, he opened it and drank it down, sighing after he drained half the bottle.

This house was so important in some ways. It was the closest he ever felt to his father these days, being here, with the same phantom scents, the wood polish and the squeak of the floorboards. When he had passed, for a long time Emerson didn’t set foot in the dwelling, and it was only after his twenty-first birthday that he had received a letter from his father’s solicitor that the house, along with funds to keep it up and running, were his, as well as the stipulation that no one but his own team knew it existed.

So he had sent word to the Elders that the property had burned down. Since then they hadn’t even asked about it. He had found it weird they did before his twenty-first, but after, and his announcement, they had stopped pretty much all contact regarding his father.

Of course, they had no reason to believe he was lying about it. He, like the rest of them, were good little soldiers, doing the God’s work, worshiping as they saw fit to teach them. But he didn’t believe that was true anymore. Oh yes, part of it was true, the proof was in the pudding, He Who Sleeps kept them in favor, and they were reaping the fruits of that. But it always felt hollow.

Until he had read his father’s journal. And now...now they weren’t flying blind but...

Leaving the kitchen, he padded to the study, where his father had spent so much of his time, entering the room on a sigh. It felt the most like him in this room, and for so long he had avoided it. It was too emotional, and he still hadn’t worked through losing his father, losing all their fathers the way they did.

The space was filled with old furniture, old books and a massive desk he gravitated to, thoughts of Petra bent over as he railed her high on his mind. He ran fingers across the wood, and then walked around it, seating himself in the large wingback chair, turning on the small desk light.

The staff had done their job keeping the space up to date and clean, even making sure his father’s leather blotter was perfect and in amazing repair, but clearly original. He ran his fingers along the edge of it and it shifted, his eyes going to the newly exposed wood. Something was scratched into the wood.

Frowning, he pushed the blotter back, revealing a symbol carved into the wood, a circle within a circle with a line bisecting the far edge. The carve was smooth, as if someone had touched it repeatedly, as if lovingly. He followed the carving, once, twice, and then smiled to himself as he let his finger pull to the edge of the desk and then frowned, feeling it catch on something...round.

He pushed on it, and felt it catch, heard a click and a panel in the wall, just under the closest bookshelf, unhinged.

“The fuck?” he said as he turned and sank to his knees, opening the hidden door. He reached in, and pulled out a thick envelope, two books, and several journals. Blinking, he brought them to the desk, setting them out in a line.

Clearly someone didn’t want this stuff to be found. And he knew, without a doubt, it was his father. “Shit, Dad...” he said as he opened the envelope and began to read.

I knew you would find this one day, and if you are reading this, then I know there is still hope for you and for your group. Things are not what they seem in the organization, and I only hope that you have found this in enough time to save yourself, your children and the boys you have bonded with.

Holy shit, he thought and kept reading.

I write this on the eve of my death...something I cannot change, and knew was coming. Something didn’t feel right, and because of that, I took these steps. If you are reading this, it means that I’m dead, so is my team, and these documents might be all that’s left to help you all. Journals no one knew I kept, three books with rites no one knows exists anymore, because they were deemed heretical for the knowledge inside. Knowledge that brings us together, closer to Him than they want. Knowledge that threatens what they want.

My son, the best parts of me, know that I left you with the knowledge to make things right. What you choose to do with it will decide if we did the right thing in giving in. We were not strong enough to take that next step. But you all may be. Everything is here that can help you, well except the woman you need to bring it all together.

Trust no one but your own friends, your brothers. And listen for His voice in dreams. Know that He protects you...and He sees so much more than they let on.

I love you. I loved your mother. I always will. Love isn’t a handicap. Make it right.

He blinked. Blinked again. “Holy shit.”

The urgency he was feeling started to dissipate and he smiled. He did see much, didn’t he? Attributing this to His influence, he gathered everything up, and set it in his normal arrangement for research. He set a fire in the fireplace, and turned on the lamps around the place, opening a drawer to find pencils and legal pads, and settled in. He would read, and figure out what exactly his father was talking about, hopefully having some answers before they all woke for the day.

Riddles, and a mystery...and possibly a way to keep their lady. It was the best thirtieth birthday present he could have aside from already being there with her.

“Happy birthday to me. Thanks, Dad,” he said softly and settled in to read.

---