Eldritch Guidance-Chapter 115 – Can You Hear It?

sandbox="allow-forms allow-popups allow-pointer-lock allow-same-origin allow-scripts allow-top-navigation-by-user-activation"

style="width: 300px; height: 250px; display: flex; margin: 0 auto; border: none"

scrolling="no">

Jafar’s head throbbed as he gradually regained consciousness, a dull ache pulsing behind his temples. His mind felt foggy, like trying to think through thick, clinging smoke. The last thing he could recall was sitting in the private study room the team had been using regularly at the Archive. He remembered feeling an unusual drowsiness creeping over him, but before he could make sense of it, everything had gone black.

He blinked slowly, his eyelids heavy, his vision swimming with indistinct shapes and colors. Blurry blobs floated before him, indistinguishable from one another. With effort, he forced his eyes to adjust, the fuzzy haze gradually sharpening into focus.

As his surroundings became clearer, unease began to creep into his chest. The room he was in was unfamiliar—dimly lit and cold, with an oppressive atmosphere that set his nerves on edge. The metallic tang of the air suggested he wasn’t in the Archive anymore, and his stomach tightened with a sense of dread. Something was very wrong.

The room Jafar found himself in was an absolute nightmare of filth and decay. The walls and floor were cloaked in a thick layer of grime, as if they hadn’t been cleaned in years. The faint hum of still-functioning electrical lights cast a sickly glow over the scene, their dim illumination revealing a chaotic assortment of clutter. Scattered across the floor were random boxes and tin cans, many crushed or rusted, shoved haphazardly under tables. Pieces of twisted metal and machinery lay in disarray, forming jagged piles of junk that added to the oppressive atmosphere.

But what truly seized Jafar’s attention—and turned his stomach—were the animal bones. They were everywhere, woven into the fabric of the room’s grotesque decor. Bones hung from the ceiling by strings, swaying ever so slightly in the stale air. The walls were adorned with skeletal remains, some arranged in crude, almost ritualistic patterns. On a nearby workbench sat the half-carved skull of some large animal, its hollow eyes staring back at him like a grim mockery of life. The delicate cuts suggested an almost reverent attention to detail, as if the person shaping it considered their grotesque craft a form of art.

The room reeked of decay, metal, and something darker—something primal. Every instinct screamed at Jafar that he wasn’t supposed to be here. Whatever this place was, it had been created for purposes he didn’t want to imagine.

As Jafar attempted to stand, he quickly realized he couldn’t move. A sudden wave of dread washed over him as he glanced down and saw that he was bound tightly to a chair with coarse, fraying ropes. He tugged and strained against his restraints, but they held firm, digging into his wrists and ankles with each attempt.

Desperation surged through him as he tried to gather aether for a spell to free himself. He focused, pulling at the threads of energy he’d summoned countless times before. But the moment the aether gathered in his body, it dissipated, slipping away like sand through his fingers and dispersing into the surrounding atmosphere. His heart sank as the realization hit him.

He had felt this sensation once before—a numbing void where his control over aether should have been. The unmistakable cause of this was clear: Jinsil. Somewhere on his body, there had to be an application of the anti-magical substance, suppressing his ability to channel magic. The memory of its cold, suffocating effect resurfaced, leaving him with a bitter sense of helplessness.

Jafar clenched his jaw, his mind racing. Whoever had bound him hadn’t just tied him up—they’d gone to the trouble of neutralizing his magic as well. This wasn’t an ordinary kidnapping. Whoever was behind this knew exactly who he was and had taken careful precautions to keep him powerless.

The former Ember Gear student turned his head to scan his surroundings further, his gaze sweeping the room with growing urgency. As he turned to his left, his eyes landed on another figure, also bound to a chair.

The man’s posture mirrored Jafar’s, his arms tied securely behind the back of the chair. His uniform, though slightly disheveled and stained, identified him as a security guard from the Archive. The insignia on his chest confirmed it.

The guard was slumped forward, his head hanging limply against his chest. He was unconscious, his breaths shallow and uneven. A faint bruise was visible on the side of his face, as though he had been struck before being restrained.

Jafar’s mind raced. “What’s a security guard from the Archive doing here? Is he involved with my current predicament somehow?” The thought of an accomplice crossed his mind, but the man's bound state and lifeless posture suggested otherwise.

Jafar: "Hey," he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible. His throat was dry, and his voice cracked as he struggled to make sound. He cleared his throat and tried again, louder this time. "Hey! Wake up!"

The guard didn’t stir.

Jafar’s ears perked up at the sudden creak of a wooden door opening somewhere behind him, followed by the steady sound of footsteps approaching. The rhythmic thud sent chills down his spine. He strained against his restraints but remained as still as possible, his eyes darting toward the sound.

A figure draped in a black cloak stepped into his line of vision, the hood pulled low to obscure their face entirely. Without a word or glance at Jafar, the figure moved past him toward a cluttered table that had been haphazardly covered in animal bones.

With a dismissive sweep of their arm, the figure pushed the bones aside, sending them clattering to the floor. The hollow sound of the bones hitting the ground echoed through the room, mingling with the faint hum of the overhead lights. Jafar flinched at the noise, but kept his focus on the mysterious person.

The cloaked figure placed a weathered suitcase on the now-cleared table and clicked it open. From within, they began to carefully remove pieces of alchemical equipment, arranging them with practiced precision. Glass vials, burners, and unfamiliar tools quickly transformed the chaotic table into a makeshift alchemy station.

Jafar watched intently, his heart pounding in his chest. “What are they doing?” he wondered, anxiety twisting his stomach.

The figure selected a few vials containing liquids of varying colors and began mixing them with deft, confident movements. As the concoctions combined, the liquids hissed and changed shades, emitting faint trails of vapor. Once satisfied, the cloaked individual pulled out a syringe with a needle and carefully drew the liquid into its chamber.

Holding the syringe up to the dim light, they tapped it gently, ensuring there were no air bubbles in the mysterious fluid. The eerie glow of the liquid refracted in the light, casting strange patterns on the walls.

Jafar’s breathing quickened. What are they planning to do with that? he thought, his eyes fixed on the needle as it gleamed ominously.

The cloaked figure turned away from the table, their movements deliberate as they approached the two bound prisoners. With a slow, calculated motion, they reached up and pulled back their hood. The dim light revealed a familiar face—slightly wrinkled with gray-streaked hair. It was Sandra, one of the head librarians at the Arcanium Archives.

Jafar's eyes widened in shock, his jaw slackening as disbelief washed over him.

Jafar: “Sandra?” he blurted out, his voice trembling with confusion.

Sandra’s gaze shifted to him, her expression unreadable. For a moment, something akin to surprise flickered across her face as she noticed Jafar was conscious. Then her demeanor hardened, her features settling into a cold mask.

Sandra: “You’re awake?” she said, her tone sharp and clinical, entirely devoid of warmth. “I must have miscalculated. You must have been exposed to less of the gas than I intended.”

Her detached words sent a chill through Jafar. He couldn’t reconcile the composed and helpful librarian he had known with the steely, calculating figure standing before him now. Each syllable she spoke chipped away at the image he had once held of her.

Jafar: “What… what’s going on? Why are you doing this?” Jafar stammered, his voice cracking under the weight of his disbelief.

Sandra didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she glanced toward the unconscious security guard bound to the other chair, as if assessing the situation before finally directing her attention back to Jafar. Her expression betrayed no remorse, only a cold determination that made Jafar’s blood run cold.

Sandra: “You only have yourself to blame for this,” she said, her voice sharp but unsettlingly calm. “But don’t worry. Everything will be fine. I’ll… fix everything, and soon enough, you won’t remember any of this.”

Jafar’s heart raced as her words sank in.

Jafar: “W-what are you talking about?” he stuttered, his voice trembling.

Sandra sighed, shaking her head as if chastising a wayward child.

Sandra: “You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you? Even when you found Jixi’s body, you kept digging. And then you had to ask for that stupid security footage—the footage that doesn’t even exist. If you hadn’t done all of that, I wouldn’t have to go through this trouble.”

Jafar: “Security footage?” Jafar muttered under his breath, his brow furrowing as a memory surfaced. He recalled asking Sandra for access to review the footage. His thoughts spiraled as her words hinted at something sinister. “It doesn’t exist? Does that mean…”

Sandra’s cold expression didn’t falter.

Sandra: “Jixi never looked at the book of the Consuming Ooze,” she revealed flatly. “I fabricated that note in the registry to redirect your focus onto him, to keep you from looking too closely at other possibilities.”

Jafar’s mind raced as the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. Her confession sent a chill down his spine, but the implications ignited a spark of understanding within him.

Jafar: “You made that up?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. Then, louder, as realization struck. “Jixi never took out the book of the Consuming Ooze. So how—” He stopped mid-sentence, the truth dawning on him like a tidal wave. His voice rose, filled with equal parts anger and disbelief. “You! You’re the one who created the slimes! It was you all along!”

Sandra’s expression darkened, and for the first time, her composure wavered. She straightened, her hands gripping the edges of the work table as she stared down at Jafar with an icy resolve.

Sandra: “You’re clever, Jafar. I’ll give you that,” Sandra said, her voice low and dripping with venom. Her eyes narrowed as she leaned closer, the faint light casting sharp shadows across her face. “Yes, I set the ritual up for Danny to sacrifice himself. In return, the slimes were to consume not just the people who tormented him, but also everyone involved in Sorin’s undead project—especially those who knew about my involvement. Sending the slimes after them ensured no one would suspect it was me cleaning up loose ends.”

Jafar’s eyes widened in horror.

Jafar: “You were working with Sorin the whole time? Why? How could you align yourself with that madman?” His voice rose, filled with disbelief and anger.

Sandra’s confident facade faltered, her expression twisting into one of regret and panic. She opened her mouth as if to respond, but for a moment, no words came. Finally, she took a shaky breath.

Sandra: “I… I didn’t want to,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “I didn’t want any part of his madness.”

Jafar: “Then why?” Jafar demanded. “Why go along with it? Why help him?”

Her hands clenched into fists, her knuckles whitening as she looked away.

Sandra: “Because I had no choice!” she shouted, her voice cracking under the weight of her confession. “He forced me into it. Sorin made me help with his twisted project. He made me perform the soul-binding ritual on those poor students.” Her voice softened, almost breaking. “If I didn’t… he threatened to report me. To expose everything. And if that happened, I would lose it all—my career, my position, my life as I knew it.”

Jafar: “Expose what?” he pressed, his voice cutting through the thick tension in the room.

Sandra’s gaze turned distant, her hands trembling at her sides. She seemed to be speaking more to herself than to Jafar now, her words spilling out in a frantic rush.

Sandra: “How was I supposed to know it was all real?” Her voice quavered, and her eyes darted around the room as if haunted by invisible phantoms. “I heaRd the stories, but they sounded like old superstitions! Offer up effigies of bone, and you too shall receive inspiration—that’s what the tome said.”

She let out a shaky laugh, tinged with hysteria.

Sandra: “I just needed a little inspiration to finish my book! That’s all I wAnted—a nudge, a spark to get me through the writer’s block. So, I thought, why not try it? Just a small carving from some chicken bones. Nothing serious, nothing that would mean anything. Even if it didn’t work, the act of doing it might get the creative jUices flowing.”

Her voice grew louder, more erratic, and her eyes widened as though reliving the moment.

Sandra: “But it worked! The inspiration came pouring in, so efforTlessly. I couldn’t stop writing. My book—it was finally coming together, piece by PieCe.”

Jafar stared at her in growing horror as Sandra’s demeanor shifted, her tone tinged with a mix of guilt and defensiveness.

Sandra: “But then I needed more. The ideas started to fade, and I… I realiZed I needed more bones. I needed to carve more effigies to keep the inspiration flowing.”

She began pacing, her gestures wild and frantic.

Sandra: “So I started gathering animal bones—just aniMals! It wasn’t a big deAl! I wasn’t hurting anyone. It was just a means to an end. But they won’t understand!” her voice cracked, rising to a near scream. “No one will understand why I had to do it. They’ll think I’m a mOnster, but I just wanted to finish my book!”

She grabbed an animal skull on a table and threw it against a wall in frustration.

Sandra: “And… then Sorin found out.” Sandra’s voice dropped, trembling as if the words themselves were a weight she could barely bear. “He discovered what I had done—how I’d carved those efFigies—and he used it against me. He made me help with his experimenTs. I didn’t want to, but he left me no choice.”

Her expression twisted with anguish, her hands clawing at the air as though grasping for an explanation that would absolve her.

Sandra: “I don’t even understand why, but… necromancy—it started to come so easily to me. Skills I never studied, spells I never learned—they just… appeared in my mind, like they’d always been there, waiting. That’s why he needed mE. That’s wHy he forced me to perform the soul-binding ritual!”

Her voice cracked, and her pacing grew erratic as she delved deeper into her confession.

Sandra: “He made me risk my own life to rip the souls of those innOcent children from their bodies, to fuel his twisted ambitions! Soul-binding magic is supPosed to be dangerous for the caster—it should take years of practice, and even then, it’s periloUs! But for me… it wasn’t.”

Sandra’s hands trembled, and her eyes grew distant, haunted.

Sandra: “It was so siMple, so effortless. Like pulling a ripe fruit from a low-hanging branch. The souls just… came out. There was no strain, no daNger. It was as if I was born to do it.”

Her breathing quickened, and her voice climbed in pitch, teetering on the edge of hysteria.

Sandra: “Oh, Light. Why was it so easy?! It shouldn’t have been! This kind of mAgic—it’s wrong. It’s forbidden. But for me… for me, it felt as natural as breAthing.”

Jafar sat frozen, bound to his chair, as he watched Sandra spiral into a manic episode. The words she spoke clawed at his mind, filling him with a growing sense of dread. Horror etched itself into every line of his face as he began piecing together the truth behind her unraveling confession.

Jafar: “Sandra…” he started hesitantly, his voice trembling, “are you a—”

Sandra: “I’M NOT A CULTIST!” she shrieked, her voice echoing off the grimy walls. The force of her outburst startled Jafar into silence.

Sandra’s breathing came in ragged gasps, her wild eyes darting around the room as though searching for something—or someone—to refute her own words. She clutched her head tightly with trembling hands, her body trembling like a leaf caught in a violent storm.

Sandra: “I’m not a cultist. I’m not a cultist. I’m not a cultist. I’m not a cultist. I’m not…” her voice grew quieter with each repetition, her tone shifting from denial to something brittle, as if she were trying to convince herself more than him.

The mantra became a whisper, her lips moving soundlessly, tears streaming down her face. She collapsed onto her knees, clutching the floor as though the ground itself could offer her stability.

Sandra: “Get it together, Sandra,” she muttered to herself, her voice trembling but resolute. She pushed her disheveled hair out of her face and straightened up, her expression hardening. “After this is all over, you can go back to your regular life without worry. Finish your book, get it published, and stop offering the bones. This is just a temporary mess—one more step, and it’s all behind you.” Her voice turned softer, almost pleading, as if she were trying to soothe herself. “You just need to give them the memory tincture. They won’t remember any of this.”

Jafar’s eyes widened in horror, and his voice cracked as he shouted.

Jafar: “A memory tincture? Sandra, you can’t do that! That stuff can cause brain damage!”

She turned her back to him as she stood up, refusing to meet his gaze or acknowledge his protest. Her movements were mechanical, almost detached, as she walked over to the other unconscious man bound to a chair. The man’s head lolled forward, unaware of the danger he was in.

Jafar: “Stop! Don’t do this!” Jafar shouted again, struggling futilely against the ropes binding him.

Sandra ignored him completely. She pulled back the sleeve of the unconscious man’s uniform, revealing his forearm. With practiced efficiency, she picked up the syringe she had prepared earlier, the needle glinting menacingly under the flickering light. Without hesitation, she plunged the needle into the man’s arm and injected the mysterious liquid.

Jafar’s stomach churned as he watched, helpless to intervene.

But Sandra stood over the man, staring intently as if waiting for something to happen. Her hands trembled slightly, and her breathing was shallow, but her expression was unreadable—a mixture of cold calculation and underlying tension.

Suddenly, the security guard’s body began to convulse violently, his muscles jerking and spasming uncontrollably as if in the throes of a seizure. If not for the tight bindings securing him to the chair, he would have collapsed to the floor.

Sandra: “Hector, no! Please, stay with me!” Sandra screamed, panic rising in her voice. She stumbled back a step, her trembling hands covering her mouth. “I mixed it perfectly! This shouldn’t be happening!”

Jafar watched helplessly as the man’s violent spasms gradually subsided. Hector’s body slumped forward, drool and foam spilling from the corners of his mouth, his head lolling to the side. His eyes had rolled back into his skull, leaving only the whites visible—a chilling sight that made Jafar’s stomach churn. The man was unresponsive, his shallow breathing the only indication he was still alive.

Memory tinctures were alchemical creations designed to tamper with a person’s memory, erasing or altering up to a week of recent recollections. While their theoretical application appeared straightforward, crafting these potions was anything but simple. The process demanded meticulous precision, a controlled laboratory environment, and an intimate understanding of the recipient’s unique physiology. Without these stringent conditions, the tinctures were little more than a gamble—an extremely dangerous one.

In fact, the failure rate for such imperfect concoctions was alarmingly high. Nine out of ten attempts resulted in catastrophic side effects, the most common of which was severe brain damage.

The evidence of this grim statistic was now horrifyingly clear. The Arcanium Archive security guard, Hector, displayed every symptom of the tincture’s devastating effects. He had suffered irreversible brain damage as a direct result of the poorly executed potion.

Sandra: “No, no, no, no!” Sandra’s voice trembled as she hovered over Hector’s limp form, her hands shaking uncontrollably. “I’m so sorry, Hector. I’ll fix this. I-I’ll make sure the next tincture works perfectly. Jafar… Jafar won’t remember any of this!”

Jafar’s chest tightened as he saw the desperation in her eyes, mingled with a frantic determination that bordered on madness. He strained against his bonds, leaning forward as much as the ropes allowed.

Jafar: “Sandra! Please, you have to stop. You’re not well. This isn’t you—there’s still time to fix this another way! Just listen to me!” he pleaded, recognizing something was seriously mentally wrong with the head liberian.

Sandra’s head snapped toward him, her face twisting with rage and despair.

Sandra: “SHUT UP!” she screamed, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. “You don’t know anything! You couldn’t possibly understand what I’ve done… what I have to do!” Her breathing grew erratic as her words poured out in a torrent. “It’ll be fine! I’ll make it fine! Everything will—”

Suddenly, Sandra fell silent, her words cut off as though an unseen force had stolen the breath from her lungs. Her body tensed, her wild, darting eyes freezing in place, then slowly drifting upward toward the ceiling. Her mouth hung slightly open, her expression shifting into something unnervingly serene yet deeply unsettling—a crazed reverie, as though she were witnessing something beyond the scope of ordinary perception.

The only sound in the room was the faint, steady hum of the overhead lights, their electric buzz amplifying the eerie stillness. Jafar felt his blood run cold as he watched her, unsure whether to speak or remain silent.

Sandra’s lips trembled, barely forming words, then her voice came, quiet but laced with a strange, almost otherworldly awe. freёnovelkiss.com

Sandra: “Can you hear that?” she whispered, her gaze still fixed on the ceiling, her pupils dilated as if she were staring into some unseen abyss.

Jafar: “H-hear what?” Jafar stammered, his voice trembling with fear. His pulse quickened as he strained his ears, desperate to pick up on whatever had ensnared Sandra so completely. But all he could hear was the hum of the lights and the faint creak of the old building.

Sandra tilted her head slightly, her expression shifting from reverie to agitation. Her eyes darted along the room’s walls as though tracking something invisible.

Sandra: “Can’t you hear it? Along with the tapping against the wall? Soft but steady and always constant,” she muttered, her voice trembling with an unsettling fascination. “It’s... never been this clear before. Why now? Why is it so loud now, of all times?”

Jafar: “T-tapping?” Jafar’s voice cracked, his own fear amplifying with every word Sandra spoke. “What are we s-supposed to be hearing?”

Sandra's movements became slow and deliberate as she turned her head sharply toward Jafar. Her eyes, wide and glassy, seemed to pierce through him with an unsettling intensity. Without warning, she closed the distance between them, her face coming uncomfortably close to his. Jafar could feel her breath, tinged with an unnatural stillness, as it brushed against his skin. His body tensed, unable to recoil or escape.

Her lips parted, and spoke in a voice that barely resembled her own.

Sandra: “ThE rAtTLe,”she hissed

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

Cid moved about his apartment with a purposeful air, his hands carefully adjusting a piece of furniture until it rested at an angle that would strike most as bizarre. The chair wasn’t facing the table, the lamp stood awkwardly in a corner, and a small mirror hung at an inexplicably tilted position on the wall. To Cid, however, these arrangements weren’t random; they adhered to the precise instructions detailed in the Book of Grand Design, the cryptic tome he’d acquired from John. According to the book, such peculiar placements could enhance the probabilities of his home remaining secure and untouched by intruders.

It was an odd ritual, one that had raised eyebrows, especially from his former roommate, who had ultimately packed up and left. The roommate had been bewildered by Cid’s increasingly strange behavior—his late-night mutterings about "alignment" and "protective symmetry," the sudden rearrangement of shared spaces without explanation. Now, the apartment was solely Cid’s domain.

Thanks to the generous payment he’d received from Scarlett, he no longer had to split the rent or endure anyone questioning his choices. The solitude suited him; it allowed him to fully immerse himself in his sanctuary, where every object was a piece of a grand puzzle only he understood.

As he stepped back to survey his latest adjustment, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. The apartment was perfect now—or at least as perfect as the Book of Grand Design deemed necessary. For the first time in a long while, Cid felt safe. Whether it was true security or simply the illusion of it didn’t matter. This was his haven, his fortress, and no one would disturb it again.

Cid set the kettle on the stove, the gentle hiss of heating water filling the air as he prepared to finally indulge in a moment of peace. He had been looking forward to this—a quiet evening with a cup of tea and a book he had picked up some time ago. The story was about a group of short mutants on a perilous journey to a volcano to destroy a cursed ring. It had sat on his shelf for weeks, its worn cover taunting him every time he passed by. Now, at last, he would dive into its world.

As he leaned against the counter, waiting for the teapot to whistle, a sudden, frantic knocking shattered the quiet. The sound echoed through the apartment, sharp and unexpected.

The Shroom Pact student froze, his brow furrowing in confusion. He never had visitors—his social circle was almost nonexistent, and no family ever dropped by. Who could it be? The persistent pounding at the door pulled him from his thoughts, and he sighed heavily. His first assumption was his former roommate, perhaps realizing they’d left something behind in their hasty departure.

Reluctantly, Cid set the teapot off the burner and wiped his hands on his pants. The knocking grew louder, more insistent, as he made his way toward the door.

Cid: “I’m coming!” he called out, raising his voice over the incessant pounding.

Cid opened the door, the hinges creaking slightly, and was met with a sight that took him entirely by surprise. Standing there, clad in his enforcer uniform and breathing heavily as though he’d sprinted the entire way here, was Alan.

Alan’s usually composed demeanor was nowhere to be found. Sweat clung to his brow, and his chest heaved with each labored breath. His eyes, filled with urgency, locked onto Cid’s.

Alan: “I... need your help,” he managed to say between gulps of air, his voice strained yet firm.

Cid blinked, momentarily at a loss. Alan's sudden appearance on his doorstep was as unexpected as it was perplexing. He had no idea what could have prompted this visit, especially in such a frantic state.

For a brief moment, he considered slamming the door shut. The warning Scarlett and John gave him echoed in his mind. Yet, as he looked at Alan, his emotions warred with his resolve. There was something raw and desperate in Alan’s expression that Cid couldn’t ignore, even if everything told him to ignore it.

(Author’s notes: I hope I was able to convey it in the chapter well, but Rattle Bone cultists are very scary people 😨)

The 𝘮ost uptodat𝑒 novels are pub𝙡ished on fre(e)webno(v)el.𝒸𝑜𝘮