Chapter 51: The Ultimate Truth

Back on the spiral path that connected the previous world to the next, it had gotten darker. In fact, if not for the streetlights, it probably would have been pitch black, and if there was still fog, I couldn't see it.

I had gotten pretty hot and sweaty while fighting for my life in the big rectangular room, and as the freezing air hit my skin, I shivered almost violently, and had to cross my arms and hold myself, as my breath created little white clouds of condensation. Eileen huddled against me and I realized that she was shivering a little as well—it wasn't surprising that the extra shirt wasn't making that big of a difference at this point.

We went along the walkway—for the most part, it was more of the same. Rusty metal structures lined the perimeter, looking as if someone had begun constructing a building around the walkway, but didn't finish it, leaving only the metal framework.

The first room we walked past had another hospital bed with a blood stain in the middle. The second room was empty.

We were getting close to the bottom now—despite the darkness, I could see the ground not too far below us. In the distance was a cart of some kind that was filled with mannequin heads—their black lifeless eye sockets stared blankly in a way that was vaguely disturbing.

A third room displayed a nude baby standing and shaking—almost vibrating—as it thrashed about with its arms. Eileen said nothing, but pulled on my arm urgently as a signal to hurry and leave this spot. Perhaps even she was becoming desensitized to the horrors of this place, but that didn't mean that she enjoyed looking at them.

It almost seemed like a miracle—only a few more steps and we were stepping off the ramp and onto the grassy ground. It was a round area fenced off by bars, almost looking like some kind of outdoor prison.

"We made it to the bottom," I muttered, nearly unable to believe it. There were doors scattered about—at least five inside the area, some stacked on top of each other, while others were leaned against the bars or each other, with a few more just outside the bars. Each one had a peephole, looking exactly like my door from the inside (or rather how my door used to look).

The bloody trail had continued along the path and lead to an area where the grass transitioned to floor tiles that surrounded a chunk of wall. On the wall was a door.

On the door were the numbers 302.

Eileen and I looked at each other. I sighed, apprehensively. "Looks like I've come full circle."

"What do you think is in there?" she asked, uneasily.

"I … don't know," I muttered. In truth, I wasn't sure I even wanted to know. "I'm not even sure if it'll open.

Just then, I happened to look down and saw a book with handwriting in it. I picked it up and read it out loud:

"'I had that weird dream today. The one with the man with the long hair and coat. He was crying and looking for his mother again'"

I inadvertently scoffed a little—it was difficult to picture Sullivan crying. Laughing I could imagine—crying, not so much. Then again, this was a dream and probably symbolic.

"'I saw that man with the coat 10 years ago at this apartment. He was going up the stairs, carrying a heavy tool, an old-looking bowl and a bag that was dripping blood. I never saw him again after that. But a few days later, the neighbors complained that they heard strange noises coming from the supposedly empty Room 302. So I took a look around Room 302 and found signs that someone had been in there, but nothing odd other than that. But that's when it all started.

"'I still hear strange noises coming from the window of Room 302. –Sunderland'"

I shook my head. Completely disgusted, I held out the book and let it drop back to the floor with a loud thud.

Eileen was quiet for a moment—probably wondering what I was angry about, then realizing it—before she spoke up. "Henry … didn't you say that … there was something keeping you in your apartment, and that's why you hardly ever left it?"

I took a deep breath, and nodded. "Walter Sullivan's influence," I muttered.

"Well," Eileen responded, cautiously, "maybe he also influenced Frank to let you move into it in the first place."

My gaze dropped back to the book on the ground. "Could be. Might explain why he was having dreams about him."

It was hypocritical to blame Sullivan for my behavior, and then turn around and automaticallyblame Frank for his own. I realized that I should try to hear his side of it before passing judgment.

Assuming I'd ever get the chance.

Not wanting to contemplate this anymore, I quickly grabbed the doorknob and twisted it.

Unlike the door to the real Room 302, it opened.


"Is this … your apartment?" Eileen said, looking around.

I was so overcome with wonder and confusion, I could barely speak. "It's … Room 302, but …"

But it was different. I recognized the layout of the room: there was a short hallway, which began at the door. To the left was the kitchen, and directly across from the kitchen, at the other side of the hall, was the door to the laundry room. Beyond that was the living room if you went straight, or the hall leading to the bedroom and bathroom if you went right. But it was what the room contained that was different.

"… but," I continued, "this isn't my stuff …"

Some of the furniture I did recognize, the stuff that was already there when I moved in: some of the chairs, bookcase, coffee table, and the small stand that had been moved away from the wall—it had been moved here as well. In place of my TV and VCR was a cabinet containing a record player … which did seem familiar somehow, even though I didn't have one.

Why do I remember a record player?

Also, there were lit Holy Candles everywhere.

I saw two books on the coffee table, so I knelt in front of it—for some reason, I was uncomfortable with the idea of sitting on any of the chairs—and I read the one on top aloud. It looked like a child's picture book, which also seemed familiar somehow:

"'There once was a baby and a mother who were connected by a magical cord. But one day the cord was cut, and the mother went to sleep. The baby was left all alone.

"'But the baby made lots of friends at Wish House, and everyone was very nice to him. The baby was happy. His friends told him how to wake up his mother. So the baby went right away to go and wake her up.'

"If this isn't an account of Walter Sullivan's beginnings, I don't know what is," I muttered before continuing.

"'But the mother wouldn't wake up. No matter how he tried, she wouldn't wake up.'"

I faltered before reading the next line out loud. I almost couldn't form the words. I became so tense, I nearly started shaking, and my stomach tightened. In any other context it would have sounded like superstitious nonsense, but here …

Eileen knelt next to me, put her arm around me, and rubbed my shoulder. "C'mon, Henry," she said, firmly but gently, "Keep going."

"'Because … the one that he was trying to wake up was … actually … the Devil.'"

Eileen gasped, audibly.

I looked over my shoulder at her, unable to hide my terror—I felt cold, and I can only imagine how pale I must have been. "This just got a lot more serious. If this is true … it's not just about twenty-one senseless deaths anymore …" I couldn't continue that thought, so I took a deep breath and went back to reading:

"'The baby had been deceived. Poor baby. The baby cried and cried and cried. When he thought of the mother, he remembered the feelings of being connected to her through the magical cord.'"

So help me, I couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for Walter Sullivan when I read that part.

"'Just then, a ray of light came down from the sky. The light was very warm and made the baby feel good. When the baby looked into his hand, he saw that the magical cord was lying there. With the cord clutched in his hand, the baby went happily to sleep.'"

The last bit didn't quite make sense to me—I supposed it was what he envisioned being with his mother again would be like after he completed the 21 Sacraments.

I went on to the next book. It was open to a specific page, but I looked at the cover first. It was an old, thick book with a dark red leather binding. Stamped on the front in block letters was the title: Crimson Tome.

"'She who is called the "Holy Mother" be not holy one whit. The "Descent of the Holy Mother" is naught but the Descent of the Devil.'"

I hesitated for a second—there was that word again. I've never been a very religious man, but seeing the word in this context made me very uneasy.

"'Those that be called the "21 Sacraments" be not sacramental one whit. The "21 Sacraments" be naught but the 21 Heresies. To give birth to a world of wickedness within the blessed realm of our Lord be blasphemy and the work of the Devil.

"'If thou would stop the Descent of the Devil, thou must bury part of the Conjurer's mother's flesh within the Conjurer's true body. Thou must also pierce the Conjurer's flesh with the 8 spears of "Void", "Darkness", "Gloom", "Despair", "Temptation", "Source", "Watchfulness" and "Chaos." Do so and the Conjurer's unholy flesh will become that which once it was, by the grace of our Lord.'"

"Jesus," I muttered, as I put down the book, and slumped forward, resting my elbows on the table, with my face in my hands. I felt like everything was crashing down around me. As evil as Sullivan seemed, he wasn't the true evil here, it was the cult that brainwashed him—he was merely a puppet …

"They manipulated him," Eileen said, echoing my thoughts. "They used his longing for his mother as a way to trick him into summoning … something else."

I turned and looked at her again. She was looking pale as well, making her wounds stand out even more dramatically than usual. "I don't know if it's really 'The Devil'," I said, continuing my thoughts, "but, whatever it is … it's likely much worse than Walter Sullivan."

I had found the "Ultimate Truth" … and it was much worse than I ever could have imagined.