Riddles

Summary: Tired of his feelings for the Slayer, Spike ventures to Africa to seek help from a ancient demon, who forces him to take a trip down to memory lane. Feeding on the emotions Spike's memories evoke, the demon grows slowly stronger. As the story unfolds, we get to know the man behind the Bloody Awful poet before he gets reborn into darkness. Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy are the creators of the Buffy universe and Spike. I am nothing compared to them, nothing! Spoilers: end S6. Rating: G Horror/Drama

Thanks: To that lady in the video-store who advised me to rent Rose Red, I absolutely loved it and it had inspired me to continue this story. I've been stuck for a while after the show caught on with my writing and gave Spike a soul, but I'm back on it again, and am intending to finish this.



Part 5: Strange Encounters



Part 1.

London --- August 1876 ---

Sometimes I wonder how it could be that time seemed to pass by so quickly in here.

I was sitting at the large mahogany desk in my father's office, which was located on the ground floor in the old west wing of the archaeology department. This part of the museum was not open to the public, and even the archaeological society didn't came here much often anymore ever since they have moved the entire faculty to the brand new building at Great Russel street. The grim hallways were dusty, the windows draped with thick layers of cobwebs and most of the offices were abandoned, used as extra storage space to pile up the museum's pieces of junk furniture or files which were too old to be useful but were still to new to be discarded. My father's old working space would also have been subjected to this dreadful fate, if it wasn't for my good uncle Henry's intervention. He pulled a few strings at the board and managed to secure the room for his favourite nephew, to be used as it was pleased. When I was younger, I often came here to study, or read, or just sit here for a few hours to roam through my father's belongings. My father had been a field-archaeologist all his life, travelling around to globe to the most desolated places, finding and bringing pieces of forgotten history back home to England with him. Although he was no longer here, the many crates and boxes that he had left behind in the museum basement, which had been brought up here by the staff for my convenience, were still reminding me of what the man had accomplished in his short thirty years of being able to live his dream undisturbed. There were numerous of small stone statues, from Egypt, Greece, or Italy, symbolising Gods or creatures of mythology. There were crates filled to the rim with broken pottery, some of them carefully mended together to form larger shards in which the patterns with fading colours were still visible. And then there were pieces of baked clay tabloids in which nail shaped markings were carved by the old Babylonians. All these treasures, too insignificant for the museum to claim as their own, but which had once meant something to my father and thus, meant everything in the world to me, were neatly wrapped in layers of brittle yellowing newspapers and carefully stored away in the containers in which they had been shipped to London from their faraway homelands. There were a couple more remarkable pieces that I had left unwrapped and displayed rather fondly on the shelves; a 1800 year old white marble sculpture of Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome, as they were nursed by a wolverine, and a 500 BC dated wooden carving of Osiris, which I had placed next to the Victorian snow globe that had become one of my dearest possessions. Over the years, I've gathered a good collection of for the library outdated books and maps as well, and had them stored in the three tall bookcases towering to the ceiling and which highest shelves could only be reached by using a chair. Gradually, I had transformed my father's old den into my own favourite hide out, a place where I could lost myself in worlds that were beyond my reach, while being surrounded by objects that invoked my beloved father's memory.

The time must had been well after ten o'clock in the evening, as I put my book on Roman religions aside, determined to finish the chapter on the Osiris cult tomorrow evening. I could tell that it was that late. Looking through the window in the office and catching the view across the museum's small garden, I noticed that the lights in the exposition hall in the opposite building were all put out, indicating that the night watchman had inspected it and had locked it down for the night.

I stretched lazily, raising my arms far above my head and leaned back into my chair. It would be better to get back home before midnight. I was renting a six rooms apartment with a front porch that I shared with three different tenants and Misses Odom from downstairs always complained that I woke her up when I ascended the stairs, no matter how hard of hearing the old woman herself seemed to be. She got up before dawn every morning and the first thing she did is feeding her poultries in such a very loud and exasperating way, that I was easily woken from my sleep. I asked her numerous of times to be quieter when occupying herself with her morning activities, but of no prevail. The old woman seemed to be deaf when it suited her more convenience. London was full of people just like her, indifferent to other man's problems, but making sure that they themselves were to be at the receiving end of profitable deals every time. I guess that was also one of the reasons why old misses Odom was never married, but had acquired a good fortune from her family to maintain a reasonably luxurious lifestyle.

Staring at couple of moths dancing in the small circle of light cast by my table gasoline lamp, I sighed deeply, as my mind strayed off and started to worry about of what was expected of me tomorrow when the dreadful Sir Flinch and company were coming to visit the special Pompei exposition. I was asked to give them a grand tour by my employer, Mister "supervisor of the Roman collection" Whitaker, and I was better to make sure not to disappoint them since Sir Flinch had donated a large sum of money that was enough to benefit the entire department. I for one knew that the man had absolutely no interest in archaeology at all, let alone ancient Roman history. Sir Flinch was well known all over town to be a dandy gent with a stack of old family money that seemed to be as everlasting as the amount of fish in the seas, which allowed him to fully indulge in his favourite pastimes; which was taking part in fox hunts, attending decadent parties, and courting beautiful women, not necessarily in that particular order. However, to keep up his appearance in his high social circles, the man actually had to do something worthwhile with the good fortune that was given him occasionally, that's why he had financed a significant part of the shipping costs to get the exposition pieces transferred from Italy to England. Giving the more privileged, but still common citizens of London an opportunity to marble at these ancient artefacts and learn of ancient Roman history, was indeed a donation fit to polish his crude status as a philanthropist, enough to silence the tongues of the gossiping elite I suppose. I could have rejoiced this opportunity, being absolutely excited about the prospect of hosting such an amazing exposition, if it wasn't for the slight downside that yours truly here had to put together a tour that had to be exciting enough to keep a totally indifferent man interested.

I had to put so much effort in this assignment that at the end of a three days study, my head was buzzing with undigested knowledge and my spine felt as if it was pulling on my neck with all the forces of gravity.

I sank my head between my arms resting on the table, my eyes and mind tired of the reading. I closed my eyes and in a moment of unintended feebleness allowed myself to drift off into a dark sea of total nothingness, leaving a chaotic whirlwind of knowledge and facts behind at the shores.

I think I must have fallen asleep, or at least been close to slumbering, when a noise of tumbling boxes woke me up.

First, I thought there was someone down the corridor, perhaps a colleague working late, trying to find something that had thrown out by mistake in the storage next door. I cleared my throat.

"um, hello. Is someone out there?"

There was no response, only a scuffling sound of something heavy being dragged over the floor.

Suddenly, a strange feeling came over me. It prickled the flesh on my arms and straightened the hair at the back of my neck. Ridiculing myself for my own ungrounded cowardliness, I repeated the question.

"Is someone out there? Please answer me!"

I waited, listening to that strange scraping that seemed only to be getting worse and worse. My heart jumped right out of my chest as something was knocked over by whoever was out there and the sharp cluttering of breaking glass cut through the silence. A round and hollow object fell loudly to the floor and spun around a couple of times before it stopped.

Then, there were no more sounds.

Slowly, I rose out of my chair, careful not to disrupt the silence, as if that could keep me safe from harm. Perhaps there were thieves in the building, scavenging for objects of value to sell on the black market. Perhaps it was just one very large and very clever rat.

Either way, it seemed wise to be careful and take some precautions before opening the door and venturing outside.

Nervously, I went through the piles of paper, searching for any object sharp enough to protect myself with. I found my father's silver letter opener. Heading for the door while I held the improvised weapon aloft, a sudden draft swept into the room, carrying cool air and an unfamiliar smell that made my stomach heave. Instead of the warm scent of dust and old books, there was this damp odour of decay, of wet mould and rotting organic substances. A smell you would expect when you entered a crypt or a morgue.

Someone, or at least something as tall as a man, walked by, casting a dark shadow over the frosted glass panel that was set into the office door.

I blinked my eyes, curious and scared to death at the same time. Pacing closer towards the exit, my mind played cruel tricks on me and presented possible scenarios of crazed throat slitting lunatics waiting outside. Keeping quiet in the dark, waiting for me to stick my head out.

As my hand grabbed the cool steel of the handle, I needed a moment to compose myself.

I still could go back to my desk and pretend as if nothing had happened. Hide behind a thick volume of Homer and pretend to be reading. Try to shut down my sense of hearing and smell while praying to the Lord to make dawn come early.

But the problem was that I would most likely drive myself insane with fear.

It's probably nothing. A large noisy rat combined with an overactive imagination. I really should stop reading Edgar Allen Poe novels.

Bracing my feet while taking a deep breath, I pulled open the door and looked around the corner.

I gasped in surprise, as ice cold air penetrated my lungs and made my breath turn into wisps of cloud, dancing in front of my face. Then the stench hit me, a thick sickening smell of flesh decomposing. My body launched forward, and I couldn't stop myself from dry heaving.

From out of the corner of my eyes, I could see a vague human like form crouched down at the far end of the corridor. I turned my head to look at it, though every instinct in my body warned me not to do so. The creature I saw was smaller then a full grown man, but definitely larger then a rat, and it was standing motionless, sniffing the air like a huge hungry dog. Suddenly, as if it had eyes on its back, or could feel by instinct that it was being watched, it turned its head slowly around, and then looked right into my eyes.

Its face was hideous and deformed. A human skull wrapped in dried brown skin with dark hollow sockets, harbouring eyes that gleamed with malice. Its unhinged jaw was filled with rows and rows of glistering shark-like teeth.

I couldn't help myself from screaming like a madman.

The last thing that I saw of this horrifying evil was that it was dashing toward me down the dark corridor, part drifting like a ghost, part crawling like a beast.

I went right back inside, shut the door and turned the lock. I pushed as many heavy crates in front of it as I could manage with my muscles turning limp, then crawled under my father's desk, pulled my knees against my chest like a scared little boy and covered my ears.

The creature was scraping its nails over the glass panel, and it was so close to the door that I could have seen it attacking the wood through the blurry frosted glass.

I choose I better not to if I wanted to keep my sanity and squeezed my eyes shut.

Oh dear Lord in heaven! This isn't real! - this isn't happening - this isn't real - this isn't happening - this isn't real - this isn't real - please don't let this be real.

I stayed there in my father's sanctuary, drooling against the mahogany legs while begging and crying and rocking myself forth and back till the terrible scratching sounds outside finally died out and all that was left was a deafening silence.

It was the longest night in my entire existence, and I remember that I was crying out of joy when dawn finally came and chased the shadows away.



Part 2

I didn't lose my mind. You might bloody suspect I had if you could have seen me the following morning, or rather the pitiful wee bit what was left of me. I looked as pale as a ghost, dead tired after a long night deprived from sleep or peace, and was hardly able to speak. I could have stayed there hiding till the entire day was over and the deadly night had closed in on me again, if I had not picked up the sounds of a rattling handcar, voices carrying on a cockney accented conversation and loud colourful swearing down the now dreaded corridor. The museum caretakers had collected junk from the different departments and were bringing it to the deserted west wing for long time storage. I was so relieved to hear human voices that my eyes stung again with tears.

Hesitatingly, I came out of my hiding place. My body was deadened and my mind was empty, as if the terrifying experience had drilled a hole into my skull and had drained me of all of my knowledge. I sank into my chair. Ran my hands through my locks and removed my spectacles, so I could cover my face and therefore secure myself in my own private comforting darkness.

I sat like that for perhaps, ten, fifteen minutes, before a knock on the door startled me. Unknowingly, I bit on my lower lip to prevent myself from screaming out of panic.

"Mister Byron? Are you in there?"

I opened my mouth, but somehow I was horrified to speak up.

"Mister Byron! Are you all right? Can you hear us?"

"Y-Yes I'm here. I'm right in here."

I heard the juggling of keys, someone tried to unlock the door.

"Hey! What are you doing out there?"

"I'm trying to get in sir."

"No! No don't do that! I'm right in the middle of something here. I'm studying!"

"Mister Byron?" The sound of a lock after which the handle turned and the door opened for less then an inch before it was jammed by the barricade that I had so hastily put up.

"Mister Byron, what in the name of God is going on there? Why won't it open?"

"Um, I'm afraid I have blocked the entrance. Wait, don't force it open. Let me remove the crates."

With legs still feeble and shaking with each step, I managed to stride to the door and pushed the wooden containers out of the way. The door swung open and two men entered, one of them I recognized as Pete Stephen, a large boned man with a demanding presence. He was the supervising caretaker of the entire west wing, often seen with a warm blush over his cheeks and a nose as red as a raspberry, while his hot breath smelled of alcohol. I honestly pray that I would never become like him, for the obvious abuse of strong liquor had turned him into an addict, a shadow of a man, whose job he could only maintain because he hired a hardworking and most loyal staff. Both men gazed at me, no doubt studying my almost translucent tan and the dark half moon rims under my eyes. Pete's mouth sank open.

"Sir, what on earth happened to you?"

I smiled nervously, although I didn't have the slightest notion why I smiled. Perhaps I wanted to put the caretakers at ease, they seemed so shaken by my appearance. Perhaps I was still too upset by my eerie encounter to think and react properly.

Perhaps I was indeed scared out of my mind.

"Seriously Sir. You look like as if you've seen a ghost."

I almost felt giddy enough to burst into laughter. Funny you should mention it. I did saw something last night that could past for a ghost. But I dismissed the thought of telling them instantly. These turn of events were better to be kept to myself. At the moment I was still convinced that what had happened to me was real, that the hideous nightmare creature had indeed stalked outside of my study during the hours of darkness and had threatened to kill me. But for how long would this continue to appear real? I was a man of reason due to my academic education, but what I had experienced last night was far too unbelievable, far too odd for logic or science to explain. Already, with the raising sun and the increasing light flooding into the room, had I started to doubt the authenticity of my strange encounter. I didn't need to make a fool out of myself when I eventually decided to dismiss this phenomenon as nothing more but a frightening dream.

These men standing before me on the other hand were still in need of an explanation for my peculiar behaviour.

"Why have you been dragging those crates in front of the door Sir? Why did you lock yourself in?"

"As I said, I was studying." I explained to them with an unsteady voice. "I was given a rather important assignment, and therefore was in desperate need of some peace and quiet. So I decided to seclude myself in my father's study to be able to fully dedicate myself to my readings."

"You were Sir?" Pete squinted his eyes in suspicion, still gazing at me as if I was not quite the young mister Byron he knew.

"Most definitely. I'm terribly sorry for causing any distress, and I must thank you for your concern, but there's nothing wrong with me except for perhaps some lack of sleep and a bit of anxiety for the task ahead that might show right now on my face."

"Aye. You look indeed tired. Perhaps you should go home and take a rest. No man can read that much in one night and still be fresh and vigilant as an early morning bird." Pete tipped his hat and gestured to his companion to leave, indicating that they were satisfied with the excuse my white little lies had given them. "I'm terribly sorry Sir for the crude intrusion, but I heard noises and I figured I better go see what's going on. This place has been burgled very recently and mister Whitaker has asked me to keep an eye open. We were worried that you might be in trouble."

I gave the broad man a reassuring smile.

"I do appreciate your efforts."

They finally left. Pete was just asking me if he should lock the door for me, when I suddenly realized that I had a very important appointment to attend to in the early morning. Inquiring about the time, I became aware that I had less then 2 minutes to meet up with the museum's special guests in the grand central hall at the public entrance, all the way at the other side of the grand building. Jumping at my desk like a crazed lunatic, I gathered all the notes that I had written for the tour and stuffed them into my pockets. Eerie encounter or not, I still had to deliver my knowledge to my revered audience or I was certain to be out of a job.

Pete observed my frantic activities with a judging eye, but was wise enough to keep his comments to himself.

I almost tripped over the threshold, rushing out the office in great hurry. Pete shut the door and told me to rush on for he will lock up the place for me, as my eyes unintentionally wandered over the exterior of the wooden door. What I saw there froze my legs on the spot and sent icy shivers down my spine.

Pete's companion noticed the change of expression on my face. Explaining to me that they had seen it before they knew that I was inside my father's office, he added that they had initially suspected that a couple of young crooks had tried to force open my door using a crowbar, attempting a robbery. However, he didn't sound entirely convinced of his own theory.

The strange dents in the door's framework didn't look like as if they had been made by a man crafted tool.

They looked like frightening deep cuts, made by the claws of a savage beast.



TBC