The Case of Notre Dame Cathedral

By evolution-500

Genre: Sci-Fi/Horror

Disclaimer: "TimeSplitters" is a property that belongs to Free Radical and Koch Media. I do not own the characters.

WARNING: This story contains violence, coarse language and dark themes/subject matter. Reader discretion is advised.

Prologue:

"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before."

- Edgar Allen Poe

1895 - France

Lightning flashed across the Parisian night sky, illuminating the looming forlorn forms of the North and South towers of Notre Dame cathedral as they stood tall, the sharp spire flashing as it angrily jutted upward toward the dark clouds, as if in challenge.

Water poured along the rib-like flying buttresses of the cathedral as another flash of lightning highlighted their contours, the sound of thunder crackling loud enough to pierce through the cacophonous din of rain.

"L'heure est proche (The hour is at hand)," a thick, raspy voice spoke, cutting through the angry storm. "Les portes du Ciel s'ouvriront là pour moi (The gates of Heaven will be opening there for me.)"

A young woman no older than nineteen, dressed in a tattered white dress with a corset wrapped around her ribs, groaned as she was carried bridal style to a large crucifix by a rake-thin man in a beige coat and a white scarf, his bald head covered by a black stovepipe hat.

Grabbing her wrists, the man turned to face the young woman. "Es-tu croyante, ma jolie fille? (Are you a believer, my pretty girl)" He asked rhetorically. The man then placed her wrists into a pair of metal cuffs that were chained to the crucifix.

"Les anges viendront (The angels will come)," he explained as he finished, placing on a laurel with various white flowers onto the woman's head as he then turned his back to her, staring out the window at the night sky as she groaned and stirred awake, "et tu verras ton destin (and you will see your destiny.)"

Letting out a moan, the woman's eyes fluttered as she regained consciousness, her moans ceasing as she became aware of her surroundings along with the man before her.

Her eyes widening, the maiden suddenly screamed and thrashed about in her chains when the man drew near, the deranged person letting out a deep, throaty growl as he caressed her body and hair, his nose buried into the crook of her exposed neck and bosom as he inhaled her scent like an animal.

"Si pur (So pure)," he purred. "Si innocent! (So innocent!)"

A maniacal laugh filled the air as the moon brightly shined overhead, casting its bright cold eye down on the cathedral as it rained.


The tunnels of the catacombs echoed with the loud snap of a match, the orange hue of the flame reflecting off of the man's thick, silvery mutton chops beard as he quietly lit his brown wooden pipe, smoking in silence.

Waving the match and breathing out fumes, the man hummed to himself in thought, casting his gaze to over to a puddle near his feet, hardly recognizing his own reflection.

By Jove, was he really so old, and so fat?

Though his olive green two-piece dress suit, grey ascot tie, tanned gloves, and thick brown bowler hat were all pristine and well-kept, he knew that time had been anything but kind to him.

Once upon a time, Algernon Underwood had been a dashing young man who had attracted the eye of many a fine young woman, thin and fit like a fiddle.

At sixty-five-years-old, with a large round belly that hung outward, however, his green vest and trousers were straining to keep in the extra weight.

Where once he had long brown locks of curly hair, only his bowler hat concealed his bald domed head.

But even more depressing were his facial features; a pair of tired grey eyes, old with age, stared back from the puddle, his raised cheekbones and aquiline nose both thickly built.

Staring at his own reflection, Algernon let out a tired sigh.

By Jove, what happened to himself? Had he really let himself go?

As he continued smoking his pipe, Algernon exhaled a plume of smoke, tilting his head at various angles as he studied the various wrinkles in his own reflection.

Time truly was a ruthless thief that stole from the wealthy and destitute alike, indiscriminately stealing away all of their looks, lives, hopes, fantasies, memories, joys, and dreams.

However, with that being said, Algernon took some measure of solace from the fact that his fatness was a testament of his success as a detective and author. Apart from a certain detective located on Baker Street, few can claim to have been as financially successful as he was, nor to have successfully spent thirty years debunking every charlatan, table-rapper, fake mystic, and various other scoundrels as he had.

He let out an audible breath, puffing on his pipe, shaking his head with a derisive snort.

To think that there were those in this day and age that still believed in ghosts and goblins - what poppysticks and cockyfiddle!

...Or was it fiddlesticks and poppycock?

Wrinkling his thick silver brows, Algernon pondered quietly, then shrugged.

Oh well, it mattered not what the correct phrase was. As far as he was concerned, reality as it was based on facts - hard, tangible facts, and this new assignment that he was on would prove no different. At best, it would be a minor footnote in his career, if not an irritation that he would hardly remember afterward. If, however, it provided anything of interest, perhaps he might have a chapter dedicated to this little adventure. Only those extraordinary cases were would that he would allow himself to make into a full book, and this case most certainly wouldn't even qualify as that.

Turning his gaze away from the puddle, Algernon drew out his gold pocket watch from his inner coat to check the time.

Putting it away, he continued to smoke his pipe, puffing in thought.

For the past few weeks, a growing number of young maidens were reported missing by various concerned family members. Efforts to locate the young women by police have yielded no results at all, and because of that, some of the young women's families latter have turned to Algernon for his expertise out of desperation.

Of course, locating the women was easier said than done - during the course of his investigation, Algernon had spent enormous amounts of time combing through the city as much as he could. Despite offers of cash rewards for providing information about the whereabouts of the missing women, only a few witnesses were willing enough to step forward, and those that had were...dubious, at best.

One witness, a shopkeeper, had reported to have seen one of the young women being dragged away by a pair of men dressed like priests, but his reliability proved questionable on the basis that he had been heavily drunk at the time of the incident.

Another claimed to have witnessed unusual phenomena such as flashing lights along with some bizarre-looking creatures, but Algernon had dismissed them as nothing more than the ravings of a madman.

The most credible yet stranger of the bunch, however, were three rivermen working the Parisian docks who had reported to have witnessed the perpetrator themselves as he carried a woman away in his arms. The rivermen had no knowledge of what the man's real name was, let alone his history; the only name that they knew the mystery man by was "Jacque de la Morte", or "Jacque of the dead", much to Algernon's displeasure.

Police inquiries regarding this "Jacque de la Morte" have turned up empty. No history, no date of birth, nothing.

It wasn't even certain as to whether or not this "Jacque de la Morte" was even a French citizen.

What was certain, however, was that supposedly this de la Morte character was often accompanied by several ghoulish-looking men in monk robes.

When witnesses were pressed to describe their features, a lot of the descriptions ended up being contradictory, even at times so fantastical that it put their credibility into question.

The most unusual claims made eyewitnesses, however, were sightings of what they described as a clown, some jester or harlequin stalking along the rooftops during the evening, most often at night.

Smoking his pipe, Algernon thoughtfully tilted his head.

From what he could tell, there was evidence of some sort of cult at work, one that, from all indications, had been very careful in concealing their activities without gaining public attention. But to what end? What purpose did they serve? What were their goals, and what part did the maidens have to play in this affair?

But even more, where did the harlequin fit in? Was this unknown person a cult member himself?

Algernon frowned.

There were too many questions, and not enough answers.

Tonight would be different; through careful research, the usage of various newspaper articles, eyewitness testimonies and a map of Paris, Algernon was able to narrow down the possible locations of this cult down to a few areas, more specifically the catacombs.

He couldn't rely on the Parisian police; all that they were doing prior to his arrival was drag their feet, and if anyone was going to show these Frogs up, there was nobody better suited for the job than this detective!

Letting out one last puff, Algernon exhaled. "Right then," he muttered to himself. "I believe it's time to get this search started."

Emptying the contents of his pipe, the detective then placed it back into his coat, replacing it with his pistol.

Lifting the weapon, Algernon carefully inspected it, appreciating its design.

A Webley .455 MKII, the pistol had been a birthday present from a grateful colleague back in England, a former Colonel from the British Army.

Checking it over, Algernon smiled, nodding in gratefulness to his friend.

"Thank you for the wonderful present, Nigel," he said softly. "I will be sure to put it to good use. May your son Ash have a long and successful military career as you had."

Once he finished checking over his ammunition, Algernon gripped the brass kerosene lantern with one hand, then tightened his grip around his weapon, his eyes focused on the tunnels ahead.

All around, he heard the wind echo and moan, the tunnel dripping with water.

Clenching his jaw, Algernon Underwood took his first step into darkness, his lantern lighting the path ahead.