Ch.92My Pretty Little Liars

“You know, I believe people have their limits. The same goes for charm. But whether it’s commanding, shooting, or cursing—and now I see you’re also good at waking unconscious people.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“My goodness. Then how might I earn a compliment, Agent with no limit to your charm?”

“Buy me two glasses of orange juice, and I’ll give you one, Mr. Crayfield.”

Crayfield stepped aside with a slight smile. I was the one who had regained consciousness, yet Scully seemed to be the one still disoriented.

“I’m sorry. I was a bit sensitive.”

With a sharp intake of breath, Scully removed something like a wire attached to her arm.

“You can take that off now too.”

Wondering what she meant, I looked down to find the same thing attached to my right arm. The two wires were connected to something resembling a briefcase, filled with clockwork mechanisms, gauges, and cylinders—an unidentifiable contraption.

“Amazing, isn’t it? It’s made with what they call ‘Old World technology.’ After injecting the patient with processed belladonna extract and attaching these electrodes, one can enter the patient’s mind. This procedure was necessary to pull you out. Kingsport Police Station. Remember?”

Come to think of it, Scully and I had been at the Kingsport Police Station. So where was I now?

“Arkham General Hospital. You were urgently transported from Kingsport. Crayfield brought all your clothes and equipment.”

But weren’t we just on a spiral staircase?

“It’s complicated, so I’ll keep it simple. What you just experienced was inside your consciousness. You had descended deep below your conscious mind, and I pulled you out. But you… how are you even alive?”

I stared at Scully, confused by her incomprehensible words. Her expression was utterly bewildered.

“They say no two people are alike, but you… you’re not just off the normal distribution curve—you’re practically drawing an entirely different graph. How you’ve managed to live with such things inside you… Okay. Alright. I’m sorry. I got a bit too excited.”

I asked if it had something to do with the long-haired woman.

“Yes. That woman. Do you know her?”

I had never seen such a woman before, at least not that I could remember. If I had met someone with such a gloomy, dark presence, I surely would have remembered. I asked if Scully knew her.

“I do. She’s my twin sister. Emma Scully. She’s been missing for quite some time… Why she walked out of your mind, and those landscapes inside your mind…”

So that’s why they looked similar. But their auras were completely different. I told her I wanted to hear more about Emma.

“Why so suddenly?”

I replied that she seemed even more confused than I was. If Emma wasn’t a secret, perhaps talking about her might help Scully organize her thoughts.

Besides, listening to her story might trigger some memory I had of Emma. Catherine Scully seemed moved by this last suggestion.

Catherine Scully had parents, an older brother with a significant age gap, and a twin sister, Emma. Scully’s father was a naval officer, and her mother was an archaeologist with the Smith-Peller Foundation. The eldest son and Catherine took after their parents’ reserved nature, but Emma was different.

“…Troublemaker was the right word for her. Mischief-maker fit well too. She’d pull unimaginable pranks, like filling the inside of father’s shoes with whipped cream, or switching the labels on the sugar and salt containers… things like that. She got scolded a lot, but we all loved Emma nonetheless.

Once, she brought twenty children from her class home. My surprised mother asked what the occasion was, and Emma boldly held the hand of a dirty-looking boy and said, ‘It’s this friend’s birthday, and he hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday. So I’m treating him.’

Mother put her hand on Emma’s shoulder and asked what about the other nineteen children, to which Emma replied, ‘The more friends at a birthday, the better. And our family is rich. What’s the problem?’ She didn’t get scolded much that day. Instead, our parents repeatedly told her she couldn’t do this again.

Emma retorted, ‘I’ll pay you back when I grow up. I’m going to make lots of money. How much could food possibly cost!’

That’s the kind of child Emma was. She never backed down from an argument, was the leader of the neighborhood kids, and always confident. And she had the warmest heart in our family. Of course, she was a headache-inducing kid to be around…

The tragedy began around our tenth birthday. It was a holiday, and our whole family went to visit the archaeological museum where our mother was the director.

Emma was far from studious, but she had a great interest in ancient artifacts. ‘Emma seems to take after me. I was just like her at that age,’ my mother said with a smile—I still remember it. But then Emma’s mischievous side emerged. For her, a ‘Staff Only’ sign was practically an invitation.

I tried to stop her. Emma wouldn’t listen to our parents or brother, but she usually listened to me. This time, though, I couldn’t stop her. ‘Can you hear it, Catherine? That calling?’ A faint singing, something like music, reached my ears too. When I didn’t answer, Emma said, ‘I knew it! Let’s go together. That place looks a bit scary.’

I know, I was called precocious, but I was still a child. We opened the door and went in. It was like a storage room, filled with items not on display, mostly Egyptian artifacts. A golden scarab inlaid with jewels. Death masks. Sarcophagi.

But the music wasn’t coming from there. It came from a medallion on a low table. It was round, with a person’s face drawn on it—a face contorted in rage, mouth wide open, veins bulging across the entire face. It resembled the ‘Mouth of Truth’ in Italy, but…

But. Don’t laugh. The medallion moved.

Like metal drawn to a magnet, the medallion pulled toward us. The floor was covered with a thick carpet, so it made no sound when it fell. I froze in shock, but Emma watched with wide eyes. The music grew louder, and in front of us both, the medallion trembled—like metal placed between magnets of equal strength.

‘Catherine, can you hear it?’ I said I could hear the music—the song the medallion was singing. Emma said, ‘I think this medallion likes us. But why is it trembling?’

For some reason, I answered that the medallion seemed unsure of whom to go to.

‘Today is my birthday, but it’s yours too. You take it,’ Emma said. Strangely, I wanted that medallion, but I doubted myself. Why am I drawn to this medallion? Why is it coming to us? It wasn’t logical. ‘No, Emma. You take it. You’re my big sister.’

Emma laughed. ‘Really? Then I’ll take it and give it to you as a gift. That way, it’s mine but also yours. And next birthday, you can give it back to me! How about that? Isn’t that genius?’ Just then, I saw the medallion rise and clasp itself around Emma’s neck with a click. ‘Wow! It’s like a puppy! Puppy medallion, your new owner is my sister!’ Then the medallion attached itself to me.

I saw a vision. On top of a massive pyramid stood a Greek-style temple, where a priest holding a bloody knife shouted. The blood flowing from the knife ran down the priest’s body to the base of the pyramid. From the distant sky, an army approached—war chariots, soldiers, spearmen, and cavalry. At the front was a Black Pharaoh, adorned in black gold.

On the opposite side stood just one woman. She was incredibly beautiful. When she extended her hand, the army vanished like dust. I thought the woman resembled… my mother. From some angles, she looked like Emma, from others, like my mother.

Frightened, I commanded the medallion, ‘Go to my sister. Today is her birthday.’ The medallion attached itself to my sister again. ‘Wow! What is this? Is it a movie?’ Emma couldn’t take her eyes off whatever she was seeing either. Then the door opened. Mother, Father, Brother.

They were all angry—not at me, but at Emma. In their eyes, it must have looked like Emma had recklessly handled an artifact and put it around her neck. Emma and I tried to explain, but no one listened. In front of others, the medallion didn’t move at all. Who would believe two ten-year-old children claiming a medallion flew to them, clasped itself on, and showed them visions?

Mother and Father admonished us: ‘We’re not angry that you went in there. We’re not even angry that you touched ancient artifacts. But we cannot tolerate lying.’ I kept quiet, but Emma didn’t. Why doesn’t anyone believe me when I’m telling the truth? she fumed. ‘You saw it too, Catherine. Say something!’ But I didn’t.

Then Emma started singing. ‘You know it, Catherine. You know this music!’ But I was afraid. I told her it was all an illusion, fake, that children sometimes perceive the world in distorted ways. That… that completely destroyed Emma.

‘No. You shouldn’t say that to me. We promised. We promised to exchange the medallion every birthday!’ Emma screamed at me, choking me. She was isolated and underwent painful treatments. Now that I’ve been through medical school, I realize those ‘treatments’… I hope Emma suffered less.

From then on, Emma just kept falling apart. Delusional disorder. Impulse control disorder. Paranoia. She told lies, deliberately caused trouble, and even self-harmed. She became increasingly difficult to handle and kept humming that strange tune we had heard. That once-brilliant child became cynical, gloomy, and pessimistic.

One of Father’s friends suggested Emma had an artistic temperament and might benefit from learning an instrument. She showed interest in the violin and learned quickly.

But I sensed that Emma didn’t love the violin—she escaped into it. At least while playing, no one would bother her. When she expressed what she wanted to say through the violin, no one called her crazy. That’s when she started growing her hair long.

And then Emma disappeared. The night before she left, she came to me. ‘I know what I need to do.’ Emma had the medallion around her neck. When I asked how she got it, she said, ‘I didn’t find it. It found me. And now I perfectly understand why I’m alive on this earth, why I had to go through all that.’

I asked her to tell me too, but she just laughed. ‘Why should I? You’re a coward. You didn’t even have the courage to speak the truth about what you saw and heard. Giving this medallion to you was my mistake.’

I begged her to at least tell me where she was going, but Emma laughed again. ‘I don’t know, Catherine. I have to go where the medallion whispers. That’s my mission.’ And then she left us. No one has seen her since. Not even a trace.

If only I had taken my sister’s side. Could things have been different? Why didn’t I speak the truth until the end? Why did that medallion sing to us and attach itself to our bodies? Was everything I saw and experienced just a story made up by two ten-year-olds afraid of being scolded?

I came this far to find those answers. I knew from books that there are many things in this world I don’t understand. But once I realized how these unknown things affected me and my family, I could never see the world the same way again. Then I walked into your mind and saw Emma.

I told her it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Scully brushed her bangs back.

“Yes. It’s no one’s fault. But why did our family have to break apart, and why did a young girl have to face such tragedy?”

I asked about the word the strange girl had mentioned.

“Hyperborea.”

At that, Scully regained her composure. She bit her lower lip, recalling the memory.

“I remember Dr. Henry Armitage mentioning it. He told me in passing, but for details, we should ask the doctor himself. He’s in Innsmouth now. Come to think of it, Crayfield said he was going to Innsmouth too. With you.”

Innsmouth. Suddenly Innsmouth?

The hospital room door opened. It was Crayfield, holding two glasses of orange juice. A rather pretty nurse had opened the door for him.

“Ah, thank you, Ellen. I’ll call you later. I’m late! So, assistant, this is sudden, but you’ve slept plenty and rested well, so let’s get back to work. Ready? It’s Innsmouth. Innsmouth! And this time, the ‘request’ comes from someone quite respectable.”

I asked what kind of request.

“A politician, assistant. A politician! And not just any politician—the request comes from an aide to a congressman from the Patriot Party, the leading party! Isn’t that splendid?”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what goes on in Innsmouth.”

Scully muttered, but Crayfield didn’t seem to mind.