Where will this end? But I am afraid I know the answer.
I am looking at Instagram photos again. I know the faceless shadow I saw in the corridor in front of the OR center was Nick Grevers. It’s the same shadow that was chasing Dr. Claire Stein in her attacks. The same shadow that Julian saw leaning over me last night.
Was it what some would call an astral projection? A sort of out-of-body manifestation or, what’s it called again—a doppelganger?
As I scroll through his pictures, I can only speculate as to what kind of unnatural quirk of fate has made him capable of impregnating his traumatic experience in the mountains into his victims and penetrating their reality. The falling. The freezing.
Why did he kill all those people and let Claire and me live?
Maybe he has no control over it.
I can’t go to the police.
I almost sent his boyfriend a message. If there is anyone experiencing Nick’s affliction, it’s got to be him. But I am too scared. And what would I say?
Oh, if only I knew what to do!
November 8
The Child Protective Services! How could she do that????!!! This is beyond betrayal!
Just when there was a glimmer of hope. Just when there was light on the horizon. I was supposed to meet Sam Avery tomorrow.
But I know what I have to do now. This morning I found Naomi in bed, feverish and shivering from cold. She said that last night a man had sat on the edge of her bed. He had the face of a mummy, but the bandages had hung loose, “all in loops.”
I carry something poisonous in me, and I will keep carrying it for the rest of my life. I will infect others with it. I am the gateway, and I have to shut it now, for the sake of the children. Only then can I be certain that they will be safe.
I’m so terribly sorry, Huib. Please catch me when I fall!
At the Mountains of Madness
Nick Grevers’s manuscript (part 5)
I have said that Danforth refused to tell me what final horror made him scream out so insanely—a horror which, I feel sadly sure, is mainly responsible for his present breakdown.
—H. P. Lovecraft
The cold makes waking up a protracted, disoriented dream. My mind crawls slowly over the edge of my consciousness, seems to topple back, then gets ahold of it. When I extricate myself from the space blanket’s semidarkness, I see dull patterns of light gleaming on the ice. My Petzl’s batteries are dead, but I can see through the hole in the roof that the sky is clear and colored by the dawn’s first light.
Apathetic and shaking uncontrollably, I stare at the blue-gray cave, the ice screws, the suspended rope, and try to push away the echoes of a traumatic night. Sometime during the night, Augustin’s screaming stopped, and the unforgiving silence is sucking up all the energy. I need to pee, feel the clotted blood flow sluggishly through my stiff muscles, can’t think straight. Symptoms of hypothermia, I know. The crevasse provided shelter and my backpack under my body and the space blanket some extra insulation, but the clothes I’m wearing were not made for a night in a freezer. I’m lucky to have woken up; the cold could have just as easily embraced me with the eternal sleep of the crevasse.
I force myself on my feet, furiously stamp ice grit off the balcony, slap my thighs and lower legs with both hands, then my chest and arms crosswise. I put all of last night’s anger and fears into it and when, fifteen minutes later, I’m done, I feel stronger, both physically and mentally. The worst of the cold is gone from my bones, my blood has started flowing again. I see the cave now as nothing more than what it is: a hollow cavity in a tens-of-thousands-of-years-old mass of seemingly unmoving ice.
I gaze upward at the walls and a plan slowly starts to take shape. The hole we fell through is clearly out of the question, but the crevasse extends to the left, where it opens up again. The walls there are rougher and closer to each other. A broken ice tower stretches up into a funnel of frozen snow that leads all the way to the hole. If I can reach Augustin’s plateau, maybe I can avoid having to climb up along the slippery, overhanging walls.
Augustin. Is he still alive?
I’ll find out soon enough. If he’s alive, I can start plotting on a rescue operation. If not, I’ll at least need his ice screws.
I unscrew mine from the wall and stuff my things into my backpack. After making a belay on the rope—same technique as the day before—I start pepping myself up. My gaze is constantly fixed on the way out: the ledge, the wall, the bridge. Then the traverse, the tower, the funnel. Obsessively, I repeat these words out loud like a mantra. All of a sudden, the crevasse is no longer a crypt but a series of complex obstacles that can be tackled one by one. The hole is all that matters; that’s where I need to go.
Three times I climb a few steps up from the balcony, try to accustom myself to a coordinated rhythm, the perfect balance between power and elegance, which my crampons and axes will soon need on the ice wall. As soon as I get the hang of it, I set off. I know I need to take advantage of this rush of self-confidence before the uncertainty sets in.
I cautiously traverse the ledge, sliding the Prusik knot forward on the taut rope. For the first bit, I must rely on Augustin’s body as my anchor, should I fall. I hung on it yesterday, after all, so theoretically, it should hold.
Better not fall.
When I reach the other side, I can see much further down, thanks to the daylight, but the shadows are erratic and there is still no bottom in sight. Nevertheless, the abyss is now less threatening. I focus on the ice wall that rises above me. Only four yards of slippery ice, then I can slam my ice axes into the bridge. I slide the Prusik as high as I can reach, feel the reassuring weight of the axes in my hands, and take a deep breath. It’s now or never.
My calves are screaming, splinters of ice tinkle down like glass, and my stomach clenches, but I still manage to somehow climb up and hoist myself onto the plateau with a triumphant scream.
Holy shit, I’m so proud of what I’ve achieved, I could cry. Reeling from the exertion, my head throbbing, I scramble to my feet and pull in the loops of rope. Then I look to see where I am.
Augustin is lying on his side, pressed against the raised edge, and I see the grooves in the ice where the rope has cut into it. His weight has only just anchored him, by the looks of it. Augustin’s legs are at an unnatural angle under his body. Broken, after all. Worse, he is showing no signs of life. His complexion is oily and bleak, and there’s dried, frosted blood stuck under his helmet. Despite his eyes being shut, his features are frozen in an expression of bewilderment.