Dear Victor,
It was a pleasure to see you again in Rome. Though it is difficult for me, I will allow myself to recall certain events from more than forty years ago—memories I had long locked away—in the hope that they may be of some value to you, and perhaps help me finally close a painful chapter of my life.
It happened in the spring of the late 1960s, a few years before we met. At that time, I was studying history at Saint Paul College, and my grandfather, Christian Higgins, held a teaching post at a public school where he taught English literature and history.
One day, my grandfather received an unexpected visitor: an executive from a Swedish company whose name I will keep confidential. That company was overseeing the construction of the Rome Metro, a project that had proven both a marvel of engineering and a bureaucratic nightmare. Excavations were frequently interrupted due to budget issues, organizational chaos, and, above all, the interventions of the Soprintendenza Archeologia di Roma, which had to inspect every archaeological find along the route and either authorize its destruction or demand a costly rerouting of the tunnel.
This time, an excavator had struck yet another archaeological site—an event that, if reported, would mean months of delay and financial disaster. Thus, under the strictest secrecy, the company sought my grandfather's expertise to assess the value of the find before deciding whether to conceal it and continue construction—something they had, it seems, done before.
We flew to Rome that same night and took lodging, to avoid suspicion, in a pilgrim house run by the Sisters of Saint Mary Helena of the Mount. It was the off-season, so the only guests were my grandfather, myself, and a surly German man who kept entirely to himself. Curiously, I once caught him whispering to a nun with a particularly sinister expression in one of the hallways; when they noticed me, they immediately went their separate ways.
The following evening, under heavy rain, we were taken to the excavation site in total secrecy. We boarded a maintenance train that carried us deep into the half-dug tunnels, where engineers and workers awaited us, their faces pale and anxious.
A small breach had already been made in the tunnel wall, through which we entered a newly uncovered necropolis. But instead of Christian burials, the niches were filled with skeletons clad in helmets, shields, and armor—a discovery entirely out of place. We explored the catacombs, which seemed to stretch for kilometers, guided by torchlight and trailed by the company's personnel. Eventually, we came upon a wall sealed with papal sigils—a sight both baffling and unnerving.
Driven by curiosity, the engineers broke through. Behind it lay an arched corridor whose walls were adorned with frescoes, brilliantly preserved after centuries of isolation. The figures depicted Roman magistrates, senators, plebeians, and soldiers—but with wolves' heads upon their bodies, and grotesque creatures writhing at their feet. Several of the Italians crossed themselves, whispering prayers under their breath.
At the end of the corridor stood a black metal door, covered in strange runes that my grandfather recognized instantly—with terror. They were the same symbols he had once found carved into a mysterious stele unearthed in a German trench during the Great War. The centerpiece of the door was a sculpted wolf's head, its fangs bared as if warning anyone who dared approach.
My grandfather read the inscription aloud: it was a warning. For him, the discovery was monumental—he compared it to Howard Carter's discovery of Tutankhamun's tomb. But the company executives were far less enthusiastic. They refused to risk yet another shutdown of the project for an archaeological investigation.
My grandfather begged them to let him open the door, promising absolute secrecy. He didn't care about glory; he simply needed to know what was behind it. The company refused.
That night, we returned to the pension, where we encountered the German again. Upon overhearing our discussion—in Greek, no less—he joined us. That's when we learned his name: Hans Schubert. Only later did I discover that, during the Reich, he had been a prodigious scholar involved with the Ahnenerbe, and after the war, had faded into academia somewhere in Bavaria. What he was doing in Rome, I never discovered, though he claimed to be studying the catacombs.
He and my grandfather spoke late into the night. I, however, retired early—I had fallen ill, feverish from what I would later suspect was some infection contracted underground.
The next morning, weak but restless, I went down to the dining room. My grandfather was nowhere to be found. I assumed he'd gone to consult some archive, or perhaps even the Soprintendenza. But when dusk came and he still had not returned, I began to worry. I filed a missing person's report with the police.
That evening, panic erupted across the city: the ground had shaken violently. We first thought it an earthquake, but soon learned the truth—a terrible explosion had occurred inside the tunnels of the Metro's Line C, causing a complete collapse. Only a few workers had survived.
I remained in Rome for days, desperate for news. Then one night, the police came to me. They had found one of my grandfather's belongings near the site—his wallet. It confirmed my worst fear: that, driven by obsession, he had returned to the tunnels on his own and perished beneath the city. The authorities, of course, preferred theories of robbery or abduction, but neither was ever proven.
The construction was permanently abandoned, and that section of the metro forgotten for nearly forty years—until recently, when new technology allowed for a restart. As for the German scholar—curiously, I never saw him again. He vanished completely after the explosion.
What became of the site itself, we will never know. I imagine it lies buried forever, sealed beneath Rome's foundations. But I believe that black door still stands, guarding the secrets behind it—secrets that, perhaps, it is better we never uncover.
Always yours,Beck.
Victor Walder folded the letter carefully and placed it on the table.
He was seated in a café near the Roma Termini train station. His angular face and thick, parted hair lent him an air of youthful ease despite his age. A sharp nose dominated his features, and though dark glasses hid his eyes, his thick black brows stood out against his silvering hair.
For a moment, he watched the flow of travelers hauling suitcases across the street and taxis honking at the curb. Then he glanced at his wrist device to check the time.
He reached for his wallet to pay—placed a few euros and coins on the saucer—and as he closed it, his fingers brushed against a small photograph.
He pulled it out. A boy of eight, dark-haired, with deep blue—almost violet—eyes stared back at him unsmiling. His grandson, Travis.
Victor smiled faintly. All of this is for you, he thought.
He slipped the photo back into his wallet, stood, shouldered his backpack, and placed one earbud in his left ear—keeping the right free, alert for any unusual sounds. He pressed play on his device, and the faint melody of "One Blind Love" by Real Life filled his ear as he crossed the street toward the train station—toward the next chapter in a story that refused to stay buried.