"Sarah had been given in marriage to seven men; yet Asmodeus, the worst of demons, had slain each one of them before they had lain with her.
…But Tobias replied: 'Azarias, my brother, I have heard that she has already been given to seven husbands, and that they all died in the bridal chamber on the night of their wedding, when they were about to unite with her. I have heard that it was a demon who killed them. I am afraid. The demon does nothing to the woman, but kills anyone who approaches her.'" (Book of Tobit)
Kensington, London. April, 1995.
Mortimer Heinforth held Brice's hand long enough for the gesture to cease being merely cordial and become, in some difficult-to-name way, insistent. There was no excessive pressure, no tremor; and yet there lingered a duration that defied the custom of his class—perhaps something more, a faint hesitation at the moment of release, as though the ending of a simple greeting implied a loss.
The Heinforths were ancient. The word, so often employed by families as ornament, seemed in their case to carry a literal weight. The house in which they resided—said to have been bestowed by a grateful queen upon a diligent architect—remained faithful to a past that extended beyond decoration. In the wallpaper and in the furniture darkened by time there existed a kind of silent continuity, as though nothing within had ever been truly replaced, only preserved. Even the air itself seemed old.
The manner in which Heinforth invited Brice to sit—indicating an armchair with a slow, precise gesture—carried with it an unexpected note of solicitude. His voice, deep and surprisingly gentle, possessed an almost affectionate quality, though no intimacy existed between them.
"Our sincere thanks. I fear you do not yet understand the importance of your presence here."
Brice sat without averting his gaze. Years of practice had taught him that certain men reveal more in the manner in which they await a reply than in what they actually say.
"There is no cause for gratitude, Mr. Heinforth. I am merely performing my duty."
A faint smile—one that did not reach the eyes—appeared on the host's face.
"I fear not, Professor." He paused briefly, as though carefully adjusting his words before offering them. "Under ordinary circumstances, we would never have sought you out. Not for lack of merit, you understand, but owing to… tradition. We possess our own means, our own professionals." He inclined his head slightly. "You are here for a reason that has little to do with your specialty."
A brief silence followed, and then he added, his gaze more fixed:
"And, as you may imagine, everything said here must remain within these walls."
"Naturally."
Brice's reply was immediate, yet as he spoke he had the fleeting impression—so faint it nearly dissolved—that the room itself was listening.
Heinforth seemed satisfied.
"Then I shall be direct." His eyes remained fixed on Brice's. "Do you believe in paranormal phenomena?"
Brice had already noticed something curious: the man rarely spoke of himself in the singular. There was always a "we," as though the voice were but one among several—or as though it carried with it a constant, invisible company.
He answered with the caution of one unwilling to close any door:
"I am an academic. I believe in whatever may be observed and, in time, understood."
"Observed… and understood." Heinforth repeated the words with mild curiosity. "Do you consider them equivalent?"
"Not always. There are things that may be proven without being understood. And, at times, we understand more than we are able to prove."
For a moment, the host's expression seemed to relax, as though that answer confirmed something he had already suspected.
Without another word, he opened a drawer and withdrew several photographs, handing them to Brice with almost ceremonial care.
The images showed a wall—or rather, what had once been a wall—covered in dense, irregular black markings. At first glance they resembled childish scribbles; yet there was within them an unsettling repetition, a persistence of certain forms that suggested intention, though that intention eluded immediate comprehension.
"What do they seem to you?" Heinforth asked.
Brice studied them for a few moments longer before replying:
"A child attempting to imitate writing. Nothing unusual."
"They were indeed made by a child."
"Naturally."
"At one and a half years of age."
Brice raised his eyes but said nothing. He returned to the images. The markings now appeared less innocent. There was something there—not quite form, yet not mere randomness.
"And what do they mean?"
"We do not know."
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable, but dense—as though both men were listening to something that had not yet been spoken.
"I may offer a hypothesis," Brice said at last. "Cases such as this, though rare, are not unprecedented. It may be an early manifestation of hereditary memory. Patterns absorbed unconsciously…"
Heinforth retrieved the photographs with a courteous gesture and returned them to the drawer.
"Yes. That was, in essence, the opinion of others."
"And it is a valid one."
"Perhaps."
The word lingered in the air longer than it ought to have.
Without further explanation, he opened another drawer and withdrew a VHS tape. He inserted it into the device and turned on the television.
The image appeared with slight distortion. A white room, devoid of ornament. A young woman seated on the floor.
Her back was turned.
Her long, dark hair concealed her face. Her movements were slow, almost methodical. With a dark fragment—charcoal, perhaps—she drew upon the wall.
Brice leaned forward slightly.
The symbols were the same.
Or at least, they seemed to be.
There was something in the manner in which the young woman traced the lines—not hesitation, but a kind of recognition, as though she were not creating, but repeating.
"And so, Professor?" Heinforth said, before stopping the tape.
Brice took a moment to respond.
"This appears to be a severe condition. Possibly hallucinatory."
"Naturally."
"What is she drawing?"
"As I have told you… we do not know."
"How long has this been occurring?"
"Five years."
"And the first manifestation?"
"When she was still an infant."
Brice remained silent. Something did not align. It was not the phenomenon itself—for that, explanations might exist—but rather the persistent impression that those images were not merely records.
And then, without quite knowing why, he asked:
"Are there precedents in the family? Anyone inclined toward ancient languages, symbolism… perhaps the occult?"
Heinforth regarded him carefully.
"There have been many notable men in our lineage. Scientists, mathematicians… even one or two with an interest in less orthodox pursuits." He paused. "But that was more than two hundred years ago."
He leaned slightly forward.
"Which, I believe, renders your hypothesis… insufficient."
And in saying so, something in his voice, for the first time, ceased to be merely courteous. There was a deeper note—neither threatening nor overt, but certain.
As though whatever transpired within that house did not belong entirely to the present.
And perhaps never had.
Brice slowly raised a hand to his chin. It was not a theatrical gesture, but a habit—one by which he sustained his thoughts while they sought a form acceptable enough to exist.