Page 34 of The Messengers of Magic

Pen could hardly believe his eyes. The key. The desk. The name. John Dee, the same name on the spine of the book he’d pulled off the shelf weeks ago and never returned. Something had compelled him to keep it close, tucked behind the register. He hadn’t known why. What a remarkable coincidence!

With a wave of excitement, Pen peeled the key free from the yellowed tape, grabbed the book, and headed to the hidden room.

Flipping the rug aside, he pulled open the door.

As he descended into the darkened room, Pen felt the air change. It was cooler. Goosebumps prickled down his arms, lifting the hairs. He switched on the lamp, pulled out the worn chair, and sat with the key clutched tightly in his hand.

He hesitated, then slid it into the top drawer lock. He felt resistance; it had to be the right key. He gave it a gentle jiggle, then with a soft, reluctant click , the drawer yielded.

Inside were stacks of papers. Pages covered in arcane symbols and cryptic, spidery handwriting.

Mathematical equations curled between star charts and planetary maps.

Nothing he recognized. Nothing he understood.

With a slow exhale, he slid the drawer closed.

Then he reached for the right-hand drawer.

This one opened more easily, the key turning smoothly in the lock.

Inside, a neat stack of leather-bound journals nestled beside what appeared to be a handheld telescope, its brass exterior tarnished with age.

Pen picked up one of the journals and flipped through its pages.

More nonsensical writing, spiraling symbols, accompanied by meticulous drawings of celestial bodies and notations dated back to the sixteenth century.

Tucked beneath the last journal lay another large celestial map with a line written along its edge that stopped him.

The Monad’s influence courses through each celestial sphere, a silent architect shaping the destiny of worlds. In tracing these alignments, perhaps we touch the hem of creation itself.

Pen stared at the words. Something about Monad made his skin prickle. It felt familiar, yet he was sure he hadn’t heard of it before. He studied the sprawling map, planets, stars, and alignments drawn in looping ink, before carefully setting it aside.

So, Rowland had been interested in astronomy too, he mused, stacking the journals on the desktop. He checked beneath them, half-hoping for something more valuable. There was nothing else.

A pang of disappointment washed over him. After all the buildup, this felt… underwhelming. Why go to such lengths to keep old maps and journals hidden away?

He turned to the final drawer, clinging to a last flicker of hope.

Pen inserted the key into the lock.

The moment it twisted, a sharp jolt surged up his arm like a crack of electricity. He gasped and dropped the key, clutching his wrist as the metal clattered against the wood.

His breath came in shallow bursts. Was it wired? Trapped, perhaps?

But a quick inspection revealed nothing unusual. No wires, no trick mechanisms, just an old desk and brass fittings worn from use.

Swallowing his nerves, Pen reached for the key again. This time, he turned it fast, half-expecting another shock.

Instead, the lock gave way with a loud click, then the drawer sprang open.

He froze.

For a long moment, he simply stared into the darkened space. A single chime broke his trance, clear, soft, close. Cautiously, he reached inside.

A small velvet pouch lay within, rich blue and faintly luminous in the lamplight. Pen lifted it carefully, its fabric soft in his fingers. Drawing the string open, he found a gold pocket watch resting against silk, its surface gleaming faintly.

It let out another soft chime, as if to say, You found me .

This was it. The source of the sound that had haunted the bookshop since he arrived.

Pen tipped the pouch and let the watch slip out into his palm. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen. There were no numbers on its face, only constellations, planets, the moon, and the sun, and three delicate golden hands, unmoving.

He turned it over, one side, then the other, marveling at its craftsmanship. Astrological symbols were etched along its rim. Could this be an astronomer’s tool? Something for tracking celestial events? It certainly fit the theme of everything else he’d found in the desk.

Pen set the watch on top of the velvet bag and leaned back in the creaky chair.

A hollow sigh escaped him. He’d imagined so much more.

Treasures, letters, proof of Rowland’s fate.

He’d built up the mystery in his mind. But there was no stolen money, priceless jewels, or rare books that held secrets worth a fortune.

The reality had fallen short. Just stacks of scribbled papers, faded star charts, old journals, and a celestial trinket that didn’t even tick.

Still, the pocket watch gave him one small comfort.

He hadn’t imagined the chimes. It proved he wasn’t entirely mad.

He packed everything but the watch back into the drawers, locked them, then made his way back upstairs into the bookshop. The watch cradled in his hand.

Well, that was one mystery solved. Not the grand revelation he’d hoped for, but at least he now knew the source of the chimes.

He set the watch on the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. As the smoke curled above him, he tuned the radio to the nightly news and began making dinner.

“Today’s broadcast highlights the growing military and economic support being provided to South Vietnam by the United States, as the region works to establish stability under Prime Minister Diem amid rising tensions with the communist North and internal political unrest. In other news, tonight, skywatchers across the country will be treated to a spectacular lunar eclipse, as the moon enters the Earth’s shadow, casting a dramatic reddish hue over the night sky, a rare and captivating celestial event for all to enjoy. ”

Pen sat down to eat as the broadcaster’s voice faded into the background.

Later, feeling full, he picked up Lord of the Flies , the book Iain had convinced him to read. He’d resisted at first, but now hated to admit how much he was enjoying it. He sank into the sofa, turned on the side lamp, and let the hours slip by unnoticed until sleep finally claimed him.

He dreamed he was trapped in the hollow corridors of Oak Ridge High School.

The school bell rang incessantly, shrill and urgent, signaling the end of class, but no one seemed to hear it.

Students sat frozen, eyes vacant, staring at a stark, empty chalkboard.

The bell’s clang grew louder, a relentless, deafening noise.

He covered his ears, but it didn’t help.

Pen jolted awake, heart thudding, the sharp clang still ringing in his ears.

But this time, it wasn’t part of his dream.

The bells were real. The chimes were no longer melodic, they blared from the kitchen in a harsh, metallic rhythm that rattled him.

He staggered to his feet, disoriented, and stumbled toward the sound, hands clamped over his ears.

Just like in the dream. The kitchen was bathed in an eerie reddish hue.

Outside, the moon hung low and swollen, blood-red, mid-eclipse.

Shadows writhed across the floor, shifting with the faintest flicker of light, as if alive. The air crackled with electricity, like the moments before a lightning strike. He wasn’t sure if he was awake or still trapped in the nightmare.

The chimes grew louder, each note vibrating in Pen’s skull, as if he were being struck with a hammer. As he reached the table, the watch sat still and gleaming, ringing with a sound that seemed too big for its size.

His fingers fumbled over its smooth, cold surface. Desperate, he traced along the edge, finding a set of tiny inset buttons. One by one, he pressed them. Then all together.

Nothing changed. The chimes continued, louder, faster, their sound swelling with an intensity that set him clenching his jaw against the pressure in his head.

In a final surge of panic, Pen flipped open the glass top and moved the frozen golden hands around. Any direction. Every direction. Anything to make it stop.

The chimes still shrieked.

He slammed the glass top shut.

Click .

Silence.

Pen stood still. The moonlight, still tinged red, began to soften as the eclipse passed, the moon slowly slipping free from its shadow.

He let out a long breath, every part of him aching with relief, and set the watch back on the table. Without another glance, he shuffled into the bedroom and collapsed into bed, too shaken to think clearly.

In the kitchen, the watch sat untouched in the quiet.

Its hands started to move.

Not ticking.

Spinning.

And in that silence, something in the air shifted, just enough to be felt, if one were paying attention. A new stillness seeped through the room, cold and watchful, like a creeping fog.

Touching everything in its wake.