NEWS
   Current / Submit
   Archive

   HELP
   Walkthrough
   Cheats
   Editing

   COMMUNITY
   Forums
   Fan Fiction
   Fan Art
   Links

   FILES
   Game Demo
   Patch
   Editing Tools
   Community maps
   Movies
   Music
   Submit

   UNDYING
   Game Info
   Features
   Requirements
   Screenshots
   Characters
   Enemies
   NPCs
   Weapons
   Spells
   Inventory
   Macintosh
   Playstation2
   FAQ

   JERICHO
   Game Info


   SITE
   Site Info
   Contact Email


Eden's Sorrow: Chapter One
The following is based on the game Clive Barker's Undying, ©. 2001 Electronic Arts Inc.

[O] Eden's Sorrow: Chapter One
October 1923

-1-

As he made his way up the cliff-side path to the manor, Patrick Galloway wondered if he had arrived too late to help his friend Jeremiah Covenant.
     The letter in his pocket had been written nearly six months earlier and in it Jeremiah had expressed a sense of urgency that left Patrick feeling unnerved. His friend had not described the reason he was asking for Patrick’s help, only provided vague allusions to a crisis that threatened not only him but also the Covenants as a family. The only clue he had offered was in a footnote in which he asked Patrick to bring with him the Gel’ziabar Stone. It is of crucial importance that the Stone accompany you on your trip here, he wrote, for I believe that it plays a far greater role in the scheme of things than I had previously imagined.
     It was unlike Jeremiah to ask for help in such a manner. Patrick remembered him as someone who preferred to get things done on his own. As a commanding officer during the Great War he had stormed numerous enemy positions without waiting for assistance from his troops. Despite reprimands from his superiors he continued his reckless assaults without any regard for the consequences. Some of the men in the outfit wondered if he had a death wish of sorts, and rumors spread throughout the ranks that the enemy were so terrified of him they had placed a bounty on his head.
     Patrick had served with Jeremiah’s unit for several months in the War and in that time had become good friends with him. Theirs was a special unit assigned to deal with the Trsanti, an army of foreign mercenaries who were renowned for showing no mercy to anyone caught in their path. It was not clear where the Trsanti came from; because of their dark complexion some thought they were native to the African continent, but no one knew for certain. They spoke in a guttural language that defied translation and preferred wielding swords to rifles in battle. It was during an attack on a large Trsanti camp that Patrick had nearly died. Their unit had been ambushed by an overwhelming number of Trsanti fighters who streamed from the surrounding woods like waves of howling banshees. Some of Patrick’s fellow soldiers had been so terrified at the sight of the onslaught that they had dropped their guns and fled, only to be cut down as they ran. Despite the odds against him Jeremiah had refused to signal a retreat, instead rushing forward to meet the enemy head-on. Patrick did his best to keep up with Jeremiah and for a while he believed he might actually escape from the battle alive. Just as it seemed the Trsanti were on the verge of defeat their leader appeared, a towering figure who rallied his troops with dark war cries that echoed through the trees. He carried a strange object in his hand, a green stone that cast a sickly glow as if lit from within. Whatever it was the object had the power to galvanize the Trsanti and soon the tide of battle turned against Jeremiah and his men. Wounded and desperate, Patrick had fought his way towards Jeremiah’s position, only to come face-to-face with the Trsanti leader himself. In the instant that it took for him to raise his pistol and fire, Patrick was hit by a searing blast of green flame that threw him to the ground and left him unconscious.
     When he awoke Patrick had found himself in a hospital with severe burns across his face and upper body. The nurse tending to him had told him that Jeremiah and his men had managed to defeat the Trsanti and had driven the enemy from the region. She also informed him that Jeremiah had left him something and gave him a small wooden box to open. Inside was the strange green stone the Trsanti leader had used to muster his troops. It hung from a leather cord stained with dried blood. As Patrick put it around his neck the stone began to glimmer with an inner light, casting a dull green glow over his body; it subsided a few moments later, leaving Patrick feeling oddly light-headed. The stone itself resembled a large piece of variegated quartz but it did not weigh very much, certainly much less than a stone of its size should have weighed. There was a note in the box written by Jeremiah that thanked him for his bravery and wished him a speedy recovery. At the end of the note Jeremiah had scrawled
The Gel’ziabar Stone is an artifact of rare power, Patrick, and I have given it to you as a token for your contributions in combat. Use it wisely and keep it safe from those who would put it to dark purposes.
     After his discharge from the military Patrick had returned to Ireland. Many of his friends, some of whom he had known since childhood, had died in the War and for a while he fell into a depression, unable to shake off the feeling that he should have fallen alongside them in battle. It was during this low period that a medium approached him with the offer of a séance. His friends were waiting to speak with him from beyond the grave, she promised, and for a small fee she would be able to put him in contact with them. Patrick accepted her offer and attended the séance with four strangers. It did not take long for Patrick to realize that he had been duped. The other attendees were obviously associates of the medium and with their help she had put on quite the performance. When it was over Patrick had simply thanked the woman and left, but not before making a silent vow that neither he nor anyone else would ever be deceived in such a manner again.
     It did not take long for Patrick to gain a reputation as a debunker of folklore and mysticism. After exposing several mediums for the charlatans they were—including the one whose séance he’d attended—Patrick began to receive requests from all across Europe to enlist his services as an investigator into the paranormal. Many of the cases he looked into were cleverly designed hoaxes while others were simply old fears manifesting themselves as superstition. There were occasions, however, when he found himself unable to come up with any rational explanation for what he’d encountered. The time he had gone to Prague in the winter of 1920, for example. He’d been asked to investigate a series of strange goings-on at a church in the western part of the city. Several witnesses had reported what they believed to be a demonic hound haunting the church grounds at night. Patrick had expected it to be nothing more than a wild dog or wolf but upon arriving at the church a curious thing happened: the Gel’ziabar Stone—which he wore now as a keepsake more than anything—had begun to glow for the first time since he’d taken possession of it. As he wandered through the interior of the church and then into the cemetery the intensity of the light emanating from the Stone increased, until it was so strong that everything around him was bathed in a greenish glow.
     It was then that he saw the creature responsible for the sightings, and it was no mere dog.
     What lurked at the far end of the cemetery among the gravestones and snow-covered trees was unlike anything Patrick had ever seen. From a distance it resembled a lion, only twice as large as any he had ever seen. Its eyes, too, were unnaturally bright, glittering like emeralds in the full moonlight. Patrick only had a few seconds to take all of this in before the creature turned its attention to him. It opened its heavy mouth and let out an unearthly roar that shook snow from the nearby trees. The creature began to move towards him, stepping over gravestones with its long stride. As Patrick backed away, his heart pounding, the creature pounced at him, covering an impossible distance with a single leap. With a cry Patrick put up his arms and fell to the ground. The attack never came, however. Patrick slowly got up and looked around only to find that the creature was gone. It had disappeared. There were large tracks in the snow that ended less than five feet from where he stood; it was as if the hound-like creature had vanished in mid-leap. Patrick knew he hadn’t imagined the whole thing—the tracks attested to that—and yet he found himself at a loss to explain what had just happened. Another thing he noticed was that the Gel’ziabar Stone no longer threw off any light; it had returned to its previous dormant state. Was it the Stone that had somehow saved him from certain death? Despite the absurdity of such a notion there seemed no other explanation.
     Patrick did not reveal to his employer the actual details of the incident at the church. He simply made up some story about killing a rabid dog on the premises, and collected his fee and left Prague soon after. The mystery of the Gel’ziabar Stone weighed heavily on his mind, and the first thing Patrick had done when he arrived in London was to begin research on the Stone. Several weeks passed, however, and he still had found no mention of the Gel’ziabar in any of the books or manuscripts at his disposal. Stranger yet, none of the occultists he had conferred with had any knowledge of the Gel’ziabar Stone, let alone its origin. It was around this time that he met an individual who would forever change his life. His name was Otto Keisinger.

-2-

Evening had fallen by the time Patrick reached the Covenant estate. The air held the smell of rain and thunder rumbled in the distance. The front gate was unlocked, and as Patrick pushed it open and walked through the stone gatehouse he could not help but wonder if he was the only living soul in the vicinity. The mansion looked abandoned. Its windows were unlit and dark swaths of vines covered the gray walls. A few rats scurried across the flagstone path in front of him and disappeared into the shadowy recesses of a wall. The only steady illumination was from a handful of lampposts that lined the path at irregular intervals.
     As Patrick made his way towards the mansion entrance lightning flickered across the ruinous sky and in the sudden glare he glimpsed movement near a hedgerow off to his left. He stopped and put his hand on his revolver. Moments later a figure stepped into sight. Patrick relaxed his hold on the gun. An older man wearing grubby clothes and carrying a pair of gardening shears was busy trimming the hedge. The man saw him and walked over.
     “You’re Jeremiah’s old war buddy, right?” he said, wiping a dirtied hand on his leg and extending it.
     “Indeed,” nodded Patrick, shaking the gardener’s hand.
     “I am sure he will be happy to see you,” said the gardener. “He’s been expecting you for quite some time now. One of the maids will be able to take you to him.”
     Patrick thanked the man and proceeded to the mansion entrance. The doors creaked loudly as he opened them and he stepped into the foyer. Only two lanterns burned on the walls, throwing most of the room into shadow. Patrick was about to call out when a door on the opposite wall opened and a maid appeared. She seemed surprised to see him.
     “Are you Patrick Galloway?” she asked, her voice like that of a young girl.
     “Yes,” he said. “Sorry it took so long to get here. The letter said it was most urgent, but I ran into some difficulties that prevented me from getting here any sooner.”
     He did not want to tell her the cause of his delay. There was no reason that she or anyone else needed to know that he was risking his life by returning to Ireland.
     “Jeremiah was beginning to think that the letter never arrived in your hands,” said the maid as she led him into the entrance hall. “He’s been quite anxious to see you.”
     Despite the lack of adequate lighting the enormity of the hall was not lost upon Patrick. A wide staircase with ornate railings swept up to a landing where an immense beveled glass window overlooked the hall. Everywhere he looked Patrick noticed signs of superior craftsmanship, from the carvings on the columns to the beams of the vaulted ceiling to the inlays on the paneled walls. As he followed the maid up the stairs he could not help but wonder at the cost of such luxury.
     “I apologize for the look of the house,” said the maid, wringing her hands, “but there’s only a skeleton crew of servants now. Jeremiah let go of everyone else and the house is much too large for us to clean.”
     “There is no need to apologize,” murmured Patrick, noticing the veneer of dust coating the mahogany handrails. “I am somewhat puzzled, however, by the fact that so few lights are on.”
     “We’ve lost electricity to most parts of the house. We can only maintain the living quarters.”
     Patrick nodded. It was obvious to him now that Jeremiah’s fortunes had taken a turn for the worse. Was this the motive for summoning him to Ireland, to help him restore his family’s wealth? Surely Jeremiah knew that he had no talent whatsoever for pecuniary matters; he was, after all, no actuary, no accountant.
     “Since returning from the war, Jeremiah’s been almost lifeless,” the maid continued as she walked along the balcony that led off from the landing. “He is bedridden now and does not let anyone in to his quarters except to bring meals and medicine. We are all worried for him. Some days we can hear him conversing with people that we know are not there. Why the other night we heard him talking to Lizbeth as if she were standing with him in the room, still alive and in the flesh.”
     Lizbeth had been the youngest of the Covenant children. Jeremiah had shown Patrick a photograph of her one night during the war. Although the photograph was badly creased and worn, it had still managed to convey the stunning beauty of the young woman smiling at the camera. The photograph had been taken in London just prior to the outbreak of war in 1914 and within a year Lizbeth was dead, victim of a wasting illness that no doctor could properly diagnose. She had only been twenty years old when she died. It had been the only time Jeremiah had talked about any of his siblings to Patrick.
     The maid stopped at a door and took out a ring of keys. “Here we are now,” she said, fitting a key into the lock. “You will find Jeremiah in his quarters at the end of the hall.” She opened the door and as Patrick walked past her she touched his arm. Concern etched her face. “I must warn you, he doesn’t look like himself.” She started to walk away and then added: “I do hope you can help him. This family has had so much tragedy.” With that she left, and Patrick, feeling a growing unease, turned and walked down the shadowy hall to meet his old friend.


This fan-fiction story © dr_coma 2003.