Terra Obscura: A Knock in the Dark

By Geoff Genge and Michelle Genge

TERRA OBSCURA CHRONICLES, CASEBOOK ONE: A KNOCK IN THE DARK

People are dying in the dark and New York’s highest office wants the truth buried. Only Charles Fort, an ambitious but ridiculed paranormal investigator, is willing to get to the bottom of it. In Casebook One, Fort explores subterranean New York looking for

• Language: English
• Publisher: Five Crow Road
• Release date: Jul 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781999395711

Book preview

PROLOGUE: 1936

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

EPILOGUE: 1936

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ABOUT THE AUTHORS

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the authors.

Cover and Illustrations Copyright © 2019 Five Crow Road Publishing Company. Cover design and illustrations by Greg Webster Designs.

Copyright © Five Crow Road Publishing Company

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ISBN:978-1-9993957-0-4

PROLOGUE: 1936

The journalist briskly walked down the street on a dark and damp October afternoon. He didn’t know exactly where he was going but he figured his destination would be on this block. He had never been in this neighborhood before. This was old, old New York — a part forgotten but not historic. He pulled his hat down as he turned the block but the wet wind still pelted him on his chin and neck. Glancing at the numbers on the shops and homes, he figured it must be only a little further.

Bracing the brim of his fedora, he looked up and was surprised to discover he had gone past the street number written in his notebook. He thought he had memorized the number, but started to question himself. He had the address scribbled on a worn piece of paper tucked into his notebook which he did not want to take out in this weather. He stopped and started to wander back confused. He then realized what he thought was simply an alley had a very small shop set towards the back. Relieved to be out of the wind, he walked towards the tiny emporium. Odd at first glance, the store looked as narrow as a driveway but not very tall. It gave the appearance of the city growing up around it. Dark trim surrounding the building accentuated the ornate wrought iron bars adorning all the windows. The place was in dire need of a fresh paint job. The sign on the door read ‘By Appointment Only. No Solicitors of Any Kind!’ Dusty displays of old clocks sat idly inside the darkened windows. Nothing indicated whether anyone was inside. With his hand against the bars he tried to peer in. He doggedly tried to look past all the reflections and thought he could see a little light in the back.

This better be worth it, he thought to himself while he knocked. He knocked again. He tried the door handle. Not a budge.

We’re closed! A distant, muffled shout came from inside.

The journalist sighed with relief when he heard a voice. His damp trek was not in vain. I’m not here about clocks, sir. I’m a reporter. I sent you a letter several weeks ago. About Charles Fort. I was wondering if we could talk.

There was a long pause.

Go away!

Please sir, did you know Charles Fort? If you did, I’d like to speak to you.

Who do you work for?

Well, you see, I work for the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, but this is something I’m working on myself. For another project. Can I come in? It’s very cold and wet out here, sir.

After a couple of painful moments in the freezing drizzle, he heard a series of automated noises coming from inside the shop, followed by distinct clunks of heavy door bolts releasing. The journalist pressed the door handle again and it opened. A delicate golden bell on a coil tingled overhead as the door brushed by. As he entered, he ducked to get through the miniature doorway and once inside, he momentarily felt like a giant. The countertops all seemed low and the whole space felt very diminutive.

The journalist stood still while his eyes adjusted, then scanned around looking for the source of the voice. Over at a workbench, far behind the counter, he distinguished the back of a head.

The journalist moved gingerly through the dainty shop. There were dusty cases with pocket watches and shelves of various timepieces. As he came around the main counter towards the back of the workshop, a wrinkled hand reached out to turn a large iron key in an ornate lock above the workbench and the door bolts snapped sharply back into place.

The old man grabbed the wheels on his chair and turned himself around. Let me look at you. Hold still. The frail little man had the tiniest custom wheelchair. The reporter stepped closer. He respectfully tried to keep eye contact, but the beauty of the chair with its ornate designs, smooth lines, and no handles with which to push it, distracted him. It resembled a work of art, and it drew his attention like a magnet. The old watchmaker straightened up in his seat. He pulled a large lens attached to a multi-hinged arm and adjusted it back and forth in front on his face. To the journalist, it looked as if a massive eyeball on a little body stared back at him.

Oh good, you’re fat. Have a seat. the old man croaked, pushing the magnifying lens away.

The journalist was shocked. He could lose a few pounds here and there but fat … he self-consciously felt at his jawline. Dismissing it, he took off his coat and laid it over his lap as he sat on a block by the little potbelly stove. Thank you for letting me in, sir, he said as he assessed the ancient looking man. He noted a pistol holstered on the side of the wheelchair with its strap undone.

Why do you want to know about Charles Fort? What’s this all about? the old man asked.

I am a reporter but this isn’t for the paper, sir. I’m also a writer. And I write about weird things and the strange stuff people see. You know — like ghosts, lights in the sky, legends, and lore? That kind of fare. I publish a little of it in some magazines sometimes. But something I’ve been working on for a couple of years now ... the reason why I’m here is ... I’m putting together these casebook studies of different supernatural phenomena. People are really into this kind of stuff nowadays.

I see.

So, I do a lot of research on strange topics, and as I do, I keep coming across the name Charles Fort. I know he published a few rather dreary books on the supernatural, but in my deeper research it seems like he’s present or involved with a lot of unusual things at one time or another.

In a low voice, the old man muttered, So they haven’t expunged his name completely ... good ... that’s good.

Who are the ‘they’ you are referring to, sir?

The old man cocked his wild eyebrow, still sizing up the damp enquirer. What do you want to know about Charles Fort?

Did he work for you? Did you know him?

Yes. He worked here as clerk and assistant while he studied at university. He proved to be a fine lad with a sharp mind and an aptitude for clock making and design. But his astrological signs pulled him in a different direction. We kept in correspondence for a long time. I do miss that. Reading about his adventures..." The old watchmaker trailed off, looking sad.

Well I guess that’s what I’m curious about, sir. Often when I’m researching old foreign newspapers articles and reports from other countries his name keeps coming up.

Ah, see … they can’t erase him everywhere. That is good to hear. He was such a fine man. The old fellow perked up.

So this is the same man? In Egypt? In India? In Peru?

Yes, yes. He’d been everywhere. And then some.

What was he doing in all those very different places when strange things were going on?

Investigating. Looking for the truth. Just like you’re doing now. The old man leaned in. Charles was hunting the damned — the things that scientists, academics, and ‘civilized people’ don’t like to talk about, write about, or acknowledge. The good data that gets pushed into legends and lore, as you say. Charles was hunting that. And it cost him dearly. The old watchmaker rubbed his hands, thinking, remembering.

Scribbling in a notepad, the journalist looked up. How did it all start for Fort? The first time I encountered his name was on the back of an old photo from Cairo dated 1907.

That makes sense, Cairo, 1907. But you see, even that story starts back in 1906. With the mole men and that accursed friend of his coming back to the city, back into his life.

I’m sorry, sir? Mole men?

The old watchmaker eyes lightened a little. Hang up your coat on the hook behind the stove and pass the kettle over. We’re going to need a cup of tea.

CHAPTER 1

New York City was the future - now. It was 1906 and the beginning of a new age. The 1800s felt like they had taken the past with them and the world had blossomed since the turn of the century. It was a shiny new era filled with fantastic dreams and endless possibilities. Some would even boast it carried the potential for new realities. New York City didn’t carry the burden of cities like London, Paris, or St. Petersburg that groaned and buckled under the weight of their ancient and established pasts. In this sparkling metropolis money and innovation ruled, and everyone with an education held a patent for some new marvel.

Like the towers of Babel, the new sky-piercing constructions were penetrating the heavens higher and higher each year. More and more electric lights were replacing the gas lamps of yesteryear. Immigrants from all over the globe were pouring into the city every single day, and with each of them came their languages, customs, superstitions, and hopes for a better future — all tightly packed into their beat-up steamer trunks. For many of its citizens, New York was the city of dreams.

One particular dream — a new subway system providing quick and easy access from tip to tip of the city — was becoming a reality. Something that only a few years ago would have seemed like a mechanism from a Jules Verne novel was coming to the city in mere months. Or even quicker, if the mayor had anything to do with it. And the subway was going to be something people of all income levels could travel on. But just like the Great Pyramids of Egypt, this marvel would be built on the backs of the less opportune. New York City provided yet another arena of abandonment to those who were confined to do the work that others could afford to deny.

Finn, a recent immigrant to the shining city, walked a long way every morning through the poorly lit subway tunnels that were in various stages of construction to get to his worksite. Finn came from Ireland, and he terribly missed the dark green grass and moist air from his previous home. Unfortunately, the only thing Ireland had less of than food was decent wages for young men. People called him a man, but at age seventeen he didn't feel much like one. With his mother’s urging he had come to America, the land of opportunity and fresh starts, for a new life.

His cousin, Kieran, helped him get a job shoveling rock in the tunnels under the city. Finn's father had been a