The room was deathly silent; the flames in the fireplace seemed cowed by the horrific scene, flickering uneasily with soft crackles.
Wright fought back the urge to vomit, his voice dry and raspy, "I... I have to call the police."
He stumbled toward the old rotary phone in the corner, his fingers trembling as he dialed.
Holmes walked toward the blood-written words on the floor and the body that was still twitching slightly.
He crouched down, ignoring the nauseating stench and the horrific wounds, and carefully examined the brushstrokes of every symbol, the viscosity of the blood, and even the subtle disturbances in the dust on the floor.
"Sherlock, what did he write here?"
Watson cautiously stepped to Holmes's side, guarding against the slim chance of a feigned death and a surprise attack.
"It appears to be an abbreviation for something," Holmes said, pressing his hands together against his chin. "We need to gather more information."
He looked up, his gaze piercing as he shot it toward Wright, "Mr. Williams, do you know this person?"
Wright shook his head, his face pale, his voice filled with lingering fear, "No, I don't know him at all. I only just moved to Boston a few days ago..."
He glanced at the corpse on the floor, and his stomach churned once again.
The piercing sound of sirens approached from the distance. A few minutes later, heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs, and several Boston Police Officers in navy uniforms appeared at the door. Leading them was a stout, stern-looking middle-aged Sheriff. When he saw the carnage in the room, his thick eyebrows knitted together instantly.
"What happened here?"
The Sheriff's gaze swept over the three of them, finally landing on Wright.
"Can any of you explain this?"
Wright took a deep breath, trying to steady his breathing, and quickly explained the situation: the intruder breaking in, the bizarre suicide, and the mysterious symbols left behind.
He presented his detective license and introduced Holmes and Watson as eyewitnesses.
The Sheriff's brow furrowed even deeper after hearing this. He ordered his subordinates to seal off the scene and take photos for evidence, while the medical examiner stepped forward to perform a preliminary examination of the body.
When the medical examiner saw the horrific wounds and the black viscous fluid oozing out, even he, with all his experience, showed an expression of astonishment.
"I am Sheriff Marcus," the Sheriff said, turning to Holmes and Watson with a scrutinizing look. "You two gentlemen don't seem... like locals. Identification?"
"Sherlock, an... antique collector, and this is Watson, my accompanying physician."
Holmes pulled a random card from the many camouflage identity cards he carried, glanced at it quickly, and displayed his brass pocket watch, which had just experienced a time jump. Engraved on the inside of the watch case was a line of tiny, ornate script: "To S. H. Beacon of Reason — N. 1893".
This sufficiently old and unique item served temporarily as proof of his status as an "antique collector."
Sheriff Marcus eyed their sophisticated Victorian-style attire with suspicion, but the blood and bizarre nature of the scene clearly held more of his attention.
"Alright, Mr. Sherlock, Dr. Watson."
Marcus rubbed his temples.
"And Mr. Williams, I'm afraid all three of you will have to come back to the police station with me to give detailed statements. This place... is a complete mess."
...
The interrogation room at the Boston police station was narrow and cold, filled with the stifling scent of disinfectant, cheap coffee, and rust. The fluorescent lights hummed, casting a glaring reflection on the polished metal tabletop.
Holmes, Watson, and Wright sat side-by-side, facing Sheriff Marcus and a young Police Officer responsible for taking notes. The process of taking statements was long and detailed.
With his characteristically uncomfortable level of precision, Holmes recounted every action and word of the intruder, including details that defied common sense: the silent suffocation, the black blood, and the bizarre act of self-disembowelment.
Watson added the physiological abnormalities he observed from a medical perspective, emphasizing the intruder's behavior that defied instinctive human reactions.
Wright mainly stated his status as a newcomer and the fact that he had no connection to the deceased.
Sheriff Marcus listened, his expression growing increasingly grave, his pen tapping unconsciously on his notebook.
"Black viscous fluid? Tearing the throat from the inside out? Disemboweling himself and still able to write?"
He put down his pen and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Gentlemen, this sounds... more like the plot of a cheap horror movie than a fact that occurred in Mr. Williams's new living room."
"Reality is often stranger than fiction, Sheriff."
Holmes replied calmly, his gray eyes staring directly at him, "Especially when it refuses to be contained within our inherent cognitive frameworks."
"Inherent cognitive frameworks?" Marcus scoffed. "My cognitive framework tells me this might be a mass hallucination or violent behavior caused by some extremely potent new hallucinogen, or..."
He paused, lowering his voice. "...or perhaps some terrifying disease we don't yet understand. For instance, in the last few weeks, the city hospital has reported several cases of severe anemia and rapid aging with unknown causes, the symptoms of which... are somewhat bizarre."
Watson immediately caught the key information, "Rapid aging? Sheriff, can you tell us more about those cases?"
Marcus waved his hand, "That's a matter for the CDC to worry about. For now, let's focus on this one."
He pointed to the preliminary scene report and evidence photos on the table.
"We have a lead on the victim's identity. Based on fingerprint matching and clothing characteristics, it is preliminarily confirmed to be Joseph Hawkins, 22 years old, a registered student at the Clavius Seminary. The Theological Seminary reported him missing just yesterday."
"22 years old?" Watson recalled the face covered in deep wrinkles. "His physiological age looks to be at least over forty!"
"The physical evidence also shows anomalies."
Holmes interjected, his fingertips tapping on the analysis summary of the victim's clothing in the report.
"Old bloodstains from at least four different individuals were detected on the robe, source unknown. There are high concentrations of sulfur and mercury residue on the pants."
"The composition of the mud on the soles of his shoes and other parts is complex, and it matches high-level soil samples from the city sewers and the Bury Mountain area on the outskirts of the city. This indicates that he was active in the sewers and that mountain area for quite a long time."
"The Clavius Seminary is in the Bury Mountain area," Wright added in a low voice, his face turning even paler. "There is only that one large building in that mountain area."
"That's right," Sheriff Marcus nodded.
"So, a mentally disabled young man who should have been at the Theological Seminary suddenly aged decades, covered in blood, running around in the sewers and mountains, and finally ran to your house to commit suicide in the most painful way possible, all while leaving a string of codes?"
He leaned forward, his gaze sweeping over the three of them.
"Mr. Williams, are you sure you don't have any grievances with the Clavius Seminary, or this Joseph Hawkins? Even if it was an inadvertent contact?"
"No, Sheriff, I swear."
Wright's tone was firm, but his eyes held a hint of anxiety he hadn't even noticed himself.
"I've been off the plane for less than 72 hours, and my detective agency hasn't even officially opened yet."
A brief silence enveloped the interrogation room, and the humming of the fluorescent lights seemed particularly piercing.
Holmes broke the silence, "Sheriff, the logic points very clearly to the center of the anomaly, which is the Clavius Seminary. Joseph Hawkins was a fugitive, and he used his life to pass on a warning."
"To understand what happened, we must go there to find answers. Dr. Watson and I are willing to assist Mr. Williams in the investigation."
He skillfully made the request while pushing Wright to the forefront.
Sheriff Marcus stared at Holmes for a long time, then suddenly sighed, with a hint of exhaustion and an imperceptible sense of relief.
"Assist? Mr. Sherlock, you are very sharp, and you have a way with words. Honestly, this kind of case..."
He pointed to the pile of reports full of supernatural implications. "...is beyond the scope of what we handle daily. The department's resources are tight, and the higher-ups only care about the clearance rate."
He leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers on the table.
"Mr. Williams, your qualification review is still in progress, but... given the special circumstances, and the 'enthusiasm' of these two gentlemen..."
He deliberately drew out his tone, "I can register you as the police's'Special Temporary Consultants' to assist in the investigation of this bizarre death."
"Your authority is limited to this case, and all your findings must be reported to me immediately. Keep your mouths shut; don't create panic among the media and the public. Can you do that?"
Wright was stunned for a moment, then realized that the Sheriff was passing the buck while also giving them the green light. He nodded immediately, "Of course, Sheriff! I understand the rules!"
Holmes nodded slightly, "Information sharing is the basis of cooperation, Sheriff."
"Very well," Marcus stood up. "You may leave. You can access all information related to this case."
"Remember, keep a low profile. That place, the Clavius Seminary... its reputation is a bit complicated."
He gave Wright a meaningful look.
Leaving the interrogation room, the three did not leave the police station immediately. Holmes's goal was clear: the evidence room and the archives.
In the evidence room, using their status as temporary consultants, they saw Joseph's belongings: the blood-stained long stainless steel carving knife, and a few pages torn from a phone book.
There were no words on the paper, only twisted, grotesque doodles drawn in dark green ink, looking like blurry, tentacled jellyfish, exuding an unsettling aura.
Holmes keenly noticed that among the dense phone numbers, only the name "Wright Williams" was tightly circled by a messy ring drawn in the same dark green ink.
"He... was really coming for me." Wright looked at his own name, his voice somewhat dry.
"It's not just the name," Holmes said, picking up the paper with tweezers and holding it to the light. "These doodles... seem chaotic, but the ink's penetration trajectory and the pressure of the brushstrokes look more like... an unconscious record, or a distorted expression from a compromised mind."
Meanwhile, Watson used his medical background to manage to follow the medical examiner into the chilling morgue.
On the cold metal table, Joseph's body was covered with a white sheet, and the air was filled with the scent of formalin and a faint, lingering, sweet, rotten stench.
When the white sheet was pulled back, Watson gasped. Under close observation, the anomalies of the body were even more shocking.
The skin was loose and gray, covered in deep, ravine-like wrinkles, and the muscles were atrophied. Most bizarrely, there were no obvious signs of livor mortis on the surface of the body, which meant that the blood had not settled due to gravity after death.
The medical examiner cut open the chest cavity, and a strong, foul stench instantly filled the air.
The internal organs were in a morbid, shriveled state, and the spaces between the organs were filled with a large amount of viscous, black, gelatinous substance that emitted a sweet, fishy smell.
"God... there is almost no blood in his body!"
The experienced medical examiner also felt shocked.
"This... this does not fit any known pathology or mechanism of death! It's like... like he was sucked dry from the inside by something!"
He picked up the scalpel and carefully touched the black gelatinous substance; the sticky, stringy texture reminded one of rotten syrup.
Watson fought back his discomfort and carefully examined the body's arms and torso, "Multiple severe blunt force bruises, mainly concentrated in defensive positions."
"There are old, poorly healed fractures on the third and fourth ribs on the left side, caused by a heavy, round, blunt object."
"The fatal wound is undoubtedly that horrific laceration; the lung lobes were punctured, the stomach was pierced, and the liver was severely damaged..."
As a military doctor who had experienced the battlefield, Watson could imagine the pain caused by such injuries, which far exceeded the limits of human endurance.
"He completed the writing while enduring unimaginable agony."
Just as the medical examiner and Watson were focused on recording these horrific findings, no one noticed that on the metal table, the fingers of Joseph's undissected arm twitched slightly, spasmodically.
The white sheet covering the body, near the laceration on the neck, seemed to be pushed up by some extremely weak force, creating an almost invisible, tiny bulge.