4141.223 · August 11, 1821 AD
Things That Defy Cleaning
Some stains won't lift. Thomas tried for minutes—cloth sliding across the substance as though it refused to be disturbed, as though it had bonded with the rug's very fibres. Black with metallic sheen. Smooth as polished glass. And the smell that lingers: hot metal, something chemical, sharp enough to catch at the throat. In William's study, evidence remains of a visitor whose voice was deeper than any natural voice should be. Traces of something that shouldn't exist.
Dawn creeps across Van Diemen's Land with reluctance, frost glittering on every surface like accusations waiting to be spoken. Broadmoor returns, shadows beneath his eyes from a sleepless night. Thomas waits—composed, immaculate, but trembling hands betray him.
In the butler's pantry, away from listening ears, the confession comes: Two nights before William vanished, Thomas heard voices in the study. The master's voice, recognisable. And another—deeper than any natural voice should be, with a grating quality like metal dragged across stone. No carriage arrived. No footsteps in the corridor. The visitor simply appeared.
Morning revealed the study apparently normal. But the smell lingered—hot metal, chemical sharpness, acrid. And near the fireplace: a residue. Black with metallic sheen. When Thomas tried to clean it, the cloth slid across its surface. The substance had bonded with the rug itself.
Now Broadmoor examines the study. The residue remains—eight inches in diameter, smooth as glass. A stain on paper with curious density. Patterns on the window glass forming geometric shapes no frost should make.
Thomas's metaphor haunts him: "Like a door left ajar. You think you've seen what lies beyond, but it's only a sliver. Just enough to know there's more waiting, hidden in the dark."
The door is ajar. But should it be pushed further open?
