Speaker 1: Calorogu Shark Media.
Speaker 2: Hello and welcome to Echoes of the Void, Episode one, Resonance,
Part one.
Speaker 1: The key hangs around my neck day and night. Now
I never take it off, not even to shower. The
metal should be cold against my skin, but it never is.
It pulses with a subtle warmth, like a heartbeat, like
a promise, like Alexander is somehow holding the other end,
tethering us together across the void that separates us. It's
been three months since that dawn when he sacrificed himself
to bind the end properly. Three months since I watched
him vanish in a flash of light, taking the ancient
darkness with him into that space between worlds. Three months
of dreams that fade to nothing upon waking, three months
of reaching for a presence that isn't there. Three months
of learning to breathe around the hollow space he left behind.
I haven't left Blackwood Estate. I can't. Something holds me here,
not the entity, No, that darkness is gone, bound away
by Alexander's sacrifice. What holds me is the certainty that
this is where the barrier between worlds is thinnest. This
is where I might find a way back to him.
Margaret Holloway has become my guide, my teacher, my lifeline
to sanity. Every morning she arrives with armfuls of books,
with family journals dating back generations, with obscure texts hunted
down from private collections and shadowy corners of the academic world.
Every evening she leaves me with new exercises, new theories
to test, new paths, to explore. Your connection to Alexander
is the key, she told me during our first proper session.
Not that piece of metal around your neck, though that's
important too, But the resonance between your consciousness and his.
That's what drew you to each other across time. That's
what will allow you to reach him.
Speaker 3: Now.
Speaker 1: We were sitting in the library of Blackwood Estate late October,
sunlight slanting through the tall windows. Margaret had brought an
old brass device that looked something like a metronome, something
like an astrolabe. She set it on the table between us,
adjusting delicate dials along its curved surface. This belonged to
my grandmother, she explained. She called it a resonator. It
helps to tune the mind to frequencies beyond ordinary perception.
Like tuning a radio to catch a distant station. I
eyed the device skeptically, and this will help me find Alexander,
not directly, but it might help you sense the boundaries
between our world and the void, help you recognize the
frequencies that resonate with your own consciousness. She showed me
how to use it, how to focus on the gentle
oscillation of its central pendulum, how to synchronize my breathing
with its rhythm, how to let my mind drift into
the spaces between thoughts. The first session yielded nothing but
a headache and frustration. The second and third weren't much better,
but Margaret was patient, adjusting the resonator's settings each time,
teaching me to refine my focus. You're trying too hard,
she said, after a particularly discouraging attempt. You're reaching with
your intellect, not your instinct. The connection between you and
Alexander exists on a level deeper than thought. You need
to reach from that place, how I asked, exhaustion making
me sharp. How do I reach from someplace I can't
even identify. Margaret's weathered hands covered mine. Think of how
it felt when you were with him, not the physical sensations,
though those are part of it, But the recognition, the
sense that something in you knew something in him beyond
reason or explanation. I closed my eyes, remembering the first
dream of Alexander, the immediate, inexplicable pull I'd felt toward him,
the way his touch had awakened something in me that
had always been dormant, The sense that I'd been incomplete
without realizing it, until he filled a space I hadn't
known was empty. That's it, Margaret said, softly, watching my face.
That recognition, that resonance. It's not limited by physical reality.
It exists in the spaces between all things. Find that
feeling and follow it. That night, alone in the master bedroom,
Alexander's bedroom, I tried again. The resonator sat on the nightstand,
its pendulum swinging in hypnotic arcs. The key warmed against
my skin as I breathed in rhythm with the device,
letting my mind drift toward that sensation of recognition. I
don't know how long I sat there, balanced on the
edge between waking and sleeping. Time seemed to stretch, to
fold back on itself. The bedroom grew distant, the solid
walls becoming transparent, then translucent, then nothing but a suggestion
of bad, and then a whisper, so faint I might
have imagined it, might have crafted it from desperation and hope.
Elise my name in his voice, just once, and then gone,
leaving me gasping, tears streaming down my face. Alexander, I
called into the empty room, my voice breaking, Alexander, I
heard you, but the moment had passed. The walls were
solid again, the void once more impenetrable. I called Margaret immediately,
not caring that it was after midnight. I heard him,
I said, without preamble when she answered, just for a second.
But it was him, It was his voice. Her breath
caught audibly. You found the frequency, she said, excitement, breaking
through her usual reserve, sooner than I expected. You're remarkably
attuned to the liminal spaces. Elease, what do I do now?
How do I reach him again? We refine the connection,
strengthen it, and we prepare you for what comes next.
What came next was weeks of increasingly focused sessions with
the resonator. Margaret brought more tools, crystals that hummed at
frequencies too low to hear, but that I could feel
in my bones, incense that seemed to thin the air
around us, a liquid that tasted of starlight and ocean
depths that she administered in drops under my tongue, My
grandmother's recipe, she said, when I asked about the latter.
It helps expand perception beyond ordinary boundaries. Gradually, the whispers
from the void grew more frequent, more substantial. Alexander's voice
calling my name, brief phrases that faded before I could
fully grasp them, once the phantom sensation of fingers brushing
my cheek gone before I could lean into the touch.
I lived for these moments, these fragments of connection. They
sustained me through long days of research, of pouring over
texts in languages I couldn't read, of learning esoteric theories
about consciousness and reality that would have seemed absurd to
me just months ago. Margaret taught me to record everything
in a journal, every contact, every sensation, every dream that
might contain messages from beyond the void. Patterns began to emerge.
The contacts were strongest at dawn and dusk, those liminal
times when day and night balanced on a knife's edge.
They were more substantial in certain parts of the house
Alexander's bedroom, of course, but also the hidden room where
I'd first found his portrait, and strangely, the small cemetery
where his body rested. Places hold memories, Margaret explained, imprints
of significant events, of strong emotions. The resonance between you
and Alexander is strongest where he experienced profound feelings in life.
One evening in early December, as winter settled over Blackwood Estate,
I was in the hidden room, the resonator pulsing beside me,
the key warm against my skin. Snow fell softly outside,
muffling the world, creating a silence so deep it seemed
to have texture. I breathed in rhythm with the resonator,
letting my consciousness expand into that now familiar state of
heightened awareness. The boundaries of the room softened, reality thinning
around me like worn fabric. Elise came his voice, clearer
than ever before. Can you hear me? Yes? I whispered,
afraid that speaking too loudly might break the tenuous connection. Alexander,
I'm here. Where are you? How can I reach you?
The void, strange place, no time as you know it,
I feel you, searching, feel you always His voice faded
in and out, like a radio signal affected by atmospheric conditions.
I concentrated harder, pouring my desire to connect with him
into the resonating space between us. The entity, I asked,
is it still bound? Are you safe bound?
Speaker 2: Yes?
Speaker 1: But it feeds grows stronger. I weaken, fear clutched at
my heart. Tell me how to reach you, how to
bring you back the key? You have it, but not
not enough alone. Need three three points of connection triangulation.
What three points, Alexander? Tell me what to look for?
Something of my life, something of my death, something of us?
The connection wavered, his voice growing fainter. I have the
key from your grave, I said, quickly. Is that what
you mean by something of your death? Number? Key is different?
Key is the door? Need the anchor? Object marked by
my blood? The knife, the ceremonial knife that had been
used to kill him, that the intruder had tried to
use on me. The sheriff had taken it as evidence.
But perhaps I could retrieve it somehow. What of your life?
I pressed? What object? My research? Original text from France? Hidden?
Where where is it hidden? I could feel him fading
the connection between us, thinning, not house, safer place, bank vault, Portland,
under named Sullivan, Sullivan, his research partner, the man who
had killed him, under the entity's influence. Alexander had hidden
the text under his name, knowing no one would think
to look there. And the third thing something of us.
But the connection was failing, reality reasserting itself around me.
His final words came as barely a whisper, Create it
together when you stronger, And then he was gone, the
rooms solid again, the winter silence rushing in to fill
the void his voice had occupied. I sat motionless, processing
what I'd learned. Three points of connection needed to triangulate
his position in the void, to create a stable bridge
between our worlds. One object from his life, the original
text he'd found in France, one from his death, the
knife that had killed him, and one we had yet
to create together. I called Margaret, immediately, relaying everything Alexander
had told me. This is significant progress, she said, excitement
evident even through the phone. A triangulation approach makes theoretical sense.
The three objects would act as anchors, stabilizing the connection
between worlds. How do we create the third object together
when we can barely communicate I'm not sure yet, but
the the fact that you're getting such clear information from
him is remarkable. Elise, your natural resonance with the void
is extraordinary. Not with the void, I corrected her with Alexander.
She was silent for a moment. Yes, that distinction may
be important. The next day, Margaret arrived with fresh research
materials and a plan to retrieve both the knife and
the hidden text. The knife proved relatively simple. Margaret's grandson,
the estate attorney, had connections with the local sheriff, the
case of the break in had gone cold, and he
managed to have the knife released back to me as
the property owner. The text was more complicated. We needed
to access a bank vault under the name of a
man a century dead. Margaret suggested we start by researching
James Sullivan to see if any records existed of accounts
in his name that might have remained untouched. Have procedures
for unclaimed accounts, she explained, but after this long it
would likely have been turned over to the state as
unclaimed property. I spent days combing through historical records, property claims,
newspaper archives. I found mentions of Sullivan in articles about
Alexander's philanthropic work, a few academic papers co authored by
both men, but nothing about bank accounts or vaults. Then,
in a moment of inspiration, I checked under variations of
the name not James Sullivan but j S Trust, and
there it was a small notice in a Portland newspaper
from nineteen twenty two seeking the trustees of the JS
Trust in relation to a long term vault rental at
First Maritime Bank. The bank still existed, though under a
different name after multiple mergers. Margaret's grandson helped again, using
legal channels to inquire about the old trust account. To
our amazement, the vault was still there, the modest annual
fees having been paid automatically from a linked account that
had been accruing interest for a century. Alexander planned for
the long term, Margaret said, when we received confirmation that
the vault could be accessed with proper legal documentation, he
must have set this up before attempting the binding ritual
in case something went wrong. A week later I found
myself in Portland in a bank built on the site
of the original First Maritime Bank. The vault area had
been modernized, but the oldest section containing long term storage
units remained largely unchanged since the early twentieth century. A
solemn bank officer led me to a small private room
where a metal box waited on a table. My hands
trembled as I used the key Alexander had shown me
in his spectral communication, different from the key I wore
around my neck, a conventional, if antique, safety deposit key.
Inside the box was a book wrapped in oilcloth and
sealed with wax, looking exactly as it must have when
Alexander placed it there a century ago. Beside it was
an envelope addressed simply to whom it may concern. I
opened the envelope first. Inside was a letter written in
Alexander's elegant hand. If you are reading this, then the
binding ritual I intend to perform has gone awry, and
I am no longer able to retrieve this text myself.
I implore you, whoever you may be, to guard this
knowledge carefully. The text contains truths about the nature of
reality that, in the wrong hands, could unleash forces beyond
human comprehension or control. Should you be here because you
seek to complete what I could not, the proper binding
of the entity from the void, then know this The
ritual requires three points of connection between worlds. The text
itself serves as one point. The second must be an
object that bridges life and death, blood freely given but
not taken. The third must be created through the resonance
of compatible consciousnesses attune to the same frequency. Proceed with caution.
What lies between worlds desires nothing more than access to ours.
It will use any means to achieve this end, including
the manipulation of your deepest desires and fears. With grave concern.
Alexander Blackwood November tenth, nineteen twenty I ran my fingers
over his signature, feeling a connection to him in the
loops and whirls of ink he had created five days
before his death. He had prepared this safeguard, this guidance,
for whoever might find follow in his footsteps. I carefully
rewrapped the text, unwilling to examine it in the sterile
bank environment. This was something Margaret and I would need
to study together under controlled conditions. That night, back at
Blackwood Estate, I sat in Alexander's bedroom with both the
ancient text and the ceremonial knife laid out before me.
Two of the three points of connection, the key warmed
against my skin as I activated the resonator, seeking that
space of heightened awareness where Alexander could reach me. The
connection came more quickly, now, reality parting around me like
mist before a gentle breeze. You found it. Alexander's voice
stronger than ever before. I feel it. The text resonates
even across the void. Yes, I whispered, and the knife
I have two of the three anchors. Be careful with
the knife still contains energy from that night, my death,
his possession, Sullivan's Yes entity used him, but something of
his consciousness remained, his guilt, his horror at what he'd done.
I looked at the blade with new wariness. Is it
dangerous to use? Not dangerous, but painful carries memories will
show you that night my death. I swallowed hard. Maybe
that's necessary to understand what we're fighting. Perhaps voice grew stronger,
and suddenly the air before me shimmered. A silhouette appeared,
gradually gaining definition until I could see him, not solid,
not physically present, but more substantial than a mere ghost.
Alexander as handsome as I remembered, though his form wavered
like a reflection in disturbed water. My breath caught. I
can see you. His smile was bittersweet, and I you always,
even when you can't see me. I reached out instinctively,
but my hand passed through his chest, meeting only a cold,
tingling sensation. He mirrored my gesture, his transparent fingers passing
through my cheek. Not yet, he said, softly, but soon,
perhaps if we can create the third anchor, how do
we do that? How do we create something together when
we can't even touch? Through resonance, When two frequencies align perfectly,
they create something new, a harmonic I don't understand. His
form shifted closer, his eyes, those impossible eyes that had
captivated me from our first meeting, intense with concentration. Your
consciousness and mine already attuned. But we need to channel
that resonance into physical form, like what what kind of object?
Not object exactly, more crystallized intension when we both focus,
same moment, same desire, across the barrier. I thought about this,
a mutual creation from both sides of the void. Yes, like,
he paused, searching for the right words. Like when a
musician plays a note, glass vibrates in response at perfect frequency.
Glass both receives and creates until transformation occurs, the glass
would shatter, I thought, But I understood the principle. When
do we try? How Solstice winter's longest night, barrier thinnest?
Then the winter solstice was just to weak away? What
do we need to do to prepare? Alexander's form flickered
the connection weakening. Entity knows what we attempt, grows restless,
feeds on my energy to strengthen itself. Fear clutched at
my heart? Is it hurting you? Trying to absorb what
remains of me but can't not completely? Our connection protects me.
I leaned forward, desperately, wishing I could touch him, hold him,
tell me what to do, how to protect you? Study
the text with Margaret, learn the ritual of harmonization, But
be careful. Entity may try to reach you through our connection.
I don't care about the risk. I'm going to bring
you back Alexander. His smile was both tender and sad,
My brave release, always rushing toward danger, toward you, I corrected,
always toward you. His form was fading. Now, the connection
between us thinning, Winter Solstice midnight. Have all three anchors ready,
even if third is just beginning I'll be ready, I promised,
we'll create the third anchor together, Love you across void,
across time. And then he was gone, the bedroom solid
around me once more, the resonator's pendulum slowing to stillness.
I sat motionless for several minutes, still feeling the echo
of his presence. Then I carefully picked up the ancient text,
breaking the wax seal that had protected it for a century.
The manuscript was as Alexander had described in his journal,
written in medieval Latin, with sections in older languages, filled
with diagrams and marginal notes. Some of the notes were
in Alexander's hand, others in what must have been Sullivan's.
One diagram caught my attention immediately, a triangular arrangement of
symbols with a central space where the energies appeared to
converge triangulation, just as Alexander had described three points, creating
a stable connection between worlds. I was still studying it
when Margaret arrived the next morning, earlier than usual, sensing
perhaps that something significant had happened. You've made contact again,
she said, as soon as she saw my face. I nodded,
showing her the text and relaying my conversation with Alexander.
She listened intently, her expression growing more concerned as I
described the entity feeding on Alexander's energy the winter solstice,
she mused when I finished, It makes sense. The longest
night of the year has been associated with liminal magic
in various traditions. The barrier between worlds is naturally thinner
than Can we translate enough of the text by then
learn this harmonization ritual? Margaret examined the manuscript carefully, parts
of it. Certainly, I have colleagues who can help with
the older languages. But Elise, she looked up at me,
her eyes grave, we must consider the risks if the
entity is growing stronger, if it's aware of what you're attempting,
it will try to use your connection with Alexander against you.
I don't care, I said the same words i'd spoken
to Alexander. Whatever the risk, it's worth it. She studied
me for a long moment. You truly love him, don't you,
This man out of time who exists now only in
the void between worlds. Yes, there was no hesitation, no doubt.
I loved him from the moment I dreamed of him,
before I knew who he was. What he was that
hasn't changed. Margaret nodded slowly. Then we proceed, but with caution,
with preparation. The entity is ancient and cunning. It has
manipulated humans for millennia. We must be vigilant. We spent
the next days in intense study. Margaret brought in trusted colleagues,
a linguist specializing in dead languages, a theoretical physicist whose
work touched on multi dimensional spaces, an anthropologist who studied
ritual magic across cultures. Each contributed pieces to our understanding,
while Margaret carefully controlled how much they knew about our
true purpose. The text revealed more about the entity than
Alexander had ever discovered in his time. It was indeed ancient,
older than human civilization, perhaps older than Earth itself. It
existed in the void between dimensions, feeding on energy generated
by consciousness, particularly the intense energies of fear, desire, and death.
But there was something new, something Alexander hadn't mentioned in
his journal. The entity wasn't singular, wasn't an individual consciousness
as we understood it. It was a fragment of something larger,
something that had been fractured and scattered across multiple dimensions
eons ago. It seeks reunification, the linguist explained, translating a
particularly dense passage. The text suggests that if all fragments
were to reunite, the resulting entity would have the power
to collapse the boundaries between dimensions, entirely, breaking the barriers
between all worlds. Margaret said, softly, imagine the chaos, the destruction.
Is that what it wants? I asked to destroy everything,
the physicist shook his head. Not destruction exactly, more like assimilation,
a return to some primordial state where all dimensions existed
as one. At least that's how I interpret these diagrams.
This new information made our tasks seem both more urgent
and more dangerous. The fragment bound with Alexander wasn't just
seeking access to our world for food or influence. It
was pursuing a cosmic reunification that would fundamentally alter reality itself.
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