A bitter wind scraped along the cobblestones of East Windermere Lane as Aldous Finch hunched his shoulders beneath his coat. The night had sunk into that eerie stillness London sometimes adopted—when even the gaslamps seemed to dim in anticipation. Beside him, Dr. Everett Thorne strode with his usual brisk certainty, the silver head of his walking stick glinting whenever they passed a lamp.
“Finch,” Thorne said, voice clipped, “we’re late.”
“You say that as if the mysterious Mr. Attwater checks a pocket watch before conducting his séances,” Finch muttered.
“This isn’t a séance,” Thorne corrected. “He calls it a transmission from the unseen world.”
Finch rolled his eyes but said nothing more. Thorne had become fascinated with Attwater after receiving an anonymous note claiming the man’s so-called transmissions were not mystical at all, but coded warnings about crimes that had yet to occur. One such warning, allegedly delivered two nights earlier, had been: “The chimes will break where none should exist.” Neither of them knew what that meant.
They turned onto a quiet side street and arrived at Attwater’s townhouse, a narrow structure sagging slightly, as though weary of its own mystery. A faint blue glow flickered from behind the parlour curtains.
“Doctors of the inscrutable,” he said softly. “The hour is most auspicious.”
Thorne swept past him without waiting for an invitation. Finch followed, tugging his notebook from his pocket.
The parlour was dim except for a glass orb on a pedestal, glowing with a faint inner light like a trapped moon. Strange copper wires coiled from it, disappearing into an elaborate wooden cabinet covered in dials.
“What precisely does this contraption do?” Finch asked.
Attwater smiled. “It resonates with frequencies beyond mundane perception. The dead, the dreaming, the forgotten—something always speaks.”
Finch scribbled dryly: Charlatan theatrics, impressive hardware.
But Thorne leaned closer. “This energy… it’s not electrical alone. What’s your power source?”
Attwater tapped the orb with a long fingernail. “A fragment unearthed from beneath Windermere Chapel. It has a pulse that is not of this world.”
Finch frowned. Windermere Chapel had recently been sealed off by the city after reports of structural instability. A collapse had killed a groundskeeper only last month.
“Begin your demonstration,” Thorne said.
Attwater dimmed the lamps and placed both hands on the orb. A low hum filled the room—subtle at first, then rising until Finch felt it vibrating in his teeth. The orb pulsed with a cold, colourless light.
Attwater’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “The signal arrives… a moment…”
The room chilled, the air tightening. Finch’s breath fogged.
Then Attwater spoke again—but not in his own voice. The words came clipped, mechanical, as though filtered through broken wires.
“CHIMES… BROKEN… SOUND WHERE NONE SHOULD SOUND… WINDERMERE… NOT SAFE… LEAVE.”
Finch stiffened. The same warning as before—but clearer.
Thorne stepped forward. “Attwater—how are you generating this? Is someone feeding you information?”
But Attwater only convulsed, fingers locked around the orb. “It’s—coming—through—” he gasped.
The orb flashed violently. A sharp crack split the air. Finch dove forward just as a shock wave burst from the device, blowing papers and candles across the room. Attwater flew backward, collapsing against a chair.
Thorne reached him first, checking his pulse. “Alive—but barely.”
Finch steadied himself, ears ringing. “What in God’s name was that?”
Before Thorne could answer, a bell began to toll outside.
A church bell.
And yet—there was no church within blocks.
They rushed to the window. The sound echoed oddly, as though ringing from beneath the earth. Thorne’s jaw tightened.
“Windermere Chapel,” he said. “The structure is condemned. No one should be inside.”
The bell tolled again—heavy, frantic.
Finch pulled on his gloves. “Then someone is inside. Someone who shouldn’t be.”
Thorne nodded. “The warning wasn’t a parlour trick. It was an alert.”
Attwater stirred, whispering hoarsely, “It calls for help…”
But the two detectives were already at the door.
Outside, the invisible bell continued its desperate cry as Finch and Thorne hurried into the foggy night, racing toward Windermere Chapel and the mystery waiting beneath its broken stones.
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