From the Private Journal of Beatrix Chalmers
October 14th, 1870 - Night
(Written by candlelight, hand unsteady)

I am in my room now, such as it is, and I must write while the events are still fresh in my mind. If I do not document what has occurred, I fear I shall convince myself I imagined it. But first, the beginning. Let me maintain some semblance of order.

Upon Entering Hearthorne

The Great Hall defies all reasonable expectation. I have been in London's grandest homes, attended balls at estates that could swallow my family's house whole, but nothing prepared me for Hearthorne's entrance. The ceiling soars upward into darkness that no lantern could penetrate—I could sense the vast space above me pressing down like a held breath. The walls absorb what little light exists, and the floor beneath my feet revealed itself to be inlaid with mother-of-pearl in a dizzying pattern: a five-pointed star, perhaps thirty feet across, with intricate whorls and symbols worked into each point.

Jarvis cautioned me to mind the star, as Lady Soames was apparently particular about people tracking mud across it. I hurried after him as he disappeared toward a corridor, my shoes clicking on the stone with echoes that seemed to return from impossible directions, as though the space around us was larger than physics would allow.

The corridor displayed the most disturbing artwork I have ever encountered. Ink drawings and watercolors—wild, expressionistic pieces depicting landscapes that seemed to writhe on the page. Moorlands populated by twisted figures that might have been trees or might have been something else entirely. Seascapes where the water itself appeared alive, reaching upward with liquid fingers toward skies that boiled with unnatural clouds.

These were Professor Soames' work, Jarvis informed me without being asked. Created before his illness. Lady Soames keeps them in this back corridor where visitors will not see them. I remarked that they were striking, and Jarvis responded with characteristic bluntness that they were mad. He stopped before a particularly disturbing watercolor of something rising from stagnant water—a humanoid figure rendered wrong, its translucent skin covered in seaweed, its eyes split vertically like a cat's. He called it "The Bride's First Glimpse," painted the day before the Professor stopped speaking properly.

I could not stop staring at those eyes. They were familiar in a way that made my stomach clench. Brighton. The thing in the water at Brighton had eyes like that.

The Library

When Jarvis opened the library door, warmth hit me immediately, oppressive heat from a fire built to dangerous intensity in a massive stone hearth carved in the shape of a lion's maw. And positioned directly before this inferno, so close I could see steam rising from his clothing, was a man in a wheelchair.

Professor Avery Soames, I presumed.

He was slumped sideways, head lolling, drool slipping from his slack mouth. His eyes were open but seemed vacant, staring at something I could not see. The heat had flushed his face a mottled red; sweat soaked his collar.

My medical training overrode shock. I stepped forward immediately and exclaimed that he would burn himself, that we must move him back from the fire.

A woman's voice emerged from the shadows near the bookcases—cultured and cold. She preferred, she said, that I wait for instruction before making presumptions about her husband's care.

Lady Cordelia Soames stepped into the light, and I understood at once why she had chosen to remain in shadow.

She is beautiful—strikingly so—but it is a beauty that makes me profoundly uncomfortable. Too perfect. Too deliberate. Her face is pale and smooth as marble, her features arranged with geometric precision. Her dark hair pulled back severely emphasizes the sharpness of her cheekbones. Her dress is black silk, cut in a style that is fashionable but somehow wrong—too form-fitting, too deliberately revealing.

She appears perhaps forty, though she might be younger or considerably older. It is impossible to tell.

But her eyes disturb me most. Dark, so dark the pupils are barely distinguishable, and holding an intelligence that feels predatory. When she looked at me, I felt evaluated. Measured. Found potentially wanting or potentially useful, but I could not determine which.

I apologized for my forwardness but insisted that the Professor was dangerously close to the fire, that his skin already showed signs of heat damage. She dismissed this, stating he had sat thus for three months without incident. When I suggested the heat must cause him distress, she asked if I presumed to know her husband's mind after mere seconds in his presence—how remarkably confident of me.

I felt my face flush, whether from heat or shame I cannot say. She was correct, of course. I had overstepped. And yet the medical evidence was clear—the man was suffering.

I attempted to recover professionally, noting for her records that prolonged exposure to such intense heat could cause certain complications. She waved this away dismissively, saying I might note whatever I liked—that was, after all, why I was here. To observe and document.

Not to treat? Not to heal? Merely to observe?

Looking again at the Professor, I saw what I had missed in my initial alarm. His eyes were not vacant. They were alert. Trapped behind the slack features and drooling mouth was a consciousness that knew exactly where it was, exactly what was happening to it. He was imprisoned in his own body.

Our eyes met, and I saw the plea in them: Help me. Please God, help me.

And then something else flickered across his face warning, a desperate attempt to communicate something urgent. Run. Get out. Before it's too late.

Lady Soames had moved to a reading chair and picked up a book—leather-bound with gold gilding. She inquired whether I had made the journey without incident. I replied carefully that the journey had been enlightening, that the landscape was quite remarkable. She smiled and suggested I meant desolate, harsh, unwelcoming to those of delicate constitution—though I was not delicate, was I? My letters had suggested a woman of considerable fortitude.

I expressed hope that I would prove useful to the Professor. She said she was certain I would.

I caught a glimpse of her book's title: Sol Invictus: Rituals of the Unconquered Sun. Latin. Concerning pagan rituals, if my classical education served. An odd choice for a woman of society. She noticed my interest and tilted the book away from view, explaining that she had eclectic tastes influenced by her husband's academic interests—he had been a naturalist and scholar of ancient religions before his illness.

When I asked the precise nature of his illness, she informed me that determining this was what they were paying me for. The physicians from London and Manchester had proven useless, speaking of apoplexy, catalepsy, various nervous disorders—but unable to explain the progression of symptoms or suggest effective treatment.

The symptoms began approximately eight months ago, she explained. He became agitated, prone to fits of activity during which he would paint obsessively through the night. He claimed to experience visions, messages from his studies. He filled journals with notes in languages she did not recognize.

I murmured that this sounded like glossolalia—speaking in tongues, which can be a symptom of certain brain injuries. She laughed like ice cracking and asked if I was suggesting demonic possession, whether I was a woman of faith.

I told her I was a woman of science.

She found this disappointing, she said. She had hoped for someone with a more flexible worldview. She stood then, smoothing her skirts, and instructed that Jarvis would show me to my chambers. I could begin observations in the morning after resting. Dinner was at six o'clock sharp—I was not to be late.

As she glided past me toward the door, she paused to add that her husband experienced brief episodes of lucidity during which he could speak. Should this occur, she would appreciate being informed immediately of anything he said. Some of his utterances had been concerning, and she would hate for me to be distressed by the ravings of a disturbed mind.

She wanted to control what I heard. What I learned.

After she left, I approached the Professor slowly, pushing through the unbearable heat to kneel beside his wheelchair. I whispered that I was here to help, that I would find out what was wrong.

His hand shot out with shocking speed, gripping my wrist with surprising strength. His mouth worked desperately, trying to form words. The sound was agonizing, his tongue thick and uncooperative. He managed only fragments: "D-danger. Y-you... marked. Al-already... m-marked."

I asked what he meant by marked, but he had exhausted himself. His hand fell away and he slumped back, eyes closing. I checked his pulse—rapid and thready but strong enough. He was not dying, at least not yet.

But he was terrified.

Jarvis appeared to inform me my room was ready.

My Chamber

The room is small but adequate—narrow bed with canopy, dresser, desk, washstand. The window overlooks the sea, though I have drawn the curtains immediately. I cannot bear to look at that water. Not after the dreams in the carriage. Not after what the Professor said.

Marked. You are already marked.

What does that mean?

My valise still sits unopened. The smell of elderberry perfume has filled the room to the point of nausea. When I finally forced myself to examine it, I found nearly everything saturated. The perfume bottle—Mother's gift—has shattered completely, the glass ground to powder. All my clothes now reek of that too-sweet scent. It is so strong I can taste it in the back of my throat.

I have aired what I can, but it will take days for the smell to dissipate. If it ever does.

Jarvis brought my "dinner”,cold mutton, hard bread, weak tea. He claimed Cook had left it for me, but the food was clearly hours old, barely edible.

I asked where the rest of the staff were, noting that a house of this size must require considerable maintenance. He explained that daily workers come from the village for cleaning and kitchen work. A stable boy tends the horses. They arrive at dawn and leave at dusk. No one stays overnight except family and now myself.

I observed this seemed a lonely arrangement. He replied that the locals are superstitious and do not like to be here after dark, saying this with a smirk suggesting the superstitions were perhaps not entirely unfounded.

When I asked if he was not concerned by whatever frightens them, he responded that he had been with the family fifteen years and had seen enough to know the fears were exaggerated. Mostly.

Then he informed me that my door would be locked from the outside tonight.

I demanded to know why. He claimed it was for my safety—the house is dangerous at night with loose floorboards, unstable banisters, sections that are unsafe. Until he could show me the safe routes tomorrow, it was best I remain in my room after dark. For my protection, he said. Just for tonight.

Before I could protest further, he was gone.

I tried the door after he left. It is indeed locked. I am trapped in this small room that reeks of my dead mother's perfume, in a house that defies architecture, with a patient who tried to warn me of danger, under the authority of a woman who reads books about pagan rituals.

What have I done?

But it is too late for such questions. I am here now. I have accepted the position. I must see it through.

Though God help me, I do not know what "it" is.

Later - I Cannot Sleep

The dreams have started again.

I dozed off despite my intentions to remain awake and vigilant. Immediately I fell into nightmare—water, always water. I was in the sea again, but not the sea as it exists. This was some other ocean, some deeper place. The water was black and thick as oil, and warm—body temperature, as though I swam through living flesh.

Things moved in the darkness below me. Vast shapes I sensed rather than saw. They were aware of me. Watching. Waiting.

One began to rise.

I could feel the displacement of water as it ascended, could feel through my very skin the sound it made—not heard but felt, like singing in registers too low for human ears. It resonated in my bones, my teeth, the soft organs of my belly.

It was calling me.

And my body wanted to answer.

I felt myself changing in the dream. My skin splitting along my sides, opening into gills that gasped for water as hungrily as lungs gasp for air. My legs beginning to fuse, bones softening and reforming into something more suitable for swimming in deep places. The pain was exquisite. The pleasure more so.

I looked down and saw my hands were no longer hands but something webbed and clawed and somehow beautiful.

And the thing below me said my name.

Not in English. Not in any human language. But I understood it perfectly:

BEATRIX CHALMERS. YOU WERE PROMISED TO US. RETURN TO THE WATER. RETURN TO YOUR TRUE FORM. RETURN TO ME.

I wanted to. God help me, I wanted to swim down into that darkness and let it take me, change me, make me into whatever it wished.

The thing came close enough that I could see it clearly, and I wish to God I could unsee it.

I cannot describe it. I will not. If I give it words, I give it reality. I give it power over my waking mind.

Suffice to say: it was vast. It was ancient. It was hungry.

And it knew me. Had known me since Brighton. Had been waiting for me to ripen, to mature, to become suitable for—

I woke screaming.

Or I thought I screamed. But when I checked my throat, it did not hurt. Perhaps no sound emerged. Perhaps I only screamed inside.

My nightgown is soaked through. I tell myself it is sweat, but when I brought my hand to my face, it came away wet and salty, and I know it is not sweat.

It is seawater.

There is seawater on my bed. On my skin. In my hair.

How?

I am three floors above the ground. The windows are closed. The door is locked. How can there be seawater in my room?

I forced myself to examine my body as a nurse would examine a patient.

Along my ribs, on both sides, are marks. Red and inflamed, as though irritated by a rash. They are arranged in lines, perhaps six on each side, each about three inches long.

They look like incisions that have healed badly.

Or like gills that have not yet fully formed.

I am being rational about this. Clinical. I will not give in to hysteria.

There must be a medical explanation. The perfume has caused a skin reaction. The salt spray from the sea during the journey has dried on my skin. The marks are from my corset, which was too tight.

Yes. These are rational explanations.

But my corset does not make marks on my ribs. And I did wash thoroughly before bed. And perfume does not cause incisions.

I lit the candle with shaking hands and examined the marks more closely.

They are perfectly symmetrical. Evenly spaced. And when I press on them, I can feel something beneath the skin. Something that moves slightly under my touch, as though adjusting position.

Structure. Cartilage perhaps. Or—

No.

I will not think about it.

I need to document this. Need to maintain scientific objectivity. If I am experiencing some sort of breakdown, some psychological crisis brought on by stress and exhaustion, then keeping detailed records will help me identify when it began and chart its progression.

Or if something else is happening that I cannot yet name—then these records may be the only evidence that will remain.

The elderberry perfume is overwhelming, making me nauseous, making my head swim. I need air, but the window faces the sea, and I cannot bear to open it. Cannot bear to let that sound—that constant booming of waves against rock—enter this room any more than it already has.

Instead, I will use the chamber pot and try to sleep again.

Though I dread what dreams may come.

Dawn - Final Entry Before Beginning My Duties

I did sleep eventually, though I had no more dreams. Or if I did, I do not remember them.

When I woke, my nightgown was dry. The marks on my ribs had faded to barely visible pink lines. The seawater, if that is what it was, had evaporated without leaving salt residue.

I could almost convince myself I imagined it all.

Except.

Except when I went to use the washstand, I found something in the basin.

Seaweed.

Fresh seaweed, still wet, arranged in a careful spiral pattern.

There is no rational explanation for this. None that I can accept.

Someone came into my room during the night. Jarvis? Lady Soames? Someone else?

But the door was locked from the inside. I heard Jarvis turn the key. And when I tried it this morning (the lock has been opened, though I heard no one do it), it showed no signs of tampering.

The window remains closed and latched from the inside.

So how did seaweed appear in my washbasin?

I should leave. I should demand transportation back to Liverpool immediately. This house is wrong. This situation is dangerous. Professor Soames tried to warn me and I did not listen.

But where would I go? I have no money for the journey. No position waiting in London. No family to take me in.

I am trapped here as surely as if Jarvis had maintained the lock on my door.

And perhaps—and this is the thought that frightens me most—perhaps some part of me does not want to leave.

The dreams, terrifying as they were, also felt like... recognition. Like coming home to a place, I had never been but had always known.

The marks on my ribs, disturbing as they are, also feel right. As though my body is finally becoming what it was always meant to be.

No.

No, I will not entertain such thoughts. I am Beatrix Chalmers. I am a trained nurse and a rational woman. I will find a medical explanation for what is happening here. I will treat Professor Soames and fulfill my duties and earn my salary and then I will leave this accursed place.

But first, I must survive the day ahead.

A bell is ringing somewhere in the house. The breakfast bell, I assume.

Time to meet the rest of the household and begin my observations.

God grant me strength.

And God forgive me if I am making a terrible mistake.