The lecture hall had emptied an hour ago, leaving Liam Carver alone in the quiet hum of the university’s archaeology lab. The overhead lights buzzed faintly as he hunched over the workbench, his fingers tracing the intricate carvings on the wooden puzzle box. He marveled at its craftsmanship, each groove and symbol hinting at secrets long buried. His thoughts swirled with questions: Who had made this? What was its purpose? And why did it feel like the box was almost inviting him to unlock it, as though it held something meant for him alone? His professor, Dr. Henshaw, had dismissed the group with her usual curt efficiency, but Liam had stayed behind, too intrigued by the artifact to leave.
“You’re obsessed, Carver,” she’d said earlier with a wry smile. “Just don’t stay too late. You know how the night guard gets about students after hours.”
Liam had nodded absently, already tuning her out as he turned the box over in his hands. The carvings were unlike anything he’d seen before—sharp angles interspersed with delicate curves, symbols that seemed to dance in the dim light. The faint Latin inscription along the base had been the first clue, and it was what had pulled him deeper into the mystery.
“Res est mirabilis,” he murmured to himself now, the words slipping from his lips as he carefully twisted one of the wooden panels. It slid with a satisfying click, revealing another hidden layer of the box’s design.
The artifact had come from a forgotten corner of the university archives, rediscovered during a recent inventory purge. Dr. Henshaw had assigned it as a side project, intrigued by the box's unusual design and the faint Latin inscription along its base. "It’s not every day you find something that defies categorization," she’d remarked during their first examination. Still, she hadn’t expected much from it—just an interesting puzzle for her students to analyze. But Liam had taken to it with an intensity that surprised even himself. Between his coursework and the late-night library sessions, he’d pieced together fragments of its history, enough to convince him it was more than a simple relic.
Now, in the solitude of the lab, he worked with renewed focus. The box seemed almost alive under his touch, each shift and rotation of its panels revealing something new. A faint glow began to emanate from its center, so subtle at first that Liam thought he was imagining it. But as the final panel clicked into place, the glow intensified, bathing the lab in an otherworldly green light.
“Holy—” Liam recoiled, shielding his eyes as the light surged. The air around him seemed to vibrate, an almost electric charge prickling against his skin. Then, without warning, the glow expanded outward, enveloping him completely.
The last thing he saw before the world dissolved into blinding light was the open door of the lab swinging shut, as though pushed by an unseen hand.
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The silence was deafening, broken only by Liam’s ragged breathing. His body felt alien, unnaturally strong yet eerily unfamiliar, as though it responded to him a fraction faster than he expected. The realization hit him like a physical blow, panic surging through his veins as his alien body became undeniable. The unnatural strength and precision it possessed clashed with his own sense of identity, turning every movement into a reminder that he wasn’t the person he had been. The dissonance left him shaken, questions swirling in his mind: What had happened to his real body, and what did this new one mean for him? This wasn’t his body—he flexed his fingers experimentally, feeling their strength, their uncanny precision, and it unnerved him. The fine-tuned muscles and heightened responsiveness were all wrong, foreign. Was this part of the "transfer" the notes had mentioned? A gift from Percival’s genius, or a curse tied to this place? The thought sent his mind spiraling with questions as he tried to suppress the rising dread. He opened his eyes slowly, half-expecting to see the familiar walls of the archaeology lab. Instead, he was met with dim light filtering through cracked wooden beams above him. The air was thick with dust and the faint tang of metal. He coughed, trying to orient himself, as he took in the cluttered, unfamiliar space around him.
He was in a workshop—or something like it. Workbenches lined the walls, each cluttered with strange tools and devices he couldn’t begin to name. Shelves sagged under the weight of books and glass jars, their contents obscured by layers of grime. A massive brass contraption stood in one corner, its gears and levers frozen mid-motion, as though abandoned mid-use.
“Hello?” His voice wavered as it echoed through the room. There was no response, only the faint creak of wood settling.
Liam staggered to his feet, his body aching as though he’d run a marathon. His mind was a whirlwind of disjointed thoughts, the surreal nature of his surroundings clashing with the lingering memory of the blinding light. He felt a growing dread creeping up his spine, each breath a reminder of how out of place he was in this eerie, forgotten space. His mind raced, replaying the events of the lab in a frantic loop. The box. The light. And now…this. It didn’t make sense.
“This has to be a dream,” he muttered, brushing dust off his shirt. “A really, really vivid dream.”
But it didn’t feel like a dream. The air was cold and damp against his skin, carrying a musty scent that made him wrinkle his nose. He could feel the uneven floorboards beneath his feet, hear the faint rustle of fabric as he moved. It was too real.
Liam turned back toward the table he’d woken up near. On its surface was a stack of papers, yellowed with age and covered in spidery handwriting. He reached for the top sheet, scanning the text. The words were in English, though the handwriting was difficult to decipher. Phrases like “essence transferal” and “dimensional displacement” leapt out at him, but their meanings eluded him.
In the center of the table sat another box, eerily similar to the one he’d solved in the lab. This one was larger, its carvings more intricate, but the same faint glow pulsed from its center. Liam reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing against the smooth wood. A jolt of static shot through him, making him pull back with a hiss.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
“Okay, no touching,” he said to himself, flexing his fingers as the sting faded.
His gaze drifted to the far side of the workshop, where a boarded-up window let in faint slivers of light. Beyond the boards, he could just make out the glow of streetlamps. Liam moved toward it, stepping carefully around the scattered tools and debris. He pressed his face to the narrow gap between the boards, straining to see outside.
The street beyond was shrouded in fog, the cobblestones slick with rain. Gas lamps cast flickering light across the scene, illuminating the faint outlines of buildings. Figures moved in the distance, their shapes indistinct in the haze. Liam squinted, his breath fogging the glass.
“Victorian London?” he murmured, the realization sinking in like a lead weight. He stepped back from the window, his mind racing. It couldn’t be. It was impossible. And yet, everything about this place—from the workshop to the street beyond—felt like it had been pulled straight out of the 19th century.
Returning to the table, Liam sorted through the scattered papers. His hands trembled as he leafed through them, finding fragments of diagrams and notes that hinted at experiments beyond his understanding. He paused as his eyes landed on a folded piece of parchment tucked beneath a stack. Carefully unfolding it, he found a hastily scribbled message: "They’ve found me. No time left. I will test the box tonight… it’s the only way." The ink was smudged, the handwriting frantic. He set it aside and turned to another pile, where he uncovered a dark stain on the corner of the floorboards. Its edges were cracked and discolored, leading to a faint trail that disappeared under a rug. Pulling the rug aside revealed footprints etched in the dust, one set heavier than the others, as though a body had been dragged. Liam’s stomach twisted as he pieced together the scene, dread weighing heavily on him. Among the chaos, a leather-bound journal caught his eye, its spidery handwriting offering further glimpses into the life of Percival Pemberwick and the plans that had bound Liam to this strange world. Halfway through, he found a stack of documents folded neatly between the pages. Unfolding them, he froze as his eyes landed on a name: Eli Pemberwick.
The text described Eli as Percival’s estranged son and sole heir to his estate. Liam’s heart raced as he read further. The documents were clearly forged, the signature at the bottom matching Percival’s hand from the notes. A scrawled line in the margin caught his eye:
"Should the transfer succeed, this will ensure continuity."
The implications were staggering. Percival had planned this—had prepared for someone, likely himself, to assume this new identity and take control of his work. But now it was Liam who had fallen into that role.
“This…this is mine now,” Liam murmured, the words feeling foreign on his tongue.
Setting the papers aside, Liam forced himself to focus. The workshop was his only refuge, but it needed to be secure. He found a diagram of the room in the journal, marked with notes about hidden compartments and defensive tools. Following the instructions, he pried open a false panel in the far wall, revealing a small alcove filled with weapons and devices. Among them was a sleek dagger, a compact crossbow, and bolts tipped with silver. A strange grappling device sat beside them, its intricate mechanism gleaming even in the dim light.
“This’ll have to do,” Liam muttered, packing the items into a canvas bag.
He spent the next few hours reinforcing the windows, testing locks, and organizing the scattered tools and notes. By the time he finished, exhaustion had set in, but the workshop felt less like an alien space and more like a home.
As he collapsed onto a dusty cot in the corner, the weight of the day pressed down on him. The workshop was his. The name Eli Pemberwick was his. And for now, this was the only thing keeping him alive.
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It was later that night, as Liam lay staring at the wooden beams overhead, trying to make sense of the day’s events, that he heard it—a faint scraping sound, like nails on a chalkboard. His mind, already burdened with the strangeness of his new reality, seized on the noise with a jolt of fear. He froze, every muscle in his body tensing. The sound came again, closer this time, and accompanied by a low, guttural growl that sent a chill down his spine.
Liam sat up slowly, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached for the crossbow he’d placed beside the cot, his fingers fumbling as he loaded one of the silver-tipped bolts. The sound grew louder, more insistent, and then he saw it—a shadow moving just beyond the boarded-up window.
The flickering gaslight outside caught it briefly, illuminating a face that was both human and monstrous. Its jerky movements betrayed an unnatural gait, as though controlled by unseen strings, and faint bursts of steam hissed from its joints. The face itself was a grotesque blend of rotting flesh and exposed mechanical parts, with gears faintly clicking beneath patches of decayed skin. Its glowing eyes pierced through the night, locking onto the workshop with an unrelenting, eerie focus.
Liam’s breath hitched as he aimed the crossbow, his hands trembling uncontrollably. Cold sweat trickled down his back, his breaths shallow and ragged. His heart thundered in his chest, and his fingers felt slick against the metal of the weapon, the sheer weight of the moment threatening to paralyze him. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but the primal terror of the ghoul's glowing eyes kept him rooted in place. The ghoul lingered for a moment, its head tilting as though sensing his presence. Then, with a sudden hiss, it retreated into the fog, its shadow dissolving into the night. For a moment, Liam thought it might be gone for good, but the way its head had tilted—as though marking him—made him feel a chilling certainty. This was no retreat; it was a warning, a reminder that the fog was not empty.
For a long time, Liam didn’t move. The crossbow remained trained on the window, his finger hovering over the trigger. Only when the silence stretched on did he lower the weapon, his pulse still racing.
Whatever this place was, it was far more dangerous than he’d imagined. The encounter with the ghoul solidified one thing in his mind: he couldn’t afford to stay passive. He needed to make the workshop a true safe haven, reinforcing every potential vulnerability. More than that, he realized he had to understand the weapons and devices he had uncovered, learning not just to defend himself, but to outthink the dangers lurking in the fog. Each decision he made now could mean the difference between survival and becoming another forgotten victim of this eerie world. He realized he couldn’t afford to let his guard down, not even for a moment. The workshop would need to be fortified further, and he would have to learn how to wield the weapons he had found. The thought of stepping outside made his stomach churn, but he knew it was inevitable. To survive, he would need to prepare—and quickly. The workshop, for all its strangeness, was the only thing standing between him and the horrors lurking outside.