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YEAR 1800

On the night of March 1st, 1800, in the witching hour, a man cloaked in a heavy horseman’s mantle, with a sinister and unsettling air, stepped into an old, abandoned house near Stepney Green. He stood tall, exuding an eerie vigor of early manhood, yet his features bore the ravages of depravity and excess. His eyes, dark and gleaming with a malevolent spark, added to his diabolical presence.

He had slipped into the house from the overgrown garden at the back and now stood in a vast, dilapidated hall. A broad oaken staircase, adorned with intricately carved banisters, led up to a gallery and the upper chambers. The place exuded an oppressive dread. The once grand ceiling sagged under the weight of cobwebs, sections of it collapsed into piles of dust. Dampness had erased the glory of the tapestry-clad walls. The black and white marble tiles beneath his feet were loose and wobbled with each step. A cavernous, empty fireplace yawned like a dark abyss. The window bolts were rusted shut, and the thick layer of dust on the outer door indicated that it had not been opened in years.

The man produced a dark lantern from beneath his cloak, casting a dim, flickering light around the decrepit hall. A sardonic smile curled his lips as he surveyed his surroundings. With deliberate steps, he moved toward an open door on the right, entering a large, oak-paneled room as decrepit as the hall.

This chamber held one notable decoration: a portrait of an austere man in the cap and gown of Henry the Eighth’s era, preserved by the damp walls. Below the portrait, a brass plate inscribed with mystical symbols bore the name “Cyprianus de Rougemont, Fra. R.C.” and the date 1550.

The man paused before the portrait, illuminating it with the lantern’s light. The severe, philosophical features bore a resemblance to his own, particularly the same eerie glimmer in the eyes.

“Dost thou hear me, old ancestor?” he called, his voice echoing through the empty house. “I, thy descendant, Cyprian de Rougemont, call upon thee to reveal where thy gold is hidden. I know thou wert a brother of the Rosy Cross, a master of nature’s mysteries, buried here with vast treasures. Yet, despite my search and others before me, thy grave remains undiscovered. Last night, Satan appeared in a dream, bidding me come hither to find what I seek. He demanded either my soul or that of Anthony Darcy. I agreed. Now, show me thy treasure!”

He struck the portrait with his clenched fist. “Dost thou hear me, old ancestor? Give me thy treasure!” he demanded, striking again with greater force.

The brass plate beneath the portrait dislodged and fell with a clatter.

“What is this?” Rougemont exclaimed, peering into the newly revealed cavity. “Ha! My invocation has been answered!”

Seizing the lantern, he discovered a stone with an iron ring at the recess’s bottom. With a triumphant cry, he grasped the ring and pulled the stone aside, revealing an opening.

“This must be the entrance to my ancestor’s tomb,” Rougemont declared. “The old Rosicrucian kept his secret well, but the devil helped me to uncover it. Now, to procure the necessary tools.”

He quickly exited the room, returning almost immediately with a mallet, lever, and pitchfork. Armed with these and the lantern, he squeezed through the opening and found himself at the top of a stone staircase. He descended into an arched vault entrance, where a stout oak door stood, inscribed with:

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“POST C.C.L. ANNOS PATEBO, 1550.”

“In 250 years, I shall open,” Rougemont read aloud. “And the date—1550—yes, the time has come. Old Cyprian intended for me to find this. The devil’s bargain was unnecessary. And look, the key remains in the lock.”

He turned the key and pushed against the door. The rusted hinges gave way, and the door fell inward with a resounding crash.

From the aperture left by the fallen door, a silvery light, soft yet eerie, streamed forth. Stepping into the room, Rougemont found himself in a spacious vault. Suspended from the ceiling was a large crystal globe, within which burned a small, perpetual flame, casting a gentle moon-like glow. This was the ever-burning lamp of the Rosicrucians, and Rougemont stared at it in astonishment. The flame had burned for two hundred and fifty years, undimmed and unwavering. Encircling the globe was a golden serpent biting its own tail—a symbol of eternity. Above it, silver wings alluded to the soul. Chains of gold, twisted like snakes, suspended the lamp.

But Rougemont’s awe quickly turned to greed as he scanned the vault. The chamber was septilateral, about eight feet high, its stone walls supported by elegantly groined arches. The masonry was pristine, as if untouched by time.

In six of the corners stood large chests, adorned with intricate ironwork, which Rougemont imagined were filled with untold treasures. In the seventh corner, near the door, was a small, exquisite monument of white marble, depicting two hooded figures kneeling and holding a veil between them, partially concealing a small recess. On one of the chests opposite the monument stood a bizarrely-shaped bottle and an antique cup, both encrusted with gems.

The walls were covered with circles, squares, and diagrams, and adorned with grotesque carvings. At the center of the vault was a black marble altar, topped with a golden plate bearing the inscription:

“Hoc universi compendium unius mihi sepulcrum feci.”

“Here, then, lies old Cyprian,” Rougemont muttered.

Driven by an irresistible impulse, he seized the altar by its upper rim and overturned it. The heavy marble fell with a thunderous crash, shattering the flagstone beneath it. A deep groan seemed to echo through the vault, a spectral reproach for his sacrilege. Undeterred, Rougemont wedged the point of his lever into the broken stone, and with all his strength, lifted the fragments, revealing the grave.

Within the grave, clad in the garb he wore in life, with a white beard flowing to his waist, lay the uncoffined body of Cyprian de Rougemont. The corpse, carefully embalmed, was untouched by decay. On the chest, the hands clasped over it, lay a large book, bound in black vellum and fastened with brass clasps. Rougemont snatched up the book and knelt on the nearest chest, opening it eagerly. To his dismay, the pages were filled with cabalistic characters he could not decipher.

At length, he found a page he could understand, and he lingered over it, an almost fiendish smile twisting his lips.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, closing the book. “Now I understand the meaning of my dream. My ancestor’s power was infernal, born of a pact with the Prince of Darkness. But what do I care? Give me wealth, no matter the source—ha! ha!”

Grabbing the lever, he pried open the chest beside him. It was filled with bars of silver. The next chest contained gold. The third was laden with pearls and precious stones, and the rest held treasures beyond reckoning. Rougemont’s eyes gleamed with unholy joy.

“At last, my wish is granted,” he cried. “Boundless wealth, and thus, boundless power, are mine. I shall revel in pleasure—revel in vengeance. As for my soul, I’ll risk its perdition. But Anthony’s soul—I will ensure its destruction. His gambling and his passion for Edith Talbot will be his undoing. And I have another tool at my disposal.”

He glanced at the bottle. “This bottle,” he murmured, “contains an infernal potion, as described in the book. It shatters the brain without ending life, inducing maddening fancies. It will serve my purpose well. For this, I thank thee, Satan.”

Rougemont’s laughter echoed through the vault, a chilling sound that mingled with the eternal flame’s flickering light.