The Viaduct Incident

A Crime Story

Diary of Constable Buchanan

January 14th, 1882

The night commenced with a piercing chill, the sort that bites through the fabric of one's coat and settles deep within the bones. The city of Violshire lay cloaked in a thick, omnipresent fog, rendering the cobblestone streets slick with moisture and the gas lamps mere wraiths of light in the murk. As I made my rounds, the atmosphere seemed unusually oppressive, a palpable weight pressing upon my spirit.

The first few hours were uneventful. I moved a few rowdy drunkards on who seemed impervious to the cold night air and to the weight of the unsettling atmosphere. I shook my head at a scantily dressed lady of the night and almost admired her resilience. I wondered how her life had led her to the harsh streets of Violshire as the night wore on.

My steps led me through the city to where the great Gothic viaduct loomed like a stone guardian over the industrial landscape. The structure, a marvel of engineering, spanned the breadth of the valley with both grace and strength. Its massive stone arches, blackened by soot and time, were adorned with intricate carvings that in the dim light made them something to behold beyond that of their intended function.

The viaduct was simultaneously awe-inspiring and ominous in the fog. The distant rumble of an approaching train echoed through the arches - a low, mournful sound that seemed to come from all around me which set my nerves on edge. The iron railings, cold and unyielding, glistened with white midnight frost, while the massive stone pylons braced for the imminent weight of the locomotive.

The air was thick with the acrid scent of coal smoke. I paused, drawing my coat tighter about me, and surveyed the scene with a practised eye. It was then that I noticed the figure, his gaze fixed upon some distant point beyond my line of sight. I called out to him, my voice echoing beneath the great stone structure, but he remained unmoved as if carved into the very stone of the viaduct.

Determined to investigate, I made my way over to him, all the while aware of the stone leaning overhead. The pavement was treacherous, slick with cold and unforgiving ice, and the wind howled through the viaduct.

With my breath visible in the frigid air, I said, ‘Excuse me, Sir.’ At this point, I was close enough to take his appearance in. He was just shy of six feet tall and dressed in tattered clothes, entirely inadequate for the freezing temperature. His eyes were hollow, and his skin pale as death.

Upon reaching him, he attempted to climb the stone pylons. An impossible task, yet he persisted. He reached skyward in the direction of the arches way above and caught hold of the stone. Then he lifted one foot into a small gap between two blocks of stone and tried to heave himself up. He lost his grip, lost his foothold and landed hard on the pavement, knocking the wind from his lungs.

I reached out a hand as he coughed and spluttered, my concern growing. ‘Are you injured, Sir?’ I inquired, noting his skin, as pallid as a corpse, glistening with the sweat of his futile exertions.

Though, his fall didn’t seem to bother him whatsoever. He muttered incoherently, his eyes wild and unfocused, darting between the towering arches above and some unseen terror in the distance.

‘Are you injured, Sir?’ I asked again, my voice firm yet gentle, hoping to pierce through the fog of his confusion. ‘I am Constable Buchanan.’ He seemed to regain a momentary clarity, his eyes locking onto mine.

‘No,’ he rasped, his voice barely a whisper.

‘What is your name? Can you tell me what happened?’

For a moment, he simply stared at me, his hollow eyes searching my face as if trying to determine whether I was friend or foe. Finally, he took a shuddering breath and spoke.

‘William... William Hawkins,’ he said, his voice gaining a semblance of steadiness. ‘I must tell you... before it's too late.’

‘Tell me what, Mr. Hawkins?’ I urged, my curiosity piqued despite the unease gnawing at my insides.

He looked around nervously as if fearing eavesdroppers in this cold and late hour. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘The Order of Occult Eradication... they are not what they seem. They... they work with occultists, using black magic... influencing people, controlling them. It's all a ruse. They claim to eradicate the dark arts, but in truth, they wield them to their advantage.’

I frowned, scepticism mingling with the eerie possibility of his words. ‘Are you certain of this, Mr. Hawkins? Such accusations are grave indeed. Do you have any proof?’

His eyes widened, and he clutched my arm with surprising strength. ‘Proof? I have seen it! They took me, experimented on me. They forced me to witness their rituals. The symbols, the chants. The power they wield is terrifying.’

I struggled to maintain my composure, my mind racing. Was this man a delusional victim of some substance, or had he indeed uncovered a sinister conspiracy? ‘Where did this happen? Can you show me?’

His grip tightened, desperation etched into his gaunt features. ‘No! I can't go back. They will find me. They will do worse than kill me, already have. But you must believe me. You must warn others. The Order... they seek to control us all.’

The wind howled through the viaduct, the cold seeping deeper into my bones. I knew I needed to take his statement formally, to record his words for further investigation. ‘Mr. Hawkins, I need you to come with me to the station. We must document your account properly.’

He shook his head vehemently, his eyes filled with fear. ‘I can't. They will know. They have eyes everywhere.’

I looked around, the oppressive atmosphere of the viaduct seeming to close in around us.

‘Be careful, Constable. The Order, they are always watching.’

A sense of dread washed over me.

With a final, fearful glance over his shoulder, William Hawkins walked towards the nearest pylon. I watched him go, my mind a tumult of questions and doubts. Was this the ravings of a madman, or had I stumbled upon something far darker and more insidious than I had ever imagined? What would The Order want to control us for? Is there really occult practices taking place within their building?

Before any more unsettling questions passed over my mind, William Hawkins began to batter his forehead against the rough stone of the viaduct pylon. Three, maybe four times he slammed into the stone. Blood spurted up the mortar and ran down his face. Shocked and horrified, I lunged forward, grabbing him around the shoulders and pulling him away from the pylon. His resistance was feeble, and he collapsed onto the icy pavement, blood mingling with the frost.

‘Stop, man! What are you doing?’ I cried, trying to restrain him as he continued to struggle weakly.

William's eyes, once wild with fear and urgency, now held a strange calmness. His movements slowed, and he managed to utter in a halting voice, ‘The experiments... they're not working as they should. Stop them’

Before he could say more, his body convulsed violently, his limbs thrashing against the ground. I held him firmly, I knew that calling out for help would be a waste at this hour, in this place. His convulsions ceased abruptly, leaving the sound of the wind whistling through the arches and the train thundering past overhead.

Kneeling beside him, I checked for signs of life, but it was clear that William Hawkins had succumbed to his injuries. His skull was shattered from the repeated blows against the stone, his lifeblood staining the cold ground.

As I stared down at his lifeless form, a discomforting realisation came over me. His words, cryptic and haunting, echoed in my mind. The Order of Occult Eradication, experiments, black magic. What had William witnessed? What did he know that led him to this desperate act?

Gathering my thoughts, I knew I had to investigate further. The implications of his revelations were too grave to ignore. I would take his statement seriously, despite the macabre circumstances of his demise. The Order could have infiltrated the very fabric of our city, wielding powers beyond comprehension. And now, with William Hawkins dead, I was left with the weighty responsibility of uncovering the truth.

Just as I weighed up not reporting the viaduct incident with the risk of reporting the death of Mr Hawkins and exposing myself to The Order, I heard shouting from the direction he had been staring when I first saw him.

’He must have come this way!’ Came a man’s voice, followed by fast footsteps.

I had the benefit of the cover of night and the thick fog to keep me from sight. I hurried behind one of the stone pillars and peered back to the body of Mr. Hawkins. Their was movement visible through the fog and three men appeared. The gold emblem of The Order of Occult Eradication visible on the chest of their jackets.

One of them knelt beside the body. ‘It’s him. He’s dead.’

’Saved us a job,’ said the second.

The third man was broader than the others. He had a calculated look on his face as he scanned the area for witnesses. He lifted a big hand up to the stone and wiped a finger through the blood.

Someone else was approaching. My heart quickened. The sound of hooves was first, then the lamp came into view. A hansom cab driver.

The big guy hailed the driver.

‘Good evening,’ said the driver. Then he noticed the body. The big man from The Order was too fast for the driver. In one smooth and deadly motion, he produced a knife and drove it through the cab driver’s throat before he could make a sound. He pulled the driver from the driver’s seat and sat him in his cab where the passengers would usually be.

‘Get Hawkins up and in the cab. Now!’ He snapped. ‘Take the cab and get rid of it, get rid of everything.’

Determination hardened within me, but a whisper of fear lingered in the icy air. The Order was watching, their reach extending far beyond the confines of this viaduct. They were definitely a group to be wary of, regardless of whether Hawkins was telling the truth. I would tread carefully, for the path ahead was fraught with peril.