The Finch Archive. Carlos del Puente Stories

 The Finch Archive

Detective Isabelle Díaz: Brick Lane's whispers

The rain was a fat film in Brick Lane's cobblestones, which reflects the neon brightness of Curry's houses in a distorted and distorting way. I arrived my highest necklace, the cold leaked in my bones despite the layers. It was a Tuesday, late, and the usual vibrant buzzing of the street had been silenced by the downpour.

I was here for Finch. Or rather, due to Finch's notes.

Five days ago, a cleaner at the Bishopsgate Institute discovered a closed metal box in a forgotten storage room. Inside, meticulously arranged and attached in aged leather, were notebooks. Dozen of them. The magazines written by Elias Finch, a name that I met only as a note to the foot of the criminal history of London, an antiquarian lonely and a suspicion that disappeared without leaving a trace in 1988.

The notes were ... disturbing. A chaotic revolting of observations, sketches, encoded messages and newspaper cuts that detail unsolved crimes, disappearances and local legends that date from the centuries of setback. They were a burrow of obsession, full of whispers of secret societies, blood rituals and the disturbing observations of a man who seemed to see the darkness stalking under the skin of the city.

My partner, Sergeant Davies, thought it was a curiosity of a cold case, a historical rarity. I felt ... different. I felt a cold fear crawling through my spine as I turned the brittle pages. Finch's notes were more than just wandering. They were a road map for something ... evil.

The Forensic team had already dusted the impressions, finding anything more than stains and the slightest trace of long -dead oils of Finch. My work was to evaluate the notes, to determine if any of the cold cases mentioned inside could be reopened, revitalized by the morbid fascination of Finch.

I stopped outside a library with little light, its window full of dusty volumes and yellowish maps. The name on the door was barely readable: "Hidden files, only by appointment." Inside, a lonely figure, hunched over a book, looked up when I entered. He was a demacrated man with eyes that seemed to endure the weight of the centuries.

"Detective Díaz," he said, his hoarse voice. "I've been waiting for you."

He presented himself as Mr. Silas Blackwood, owner of the store and, apparently, an expert in everything arcane and forgotten in the history of London. I showed him a photograph of one of the sketches of Finch's notes: a strange symbol that resembles a snake that eats his own tail, recorded inside a circle of stones.

Blackwood's face paled. "The Ouroboros," he whispered. "An ancient symbol of destruction and cyclical rebirth. Connected with ... darker practices. Finch ventured into things that should not have."

He continued to tell me about the mythical "Snake handle", it is rumored that a secret society had been active in London for centuries, participating in hidden rituals and human sacrifices to appease ancient entities. He sounded like the Gothic novels, but the way Blackwood spoke, with a genuine fear in his eyes, made me listen.

When leaving the store, the rain seemed to intensify, washing the streets with an even darker shine. I felt a feeling of espin on the back of my neck, as if it were observed.

Finch's notes were more than a madman. They were a warning. And I was beginning to understand what I was warning. The girl was persistent, that detective Díaz. He reminded me of myself, years ago, when I ran into the truth hidden under the history of London. Finch ... was a fool. He deepened too much, wrote too much. I should have better known what to record what he saw. It is better that some things are buried.

My store, hidden files, was more than a business. It was a sanctuary, a repository of forbidden knowledge and a prison for the secrets I protected. The Blackwood family has been guardians of these secrets for generations, observing, waiting, ensuring that the snake's hand remained inactive.

Finch changed that. He wrote about them, hinted at his rituals, drew his symbols. His notes were a bread path, which led to anyone who is willing to look, directly at his door.

The snake hand ... They were not a myth. They were real, a network of powerful people who longed for power and immortality, willing to sacrifice anything, or anyone, to achieve it. My own ancestor, Alistair Blackwood, had been a member, before realizing the true horror of his practices and dedicating his life to dismantling them from the inside.

I had seen the signals. The subtle change in city energy, the resurgence of old symbols in unexpected places. The snake's hand was agitated. And Finch's notes were the catalyst.

I needed to protect Díaz, guide her, without revealing too much. I was entering a darkness that I did not understand. And if I was not careful, it would become a sacrifice.

I closed the store, the rain that touches the windows as the insistent fingers. I had a meeting to attend, a clandestine meeting in the heart of the city. It was time to remind him at hand that some secrets are left without being bothered. The shadow collector.

(The following is an extract of Finch notes, dated October 27, 1987)

The city whispers.

I have been following them, these whispers, for years. I collect them, as butterflies set on a board. Each is a piece of the puzzle, a look at the dark that festivals under the respectable facade of London.

They call me crazy, an inmate, a harmless eccentric. Leave them. It allows me to move freely, observe without attracting attention. They don't see what I see. The symbols recorded on the stones of the forgotten churches. The strange constellations that appear in the night sky on the East End. The veiled figures that slide through the shadows after midnight.

The snake's hand ... I've been studying them. They are real, a malignant tumor that grows within the heart of the city. I have identified some of its members: prominent businessmen, influential politicians, even a bishop or two. They are in secret, in the old Roman baths under the city. They perform ... indescribable acts.

I know too much. I can feel his eyes on me, looking at me from the shadows. I must be careful. But I can't stop. I must expose them, reveal their secrets to the world.

I will write everything, every detail, every observation. I will hide these notes, where they will find if something happens to me. Let them be my legacy, my warning.

The snake is waking up. And London will drown in his poison. "

Davies was skeptical, of course. I put my eyes blank at the Blackwood talk of ancient secret societies and rituals. "Mumbo Jumbo, Díaz. Don't get caught."

But I could not shake the feeling that Blackwood was telling the truth. And the more I deepened in Finch's notes, the more I was convinced.

I concentrated in the cold cases that Finch had mentioned, cross references with his cryptic notes and sketches. A name was still: Eleanor Vance. A young art student who disappeared in 1972. His body was never found.

Finch had dedicated several pages to Vance, obsessively drawing his face, documenting his movements, pointing out his connection with a certain art gallery in Mayfair, a gallery that, according to Finch, was a front for the hand of the snake.

I visited the gallery. It was a sterile and modern space, full of abstract art too expensive. The owner, an elegant and impeccably dressed woman named Mrs. Delacroix, was educated but evasive. She claimed not to have remembered Eleanor Vance.

But I saw the flickering of recognition in his eyes. I saw the fear.

I obtain an order to search the gallery archives. Hidden behind a false wall in the basement, we find a hidden room. Inside, a collection of disturbing artifacts: ancient daggers, ceremonial tunics and a series of disturbing paintings that represent scenes of ritualist sacrifice.

And in the center of the room, a single adorned frame. Empty.

Mrs. Delacroix was arrested. She refused to cooperate, invoking her right to remain silent. But I knew we were approaching.

That night, I returned to my floor, exhausted and on the edge. While unlocking the door, I noticed something out of place. A single game letter, the queen of the swords, which is in the pump.

My blood cooled. It was a firm, a presentation card. The firm of the snake.

It was being observed. They knew I was approaching.

I called Davies, my voice trembling. "They know, Davies. They know what I am doing."

"Calm down please, Díaz," he said. "We will achieve protection."

But it was too late. When I turned to close the door, a figure of the shadows emerged, a dark silhouette against the faint light of the hall.

Thomas Blackwood - The Sacrifice

They had made the hook. Díaz was playing directly in his hands. The Queen of Swords ... a shameless threat, a declaration of intention. The hand was no longer happy to stay in the shadows. They were bold, arrogant, drunk in their own power.

I knew what they were planning. They needed a sacrifice, someone pure, someone connected to the investigation. Díaz was perfect.

I had to act.

I ran to Díaz's apartment, my heart was beating hard on my chest. I arrived too late. The door was Ajar, the silent hall. Inside, a single lamp thrown in long and distorted shadows through the room.

Díaz was gone.

I found a note, hidden under the lamp. A single word, scribbled in elegant calligraphy: "underground".

The old Roman bathrooms. That was where they would take her. That's where the snake would feed.

I knew I was entering a trap. But he had no choice. I had to save her.

I grabbed a heavy iron poker from the fireplace, the family weight in my hand. It was the same poker as my ancestor, Alistair Blackwood, had released to defend himself from the hand of the snake centuries ago.

I descended to the lower belly of the city, after the labyrinthine tunnels that led to the Roman bathrooms. The air became thick and heavy, full of the wet earth stench and something else ... something old and malevolent.

I found them in the main chamber, gathered around a stone altar. Díaz was tied and gagged, with very open eyes of terror. Mrs. Delacroix stopped by her side, her face contorted in a cruel smile.

And on the head of the altar, a figure wrapped in the dark, his face hidden behind a grotesque mask. The leader of the snake.

"Welcome, Mr. Blackwood," said the masked figure, his voice a bass growl. "We have been waiting for you." The gag was pressed against my mouth, the strings that join my dolls cut my skin. Fear was scratched in my throat, drowning. I saw Blackwood enter the camera, his gloomy face, the iron poker clung to his hand.

I was going to die. I knew it. They would sacrifice it, just as they were going to sacrifice me.

The masked figure began to sing, his voice echoed through the camera. The other members of the snake joined together, their voices rose in a cacophony of ancient words.

I closed my eyes, waiting for the end.

So, an accident. Blackwood threw himself forward, balancing the poker with surprising force. He hit one of the members of the hand, hitting him to the ground. Chaos exploded.

Blackwood fought as a possessed man, his rapid and brutal movements. But it was overcome in number. The members of the hand invaded him, his daggers shone in the flashing light in the candlelight.

I saw Blackwood fall, a dagger immersed himself in his chest. He looked at me, his eyes full of a mixture of pain and resignation.

Then, he spoke, his voice just a whisper: "The snake ... is inside ..."

He died.

The anger arose through me, eclipsing my fear. I fought against the ropes, desperate to free himself.

The masked figure approached me, his cold eyes and devoid of humanity. He raised a dagger, prepared to attack.

Then, the lights blinked and died. The darkness wrapped the camera.

The screams filled the air.

When the lights turned on again, the masked figure was gone. Mrs. Delacroix lay dead on the altar, a dagger that stood out from her chest.

And standing in the center of the camera, covered with blood, was Davies.

He took off his mask, revealing a face he knew, a face he trusted. But his eyes ... his eyes were different. They were cold, reptilian, full of an ancient and impious hunger. "The snake," I whispered. "It's you".

He smiled, a slow and chilling smile. "I am the snake, Isabelle. And you, dear, are my legacy."

He pounced towards me.

The trial was a media circus. Sergeant Davies, exposed as the leader of the snake's hand, was convicted of multiple positions of murder, conspiracy and ritualist abuse. The evidence was overwhelming, including Finch's notes, which finally fulfilled their purpose, exposing the darkness that had been feast for centuries.

The surviving members of the snake hand were arrested, their dismantled network. The city gave a collective sigh of relief.

I recovered physically, but the scars remained. I saw the darkness, I touched her. And I knew I would always be on the prowl, waiting for the opportunity to increase again.

I visited the Blackwood store, hidden files. It was closed, dusty and dark windows. A note was attached to the door: "missing."

He had gone, the last of Blackwood Line, the guardian of the secrets.

I walked away, the rain fell gently on my face. I looked at the city, the imposing buildings and the bustling streets. It seemed normal, ordinary.

But I knew the truth. Below the surface, the snake still stirred.

And I was the only one who knew. 

By Carlos del Puente relatos