Post by Toadkiller Dog on Jun 5, 2012 7:19:41 GMT
The cellar door slowly inched open as if struggling against some invisible force, groaning all the way. A faint, extremely unpleasant stench wafted upwards towards Walter.
For a brief moment he considered turning around and running as fast as his legs would take him from this place. In fact if not for the others with him in the old, large house he'd have done just that. Seemingly endless darkness gazed up from the depths below, allowing only a few concrete stairs visibility from the Kitchen's overhead lighting.
And without anymore hesitation Walter flipped on the switch to his left. Within seconds the cellar began to light up. Someone was murmuring something about the wake as he descended the staircase. A few tables were filled with random laboratory equipment Walter couldn't dream of naming. Sealed barrels stood on end all over the place, any he tried to move didn't give, suggesting they were filled with some sort of liquid.
A small writing desk lay amongst heaps of books in the far corner. As good as any place to maybe even grasp some sort of clue as to why his uncle had all of a sudden vanished into thin air. Having to push many of the old heavy tomes aside to get to what appeared to be a large stack of notes, or letters, Walter noticed he couldn't read a single word of the texts layered into the covers of most of them. Not even in the way that scientific lingo appears as a foreign language to the average fellow, but rather as if the characters themselves were just of some strange alien language.
Perhaps some form of Latin coding?
Didn't matter, Uncle's notes were in plain old English, and Walter decided to take a seat to begin reading, after switching on the small desk lamp.
"Entry #1 (The Soul Project)
With great excitement I've begun what I hope to one day consider my life's greatest work! Today or rather tonight Cheryl and I will begin our research into what will hopefully prove the very existence of the fabled "soul" of man.
Be it used in religious context or even in just standardized notions, mankind has long believed in the fiery burning wisp within our own mortal coil called the soul. And if the past few years of research have paid off in the dividends I hope they have from not only my own, but also in Cheryl's arithmetic, then we may not only be able to prove it's existence, but possibly even replicate and produce a man-made example through modern science.
Entry #2.
The first attempt at starting the machine failed. In fact as did the second and third times as well. The fourth seen to blowing out the power of the entire household, possibly even over the entire property. The research put into this has been entirely sound, watertight even.
The plans for the machine were perfect, this result hadn't even crossed mine or Cheryl's minds. Perhaps we underestimated the raw energy consumption of the machine. No matter, this should only take a day, possibly even a few hours of recalibration and then in of course making sure to safeguard against total power failure again.
Entry #3.
Four hours and thirteen minutes to be exact. The time it took to recalibrate I mean. The machine is powered on, it's startup nearly gave me a heart attack! Thunderous enough to have broken out windows had there been any down here! But now it idles with a low, almost grumbling roar. Something akin to a very minor tremor pulsing through the air and floor.
It leaves Cheryl uneasy, so she claims.
We've worked for literally years to come this far now, how can the fruits of so much hard labor make one feel uneasy!? This is a time for immense excitement.
Entry #4.
Progress has practically come to a standstill. Something has to be wrong in our research. The machine rumbles with life and hungrily eats any and all catalysts we can throw into it, but it produces nothing. Not so much as steam, or even an odor, let alone what we assumed might be the crystalized form of the essence of a soul.
I think however I know what's wrong, the more I think on it. While the planning coming into this project was immense it did seem almost too simple in method to produce ending results. I believe perhaps it was, indeed. With just a bit of time I think I can make this work yet.
Entry #5.
Frustration. Frustration fills my every move because no matter how many times I pour over the research texts, no matter how many times I retrace back over the ancient text copies, nothing seems to work.
Everything is in place, everything is in peak, working condition, and yet not even a hint of progress is being glimpsed. We followed the texts without any exception, down to every single, minute detail. It has to be the machine, something is not right in it's calibration or, dread I even think it, but perhaps it's very making and construction.
Entry #7.
Something is amiss. Entry number six has gone entirely missing. I tried to retrace my steps in the basic construction of the machine. But it's gone now. I'm positive I wrote it, and Cheryl claims she even saw me finish the entry and stack it on top of the rest on my work desk...but yet it's nowhere to be found, and no one other than herself and I have been down here...except...actually, no, Simon.
Entry #8.
Simon has been fired. I cannot understand his reasoning. We've been good chums for over a decade, and I paid him handsomely for his simple, civilian assistance in this project. Yet who else could have taken entry six? I was willing to let this go until I discovered with horror that the blue print plans for the machine are in disarray now as well.
Simon has pinched pages from the print...I'd bet he plans to capitalize on my invention by selling it to the university...I'll beat him to the punch, I will. I'll inform them that someone has stolen my work and to be watchful of it...surely they will believe one of their own graduates. HIGHEST HONORS!
But the plans...why would he leave some pages behind? This whole situation has brought great stress to Cheryl, I'm afraid. We were so very close to securing what could have been the biggest scientific breakthrough of the century. No matter, plans or not, the machine is still here with us. It's rumbling purr sings me to sleep nightly. We will continue.
Entry #9.
I'm unsure of what game Simon has been playing at but I particularly don't find it amusing. The university knows nothing of any of my research, though they'd be willing possibly to pay for copies of my notes... This I thought to be Simon's motives in stealing my plans and that journal entry detailing a possible reworking of the machine.
However why has he not attempted to sell the information yet? In fact he still calls to question my decision to fire him, begging for a reconsideration, and insisting I've made a mistake regarding his involvement in this theft. To hell with Simon.
Entry #10.
Things have turned from bad to worse.
I awoke to that thunderous quake the machine spit forth the first time it powered on weeks ago. Thinking the construct had finally fed itself up with sitting idle, and exploded I rushed to the cellar. The entire room was bathed in a sort of purplish glow, a low whimpering sound chugging from behind the main body of the machine.
Perhaps some form of delayed progress? I thought to myself anyway, as I called for Cheryl to come down, wondering how the explosion hadn't already sent her down here.
It only took a few moments, but perhaps it was a few too late for me to realize that the whimpering didn't come from the machine, but rather the crumpled form of Cheryl behind it.
There she lay, sprawled on her back clutching a wrench in one tightly gripped fist, her ankle at an odd, unnatural angle beside her. She refused to explain what had happened, but only insisted that she recuperate outside of the house, at least while the machine was here.
I can only deduce that she must have come down here in an act of selfless kindness to perhaps attempt those reworked calibration tweaks by what she could remember without the aid of the notes. Perhaps as a means to cheer me up from the deep depression that has overcame me as of late in light of the recent events regarding those damned plans. How she suffered such a terrible injury to herself as a result I'm still unclear on however.
She wants nothing to do with the machine. She'll come around though, I will give her the space she asks for."
Someone had called Walter's name from above. He rubbed his eyes before glancing at the face of his watch. Close to an hour had passed since he'd first come down to the cellar.
As he padded upstairs he turned around to examine the cellar again. Hoping to catch sight of the machine mentioned in his uncle's journal entries. Nothing even close came into view. In fact, anything bigger than a billiards table wouldn't fit down here regardless of how many of the heavy barrels were rearranged.
Walter was greeted at the top of the stairs by the smiling, beautiful face of Natalie, his childhood friend, and the woman he secretly wished would one day be his bride. She informed him that his mother was looking for him.
"There you are Walt. Were you rummaging through your uncle's belongings just now?" She asked as he emerged into the kitchen.
"Yeah...uh, Mom, how long was Uncle George working on his machine? And who is..." He was cut off by her confused expression as she replied.
"What machine, Walt? George...my brother was a Scientist, not an Engineer."
"I mean...the machine he...the one he and Cheryl were working on for years, the one they'd been researching."
"Walter... who's Cheryl?"
Her answer took him by surprise. The way he'd talked about his assistant, whom he seemed to hold great affection for, he'd assumed she wasn't someone he would have kept secret from his little sister. Let alone the rest of the immediate family.
"You know mom, Cheryl. The woman he had been working on his research with for a while. I think she might have come from the university too."
His mother frowned hard at this comment and looked at him with uncertainty for more than a few moments before answering.
"George lived alone Walter. Your grandmother used to worry that he'd die alone, hunched over a table full of test tubes... Where did you hear of this Cheryl woman? Look, we gotta get going, we'll haul some more loads later in the week. We need to have dinner, the rest of the family will be in town soon. We'll talk more about this in the car. Tell Nat we're going."
~To Be Continued. (In a timely manner hopefully.)
For a brief moment he considered turning around and running as fast as his legs would take him from this place. In fact if not for the others with him in the old, large house he'd have done just that. Seemingly endless darkness gazed up from the depths below, allowing only a few concrete stairs visibility from the Kitchen's overhead lighting.
And without anymore hesitation Walter flipped on the switch to his left. Within seconds the cellar began to light up. Someone was murmuring something about the wake as he descended the staircase. A few tables were filled with random laboratory equipment Walter couldn't dream of naming. Sealed barrels stood on end all over the place, any he tried to move didn't give, suggesting they were filled with some sort of liquid.
A small writing desk lay amongst heaps of books in the far corner. As good as any place to maybe even grasp some sort of clue as to why his uncle had all of a sudden vanished into thin air. Having to push many of the old heavy tomes aside to get to what appeared to be a large stack of notes, or letters, Walter noticed he couldn't read a single word of the texts layered into the covers of most of them. Not even in the way that scientific lingo appears as a foreign language to the average fellow, but rather as if the characters themselves were just of some strange alien language.
Perhaps some form of Latin coding?
Didn't matter, Uncle's notes were in plain old English, and Walter decided to take a seat to begin reading, after switching on the small desk lamp.
"Entry #1 (The Soul Project)
With great excitement I've begun what I hope to one day consider my life's greatest work! Today or rather tonight Cheryl and I will begin our research into what will hopefully prove the very existence of the fabled "soul" of man.
Be it used in religious context or even in just standardized notions, mankind has long believed in the fiery burning wisp within our own mortal coil called the soul. And if the past few years of research have paid off in the dividends I hope they have from not only my own, but also in Cheryl's arithmetic, then we may not only be able to prove it's existence, but possibly even replicate and produce a man-made example through modern science.
Entry #2.
The first attempt at starting the machine failed. In fact as did the second and third times as well. The fourth seen to blowing out the power of the entire household, possibly even over the entire property. The research put into this has been entirely sound, watertight even.
The plans for the machine were perfect, this result hadn't even crossed mine or Cheryl's minds. Perhaps we underestimated the raw energy consumption of the machine. No matter, this should only take a day, possibly even a few hours of recalibration and then in of course making sure to safeguard against total power failure again.
Entry #3.
Four hours and thirteen minutes to be exact. The time it took to recalibrate I mean. The machine is powered on, it's startup nearly gave me a heart attack! Thunderous enough to have broken out windows had there been any down here! But now it idles with a low, almost grumbling roar. Something akin to a very minor tremor pulsing through the air and floor.
It leaves Cheryl uneasy, so she claims.
We've worked for literally years to come this far now, how can the fruits of so much hard labor make one feel uneasy!? This is a time for immense excitement.
Entry #4.
Progress has practically come to a standstill. Something has to be wrong in our research. The machine rumbles with life and hungrily eats any and all catalysts we can throw into it, but it produces nothing. Not so much as steam, or even an odor, let alone what we assumed might be the crystalized form of the essence of a soul.
I think however I know what's wrong, the more I think on it. While the planning coming into this project was immense it did seem almost too simple in method to produce ending results. I believe perhaps it was, indeed. With just a bit of time I think I can make this work yet.
Entry #5.
Frustration. Frustration fills my every move because no matter how many times I pour over the research texts, no matter how many times I retrace back over the ancient text copies, nothing seems to work.
Everything is in place, everything is in peak, working condition, and yet not even a hint of progress is being glimpsed. We followed the texts without any exception, down to every single, minute detail. It has to be the machine, something is not right in it's calibration or, dread I even think it, but perhaps it's very making and construction.
Entry #7.
Something is amiss. Entry number six has gone entirely missing. I tried to retrace my steps in the basic construction of the machine. But it's gone now. I'm positive I wrote it, and Cheryl claims she even saw me finish the entry and stack it on top of the rest on my work desk...but yet it's nowhere to be found, and no one other than herself and I have been down here...except...actually, no, Simon.
Entry #8.
Simon has been fired. I cannot understand his reasoning. We've been good chums for over a decade, and I paid him handsomely for his simple, civilian assistance in this project. Yet who else could have taken entry six? I was willing to let this go until I discovered with horror that the blue print plans for the machine are in disarray now as well.
Simon has pinched pages from the print...I'd bet he plans to capitalize on my invention by selling it to the university...I'll beat him to the punch, I will. I'll inform them that someone has stolen my work and to be watchful of it...surely they will believe one of their own graduates. HIGHEST HONORS!
But the plans...why would he leave some pages behind? This whole situation has brought great stress to Cheryl, I'm afraid. We were so very close to securing what could have been the biggest scientific breakthrough of the century. No matter, plans or not, the machine is still here with us. It's rumbling purr sings me to sleep nightly. We will continue.
Entry #9.
I'm unsure of what game Simon has been playing at but I particularly don't find it amusing. The university knows nothing of any of my research, though they'd be willing possibly to pay for copies of my notes... This I thought to be Simon's motives in stealing my plans and that journal entry detailing a possible reworking of the machine.
However why has he not attempted to sell the information yet? In fact he still calls to question my decision to fire him, begging for a reconsideration, and insisting I've made a mistake regarding his involvement in this theft. To hell with Simon.
Entry #10.
Things have turned from bad to worse.
I awoke to that thunderous quake the machine spit forth the first time it powered on weeks ago. Thinking the construct had finally fed itself up with sitting idle, and exploded I rushed to the cellar. The entire room was bathed in a sort of purplish glow, a low whimpering sound chugging from behind the main body of the machine.
Perhaps some form of delayed progress? I thought to myself anyway, as I called for Cheryl to come down, wondering how the explosion hadn't already sent her down here.
It only took a few moments, but perhaps it was a few too late for me to realize that the whimpering didn't come from the machine, but rather the crumpled form of Cheryl behind it.
There she lay, sprawled on her back clutching a wrench in one tightly gripped fist, her ankle at an odd, unnatural angle beside her. She refused to explain what had happened, but only insisted that she recuperate outside of the house, at least while the machine was here.
I can only deduce that she must have come down here in an act of selfless kindness to perhaps attempt those reworked calibration tweaks by what she could remember without the aid of the notes. Perhaps as a means to cheer me up from the deep depression that has overcame me as of late in light of the recent events regarding those damned plans. How she suffered such a terrible injury to herself as a result I'm still unclear on however.
She wants nothing to do with the machine. She'll come around though, I will give her the space she asks for."
Someone had called Walter's name from above. He rubbed his eyes before glancing at the face of his watch. Close to an hour had passed since he'd first come down to the cellar.
As he padded upstairs he turned around to examine the cellar again. Hoping to catch sight of the machine mentioned in his uncle's journal entries. Nothing even close came into view. In fact, anything bigger than a billiards table wouldn't fit down here regardless of how many of the heavy barrels were rearranged.
Walter was greeted at the top of the stairs by the smiling, beautiful face of Natalie, his childhood friend, and the woman he secretly wished would one day be his bride. She informed him that his mother was looking for him.
"There you are Walt. Were you rummaging through your uncle's belongings just now?" She asked as he emerged into the kitchen.
"Yeah...uh, Mom, how long was Uncle George working on his machine? And who is..." He was cut off by her confused expression as she replied.
"What machine, Walt? George...my brother was a Scientist, not an Engineer."
"I mean...the machine he...the one he and Cheryl were working on for years, the one they'd been researching."
"Walter... who's Cheryl?"
Her answer took him by surprise. The way he'd talked about his assistant, whom he seemed to hold great affection for, he'd assumed she wasn't someone he would have kept secret from his little sister. Let alone the rest of the immediate family.
"You know mom, Cheryl. The woman he had been working on his research with for a while. I think she might have come from the university too."
His mother frowned hard at this comment and looked at him with uncertainty for more than a few moments before answering.
"George lived alone Walter. Your grandmother used to worry that he'd die alone, hunched over a table full of test tubes... Where did you hear of this Cheryl woman? Look, we gotta get going, we'll haul some more loads later in the week. We need to have dinner, the rest of the family will be in town soon. We'll talk more about this in the car. Tell Nat we're going."
~To Be Continued. (In a timely manner hopefully.)