Abyss Train

Chapter 824 Introduction Latia Morrigan's Doctor's Bag
[Part ①·The most important item]
"Next, you need to be mentally prepared."

When I stepped into the newspaper office and spoke directly to the editor-in-chief of The Sun, I said this:

——The young man in his twenties with greasy hair and powdered face seemed not to realize how important this matter was. He did not recognize me, did not recognize David Victor, and naturally did not recognize Latia Morrigan.

He doesn't remember my face, let alone the pen name I used.

It wasn't until I passed the proof-coated paper magazine rack and sat in the editor-in-chief's office that I felt at home. Green invited his father in, and the family business finally started to work properly.

"Ms. Latia Morrigan?" Mr. Green asked anxiously.

I immediately responded, "Yes, I used that name in 1961."

Mr. Green immediately straightened his attitude: "Mr. Victor, are you here to pick up the stories you wrote before? Do you want to republish them?"

"No, the contents of these stories have never been officially published," I corrected immediately. "Not long ago, they were just scattered materials, rotting and smelling leftovers in the kitchen, and they were no longer fresh."

As I said this, I opened my doctor's bag and took out a few Yellow Pages folders at the bottom.

“It may be more accurate than the previous manuscript.”

For a moment, I couldn't find the right adjectives to describe these materials.

I thought about it for a long time, and finally said it firmly and persistently.

"It's weird, yes, it's really weird."

"A fantasy story like Weird Tales, Lovecraft? Or Frankenstein? It's almost in the last era - it's mostly told from a first-person perspective."

Just like the quote I leave you now, these works belong to Latia Morrigan, another incarnation of David Victor - I would never publish these stories in newspapers under a male pseudonym because their style is inconsistent and my readers might find it difficult to accept.

"Does it need to be revised again?" Mr. Green was very cautious. After the lesson last time, his strategy for soliciting articles became more conservative.

Come to think of it, sending the draft to the front page without anyone's consent?

This kind of behavior makes me so angry that the last time I ran to the newspaper office and beat his son. If it happens again, I will break his penis.

"Please help me, I didn't write the header and footer, and some annotations are missing." I responded: "If possible, try not to modify the original content."

"The first story." Mr. Green rang the summoning bell and called the little helper -

——A freckled girl wearing glasses and looking puzzled came in through the half-open door. I recognized her. She was a reporter for The Sun and had been working in the field for more than six years. Only in recent months had she been replaced by a newcomer, Ms. Yunqing. Her name was Cortana and she was Spanish.

"Hello, Mr. Victor!" Cortana wanted to shake hands as she came in. I didn't understand this inexplicable enthusiasm, but I could accept it.

"Hello to you too." I didn't want to say any more nonsense and handed the manuscript to Kotana's arms.

——Then he took the girl away to the editor's office and asked her to start work quickly.

To be honest, I hate the working mode of the Sun, including this big and crowded office, with 56 people on the first floor and 32 people on the second floor. They are like worms hiding behind the telephone lines, taking the text messages sent back by field reporters as nutrients, and then processing them repeatedly, modifying the excrement, and then turning it into chocolate-flavored feces for readers.

The new era of Internet self-media seems to be even worse. People put forward an opinion, and then circulate it repeatedly from forum to forum, modify it repeatedly, eat it in the mouth and pull it out from the ass - the story changes again and again, but users still buy it.

It's like a simple notice, but we have to ponder it over and over again, study the code words in all aspects, and start to evolve different versions of conspiracy theories, creating anxiety and confrontation. It seems that if we don't do this, media people will no longer be able to make a living.

"Mr. Victor?" Cortana was ready.

I finally came to my senses, turned on my WALKMAN, and stuffed a blank tape into it, intending to record the audio version of this story as well.

"The protagonist of the story is named Sam Walker."

"The main title of the story is "Sixteen Pieces of My Lovely Wife"—"

——Speaking of this, Kotana's expression obviously changed subtly. She was a little surprised, perhaps she didn't expect that I would use such a big topic like the story of a street stall.

I immediately asked, “What’s the problem?”

"No! No!" Kotana continued reading.

My thoughts went back to twenty-six years ago, along with the scratchy sound of the tape recording and the bright yet cool blue light in the office, on this drowsy and hot afternoon.

I returned to Bratislava Castle, one of my ancestral homes.

Eighteen kilometers towards Vienna's international airport, passing a floating hotel, the road along the river became increasingly foggy.

When we arrived at our destination, it was almost noon, and it was also the time when a pizza shop near the ruins of Hansberg Castle was preparing for its anniversary ceremony.

I remember very clearly that Sam Walker was driving an old Alfa Romeo car and had just returned from St. Stephen's Cathedral. I found him and talked to him in the car for four hours.

——So the story begins here, and from this man's mouth, there come out incredible, terrifying and bizarre bits of past events.

The next perspective will shift to Sam Walker's first-person perspective.

These words belong to him, they are Sam Walker's experience, they are the ins and outs of [Hell's Highway] as seen through these haggard eyes, through this haggard brain.

[Part②·Low Point]
It's always raining in Vienna. In spring and summer, God is like an orphan whose parents just died, and he's in mourning for six months straight.

There was a hot and humid smell coming from the woods, and the saw blade of the saw machine left in the backyard was completely fucking rusted!
I can't find a job. It seems that this damn place called New Sidre doesn't need postmen. There are hardly any living people - there is nothing except some ancient ruins and rotten castles made of stones!

Apart from the forest ranger and the fox, apart from these beasts, there seems to be no good person to be found.

My name is Sam Walker -

"——Hey! Sam! Has anything good happened in the past half month?"

I said to myself, to myself hanging in the air -

——Be calm and be hopeful.

It's just a trap, I'm fine, I'm fine.

These are traps I set myself. Squirrels often steal the grains in the bird feeder, and many red foxes also suddenly visit my cabin.

So I was caught in the trap I set myself - which made sense.

"Think about it, Sam." I will continue to encourage myself: "Recall that Margaret has taken yoga classes to keep her body flexible."

"Hey!"

I tried my best to curl up my body, slowly turn my waist and touch the damn rope.

then
Yep!
Grab it!
"Hey!~ Hey!~"

I was panting like a cow. Asthma had robbed me of most of my strength in childhood and left me with terrible sequelae.

I don't want to die here, I don't want to die so stupidly, I don't want to say goodbye to Margaret like this.
We were just engaged, just engaged—

——With no tools at hand, I can only hope that this diamond ring is sharp and hard enough.

Grab the upper of the shoe, cut it hard, and drag it repeatedly to cut the hemp rope!

Yes! I am going to be saved!
No, no, no, I saved myself! I must survive! "Plop!——"

I could hear the crunch of bones hitting the dirt, and I had no idea what that meant, maybe broken ribs?

It hurt so much that I couldn't breathe, and my whole face started to steam and my tears started to flow - oh my God, Sam.

Sam Walker, can you really be a good husband?
Can you do this? You seem to have just grown up, as if you had just crawled out of the nursery.

I found a foothold next to the fence, grabbed a sturdy wooden wedge, and slowly stood up among a pile of rotten maple leaves.

The clothes were smelly and wet, and it was hard to imagine that Margaret would want to live here with me, in this secluded suburb, and spend the rest of her life with me.

I have no parents and no house.

This is the only thing I can give Margaret -

——This is our future home.

I slowly walked back to the restaurant from the backyard door, my mind was a mess. When I saw the anonymous letter on the table, I started to feel irritated for no apparent reason.

6◇9◇Book◇Bar

Since I lost my job more than half a month ago, I have received this kind of letter almost every two days. There are only two tickets in it, which seems to be an endless prank and harassment without a beginning or an end.

I am the postman of Little New Sidre, and I was just fired by the post office. Maybe I offended someone at work before, and they want to torture me in this way.

As for the specific content of the ticket?
Skydome Station? London, England?

Oh my god! How can I travel to England when I can’t even afford the gas?

"Margaret."

This girl was all I had in my mind, and it seemed that any pain was bearable as long as I thought of her. There was still hope in life, Sam Walker, Sam Walker was getting married.

I have no parents and come from a remote fishing village in the countryside of Portsmouth. My wedding was simple, I had few friends, and the ones I could talk to were all gamblers.

Margaret and I are almost from two different worlds. She volunteers at the church and is a nurse. She occasionally goes to the fire station to express her condolences to the fire-fighting heroes.

She has two dogs and often takes them for a morning run along the river road in Little Neusiedl.

That's how we met. I was driving a three-wheeled vehicle delivering mail, and we happened to glance at each other a few more times.

Every time I say -

"Dog-walking lady! You are so beautiful!"

She would also respond: "Mr. Postman! You are so handsome!"

Just at this time--

——The sudden ringing of the doorbell woke me up from my warm and sweet memories.

That restless feeling is back! The new postman has taken my job, and now he's trying to destroy my quiet and peaceful life.

I was so angry that I almost ran out of the door!

I grabbed the man's collar and pulled him towards me, and suddenly I felt an inexplicable chill.

Look at him—

——Look at his appearance.

The gray-black raincoat looked like it was fished out of the water, and his wet skin was bloodless.

The new postman seemed to feel no pain, even though he had just climbed onto the driving seat of the tricycle and was pulled towards me - his earlobe seemed to have been cut by the helmet, revealing a little bit of dark brown sticky liquid.

I don't understand, I don't get it, this guy seems to have a very serious skin disease - his face is like a wriggling mass of mud, with no expression at all.

"Mr. Walker." The new postman spoke, "You have a new package."

I was terrified by this scene and started coughing violently again. The midday hot and humid air rushed into my lungs - it seemed to awaken painful memories of my asthma as a child.

The new postman climbed into the car and walked away silently without saying a word.

I pulled a wet, sticky square paper package from the rusty mailbox. From its outline, it looked like a book.

I felt a little relieved, at least this time it wasn't some strange train ticket. I took it back to the living room, and the sun outside seemed to be getting brighter and the weather was getting clearer.

As I cleaned the kitchen, I recalled the picnic I had with Margarita a few days ago. We exchanged rings by the woods by the lake.

Tear open the brown cover of the package and carefully identify the sending information on the letter.

"Portsmouth Harbour, Chadderton Castle"

This email location makes me break out in a cold sweat——

——This is the terrible memory in my heart from my childhood, the lingering shadow of horror.

The dark yellow stamp seemed to be stained with blood. I didn't know if it was mud or if I was really hallucinating and mistook the fishy-sweet smell for blood.

But I remember, eight or nine? Or younger?
I followed the Red Cross of the fishing village to Chaderton Castle. I had to go to the church to listen to the sermons, which could be exchanged for some food and candy. If I could recite a few sentences, I could get eight pounds. I didn't understand this strange ceremony - but I still did it.

The owner of the castle was a young, beautiful and elegant lady with a pair of eyes as beautiful as rubies.

I couldn't forget those eyes, but later it turned into a horrifying instinct. Every time I thought of it, I would tremble involuntarily - I seemed to have lost some of my memory about this castle, perhaps because I was too young, or perhaps I forgot.

"What is this?"

I opened the cover, revealing the book cover with an inverted pentagram seal inside, and smelled a more familiar scent!
"This"

I can hardly believe it, I'm going crazy
It seemed as if the gaps in the oak panels of the cabin had begun to melt, and the mountain breeze blowing in through the gaps in the door grew stronger.

Opening the first page of the book, I found a bloody hand hidden inside the thick book.

I remember Margaret's taste, I remember her smell -

——This hand touched the elm rosary in the church and held up the Holy Rosary. It smelled of the fishy stench of a pet dog, the smell of hospital disinfectant, and a little bit of tequila.
I still couldn't believe it. It seemed that everything was collapsing, except for this hand. This evil book began to tremble, and the tables, chairs and houses were gradually collapsing.
I couldn't stand and my legs just felt weak.

"Margaret!"

The sun shone on her severed limbs and on her engagement diamond ring.

"Margaret! Margaret!"

It suddenly moved! It slowly rose from the book, like a zombie reaching its fingers out of a grave.

As I was about to collapse, the last bit of blood slowly drained away
"My God!"

(End of this chapter)