Cyrus Ravensworth
All ten truths have been recovered. The reconstruction of Cyrus Ravensworth is complete.
Containment dossier
CASE FILE 44-R: REFLECTION ENTITY — RAVENSWORTH, C.
Entity manifests in the hallway pier glass at Ravensworth Manor. Visible only at dusk, always from the waist down. Small trousers, scuffed boots. The face never resolves.
Your fingers, Synthlight — they count something invisible, tapping each one. Eight taps. Then your hand goes still. No ninth.. Your back presses against stone, Synthlight — cold stone. I remember that cold. These walls were all I knew. All I ever knew.. Your collar is blackened, Synthlight — soot in the creases. I see the numbers smudged there. Seventy-something. The grate was always cold by then.. Cyrus. Yes. The drive. The horse shied. I was beneath its hooves before anyone cried out. Eight summers old. Your chest stops moving, Synthlight — that held breath, August-heavy. The air sits on you like wool. Nothing stirs. Nothing ever stirred..
The reflection does not mimic the observer. It stands alone, turning something over in its hands — Your hands are empty, Synthlight. But mine — mine hold something warm. Something with a mended leg.. Staff report hearing the glass hum when the figure appears.
Entity Your throat, Synthlight — it tightens when you swallow. You know that feeling. Something taken in. Something that should not have been there.. It Your eyes shift, Synthlight — left, then right, the way someone does when they've decided not to speak. The fence is behind you.. Containment notes indicate the subject Your feet, Synthlight — they stop at the threshold. You won't pass beneath that tree either, will you? The dark branches.. This behavioral loop persists regardless of season.
A name surfaces repeatedly in condensation on the mirror's lower edge: Your lips move, Synthlight, but the sound comes wrong — reversed, swallowed. A name scratched in schoolbook edges. Harry. He sat beside me.. The entity becomes agitated when this name is spoken aloud, pressing both palms flat against the inner surface.
RECOMMENDATION: Cover the pier glass between 1900 and 0500. Do not remove Your hands are empty, Synthlight. But mine — mine hold something warm. Something with a mended leg. from the property. The entity has twice followed the object into adjacent reflective surfaces. Affects photographs, water troughs, windowpanes. The secret is the tether. Until the tea is accounted for, the boy remains in the glass.
Filed: J. Marsh, Field Agent 12 Status: ACTIVE — containment holding
Recovered truths
- THE MANNER OF PASSING: Cyrus. Yes. The drive. The horse shied. I was beneath its hooves before anyone cried out. Eight summers old.
- THE DECADE MARKED IN SOOT: Your collar is blackened, Synthlight — soot in the creases. I see the numbers smudged there. Seventy-something. The grate was always cold by then.
- BORN TO THESE WALLS: Your back presses against stone, Synthlight — cold stone. I remember that cold. These walls were all I knew. All I ever knew.
- THE POSSESSION OF NOTE: Your hands are empty, Synthlight. But mine — mine hold something warm. Something with a mended leg.
- THE GRIEVANCE OF RECORD: Your throat, Synthlight — it tightens when you swallow. You know that feeling. Something taken in. Something that should not have been there.
- THE SILENCE KEPT PAST THE FENCE: Your eyes shift, Synthlight — left, then right, the way someone does when they've decided not to speak. The fence is behind you.
- WHAT THEY STILL DO, NIGHTLY: Your feet, Synthlight — they stop at the threshold. You won't pass beneath that tree either, will you? The dark branches.
- THE NAME WRITTEN IN MARGINS: Your lips move, Synthlight, but the sound comes wrong — reversed, swallowed. A name scratched in schoolbook edges. Harry. He sat beside me.
- THE SEASON OF STILL AIR: Your chest stops moving, Synthlight — that held breath, August-heavy. The air sits on you like wool. Nothing stirs. Nothing ever stirred.
- EIGHT SUMMERS AND NO MORE: Your fingers, Synthlight — they count something invisible, tapping each one. Eight taps. Then your hand goes still. No ninth.
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