"Skreeee!!!"
A sharp, twisted, painful shriek, utterly unlike anything a normal creature could produce, tore through the sky. The sound seemed to act directly upon the soul, making the eardrums of everyone in the carriage ache and their heads throb with splitting pain.
The giant claw of the Byakhee retracted violently, and its sickening, massive body writhed and tumbled convulsively in the air.
This brief interruption and pain bought Wright a precious fraction of a second; the intense agony and the monster's shriek acted like a bucket of ice water, jolting him awake.
The instinct for survival overcame his fear. He bit down hard on the tip of his tongue, and under the stimulation of the sharp pain, his unfocused eyes instantly sharpened.
He gripped the steering wheel tightly, using all his strength to jerk it just as the vehicle was about to collide with the guardrail!
"Screech!"
The tires emitted a harsh screech against the pavement. Under the immense inertia, the rear of the car swung out violently, narrowly sliding past the edge of the guardrail and leaving a long trail of sparks!
In the rearview mirror, the Byakhee's massive, twisted body steadied itself amidst its tumbling. However, it seemed to have lost interest in the metal cage speeding below, or perhaps Watson's will-imbued bombardment had made it feel threatened.
It let out an even sharper shriek, its gaze, filled with resentment and malice, sweeping over the group. With a violent flap of its massive, fleshy wings, it whipped up a foul-smelling gale, and its huge body eerily dissolved into the churning, thick dark clouds above, vanishing from sight.
...
The mountain breeze carried the distinct chill of the forest, yet it could not dispel the heavy stench of blood, gunpowder, and decay inside the car.
The station wagon, emitting faint wisps of black smoke, slowly came to a halt before the closed cast-iron gates of Clavius Seminary.
The roof was severely dented and deformed, covered in traces of corrosive slime and deep claw marks. The windshield was covered in spiderweb cracks, and the side and rear windows were completely gone, leaving only jagged frames.
The car body was riddled with bullet holes, scratches, and impact dents. The left rearview mirror was missing, and an ominous hissing sound of air leaking, along with the abnormal grinding of metal, emanated from under the hood.
The interior was a wreck; shattered glass covered the seats and floor, shimmering in the dim light.
Watson leaned against the battered car door. A military surgeon's instinct made him immediately check his own injuries; the scratch on his cheek was shallow, but the gash on his arm from the glass was still oozing blood.
He tore off the hem of his shirt and, his movements somewhat clumsy from exhaustion, performed a simple bandage. The shotgun lay on the floor at his feet, its barrel searing hot.
As a doctor and a soldier, he had seen countless deaths and traumas, but tonight's experiences—from the living corpses in the morgue to that monster from the stars on the mountain road—had completely overturned his understanding of the world.
"Sherlock, I have to say, I sort of regret coming with you."
"My apologies."
Holmes remained expressionless, showing not a hint of remorse.
"However, it is too late for you to regret it now."
"Besides, you are actually more accustomed to this kind of exciting life, aren't you?"
Holmes raised a hand to wipe away the tiny bloodstains on his face caused by glass shards. He first checked on Catherine in the backseat; the girl had merely fainted, her breathing shallow but steady, and there was a bruise on her temple.
Then he looked toward Wright.
Wright was slumped in the driver's seat, his face as pale as paper. His hands were still gripping the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles stiff from excessive force, unable to let go.
He was panting rapidly, every breath carrying the tremor of a survivor. His forehead rested against the cold steering wheel, sweat mixed with dust streaming down, and heavy shadows lay beneath his tightly closed eyes.
After confirming that everyone was only exhausted and had no major injuries, Holmes turned his gaze outside the car.
Clavius Seminary's Gothic Revival spires pierced the leaden sky in the deepening night. Dim, flickering candlelight shone from within the massive stained-glass windows. The cast-iron gates were tightly shut, and above the lintel was a sculpture of the suffering Christ, but in the dim light, that compassionate face appeared blurred and twisted.
The entire complex was shrouded in dead silence; not a single human voice could be heard, only the wailing of the mountain wind through the forest and the "ticking" sound of the station wagon's engine cooling down.
"We have arrived," Holmes's voice broke the silence, low and hoarse. "The place where Joseph fled, and the source of all the dangers in his warning."
He pushed open the car door; the grating sound of metal was jarringly loud in the silence. The cold mountain wind rushed in, ruffling his unruly black hair.
He stood beside the car, looking up at the eerie building. There was no fear in his gray eyes, only a near-cold focus and a burning desire for a challenge.
A faint groan came from the backseat. Catherine slowly regained consciousness, the bruise on her temple standing out sharply against her pale skin.
She looked around blankly, but when her gaze touched the cast-iron gates, her pupils contracted violently, and her body began to tremble involuntarily.
"Brother... it was from here..."
Her words were interrupted by a sob, and tears slid down silently.
Watson flexed his bandaged arm; the pain made him frown slightly.
He picked up the shotgun from his lap, checked the ammunition, and tucked the pistol Holmes had given him earlier into his waistband.
"This place... is excessively quiet."
He said in a low voice, a soldier's instinct making him uneasy.
"Quiet as a grave."
Wright finally struggled out of the driver's seat, his face still as pale as paper, the cold sweat on his forehead cooling rapidly in the night wind.
Holmes turned to the group, giving clear instructions:
"Now, put away all unease and questions."
"Watson, ensure your weapons are accessible but not overly conspicuous."
"Wright, adjust your breathing. You are a detective; reason is your weapon. Do not let fear cloud it."
"Miss Hawkins, stay close to Dr. Watson. No matter what you see or hear, remain silent. Your primary task is to ensure your own safety."
"Remember, prioritize your own safety above all else, and act according to the situation."
Just then, a heavy, slow "creak" broke the silence of the mountains.
The cast-iron gates opened inward, leaving a gap, and flickering light spilled from the crack, casting a long, narrow beam of dim yellow light on the ground.
A figure appeared in the beam of light.
It was a stout middle-aged man wearing dark blue work clothes, holding an old-fashioned storm lantern.
The light illuminated his weather-beaten face and wary eyes. He stood inside the gate, his gaze sweeping sharply over the battered station wagon and the four uninvited guests outside, his brows furrowed tightly.
"Who are you?"
The caretaker's voice was raspy, carrying a heavy local accent and undisguised caution.
"This is the Theological Seminary, private property. What is the matter at this late hour?"
His gaze lingered for a moment, particularly on Holmes and Watson's elegant clothing, which was out of place for the era, and the silhouette of the shotgun Watson was deliberately trying to conceal by turning his body.
Wright suppressed the discomfort in his throat and stepped forward, trying to make his voice sound steady and professional: "Good evening, I am Wright Williams, a private detective."
"This is Mr. Sherlock and Dr. Watson, my assistants, and Miss Catherine Hawkins, Joseph Hawkins's sister."
"We are special consultants for the police department, here regarding Joseph's unfortunate incident. There are some matters the police department needs to understand further from Dean Claire."
"At the same time, Miss Hawkins would also like to see the place where Joseph lived, perhaps to find some... mementos, to help her alleviate the pain caused by this heartbreaking tragedy."
He presented the temporary consultant credentials issued by Sheriff Marcus, deliberately emphasizing "police department" and "tragedy," attempting to find a balance between official authorization and humanitarian concern.
The caretaker took the credentials, moved them closer to the lantern to examine them carefully, and then looked up to scrutinize the four of them suspiciously, especially Catherine, who was pale and teary-eyed.
He was silent for a few seconds, seemingly weighing the situation.
Soft footsteps came from inside the gate, and another, younger caretaker appeared behind him, asking about the situation in a low voice.
Finally, the older caretaker handed the credentials back, his tone slightly softened but his caution remaining: "Wait here, I will go inform the Dean."
He turned and gave a few low instructions to the younger caretaker, who nodded and remained at the gate to keep watch, while he himself, carrying the lantern, quickly disappeared into the deeper shadows within the gate.