Limbus, Inc.

Epilogue

It happened just as he had come to understand that it must. As Matthew turned the final page, as he left behind tales of sacrifices, of ancient gods, of unimaginable futures and beings that span time and space, it fell, fluttering almost, down to the table below, landing with the audible flop of thin, cream-colored card stock. Where had it hidden in the book he’d just read every page of? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was what it said on the front. There, printed in thick black letters that were illuminated by the day’s first rays of sunlight, was a name and a slogan that he didn’t have to read to know.

And that was it. No phone number. No email. No address. Nothing. He didn’t need it. Matthew had only a moment to comprehend the words when the bell rang and the door to his shop opened.

The man stood in the doorway, outlined by the dawning glow of a Boston morning. He stood there on the threshold. He did not move forward. And he did not speak. It took a moment for Matthew to realize he was waiting on an invitation.

“Come in,” he said, stuttering.

The man stepped out of the light, and somehow he was precisely what Matthew had expected. A proud face, marked by sharp features and an air of absolute authority. He wore a suit, nothing too fancy. Nothing that would stand out.

“Mr. Sellers,” he said, “I am Recruiter Hawthorne. And I have a job for you.”

As he crossed the short distance that separated the two men, Matthew shook his head.

“I don’t understand.”

Hawthorne smiled. “Ah, Mr. Sellers, let us not play games with one another. You know who I am, and you know for whom I work. I see you even have our business card.”

Matthew glanced from the card to Hawthorne and shuddered.

“One of our other employees visited you yesterday. He left you that book.” Hawthorne said, pointing down to the tattered manuscript that still sat on Matthew’s desk.

“Templeton was an employee of yours?” Matthew said, truly not understanding. The frail man who had come into his store only a day before was terrified of something. Now Matthew knew what that something was.

“Of a sort, yes. We are all workmen in this world, don’t you think? And if we do not always know exactly what the work entails — or even who pulls the strings behind the scenes — it is no great matter. I believe he presented you our offer, did he not?”

“Your offer? You mean you want this book published?”

Hawthorne reached down and rubbed his hand across the shabby cover of the manuscript. “It surprises you, does it? I suppose I can understand that. You think that we wish to hide our work from the world. Yes, it is true, I suppose — what we do, we tend to do in secret. But we do not wish to hide in the shadows. The whispers of our existence have grown too loud, and the curiosity of mankind is never satisfied. People will seek us out, and when they do there is no telling what trouble they may cause. No, Mr. Sellers, we hide best when we hide in the light. Make the story of Limbus one of fiction, one of myth, and one will no more look for us than they would the lands of Narnia or Middle-earth. But first, we need a publisher, Mr. Sellers. That is our offer of employment to you.”

“And what makes you think I would agree to that?”

Hawthorne looked around the shop, sweeping with his hand as if to include it all in one great gesture. “This is your dream, is it not? You built this with your own hands? And now you are in danger of losing it. I offer you a goldmine, sir. A book that will sell millions of copies. A story that will make you rich and perhaps even famous. The job is made for the man, Mr. Sellers. You are the only person who we believe is right for this employment.”

“Are the stories true?” Matthew asked.

The corner of Hawthorne’s mouth crept up into the hint of a smile. “To a measure. They are visions, you see. Visions of things that have been, things that are, and things that are yet to be. They are truth, to the extent that truth exists in this world.”

Hawthorne removed a single sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket and placed it on the desk.

“Our offer is simple, Mr. Sellers. We pay you a retainer fee to put you back on your feet. That is yours to keep, as are all the profits from sales of the work. We ask only for your discretion and a promise never to reveal from whom you received the book. Do we have an agreement?”

With a flick of his wrist, Hawthorne produced a pen, placing it on the desk. Matthew stared hard into Hawthorne’s unflinching eyes. He glanced from the pen to the manuscript to that single sheet of paper. And then he made his choice.