The Bandalore

by D K Girl

  ‘Who is there?’ For there was someone, he knew it. Someone not of this life. ‘Show yourself.’

  The air at the foot of the bed grew dense, as though a lone cloud had found itself trapped in the room. The mass contorted, bulging and contracting, until a discernible form grew. Silas took a step back, finding himself against the window ledge, and praying he might go further.

  The stocky, wide-shouldered man was translucent but vivid in detail. A balding head, a chin that blended into his neck, eyes like black coals. But it was the gaping wound upon his neck that caused Silas the greatest consternation. The gash was wide as a finger, and spilling a torrent of blood that soaked the man all down the side of his light brown waistcoat and onto his trousers. Death by slit throat, clearly. And it was a very unpleasant affair to gaze upon. Teeth near to chattering, Silas considered his next move. And decided upon the simplest route.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ He swallowed. ‘I am Silas Mercer.’

  The blood streamed, pooling around the man’s feet.

  ‘The ankou.’ It was more hiss of escaping air than speech.

  ‘Yes.’ Silas nodded, uncertain if he should expect violence. He eyed his coat, and the bandalore within its pocket.

  ‘You have finally come.’ The hiss shifted to something akin to a person speaking underwater. ‘I sensed your blade.’

  Silas nodded, rigid as a statue. What rhetoric was suitable here? He tightened his fist. Ahari must have taken leave of his senses to give Silas no training to speak of. ‘So you understand then…that I come to…send you…on your way.’

  At the very least Mr Ahari might have said that such a conversation was even possible.

  ‘At long last.’ The reply held more than a smudge of frustration. ‘But you’d do well to turn your attentions elsewhere first. There is great need of you, ankou. But not for us that lies within these walls. There is a creature far fouler to be dealt with.’

  Silas might tear his skin if he clenched his fists any tighter.

  ‘I don’t understand, what creature?’ His teeth chattered, the chill of the room rising. And there was a coppery tang upon the air. The waft of blood.

  ‘He spoke of her, I am sure.’ The man swayed, as though hit by the gentlest of breezes. ‘Clarence.’

  Not only could the lost souls converse, they understood things of the world around them. Pulling at his collar, seeking greater ease of breath, Silas said, ‘Are you speaking of Black Annis?’

  ‘A monster’s been made of that soul. A darkness took her.’ The flow of blood from the man’s neck pulsed, sputtered, then resumed its cascade. His arm was a crimson length of limb. But his words were more disturbing.

  A knock came at the door, and a voice called out, ‘Mr Mercer, I have your hot water.’ But it was not the voice Silas had expected. He stared straight though the unfortunate apparition, to the door where Clarence stood beyond the oak.

  ‘I am no threat,’ the soul gurgled. ‘Nor does he fear me. Clarence is touched. Not all must be a creature of the supernatural to know them, and he is one who sees between the layers of the veil.’

  ‘Mr Mercer?’ Came the call again. Another knock. ‘Is all well?’

  ‘Yes, yes, everything is…fine.’

  The apparition contracted, shifting and contorting once more. ‘Bade him enter. You must listen to the man.’

  After the slightest hesitation, Silas summoned the new arrival. ‘Come in.’

  Clarence fairly burst into the room, bucket in hand. He shuddered. ‘Oh, has your fire not been set? I did…’ His sentence died as he regarded the hearth. The swell of flames abundant behind the brass fire screen. He turned to Silas.

  ‘He’s here, isn’t he?’ His breath was a soft white upon the air, his eyes searching. ‘Simon?’

  ‘That is not my name.’ The lost soul folded his bloodied arms, and thankfully the movement did not send further spurts of blood into the air. ‘He might be touched but he does not hear. Tell him I have no liking for the name I’ve been given.’

  Silas, somewhat flustered, ignored the apparition’s request. ‘You are right, Clarence. We are not alone.’ Though it appeared the valet would have to take his word for it. Clarence peered around the room, overlooking the soul right before him. ‘The spirit says I should listen to you.’

  ‘My name was Addison.’ The hiss was high and irritated.

  ‘Addison,’ Silas muttered. He was not sure he preferred to know such a thing. Such intimate detail would make drawing the bandalore very much harder. ‘He said to tell you that his name is Addison, and not Simon.’

  Silas the great servant of death, and messenger boy of lost souls.

  ‘That so? Tell him I’m terrible sorry.’

  ‘There is no need. He is capable of hearing you.’

  ‘Oh course, of course.’Clarence hurried to the rosewood washstand on the far side of the bed, and poured the steaming water into the large ceramic bowl there. ‘I’m sorry I doubted you, Mr Mercer. Seems you are the genuine article, just as I was hoping. Blast, it’s cold in here, worst I’ve felt in the whole house. Is he…Addison, I mean, is he stronger around you then?’

  A sound enough theory, though it was not one Silas was sure he enjoyed. Messenger, servant and now generator?

  ‘Perhaps, I’m not sure.’ The tingling in Silas’s fingers was truly bothersome. ‘You can sense the soul, but you cannot see him?’

  Though really the answer was obvious. If Clarence could see the bloody mess Silas was certain he’d be sure of it.

  ‘No.’ Clarence shook his head. ‘Though I wish I could. I’ve only seen the writings.’

  ‘Writings?’

  ‘In the mirror, one morning about a month ago.’ Even though the water had long emptied from the bucket, Clarence still held it tilted over the wash bowl, his attentions elsewhere. ‘I should have mentioned it when—’

  ‘What did the writing say?’ Silas frowned. Indeed Clarence should have made mention of this during their carriage ride.

  ‘She is lost. Bring the Order.’ Clarence and the lost soul spoke in unison.

  Clarence’s features twisted. ‘Took me a day or two to get over the shock of it. I’m not proud to say I trembled like jelly when it happened. Screamed too, I think. But when it happened again next day, same words, I realised what it was trying to do.’

  ‘Which was?’ Now Silas faced a lost soul that could communicate, had a name, and a skill that he himself did not. The ability to write.

  ‘Help.’ Clarence shrugged. ‘I felt it, in my bones, as they say. That this wasn’t a nefarious spirit—’

  ‘Astute man.’ Addison wheezed.

  ‘I was in no danger,’ Clarence continued. ‘None of us feel in danger here, never have. Just spooked sometimes. Anyway, it wasn’t until my brother’s Bethany went missing that I decided I had to try and do what they said, and bring the Order here. But it took me some time to convince Mr Donisthrope that a seance here was something worth considering. I was desperate in the end, and I let slip to Sophie that the master was being quite the ratbag of late, coming in at all hours from the club, knowing full well she couldn’t keep a secret if we stitched her lips together. Not long after, Mr Donisthrope was making arrangements for the Order to visit. As I said, Mrs Donisthrope is quite obsessed with the whole spiritualism movement, and the parties they hold. She forgave the man all manner of sins when she learnt he’d put in a request for your services. But that was a ways back, and it took some weeks before we got word that the Order would be coming.’

  ‘The delay has cost dearly.’ Addison bubbled. ‘A terrible mistake. Delay no longer.’

  ‘I’m sorry but I—’ Silas said.

  ‘Not your fault Mr Mercer,’ Clarence cut him short, wrongfully assuming the apology was for him. ‘You’re here now, and that’s the main thing. So, the ghost truly says you should listen to me? Simon knows who I am?’

  ‘Addison.’ The lost soul growled.

  ‘He does,’ Silas cast the bleeding apparition
an anxious glance. ‘And as I mentioned, his name is Addison.’

  Clarence winced. ‘Addison, of course. Forgive me. Wait on. Addison…the name is familiar. Was he the stable hand who met his end in a fight with the blacksmith a few years back?’

  The sudden unsteadiness of the apparition, his head blurring until all features were lost, left Silas suspecting an answer in the positive.

  ‘It would seem so. Knife wound. Terrible sight.’ Quite stomach churning really. What fresh horrors awaited Silas with other lost souls?

  ‘You can see the injury?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Clarence shook himself. ‘That can’t be pleasant.’

  ‘You waste time, ankou,’ Addison hissed. ‘Go now to the bower and draw your scythe.’

  Silas rubbed at his chin with pained fingers. ‘Why do you rush me there, spirit? I would not walk so easily into a trap.’ For some odd reason, it seemed easier to accuse the soul of trickery than admit that Silas was useless if it was indeed a teratism at large. And with each word spoken it seemed more and more likely.

  ‘Rush you? There has been need of quickening for far too long.’ Addison’s face lengthened as though melting. ‘I do not wish Black Annis’s fate upon me, do you hear? She was the oldest of the lost souls around here, and though she was a changed thing, she still held her humanity. But in this past year she’s became a horror, there’s nothing left you might call human inside of her. Black Annis is foul with rot and darkness, and all of us who linger here keep as far from her as our positions will allow. But it ain’t easy. You failed her, ankou. Your scythe should have found her long before this. I’ll not have it happening to me. Deliver your death blow now, death’s servant, I offer no protest. Then be on your way.’

  ‘Have you seen this creature yourself?’ Silas asked quietly.

  The blood soaked man regarded him. ‘I have not set eyes upon her, and nor do I need to. Things work different here behind the veil. All I need to know is that she exists. You can feel her rotting. Her presence is the heaviness in the air before a storm, it is a mould that clings to the ether. Surely you feel her, too? She is one of your children after all, bloated and distorted as she may be. Why do you hesitate, ankou? This is your purpose, why do you shy from it?’

  Silas stayed silent. In truth it was not his purpose. The lost soul’s desperate hopefulness was ill-placed upon him. If Black Annis was indeed a teratism then the Lady Satine was his hero, not Silas.

  Clarence fairly danced from foot to foot. ‘Mr Mercer? What does the spirit tell you? You will help us, won’t you?’

  Silas’s nerve shook as hard as his body, and he yearned for the life he must have lived, whatever shape it took. Even if he had been a wicked man in life, a miser who feasted as others starved, or a brute who showed no mercy to a debtor, Silas yearned for it still. But such wistfulness was pointless, selfish. He knew it. Silas moved to the bed where his coat lay, and dug until he found the bandalore. The moment the smooth wood slipped into his palm a sliver of his apprehension evaporated. Silas grew more rigid, and his mind more settled. He may not be able to face a teratism, but he could determine its existence in relative safety, surely?

  ‘There is time before dinner, is there not, to go to Dane Hills?’ He stood with his back to Clarence and the lost soul, his eyes upon the bandalore, which lay quiet and tepid in his hand. Was it the scythe that urged him? Created that nagging itch that drove him now. For surely it was not his own courage leading him.

  ‘Yes, yes, indeed,’ Clarence said, breathless. ‘I’m most grateful to you, Mr Mercer, I truly am.’

  ‘Inform Mrs Donisthorpe that I wish to take some air, and tour the city as part of my ritual for this evening. I will do so in your company alone.’ Perhaps he was going quite mad, pretending bravado, but Addison’s quiet desperation unsettled him. And his words still lingered. You failed her, ankou. Biting, and not a little unfair. But were they truth? If not his truth alone, then that of the Order? The notion did not sit easily with Silas.

  ‘Very well, Mr Mercer. I’ll inform her straightaways. Thank you.’ The door handle squeaked as Clarence turned the brass knob. ‘But what about Mr Astaroth? Shouldn’t he travel with you? For safety?’

  The man was entirely correct, that was the whole point of Pitch’s presence on this trip after all. And if ever Silas might require protection it would be now, chasing after the very creatures he was tasked with preventing. Silas closed his eyes. For all the sense it made Silas had little desire to return to Pitch’s company. The man may well be more dangerous than any teratism.

  ‘I’m sure I’m more than capable,’ he sighed. ‘But if Mr Astaroth can be drawn from his tea, then yes. Have him ready himself to depart with us.’

  ‘Absolutely, Mr Mercer. I’ll be back to collect you presently.’

  Clarence made no attempt to leave quietly, thundering down the hall as he ran.

  ‘Now Addison,’ Silas said with a determination he did not entirely feel. ‘Shall I bring you to your final rest?’

  The bloodied lost soul regarded him with eyes black as pits. ‘Best you be saving me for your performance this evening, wouldn’t you say?’ The apparition flickered, like a cloud in a lightening storm. ‘We can give them a show they’ll never forget, you and I. I didn’t leave much of a mark on the place when I was in it, wouldn’t mind making a grander exit. What do you say?’

  For all his talk of being freed, of Silas’s failure to provide release, now that death’s servant was beside him the lost soul was not quite so willing. And Silas could not begrudge him that. Besides, it was the very first time Silas could make a significant decision that was entirely his own.

  ‘I say that sounds a very fine idea, Addison.’ Silas bowed to the blood drenched apparition. ‘A very fine idea indeed.’

  Chapter 18

  Silas soon regretted his decision to include Pitch on the journey. Pitch hammered an irritating rhythm upon the floor and sang a tune beneath his breath, a lewd sing-song that centred on a farmer’s daughter’s breasts and other bodily regions of desire. Clarence grew quite pale with the graphics of it, but Pitch himself seemed to barely notice he sung at all. The fix of his emerald eyes was upon the view outside the carriage, though they did not appear to take note of the scenery there, rather something within the man’s own mind, or simply the effects of far too many of Mrs Donisthrope’s offered treats. After near on a quarter of an hour in the carriage, with the combined rumbling of the wheels upon the road, the clatter of the horses harnesses and Pitch’s magnificently dire singing, Silas could bear it no longer.

  ‘Mr Astaroth, enough,’ he shouted.

  There was a terrible moment when Silas feared those words may be his last. A festering stillness, and a glare from Pitch that was capable of stripping the very varnish from the wood around them. Clarence too braced, as though expecting a strike.

  ‘Is there a problem, Sickle?’

  There was. It sat before him, eyes fairly glowing in the dimness of the cabin.

  ‘I should not have yelled, for that I apologise.’ Silas acquiesced. ‘But I am rather on edge, and would ask that you stay still for at least part of this journey.’

  ‘Whatever are you nervous about? It is either a child-devouring teratism or a monstrous fiend we seek. The latter is mine to deal with, the former yours to scurry home and cry about to Mr Ahari. How is that frightening, dearest whore of death?’

  Silas swallowed hard. Daemon or no, he was set to wallop the fellow before long. ‘I am simply asking that you sit still, and perhaps, lower your voice when you sing. So that I can think of what lies ahead.’

  ‘What lies ahead is you showing of those lovely balls of yours for once. Look at you, brave Sickle, setting off to see what lurks in the woods. And with it being entirely your idea to go now, as well. I’ll admit, I’m impressed. But don’t allow that to go to your head, it’s far too large as it is.’

  Silas worried his tongue at his bottom lip. ‘Perhaps I should have sent word
to Mr Ahari first, this is not the appointment he set for us.’ His earlier gumption had suffered with the journey.

  Pitch sighed. ‘By the gods, you’d fit in well with the bloody archangels. Gabriel cannot shit without consulting with Metatron about the time, place, and duration.’

  Silas stared at him. Archangels? He squeezed his eyes shut, and rubbed at his face, deciding in that brief moment of darkness that he’d not question Pitch further. Not today. He had quite his fill of extraordinary to deal with. A potential child-devouring teratism for one. All at once he recalled that Clarence sat alongside him, and the man had not breathed a word in some time. Opening his eyes, Silas regarded him. Clarence stared beyond the window, lost in his own musings.