by Brian Lumley
Angrily, he thrust the thought aside. No, he wasn’t a defiler. Not yet. He was a friend. He was the only friend. He was the Necroscope.
Be that as it may, when he put his hand on her clay-cold brow she recoiled as from a serpent! Not physically, for she was dead, but her mind cringed, shrank down, withdrew into itself like the feathery fronds of some strange sea anemone brushed by a swimmer. Harry felt his blood turn to ice and for a moment stood in horror of himself. The last thing he’d wanted was to frighten her still more.
He wrapped her in his thoughts, in what had once been the warmth of his deadspeak: It’s all right! Don’t be afraid! I won’t hurt you! No one can ever hurt you again! It was as easy as that. Without even trying, he’d told her that she was dead.
But in the next moment he knew that she had already known: KEEP OFF! Her deadspeak was a sobbing shriek of torment in Harry’s mind. GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU FILTHY… THING!
As if someone had touched him with naked electric wires, Harry jerked where he stood beside her, jerked and shuddered as he relived, with her, the girl’s last moments. Her last living, breathing moments, but not the last things she had known. For in certain mercifully rare circumstances — and at the command of certain monstrous men — even dead flesh can be made to feel again.
In a nightmarishly subliminal sequence, a series of flickering, kaleidoscopic, vividly ghastly pictures flashed on the screen of the Necroscope’s metaphysical mind and then were gone. But after-images remained, and Harry knew that these wouldn’t go away so easily; indeed, that they would probably remain for a long time. He knew it as surely as he now knew what he was dealing with, because he’d dealt with such a thing before.
That one’s name had been… Dragosani!
This one, this poor girl’s murderer, had been like that — like Dragosani, a necromancer — but in one especially hideous respect he’d been still worse than that. For not even Dragosani had raped his corpse victims!
But it’s over now, he told the girl. He can’t come back. You’re safe now.
He felt the shuddering of her thoughts receding, replaced by the natural curiosity of her incorporeal mind. She wanted to know him, but for the moment felt afraid to know anything. She wanted, too, to know her condition, except that was probably the most frightening thing of all. But in her own small way she was brave, and she had to know for sure.
Am I… (her deadspeak voice was no longer a shriek but a shivery tremor) am I really…?
Yes, you are, Harry nodded, and knew that she’d sense the movement even as all the teeming dead sensed his every mood and motion. But… (he stumbled), I mean… it could be worse!
He’d been through all of this before, too often, and it never got any easier. How do you convince someone recently dead that it could be worse? ‘Your body will rot and worms will devour it, but your mind will go on. Oh, you won’t see anything — it will always be dark, and you’ll never touch or taste or smell anything again — but it could be worse. Your parents and loved ones will cry over your grave and plant flowers there, seeking to visualize in their blooms something of your face and form; but you won’t know they’re there or be able to speak to them and say, “Here I am!” You won’t be able to reassure them that “It could be worse.”’
This was Harry’s expression of grief, meant to be private, but his thoughts were deadspeak. She heard and felt them and knew him for a friend. And: You’re the Necroscope, she said then. They tried to tell me about you but I was afraid and wouldn’t listen. When they spoke to me I turned away. I didn’t want to… to talk to dead people.
Harry was crying. Great tears blurred his vision, rolled down his pale, slightly hollow cheeks, splashed hot where they fell on his hand on her brow. He hadn’t wanted to cry, didn’t know he could, but there was that in him which worked on his feelings and amplified them, lifting them above the emotions of ordinary men. Safe — so long as it worked on an emotion such as this one, which was grief and entirely human.
Darcy Clarke had come forward; he touched the Necroscope’s arm. ‘Harry?’
Harry shook him off, and his voice was choked but harsh too as he rasped: ‘Leave us alone! I want to talk to her in private.’
Clarke backed off, his Adam’s apple bobbing. It was the look on Harry’s face, which brought tears to his eyes, too. ‘Of course,’ he said. He turned and left the room, and closed the door after him.
Harry took a metal-framed chair from beside the stacked shelving and sat by the dead girl. He very carefully cradled her head in his arms.
I… I can feel that, she said, wonderingly.
‘Then you can feel, too, that I’m not like him,’ Harry answered out loud. He preferred simply to talk to the dead, for that way it came more naturally to him.
Most of her terror had fled now. The Necroscope was a comfort; he was warm, a safe haven. It might even be her father stroking her face. Except she wouldn’t be able to feel him. Only Harry Keogh could touch the dead. Only Harry, and -
Her terror welled up again — but he was quick to sense it and fend it off: ‘It’s over and you’re safe. We won’t — I won’t — let anything hurt you again, ever.’ It was more than just a promise, it was his vow.
In a little while her thoughts grew calm and she was easy, or easier, again. But she was very bitter, too, when she said: I’m dead, but he — that thing — is alive!
‘It’s one of the reasons I’m here,’ Harry told her. ‘For you weren’t the only one. There were others before you, and unless we stop him there’ll be others after you. So you see, it’s very important that we get him, for he’s not just a murderer but also a necromancer; which makes him more, far worse, than the sum of his parts. A murderer destroys the living, and a necromancer torments the dead. But this one enjoys the terror of his victim both before and after they die!’
I can’t talk about what he did to me, she said, shuddering.
‘You don’t have to,’ Harry shook his head. ‘Right now I’m only interested in you. I’m sure there’ll be people worrying about you. Until we know who you are, we won’t be able to put their minds at rest.’
Do you think their minds will ever be at rest, Harry?
It was a good question. ‘We don’t have to tell them everything,’ he answered. ‘I might be able to fix it so that they only know, well, that someone killed you. They don’t have to be told how.’
Can you do that?
‘If that’s the way you want it,’ he nodded.
Then do it! She offered a breathless sigh. That was the worst, Harry: thinking about them, my folks, how they’d take it. But if you can make it easier for them… I think I’m beginning to understand why the dead love you so. My name is Penny. Penny Sanderson. And I live — lived — at…
… And so it went. She told the Necroscope all about herself, and he remembered every smallest detail. That was what Darcy Clarke had wanted, but it wasn’t everything he’d wanted. When finally Penny Sanderson was through, Harry knew he still had to take her that one step further.
‘Penny, listen,’ he said. ‘Now I don’t want you to do or say anything. Don’t try to talk to me at all. But like I said before, this is important.’
About him?
‘Penny, when I first touched you, and you thought it was him come back for more, you remembered how it had been. Parts of it, anyway. You thought about it in brief flashes of memory. That was deadspeak and I picked it up. But it was all very chaotic, kaleidoscopic.’
But that’s all there is, she said. That’s how it was.
Harry nodded. ‘OK, that’s fine, but I need to see it again. See, the better I remember it, the more chance I have of finding him. So really you don’t have to tell me anything, not as a conscious act. I just want to shoot a few words at you, at which you’ll picture the bits I need. Do you understand?’
Word association?
‘Something like that, yes. Except of course that in this case the association will be hell for you — but easier than just talking about
it.’
She understood; Harry sensed her willingness. Before she could change her mind, he said: ‘Knife!’
A picture hit the screen of his mind like a mixture of blood and acid! The blood incensed him and the acid burned, etching the picture there for good this time. Harry reeled before her horror — which was unbearable — and if he hadn’t been seated would have fallen. The shock was that physical, even though it lasted only a fraction of a second.
When she stopped sobbing he said, ‘Are you OK?’
No… yes.
‘Face!’ Harry fired at her.
Face?
‘His face?’ He tried again.
And a face, red, leering, bloated with lust, with an open, salivating mouth and eyes insensate as frozen diamonds, went skittering across the Necroscope’s mind’s eye. But not so fast that he didn’t catch it. And this time she wasn’t sobbing. She wanted this to work. Wanted him brought to justice.
‘Where?’
A picture of… a car park? A motorway restaurant? Darkness pierced with points of light. A string of cars and lorries, speeding down three lanes, with oncoming lights whose glare momentarily blinded. And windscreen wipers swinging left — right — left — right — left…
But there was no pain in the last and Harry guessed that wasn’t where it had happened. No, it had been where it started to happen, probably where she met him.
‘He picked you up in a car?’
A rain-blurred picture of an ice-blue screen with white letters superimposed or printed there: FRID or FRIG? The screen had many wheels and puffed exhaust smoke. It was the way she remembered it. A large vehicle? A lorry? Articulated?
‘Penny,’ Harry said, ‘I have to do this — only this time I don’t mean where you met him: ‘Where!?’
Ice! Bitter cold! Dark! The whole place softly vibrating or throbbing! And dead things everywhere, hanging from hooks! Harry tried to fix it all in his mind but nothing was clear, only her shock and disbelief that this was happening to her.
She was sobbing again, terrified, and Harry knew that he’d soon have to stop; he couldn’t bring himself to hurt her any more. But at the same time he knew he mustn’t weaken now.
‘Death!’ he snapped, hating himself.
And it was the knife scene all over again, and Harry knew he was losing her, could feel her withdrawing. Before that could happen: ‘And… afterwards?’ (God! — he didn’t want to know! He didn’t want to know!)
Penny Sanderson screamed, and screamed, and screamed!
But the Necroscope got his picture.
And wished he hadn’t bothered…
2
Upon Their Backs, to Bite ‘em…
Harry stayed with her for a further half-hour: calming, soothing, doing what he could, and in so doing managing to get a few more personal details out of her, enough to give the police something to go on, anyway. But when it was time to go she wouldn’t let him without his promise that he’d see her again. She hadn’t been there long, but already Penny had discovered that death was a lonely place.
The Necroscope was jaded — or thought he was — by life, death, everything. He believed he needed motivation. Before leaving her he asked if she’d mind if he looked at her. She told him that if it were anyone else she couldn’t care less, because she wouldn’t even know they were looking, not any longer. But with Harry she would know, because he was the Necroscope. She was just a shy kid.
‘Hey!’ he protested, but gently, ‘I’m no voyeur!’
It wasn’t… if he hadn’t… if I was unmarked, then I don’t think I’d mind, she said.
‘Penny, you’re lovely,’ Harry told her. ‘And me? After all’s said and done, I’m only human. But believe me I’m not putting you down when I tell you that right now I’m not interested in that side of things. It’s because you’re marked that I want to see you. I need to feel angry. And now that I know you, I know that to see what he did would make me feel angry.’
Then I’ll just have to pretend you’re my doctor, she said.
Harry very gently took the rubber sheet off her pale, young body, looked at her, and tremblingly put the sheet back again.
Is it bad? She fought down a sob. It’s such a shame. Mum always said I could be a model.
‘So you could,’ he told her. ‘You were very beautiful.’
But not now? And though she kept from actually sobbing, he could feel her despair brimming over. But in a little while she said: Harry? Did it make you angry?
He felt a growl rising in his throat, suppressed it, and before he left her said, ‘Oh yes. Yes, it did.’
Darcy Clarke was still outside the door with the plain-clothes man. Looking washed out, Harry joined them and closed the door after him. ‘I’ve left the sheet off her face,’ he said. And then, speaking specifically to — and glaring at — the officer: ‘Don’t cover her face!’
The other raised an indifferent eyebrow and shrugged. ‘Who, me?’ he said, his accent nasal, Glaswegian, less than sympathetic. ‘Ah had nothing tae do wi’ it, Chief. It’s just that when they’re dead ‘uns, people usually cover them up!’
Harry turned swiftly towards him, eyes widening and nostrils flaring in his pale, grimacing face, and Darcy Clarke’s instinct took over. The Necroscope was suddenly dangerous and Clarke’s weird talent knew it. There was a terrible anger in him, which he needed to take out on someone. But Clarke knew that it wasn’t directed at him, wasn’t directed at anyone but simply required an outlet.
Quickly forcing himself between Harry and the special-duty officer, he grabbed the Necroscope’s arms. ‘It’s OK, Harry,’ he said, urgently. ‘It’s OK. It’s just that these people see things like this all the time. It doesn’t affect them so much. They get used to it.’
Harry got a grip of himself, but not without an effort of will. He looked at Clarke and growled, They don’t see things like that all the time! No one’s ever going to “get used” to the idea that someone — something — could do that to a girl!’ And then, seeing Clarke’s bewildered expression: ‘I’ll explain later.’
He turned his gaze across Clarke’s shoulder, and in a tone more nearly civil now — more civilized? — asked the officer, ‘Do you have a notebook?’
Mystified — not knowing what was going on, just trying to do his job — the other said, ‘Aye,’ and groped in his pocket. He scribbled quickly as Harry fired Penny’s name, address and family details at him. Following which, and looking even more mystified: ‘You’re sure about these details, sir?’
Harry nodded. ‘Just be sure to pass on what I said, right? I don’t want anyone to cover her face over. Penny always hated having her face covered.’
‘You knew the young lady, then?’
‘No,’ said Harry. ‘But I know her now.’
They left the officer muttering into his walkie-talkie and scratching his head, and went up into the courtyard and the fresh air. As they moved into sunlight Harry put on his dark glasses and turned up the collar of his coat. And Clarke said to him: ‘You got something else, right?’
Harry nodded, but in the next moment: ‘Never mind what I got — what have you got? Do you have any idea what you’re dealing with?’
Clarke threw up his hands. ‘Only that he’s a serial killer, and that he’s weird.’
‘But you know what he does?’
Clarke nodded. ‘Yes. We know it’s sexual. A sort of sex, anyway. A sick sort of sex.’
‘Sicker than you think.’ Harry shivered. ‘Dragosani’s kind of sickness.’
That pulled Clarke up short. ‘What?’
‘A necromancer,’ Harry told him. ‘A murderer, and a necromancer. And in a way worse than Dragosani, because this one’s a necrophiliac, too!’
Clarke somehow succeeded in grimacing and looking blank at the same time. Then: ‘Refresh my mind,’ he said. ‘I know I should be getting something, but I’m not.’
Harry thought about it for a few moments before answering, but in the end there was no way to t
ell it other than the way it was. ‘Dragosani tore open the bodies of dead men for information,’ he finally said. ‘That was his “talent”, just like you have yours and I have mine. Necromancy. It was his job when he worked for Gregor Borowitz and Soviet E-Branch at the Chateau Bronnitsy: to “examine” the corpses of his country’s enemies. He could read their passions in the mucus of their eyes, tear the truths of their lives right out of their steaming tripes, tune in on the whispering of their stiffening brains and sniff their smallest secrets in the gases of their swollen guts!’
Clarke held up a hand in protest. ‘Christ, Harry — I know all that!’
The Necroscope nodded. ‘But you don’t know what it’s like to be dead, and that’s why you’re not getting it. It’s because you can’t imagine what I’m talking about. You know what I do and accept it because you know it for a fact, but deep inside yourself you still think it’s just too way out to think about. So you don’t. And I don’t blame you. Now listen.
‘I know I always protested I was different from Dragosani, but in certain ways he and I were alike. Even now I don’t like admitting it, but it’s true. I mean, you know what the bastard did to Keenan Gormley — the mess he made of him — but only I know what Gormley thought about it!’
And now Clarke got it. He snatched air in a great gasp and felt the short hairs stiffen at the back of his neck as an irrepressible shudder wracked his body. And: ‘Jesus, you’re right!’ he breathed. ‘I just don’t think about it — because I don’t want to think about it! But in fact Keenan knew! He felt everything Dragosani did to him!’
‘Right,’ Harry was relentless. ‘Torture is the necromancer’s principal tool. The dead feel the necromancer working on them just like they hear me talking to them. Except unlike the living, there’s nothing they can do about it, not even scream. Not and be heard, anyway. And Penny Sanderson?’
Clarke went pale in a moment. ‘She could feel — ?’
‘Everything,’ Harry growled. ‘And that bastard, whoever he is, knew it! So you see while rape is one thing, and bad enough when it’s done to the living, and while necrophilia is something else, an outrage carried out upon the unfeeling dead, what he does hits new lows. He tortures his victims alive, then tortures them dead — and he knows while he’s doing it that they can feel it! He uses a knife with a curved blade, like a tool for scooping earth when you’re planting bulbs. It’s razor-sharp and… and he doesn’t use it for scooping earth.’