Ghosts, Gears, and Grimoires

by Unknown

  No. A figure loomed out of the water itself. Its bulk gleamed in the meager light of the fog-wreathed moon at its highest point in the night sky. Valentine gave a strangled cry. The shape was moving toward him, limbs in motion, an oversized humanoid form, one encased in metal.

  It was a battle suit. One of the ancient models. Even the Union Jack emblazoned across the chest was suddenly and terrifyingly clear.

  Impossible. Absolutely impossible that this...this apparition should be here. Even battle suits preserved in museums weren’t in this condition. This apparatus was fully functional, the trunk and limbs intact, the otherworldly portholed helmet capping the monstrous figure. The boiler attached to the suit’s back vented white smoke. Saltwater steamed on the suit’s sturdy metal skin.

  The thing strode toward him, a firearm fixed to one of its armored forelimbs. Whoever—whatever—occupied the suit went unseen. There was no peering into the small darkened porthole in the helmet.

  Valentine had stood stupidly and drunkenly frozen. Now, at last, he willed himself to move despite his overpowering fear. However, backpedaling, he managed only to tangle his feet in a rope of kelp he hadn’t seen. He went down in a heap. The battle-suited figure stomped toward him.

  He clawed at the sand but couldn’t find the least bit of purchase. It was so like a nightmare he expected to jolt awake in his bed at any instant.

  But that wasn’t going to happen. The thing now truly loomed over him, blocking out the scant moonlight. This phantom from the past had returned to this beach, and it would have vengeance upon him, it seemed.

  Words, loud and hysterical and only semi-coherent, suddenly erupted from him. “You won! Isn’t that enough? Damn you, damn you!”

  It was truth. The British had indeed won the war. MacDougall’s victory hadn’t been a decisive episode in the years-long conflict. Really, the American triumph was something of an anomaly. Perhaps it was why Valentine had fixated on it so.

  Had the Americans won that war, it might have been known by the name originally given it by its soldiers: the American Revolution. Instead, history had dubbed it the American-English Steam War.

  Valentine screamed, a full-throated final screech of terror, as the metal shape fell toward him with a clunking, hollow crash.

  But he was not crushed.

  The suit was heavy. Yet it wasn’t as heavy as it should be. It had fallen onto him, but now he found he was able to push on it. It gave. He shoved it off himself, dumbfounded, squinting in the murky light.

  It was junk. Rusted through. Parts, in fact, were missing entirely. The helmet was absent. Half of one leg gone. The torso was pitted, showing many gaps. Slimy seaweed clung to the outside.

  The suit was quite, quite empty.

  Valentine knelt there on the sand, panting, certain he would vomit any second. More than just his head spun now; his whole mind felt awhirl. This was wrong! He had seen the thing move, powered and functioning, with someone inside. He hadn’t imagined that. It hadn’t been a drunk fantasy, surely.

  Surely...

  Shaking, he peered closely, afraid to actually touch the relic. Even in this condition, the artifact would have value. If he claimed it as salvage, he could sell it to a collector. But these thoughts skipped out of his brain before they could distract him from the fear and wonder.

  Even with the holes and consuming rust, the ghost of the Union Jack was still discernible on the chest.

  * * *

  He didn’t seek out the old soldier the next day, though this was his first impulse when he awoke with a throbbing head, the corroded suit heaped into a corner of his room. The morning newspaper, delivered via pneumatic tube, told him what he needed to know.

  The former British military man had been named Horatio C. Osgood, and he had left his care facility in England without permission and made the Atlantic crossing on his own, bribing the airship stewards to feed and change him along the way. He had died in the night at a local hotel of apparently natural causes. The information regarding his origins had already reached across the ocean via the wireless.

  Valentine performed a quick calculation using the coroner’s report. The old man had expired when the moon had reached its zenith last night.

  The onionskin sheet slipped from Valentine’s fingers. He moved with soft steps to where he had dragged the antique battle suit. He would not sell it. He wouldn’t give it to a museum either.

  It was his to keep. And to bear, for the rest of his days.

  Death in the Witch House

  John Lance

  “Goodwife Jordian, present yourself!” Reverend Resilience Mather shouts as he slams his fist against the cottage’s front door. Wild white hair whirls about his head like that of a prophet of old, and his black cape swirls around him like an insidious shadow. His flushed jowls shake as if threatening his Sunday congregation with the torments of Hell.

  The door remains shut.

  “Goodwife, this is your last warning!” Resilience shouts.

  As Resilience pounds away, I hear a strange creaking from the side of the house. Drawing my pistol, I cock the hammer. I blow softly on the flint, an old soldier’s trick to prevent flintlocks from misfiring.

  I creep to the corner of the house. Sweat drips down from under my wide-brimmed hat, over the back of my neck, to the collar of my cloak.

  The creaking stops, replaced by footsteps.

  “Captain?” Resilience calls.

  I raise my finger to my lips, even though it is unlikely Resilience will follow my orders. To my surprise, the minister falls silent.

  The footsteps draw closer. I take a deep breath and spring around the corner, leveling my pistol.

  An unimpressed goat stands in the middle of an exhausted garden, idly munching a wilted tomato plant. Weeds choke heads of lettuce, and peppers rot on their vines. Broken fence rails leave gaps that the goat must have climbed through.

  Beyond the garden is an empty barn, its doors wide open. There is a hole in its roof. Fortunately for the farmer, the summer drought has kept the rain away.

  Examining the cottage more closely, I see that the modest white paint is peeling and flaking, like the bark of a white oak. Spidery cracks mar the windows and bricks are missing from the chimney.

  I uncock my pistol and slip it back into my belt.

  “We’re wasting our time. The house is abandoned,” I announce. “If we head home now, we can reach Boston before nightfall.” It’ll be a relief to get away from this lonely farmhouse and return to civilization.

  “No, she is here.” Resilience produces a silver pocket watch from his vest pocket. Pursing his lips, he says, “However, you are correct, we are wasting time. We will have to break down the door.”

  Given the cottage’s disrepair, the front door is surprisingly solid, with no obvious weak points.

  “I suppose I can kick it in,” I mutter.

  “Kick it in? Don’t be ridiculous. The cogsmen will open it. You just need to unhitch the riding perches.”

  The two cogsmen stand in the dirt road where we dismounted. From a distance, they resemble medieval suits of armor. The pistons in their arms and legs, and the large toothed gears at their joints, quickly dispel that illusion, however.

  The cogsmen’s heads are bronze balls with round, mirrored eyes that make them look like exotic beetles. Broad-bellied boilers serve as the cogsmen’s torsos, and the gauges across their chests remind me of medals on a soldier’s uniform. Steam puffs from the blackened pipes jutting from their shoulders.

  In that respect, the cogsmen aren’t much different from other weapons of war I am familiar with. During the French and Indian war, I drove one of the great, four-legged Cannonstriders that breached the walls of Quebec City, and wore a Skeletonsuit with arm-mounted swivel guns during the capture of Port Royale.

  Cogsmen don’t actually have drivers. Resilience gives orders, and they execute them like dutiful servants. For decades, the Mathers have been the envy of the powerful and elite who want cogsmen
of their own. However, other than vague allusions to a talented technician somewhere on the Isle of Crete, the spiteful Mathers have kept the name of the cogsmen’s creator secret.

  “Hello, Red,” I say to the cogsman with a spot of rust on its shoulder. Red doesn’t acknowledge me.

  The riding perches are little more than glorified papoose-carriers that allow passengers to face forward. I would rather have traveled on horseback, but Resilience insisted that the cogsmen would be swifter. There is no arguing with Resilience once his mind is made up.

  As I unhitch Red’s perch, the second cogsman shuffles its feet.

  “I see you, Slippery. You’re next.”

  The cogsman stops fidgeting. There is a spot of oil on its forearm, and I can only assume old Slippery has sprung another leak. Fortunately, it doesn’t require immediate attention.

  I have no idea what names Resilience gave the cogsmen—if any. They seem to just intuitively understand his orders.

  “Reverend Mather wants you to break down the cottage’s door. Do you understand?” I ask.

  For a long, unsettling, moment the cogsmen consider me with their bug eyes. Then they nod in agreement.

  As I follow the cogsmen toward the cottage, I am filled with a sense of unease. Dark memories of a winter morning two years ago tug at my mind.

  I say to Resilience, “The cogsmen do understand we are here to apprehend Goodwife Jordian, correct? She is not to be harmed.”

  “They will take the steps necessary to capture the witch.”

  Only the ignorant believe in witchcraft anymore. Still, I hold my tongue rather than incite an argument.

  “I just don’t want there to be any misunderstanding like there was two years ago,” I reply.

  The minister fixes me with a long, unblinking stare. “You are referring to the attack on the Abenaki village.”

  I try to hold his gaze, unsuccessfully. “Yes,” I reply, dropping my eyes to the ground.

  “As I remember, you requested I put the cogsmen at your disposal and they were the key to victory—a victory that you parlayed into the captain’s rank you so enjoy flaunting about Boston, I might add. I don’t understand why you seem to feel remorse. The savages foolishly allied themselves with the French and paid the price.”

  “There were women and children. We should have shown mercy.”

  The minister’s eyes widen, and his nostrils flare like those of a bull taunted with a red cape.

  “Mercy!? Like the mercy those heathens showed my sister, Margaret, and the other families of Deerfield? I wonder how my niece would react to your sympathy for her mother’s defilers. Perhaps she would finally take my advice and consider a more suitable match.”

  At the mention of my fiancée, I fall silent. Emily is aware of my feelings, and is wise enough to draw a distinction between her mother’s murderers and the cogsmen’s victims. She has assured me over and over that she is more than happy at the prospect of being a simple captain’s wife and has no desire to marry one of Resilience’s rich, hoary friends.

  Indeed, Emily despises the old man and loathes the day she was forced to seek shelter under his roof. Once we are wed, we’ll escape to the southern colonies, far from the vulture’s grasping claws. Until then, however, we must remain patient, like Christ.

  As Resilience and I glare at one another, we become aware of Red and Slippery watching us. Red’s hand rests on the door.

  “What are you waiting for? Break it down!” Resilience shouts.

  There is the squeal of pistons and the crack of wood, and the door topples inward.

  Red strides inside, ducking to avoid hitting its head on the doorframe. Slippery follows less delicately, cracking the frame with its bronze skull.

  “After you,” I say.

  Resilience snorts in response and storms past me. I follow him inside and gasp in astonishment.

  It is as if I stepped into the parlor of the governor’s mansion. The walls are painted sunflower yellow and framed portraits decorate the walls. A cheerful fire snaps and pops in the hearth, yet, despite the midsummer heat outside, the temperature of the room is perfect. In front of the hearth is a sofa, upholstered in green and gold fabric, and two matching chairs

  “I...I don’t understand,” I say. “Even you can’t afford such luxury. How can she?”

  “I told you, she’s a witch.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “And yet, here we are, standing in a witch’s sitting room,” Resilience replies.

  He wanders around the room until he reaches a cherry-wood writing desk, where he stops and frowns. “She’s been busy.”

  On the desk are four dolls. Two are made of straw and wrapped in ribbons stained dark red. A cluster of flies perch on the straw men. The second set are made from silverware, with fork arms and spoon legs. They are wrapped in blue ribbon.

  Resilience shoos the flies away.

  “Blood,” he says.

  I nod. There is no denying that distinctive, rusty smell.

  “Strange, the silver ones don’t have heads,” I reach out to pick one up.

  Resilience grabs my hand.

  “Do not touch the weapons of the enemy,” he hisses.

  If anyone other than Resilience had uttered those words I would have laughed. But the fear in the reverend’s eyes causes the chuckle to die in my throat.

  Retreating, I leave Resilience to his mysterious dolls and explore the rest of the room.

  A long bookshelf dominates one wall. Emily would be in heaven. Having grown up a tanner’s son, I came late to letters and never truly enjoyed reading until Emily introduced me to Robinson Crusoe. Since then I have been an avid devotee of the written word.

  A quick perusal of the collection tells me Daniel Defoe would be out of character in this collection.

  The titles are a mix of languages. I recognize English, Latin, and French. There are also pictograms and symbols from alphabets I can’t imagine. The books are a jumble of colors and sizes, ranging from slim, scarlet-colored volumes to thick, squat, black tomes.

  I expect a dusky smell from such old manuscripts. These books, however, stink of rot and grave soil.

  When I spot the volume bound in human skin decorated with bloody pentagrams, I can take no more. My stomach churning, I turn away.

  Red and Slippery stand before a painting of three women. At first, I mistake it for a family portrait of a grandmother, mother, and daughter. But there is not even a hint of a familial resemblance, so I assume they are just good friends.

  The old woman has a sharp beak of a nose, grim, tight lips and wears a basic, brown shift. The middle-aged woman is almost the exact opposite, with a round face, a mischievous smile, and mismatched eyes—one blue and the other brown. The youngest woman is attempting to maintain a stern façade, yet it is clear from the subtle twist of her lips and the amusement in her eyes that she is in on the joke.

  “Who are these people?” I ask.

  “The young one is Goodwife Jordian,” Resilience replies.

  “I thought you said she was old.”

  “Now she is.” He taps the face of his pocket watch. “We’re running out of time. Let’s search upstairs.”

  Glancing toward the skin book, I hesitate. “Maybe we should return with more soldiers?”

  “And allow her to escape? I think not.”

  When I fail to move, Resilience adds, “If you do not have the courage to accompany me, return to Boston. You can explain to Emily how you left me alone to face the devil’s servant.”

  Without another word, Resilience begins climbing the stairs.

  During the war, I marched toward enemy lines knowing the soldiers were squinting down their musket sights waiting for the command to unleash a volley. I cannot describe the terror that gripped my heart. Each and every time I wondered if I would finally crack and flee the field in disgrace.

  Standing at the foot of that staircase, I would rather face a thousand rifles than follow Resilience. Yet I can’t retur
n to Emily a failure.

  I ascend the stairs.

  Behind me I hear the heavy, clinking steps of the cogsmen. Despite the narrowness of the staircase, somehow they squeeze up.

  The stairs go on and on. I begin breathing hard, and my feet ache. Even Resilience seems to flag.

  Pausing to catch my breath, I say, “The cottage can’t possibly be this high.”

  “We are almost there,” Resilience replies.

  “How do you know?”

  “The cold,” he says, his breath coming in foggy clouds from his lips.

  After only ten more minutes, we arrive at a shadowy hallway ending in a red door.

  Slowly, the door swings open, like a wolf’s casual yawn.

  “They’re expecting us,” Resilience says.

  “They? I thought Goodwife Jordian was alone.”

  “Witches always travel in packs. However, Jordian is the only one we are interested in. This time.”

  As we walk down the hallway, I draw my pistol.

  “I doubt your weapon will be of any use. Stay close to the cogsmen. They will protect you.”

  The two clanking brutes offer some reassurance. Even so, I keep my weapon at the ready.

  Pausing at the threshold, Resilience squints into the gloom beyond.

  “Please enter, Reverend Mather,” says a voice that sounds simultaneously young and old.

  The bedroom is like an ice house in the middle of January and I pull my cloak tighter about my shoulders.

  Pale, silver light streams through tall windows, as if a full moon and not the late afternoon sun rules the sky.

  A clattering draws my eyes to a gloomy corner where a cauldron large enough for me to sit in rests. Its lid bounces and hops as geysers of steam shoot up around its edges. Yet the stone hearth is covered in frost.

  In the center of the room rests a battered mattress on which lies a skeletal hag. Two women stand beside the bed, one on either side.

  The first is young, barely of marrying age. Flowers are woven into her blonde hair as if she is a school girl.

  The second woman has crow’s feet around her eyes and is thick in the middle. The mother of several children, I assume.