Demogorgon

by Brian Lumley

  There were, too, a number of books on ritual magic – gibberish to Trace – and one bulky leather-bound tome in what looked like ancient Hebraic, stamped or impressed on its age-blackened cover with the six-pointed Star of David. Finally, there was something called My Journeys & Discoveries in the Holy Land, a slim privately printed book by one Morgan Selby, bearing the subtitle: Myths of the Bible, and the Great Biblical Myth. Well, at least Trace should be able to read that one! As for the rest of it …

  Trace shook his head, snorted his frustration. Much of this stuff was completely beyond him. He went back to the Military Police Report, began to read it:

  Sir,

  By now you have doubtless read several accounts or versions of the occurrences of the evening of 26th July of this year, including the Interim Report of my investigating NCOs, dated the morning of the 27th. This current report is not meant to be all-embracing, neither does it draw much in the way of conclusion; detailed conclusions must wait upon thorough and possibly lengthy investigations. It is in the main a Situation Report, giving an overview, as it were, of the occurrences from a purely Provost viewpoint, and partial assessment of the damage on a diplomatic level and in terms of internal security.

  First the facts of the occurrences themselves:

  1. On the evening/night of the 26th-27th July a Greek-Cypriot bungalow residence standing not far from the coast road between Larnaca and Dhekelia was burned down. The fire may have been set deliberately, in which case the arson was probably in connection with the whole crime, one of a series of serious offences by person or persons as yet unknown.

  2. A Military Police Mobile Patrol returning to the garrison from Larnaca spotted the fire and went to investigate and/or lend assistance. The patrol discovered three women in the close vicinity of the burning house, one of whom was Turkish-Cypriot, one Greek-Cypriot, and one regrettably British, a young and respected member of QARANC, the fiancée of an Officer serving with the RAMC at the BMH. All three were in a sorry state, heavily drugged and scantily clad – ‘dishevelled’ at best – and medical examinations at the BMH showed all to have been raped very brutally and probably repeatedly. On alerting the respective authorities, the Greek and Turkish women were later taken from BMH by their relatives and civilian doctors from Larnaca. The usual warning was applied: that we would no longer be responsible for their welfare once they were released, but of course there was no way we could legally detain them.

  3. Statements recorded at the earliest opportunity (copies of which you have subsequently seen, including those obtained from the local Greek and Turkish authorities) show a striking similarity: all three females were apparently abducted – Diana Trace, the QARANC, from the grounds of the BMH in the Sovereign Base Area itself – and chloroformed, following which they remember little else of what occurred save general impressions upon partial and eventually full recovery of consciousness at BMH. You will appreciate that the nature of the crimes against them (I refer specifically to the island women) preclude any detailed statements such as the one obtained from QARANC Diana Trace. We have, therefore, been more or less obliged to rely solely upon her account. Unfortunately that account seems to have been coloured (perhaps not unnaturally) by recurrent nightmares which have plagued her ever since. At present she is undergoing a course of psychiatric treatment.

  4. Motive:

  While the motive for the offences will not be known until the offenders are detained, still we may make some educated guesses. The intention of the author of these crimes could have been to bring about shame and general demoralization – but to whom by whom? We could (as the leaders of most local Turkish communities have done) point the finger at EOKA; except that the abduction and rape of one of their own – i.e. a Greek-Cypriot girl, and the daughter of an influential man and suspected EOKA sympathizer at that – must of course damage EOKA’s cause enormously. Is it likely that EOKA would make such a blunder? I for one doubt it, and they themselves (in several hastily circulated pamphlets) have made much of this inconsistency in the Turkish accusation. It is all a Turkish plot, they say, to dishonour them and detract from their credibility. And they ask: what clean-limbed Greek would force himself on a filthy Turk anyway? But the suggestion that a Turkish group is responsible seems even more unacceptable; the involved Turkish woman is the wife of an ex-mainland diplomat; any Turkish involvement in her abduction, rape, etc., is simply out of the question. The penalties would be unthinkable, deterrent enough for even the most degenerate of criminals. Any felon or felons apprehended in this respect by the island’s Turkish authorities could expect only the very harshest treatment, and if caught by one of the Turkish vigilante groups … why, they would simply disappear forever! Their nationality would not matter greatly, but if they were Turks … then may God help them!

  And finally, to further complicate the incident, we have the English girl’s involvement. Certainly the rape of a serving member of QARANC could be the work of EOKA; but in all truth, are the Turks any less capable of such a crime? And of course we know – we are absolutely certain – that this could never be the work of serving members of HMF. We are as certain of our own innocence as the Greeks and Turks would seem to be of theirs …

  Personally, as the head of your Provost Staff, I have tried to take a step back and view the entire incident from a position external to all mutual enmities and prejudices. We do not yet know who is to blame and may never know their real motives, but it seems to me that if some entirely anonymous outside agency or agitator were bent upon fermenting even more bloodshed on this already troubled island, he could hardly have chosen a better way to do it. Nor is this attempt at some sort of conclusion entirely unfounded:

  You will recall that on the night of the 26th a telephone message was received by Provost in the garrison threatening that from that time forward EOKA would shame all British women on the island when and wherever possible. It might therefore be construed that the unspeakable acts of that same night were committed by them as proof that they had issued no idle threat – if they issued the threat in the first place. For as you are aware EOKA has stated that on the night of the 26th they received just such a threat from the British Forces against their women. Purely terrorist propaganda, of course – but at the same time the Turks likewise stated that they had been warned of punitive action against their women by an hitherto nonpolitical Greek Faction! Did everyone take it into their heads that night to go threatening everyone else? In this light my proposition (that perhaps some outside agency is at work here) does not seem so far-fetched.

  And as we have seen, in the week gone by since the incidents occurred, there has been more than enough violence on both sides – even, unfortunately, on our side.

  Initially, on the morning of the 27th, the wineshop of one Costas Kastrouni was looted and vandalized and Kastrouni himself murdered at his home. He was the owner of the burned house where presumably the women were raped on the previous evening. He was a pacifist and was known to be friendly with many Turkish customers. There is some evidence to suggest that Kastrouni had let the house in question to persons at present unknown, but nothing positive. He kept no records. In any case we are reasonably sure that he was murdered by EOKA as a Turkish sympathizer.

  Then, on the 28th, a Turkish observation post on the Greek-Turk boundary was fired upon and burned out with the loss of three lives. Also, our patrols have come increasingly under fire (apparently from both sides) and there has been at least one case of an apparently random shooting by a member of our own forces. In general, there has been a definite and accelerating deterioration of relations and communications between all parties; I am at a loss to know what action may be taken to defuse the situation. If this was the work of some outside agency, agitating for its own purposes, then someone, somewhere, must be very pleased with himself indeed.

  5. The security of the Dhekelia Garrison –

  – And so on – but Trace wasn’t interested in the rest. He went back and read again the facts concerning his
mother, trying to find something he’d missed the first time. The report seemed to bear out much of Kastrouni’s story.

  And Kastrouni’s father – murdered! The Greek hadn’t made mention of that. But no wonder he’d wanted this man, Khumeni, dead. If such a man existed.

  Trace stood up and eased his legs, put the report aside, went to make coffee. And sipping hot coffee he made himself a promise. Tomorrow was Sunday. No good trying to do anything on a Sunday. But first thing Monday morning … the Army kept records, didn’t they? And QARANC? It had been twenty-five years ago but must still be worth a try. He nodded determinedly. He’d check back, find out for himself about his mother’s ‘disturbance’ back there in 1957, discover exactly what had been wrong with her that she’d required psychiatric treatment.

  Whatever it was, they’d failed. Psychiatrists, doctors, shrinks! ‘Hah!’ Trace snorted. He’d been only eight years old when finally it all came to a head. He remembered that much at least, but even as a small child he had known his mother was strange. She used to have those terrible nightmares, would wake up screaming night after night.

  Trace concentrated, tried to pin down elusive memories, things his child’s mind might have demanded he forget. Her nightmares; how he used to go to her in the night, hold her in his small boy’s arms; how he’d tried to comfort, console her as she sobbed of his twin, the brother who had died even as he and Charlie were born. ‘And I was glad, Charlie, glad! I only saw him once, just once. But he looked like … he looked awful, Charlie …’

  Her nightmares, yes: of his brother and of something else. Something coming at her. Of being pinned down. Of a bestial Thing. A thing that looked like … like the devil!

  And as suddenly as that Trace remembered, and small, icy feet hopped and slithered on his rigid spine. Memories came faster:

  He had been eight, just eight, when they’d gone on holiday, out of the city to the countryside. Devon, if he had it right. It was autumn but the sea and the sky were still summer-blue, and one evening as they’d walked back from exploring a tiny town on the coast to the old, rambling boarding-house where they’d stayed … that had been when it happened. He remembered how they’d passed a field where ponies rolled in the long grass and chased each other in sport. Or perhaps not in sport.

  It had been then that her collapse had come, that final breakdown from which she’d never more recovered to this very day. Trace remembered how she’d suddenly screamed and run headlong, crashing through hedges, across ditches, blindly, hysterically, screaming all the way. And when finally, tearfully, he’d found her, how she had seemed huddled down into herself, all scratched and bleeding and sobbing.

  ‘It was nothing, Mummy,’ he’d told her earnestly. ‘Nothing at all. It was only the ponies. They were playing, that’s all, just playing!’

  In fact they hadn’t been ‘just playing’ and he knew that now, but then he’d been a child and had understood nothing of that. He had laughed to see the thrusting rump of the pony where he had mounted his quivering mate. He’d laughed, and thought his mother laughed, too, but remembered now that it had been more a choking gurgle. Then the mare had gone to her knees and the stud had looked almost manlike standing there upright with his hooves in her back as he continued to thrust at her. And he’d tossed his mane of coarse hair and neighed his lust for all to hear.

  Yes … and it was not until then that Diana Trace had really gone crazy.

  Reliving the final events of that holiday seventeen years in the past had wearied Trace beyond the point where he could any longer keep his eyes open. He awakened the next day around noon, had a shower and a bite to eat, and only then returned to the various books and documents from the suitcase.

  First he went to Kastrouni’s notebook. It hadn’t seemed extensively used when he’d glanced through it last night, containing mainly single-word entries under each of its alphabetical headings. Under ‘A’, for example, Trace found a few names, (including ‘Ab’,) several addresses and/or locations, and other entries apparently chosen at random from a mass of esoteric or occult sources. But nothing that appeared immediately as being of any great importance to anyone seeking clues. ‘B’ covered Biblical References and a further list of names, such as Bethsaida, Baal, Beelzebub., Belial, and so on. Trace was not totally ignorant of such things; he knew that the last three of these first four names were those of supposed demons, false gods or fallen angels – evil spirits, at any rate. Under ‘C’ he found Christ, Capernaum, Chorazin, ‘Curses,’ Crucifix, (and other Crosses,) Cabbala, and so forth.

  It seemed the notebook was simply a directory: its contents were pointers to a far greater store of knowledge or information.

  Well, he had to start somewhere. Better men than Charlie Trace had drawn alleged strength and inspiration - and intelligence – from the Bible. Against ‘Bethsaida,’ ‘Chorazin’ and ‘Capernaum’ he had seen biblical references and a cryptic ‘See MS, 62.’ That last might mean ‘Manuscript No. 62’ or ‘Morgan Selby’s book, see here.’ He would look into that later. But for now let’s see what the Bible had to say about this riddle:

  Trace’s first choice was a poor one: a fist-sized Bible he picked up purely for ease of handling, which proved to contain print so small that he’d have difficulty reading it. Instead he went to the opposite extreme, settling for a massive Family Bible in two volumes, published by Sang-sters of London somewhere at the turn of the century, a superbly scholarly work by one John Kitto, DD, FSA.

  Trace had several references, the most comprehensive of which seemed to be Chap. X, verses 12, 13, 15, and 18 of St Luke. Opening the massive Vol. II he turned to that Chapter and page and read the verses indicated:

  12: But I say unto you, that it shall be more tolerable in that day for Sodom, than for that city.

  13: Woe unto thee, Chorazin! woe unto thee, Bethsaida! for if the mighty works had been done in Tyre and Sidon, which have been done in you, they had a great while ago repented, sitting in sackcloth and ashes.

  15: And thou, Capernaum, which art exalted to heaven, shalt be thrust down to hell.

  18: And he said unto them, I beheld Satan as lightning fall from heaven.

  Trace read that last one over again …

  Finally he closed the great book, laid it carefully aside, returned thoughtfully to Kastrouni’s notebook. But that phrase played itself over and over again in his mind: ‘I beheld Satan as lightning fall from heaven.’

  And, is there a pattern to all of this? he asked himself. Is there? But if there was, what sort of a crazy pattern was it?

  The notebook opened – almost with a sort of familiarity this time, as if it had been opened here many, many times before – at ‘A’, and Trace’s eyes seemed drawn directly to ‘Antichrist’; it was as if the word had been waiting for him. Odd, because he’d already looked at ‘A’, when apparently he hadn’t noticed it. It was the very last entry on the second page of the ‘A’ section, except for a terse note: ‘See “Reincarnation.”’

  Trace turned the pages to ‘R’, ran his finger down the entries there until he found ‘Reincarnation,’ frowned at what he discovered: merely a list of numbers and another reference, ‘See MS, 47.’

  He studied the numbers:

  The table meant nothing to him. He shook his head in frustration, looked closer. Trace had a good memory. Kastrouni’s story had started in 1936 – at Chorazin. He pursed his lips and just for the hell of it totalled up all the numbers above that date – and discovered that indeed they added up to 1936. So what?

  Twenty minutes later he was still trying to make something of the list of numbers when his telephone rang. By then he was so deeply engrossed (he believed he was just starting to see the light) that he gave a massive start as the silence of his flat was abruptly shattered.

  He snatched up the phone, snapped, ‘Trace?’

  ‘Charlie? Are you OK?’ It was Jilly.

  ‘Am I OK? Of course I’m OK! Why shouldn’t I be OK? What the hell do you want, Jilly?’

&nbs
p; ‘Well, if that’s your attitude …’

  He relented. Before she could slam the phone down on him, he said: ‘Jilly, I’m busy, that’s all.’

  ‘No you’re not. You’re mad at me for running off at the mouth last night. For going on about your foot and calling it “funny”. Well, I’m sorry, Charlie. And I missed you, last night. I woke up and wanted you in me, Charlie, but you weren’t there.’

  ‘Jilly, I – ’

  ‘Charlie, is it finished? Is that it? If it is I’d like to know …’

  He could finish it right here and now if he wanted to. He was tempted to say yes, this is it. But … hell, Jilly was some sort of sanity in a world rapidly going mad. He couldn’t just say it, not just like that.

  ‘Charlie?’ She sounded far, far away.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ he said – and at once hated himself for his weakness.

  That was better. ‘Your place?’

  He looked around the flat, curled his lip at the chaos of books and documents, said: ‘No, the Ship – about an hour?’

  ‘OK. And then your place?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Charlie. And he noticed how she hung on to her end until he put the phone down.

  Then he stamped around the flat for a moment or two, picked up Kastrouni’s notebook … and at once hurled it down so hard that it bounced on the carpet. What the hell had gone wrong with his life? Where was the peace and quiet? He’d always known where the action was, but now and then he liked a little peace, too!

  Quickly he got ready to go and meet Jilly, then did something completely alien to his nature. Something just a little bit reckless. He got down his cache of stolen gold from its holding place and chose a single piece – a tiny antique matchbox strung on a fine, intricate golden chain for a necklace – to give her as a parting gift.