Carnacki: The Edinburgh Townhouse and Other Stories

by William Meikle

  A great wall of darkness rushed at me out of the aft corridor, and all of the valves of the pentacle flared at once, so bright I was forced to close my eyes against the sudden brilliance. I heard the valves whine, and felt again the wave of cold and damp wash over and around me. I tasted salt spray at my lips.

  When I opened my eyes again, I thought the brightness had temporarily caused a problem with my sight, for although I stood inside the shining pentacle, and color washed over and around me, there was nothing but black velvet dark beyond the boundaries of my circles.

  I felt the weight of the darkness press against the pentacle, as if something solid were testing itself against the defenses. Cold seeped up from the deck, gripping at my ankles and calves as if I stood in a deep puddle of freezing water, and my teeth started to chatter until I clamped them down on the stem of my pipe.

  The valves pulsed and whined and the green one in particular was under a deal of strain. The darkness got darker, the cold got colder, and I felt something in my mind, a searching, questing thought, as if the dark was looking for a way inside. I knew I had to resist. I could not succumb, for if I did I would never leave this vessel alive.

  I started to recite an old Gaelic protection prayer that had proved efficacious for me in the past, mumbling through my clenched teeth, focussing all my attention on the words.

  The darkness continued to press, hard, against all of my defenses. I struggled for breath, felt coldness pour down my throat, salty again, like the sea, and the dark swelled and closed in even tighter.

  I summoned up all the strength I had in me and continued the Gaelic right through to its end. I called out the last words.

  Dhumna Ort!

  The blue valve blazed at my last shout, and all at once the blackness washed away, so suddenly it might never have been there at all. I stood there as the pentacle valves dimmed to a normal level and blood started to pump faster in my veins, warming parts that had been in danger of being frozen.

  I had no need to call up one of Churchill's favored spooks.

  There appeared to be one on board already.

  *

  Now that the darkness had washed away, and I could no longer feel any presence, every part of me wanted to step out of the circles and head up and out into warmer air, and a place where there was a large glass of good scotch waiting for me. But I knew Churchill's mind. He would want to know more of the nature of this new thing I had found, and how it could be pressed to become an advantage in his favor. And to do that, I would have to face the thing again.

  I stood still and lit a fresh pipe. The taste of tobacco did much to remind me that I wasn't lost down here in the dark, that I was here of my own free will. I was here to learn.

  The gray fug of smoke wafted away through the corridors of the vessel. My valves lit up enough of the corridors in front and behind of me to show that there was no sign of the wall of darkness. I knew, of course, that the thing had not simply departed for it is my experience that once an entity of the Outer Darkness arrives on this plane, they settle, and they are slow to leave.

  I was proved right minutes later when the darkness gathered again in the forward corridor. As if it was aware of my presence now, it crept much more slowly than before. And as it was aware of me, so too, I was aware of it. It was less menacing this time, now that I knew it was there.

  As before, the blackness gathered around the edges of my defensive circles, testing the boundaries of the valves; first the yellow one then the green flared and dimmed, flared and dimmed. Once again cold seeped into my lower limbs and damp air washed against me.

  I knew what was coming next. This time, when the darkness sent out its dark probe to my mind, I grabbed hold of it and followed it back to the source, a mental projection trick that let me glimpse, however briefly, some of the thing's innate nature and intent. Fragments of what passed for its thoughts came to me, like images in my mind.

  It was old, old and cold, and lost. It had slept for aeons in a deep place in the sea, undisturbed by storm or ice, lying, slumbering in the weed and stone, having been imprisoned even before the sea washed over it for the first time. Men had caught it, men wearing animal furs and wielding stone axes, wooden shields, and long forgotten ways of dealing with visitors from the Outer Darkness.

  And so, it had slept, and dreamed for the longest time. And then, after an age of cold, dank, dark an iron thing came swimming in the waters above, breaking ancient bonds that the German submariners never even knew existed, allowing the darkness to surge and flow and fill them up.

  I felt those poor German lads die, as if I had been the dark thing in the dark, and sudden, unbidden tears filled my eyes, and guilt hit me, hard. That broke my concentration, and alerted the dark to my presence.

  It pushed against me hard, the shock almost sending me reeling outside the circles. The green valve flared and I thought I saw, for an instant, an even darker mass of blackness in the shadows, an amorphous, shifting, thing, that spoke a word in a language that I did not know but guessed the intent. There was only one thing this darkness wanted.

  Home.

  *

  I spoke the Gaelic words again, and as before the blackness faded away, retreating down the corridors to wherever it was hiding itself in the bowels. This time I did not delay. I stepped out of the circles, left the pentacle on the deck and made my way quickly up the turret ladder, out to the boat shed above, then, almost running, down the gangway and into the foreman's office, where I headed straight for the scotch.

  Churchill was sipping at a glass of his own, and puffing on another cigar. He raised an eyebrow and smiled thinly.

  "I gather from your rather startled demeanor that you have had some success?"

  I downed a couple of fingers and waited until it hit my stomach and spread its heat before answering.

  "I had some failure, and some of what you might regard as success. Although I am not convinced that success is the proper word for what I have experienced."

  He sat me down, and joined me in another drink. He tried to ply me with another of his, frankly enormous, cigars but I preferred the pipe. I puffed hard at it as I spoke, and he listened to my tale, without even the slightest hint of incredulity. He went quiet and thought for a few seconds before he spoke softly.

  "So this thing in the dark that you saw? You believe it is what killed the Hun crew?"

  "I believe so," I replied. "In fact, I am sure of it."

  "I would like to see it for myself," he said.

  I protested long and hard at that, but his final answer was what persuaded me.

  "I will not ask my men to do something I would not do myself," he said, and by Jove, I think he meant it.

  *

  I went back with him as far as the deck of the submarine, but he bade me stand outside.

  "As you did yourself, I will face this thing alone, in the same way as the men will have to face it to perform the task I must set for them."

  I warned him to step over the circles into the inside of the pentacle, and not to break the protection once he was inside, no matter what might happen. I also gave him the last two words of the Gaelic chant, as a last resort should they be needed.

  "Wish me luck, old chap," he said as he turned away. "I have faced many battles, but I do believe this short walk might be among the hardest things I shall be called to do for my country."

  I agreed with him on that, but he went anyway. He was still chewing down hard on that infernal cigar as he climbed up and over, into the turret and down into the bowels of the sub.

  I stood there for long minutes, straining to hear, waiting for a cry for help and ready to go to his aid if needed. For the longest time there was no sound save my own breathing and the slight hiss of burning tobacco in my pipe. Then, as if from a great distance, I heard it, a voice raised in a shout, the old Gaelic phrase repeated twice. It sounded as if the second time contained more than a trace of fear.

  Dhumna Ort
! Dhumna Ort!

  I had started climbing up the turret when I heard scrambling sounds above me, and had to retreat as Churchill descended out of the sub with some haste. He did not stop to acknowledge me, but marched, almost running, away along the deck and down the gangway. By the time I reached the foreman's office, he was already making impressive headway down the scotch, gulping it down unceremoniously straight from the neck of the decanter.

  He only spoke when he came up for air. His cheeks were now ruddy, but he was pale around the lips, with dark shadows under his eyes, and his hands shook badly as he lit a fresh cigar.

  "That dashed thing killed the Huns," he said, and this time it wasn't a question.

  But if I thought his experience might mean a change in course for his plan of action and a softening of his resolve, I was to be proved wrong with his next sentence.

  "Can you show someone how to make that pentacle of yours? We will need one for each of the men. I shudder to think what might have happened had I not been inside it."

  *

  I spent the night sitting in that cramped little room, drinking and smoking with Churchill. Every so often he would call for one or another of his men and bark an order at them. But mostly we talked, of inconsequential matters; he spoke with some elegance, and not a little sense of regret, of his time as a journalist, and I regaled him with some of the tales that my friend Dodgson has already detailed in his journals. At some point I slept, and when I woke, Churchill was gone and about his business for King and Country.

  As for myself, I never set foot inside the sub again after I retrieved my box of defenses the next morning. I spent two more days at the boat shed instructing Churchill's men in the art of pentacle defense, and showed some Naval engineers the trick of the valves and wires needed for their construction.

  *

  I heard no more for a week, then out of the blue I received another summons to the dockyard late of a Sunday evening.

  The river was as quiet as it gets, and there was no ceremony. Firstly they loaded the dead Germans. I did not watch that part, for I was reminded all too vividly of the impressions I had received of their passing from the thing in the cold wet dark. I stood in the shed doorway smoking a pipe until that part of the job was done.

  Then fifteen of Churchill's men went on board, each carrying a small bag of luggage and a box that closely resembled my own box of defenses. Churchill had a word and a handshake for every one of them, but if he had any qualms about what he was doing, they did not show.

  Churchill and I retired to the hut at the rear again, where we shared more of his fine scotch until, almost an hour later the big shed doors were opened, the timber wedges were knocked away and the sub slid, almost silently into the river.

  We went out onto the dock to watch it head off out toward the Estuary, a great dark shark cruising on the still waters.

  "I don't know about the Germans," I said, "but it certainly scares me."

  "They will take her out into the North Sea and leave her floating as near to where we found her as they can manage," Churchill said. "Hopefully the Huns will find her before the sea claims her again."

  "And your men? How will they return?"

  Churchill looked at me, and now, for the first time, I saw how deeply he had been affected. He had fresh tears in his eyes.

  "They have their orders," he said, turned his back on me and walked away.

  I never heard of the fate of the submarine, or Churchill's men, and although I have met Churchill twice since, he has never spoken of it.

  But some nights, when the fog rolls in from the river and I smell salt in the air, I dream of them cruising along in the deep dark, all dead at their posts while the cold blackness swirls around them.

  I hope it was worth it.

  The Edinburgh Townhouse

  Carnacki's card of invitation that Friday morning had asked that we join him for supper a full hour earlier than was usual which indicated to me that he had a new story to be told, and one that might take some time. So it was with some degree of anticipation that I made my way to Cheyne Walk in Chelsea with only a short pause after work to change into my evening clothes. It was a most pleasant evening. On another occasion I might have tarried to watch the play of light on the river as the old city prepared for the weekend, but the thought of a long tale and good company meant that I strode quickly, all the way to Carnacki's doorstep.

  The other chaps were already there ahead of me and we went straight to table, where the fare was, not for the first time, particularly Scottish in nature. There were cold medallions of venison and pickles to start with, and, to follow, a fine slab of fresh salmon with summer greens and potatoes, all washed down with a dark, heady, malted beer. I was quite full by the time our host led us through to the parlor, He gave us enough time to get our drinks charged and smokes lit before starting the tale of his latest adventure.

  *

  "I asked you here early this evening as this tale might take a while in the telling," Carnacki began. "And I would like to get it all done in one sitting, as it is rather a complex matter and I might have to explain too much of it all over again should we have to split it over two nights. Besides, I did not think you chaps would mind an extra hour with the contents of my liquor cabinet.

  "As you have probably surmised from our supper, I was taken to Scotland again a journey which, for me at least, never feels like a hardship despite the long miles between there and here.

  "It all began simply enough, ten days ago, when I received a morning letter from a police sergeant in Edinburgh. He begged my indulgence, citing the name of a mutual friend, a retired Army General I had helped some months back, as evidence of his sincerity, and asked for my aid in a matter that had him, and most of the local constabulary, completely stumped. Mention was made of a haunting, and not only one at that, but a variety of different spooks and specters. I didn’t put too much credence in that; we all know that the Scots can be a superstitious lot as a whole. And the sergeant was indeed rather vague on particulars. But his note had just the right amount of intrigue and hints of a supernatural agency at work that I could do little but reply by telegram, stating that I would see him as soon as possible and that he should expect me on the afternoon train.

  "An hour later I was at Kings Cross Railway Station and heading for points north accompanied by my luggage and the smaller of my two boxes of protections. The journey was uneventful, the lunch on board just this side of edible, and we made good time such that I arrived in Edinburgh in the late afternoon feeling none the worse for wear for the traveling.

  "My sergeant was on the platform to meet me. He was a stout, well-fed chap in his forties, balding on top, with bristling ginger whiskers, a bulbous nose that told of a fondness for a drop of liquor, and a most kindly face. He introduced himself in a soft local Edinburgh accent as Andrew Carruthers.

  "'Damned happy to see you, Mr. Carnacki. The General won't hear a bad word said about you; he says you're the man to rid us of this bogle.'

  "He tagged along at my side as I booked myself into the North British for two nights, then, as the clock was ticking around to five-thirty, we made our way by carriage down to the Grassmarket. I took my box of protections with me. On the way, the sergeant gave me more detail as to why he had asked for my help.

  "'The old house has always had a bad reputation, Mr. Carnacki,' he said. 'Even when I was a lad we used to dare each other to creep up and peer in through the thick warped windows at the side. And I'm not afraid to say that on a couple of occasions, we thought we saw something, something squat and dark, shifting in the corners of the empty rooms.'

  "'So the house is derelict? It is lying empty?' I asked.

  "The sergeant shook his head.

  "'That's the problem, Mr. Carnacki. What with the gentrification of the area in recent years, the older properties as have been empty for a while have been renovated and sold on. I hear there's good money to be had for those that have the
energy for it. This particular old house has been turned into several smaller apartments. It's all a tad too cozy for my liking, and not unlike a warren of rabbits all living on top of each other. But that seems to be what the younger generation is after. The developer has been working on this one since the turn of the year and it's nearly ready to be sold.'

  "'So what, precisely, is the problem?'

  "'Well, sir, it's hard to tell, precisely. There's things moved around when nobody's around, weird shuffling noises in the stairwells, that kind of thing. But the other officers who've been called out to the disturbances won't go back. They're staying well clear, and, as I think I have already mentioned, there's talk of a bogle.'

  "'I've heard talk of Scottish bogles before,' I replied. 'And most are simply a fear of old dark places.'

  "'All the same, sir, there's something far wrong with that house. You'll see for yourself soon enough. You can feel it as soon as you walk in the door.'"

  *

  "The property was one of those tall, old, hefty affairs sitting off the road in the shadow of the castle rock and it looked rather dilapidated from the outside, having fallen from any stately glory it once had some centuries past. It was obvious that attempts were being made in its restoration. New iron railings lined the short line of steps up to the doorstep and the front windows were set in new, and newly painted, wooden frames. The front door itself was solid enough and had been painted a rather garish, to my eyes, shade of red that matched the pillar-box in the road outside.

  "And you know what? The chap was right about the bally place not feeling right. As soon as he opened the door and we stepped inside I felt it. It was not exactly a presence but more a certain quality to the air, a strange timbre in the echoes of our footsteps in the empty hallway.