by Mike Mignola
Professor Romulus could feel its presence close by, the hair at the nape of his neck standing up straight as every primitive sense in his body warned him of imminent danger.
A primal voice inside his skull screamed for him to run, to run and hide and pray to the forces of creation for some kind of mercy, to be spared this inevitable fate.
But he couldn’t do it. It was his curse to try to understand, to look into the eye of the unknown and attempt to comprehend it all. If he was to meet his fate, he would do it on his own terms.
The sense of the presence behind him had grown even stronger, like a giant hand pressing down atop his head, wanting to drive him to his knees.
But Romulus would not bend, turning around instead to face what he had foolishly attempted to control.
His brain could not quite comprehend what it was that he was looking at. It was large and looming, looking like a living piece of shadow that had decided upon its independence, but if one looked upon it long enough …
At first, the black of it was impenetrable, like the most beautiful of evening skies, far away from the lights of the city.
And the stars inside this vast and endless darkness weren’t stars at all, but were the life-forces—the souls—of all who had lived and died since the dawn of life and death.
It wanted to show him how foolish they’d been, how mad they’d been to imagine that they could even begin to hold something of its magnitude.
Looking upon it, Professor Romulus finally understood the true beauty of the cycle of life, and the finale of the process. But he also understood the terror: that Death could take him lovingly in its embrace and lead him blissfully from life, or it could take him begging and screaming into the unknown.
Romulus saw all that as he looked upon the undulating mass that bore down upon him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, fighting the urge but not strong enough as he reached out to it, placing his hand and arm inside the body of the infinite.
To touch the unknown in an attempt to know it further.
And Death touched him back.
Professor Romulus cried out, screaming for what seemed like an eternity as his arm—the muscles, tendons, and veins—withered away at the touch of it, becoming nothing more than some shriveled dead thing dangling from his body.
Death wanted to show him more, but the professor could not stand it. Still screaming, he pulled back from the shadowy mass, the terror that he felt fueling his need to flee. His arm hanging uselessly by his side, Romulus ran through the choking smoke, any intellect that might have caused him to stop, ponder, and rationalize now gone as quickly and easily as the flesh and muscle that had once covered his arm.
There was only the animal part of him now, the part that needed to live, the part the made his heart pump madly and his legs propel him away from the thing that scared him to the depths of his soul.
Through shifting smoke his saw it, a world of white just beyond the horror unfolding behind him. He would get to this peaceful place, he told himself as he ran faster, and faster still, as if Death itself were chasing him.
Which indeed it was.
The barrier of glass was just an obstacle, something to be broken, smashed through, in his pursuit to escape. The large window shattered with the impact of his body, an explosion of cold, wind, and snow now rushing into the smoke-choked place of horror he had left behind.
Professor Romulus did not turn around; he continued to run even as the accumulated snow attempted to stop him.
Running until he could run no more.
Swallowed up by the storm.
* * *
Something had taken Bentley’s parents.
His rational brain said it was the ravening fire and the choking smoke, but he knew better.
The thing that had been inside the case moved through the solarium, shrieking its anger.
Bentley had thought they were friends, and begged for it to please reconsider, begged for it to spare his parents from its anger.
But its fury was too great, and it reached out to them with claws of rage and darkness and took their lives like fruit plucked from a tree.
Bentley wanted to go with them, to be with them, for was he not partly to blame for what had happened here? If it were not for him, they would never have attempted anything so foolish. The smoke was thicker now, the flames from the machines even larger, fueled by the air rushing in through the broken window.
He tried to recall where he had seen them last, crying out and sounding so very scared as the thing—his friend—made them pay for their sins.
Bentley tried to call to them, but the smoke that filled the air took this as an invitation to enter his mouth and nestle comfortably within his lungs, making him cough and choke and crumple to his knees.
Kneeling amid the broken glass, he tried to gather his strength, but there was none to be found, his reserves depleted. How sad it was, he thought as he slumped there amid the burning machinery and the suffocating smoke, for his parents to have gone through all this in an attempt to save his life, and still to have failed.
Bentley managed to raise his gaze for a moment, his hopes of finding at least one of his parents alive dwindling like his strength, when he saw movement.
Something moved within the smoke, coming toward him, and he thought for just a moment that maybe his mother or his father had indeed survived, and that he might live through this as well.
The little girl parted the smoke like heavy curtains, her beautiful face looking down to where he knelt, filled with disappointment.
Bentley now knew what she was—what she truly was—and felt an intense sensation of fear course through his body.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized to her, not knowing what else he might be able to do to make amends for what had been done.
“I’m sorry for them all, and for what they tried to do to you.”
The look upon his friend’s face went from one of severe disappointment to one of resignation, and she opened her arms to him.
And believing himself forgiven, Bentley responded in kind, opening his arms to her, but as he moved to embrace her, he found that she was gone. There was only smoke.
* * *
Abraham had locked the doors from the inside.
Pym had heard the sounds, the infernal ruckus, and immediately set to work trying to get back into the room. He was certain there was a key someplace, perhaps in the kitchen, where innumerable key rings hung just inside the wall of the basement door, but there wasn’t time.
Something was happening inside the solarium-turned-laboratory.
Something that very well might harm the members of the household that he had sworn to serve.
But most important, he needed to make sure the boy was safe.
He pounded upon the door with powerful fists, testing the strength of the lock and wood. Pym then slammed his shoulder as hard as he could, multiple times, feeling just the slightest give, but still the doors held. He tried to ignore the sounds from inside, the screams of terror and pain, the wails of something … unnatural.
Pym knew that his physical strength would not be enough to get him inside and quickly searched nearby for aid. At the end of the corridor sat a long-legged wrought-iron planter. He vaguely remembered when the plant that it once held—a fern, he believed—had died, but it had never been replaced. Pym threw himself down the hall, snatched up the heavy decorative piece from the ground, and returned to the doors.
The sounds inside had intensified, and he believed he’d never heard anything quite so horrible. The smell of smoke was strong now, tufts of black leaking out from beneath both doors. There wasn’t any more time to waste, even though he knew that there was danger on the other side.
Danger to the boy.
He was suddenly like a madman, grabbing the iron planter by the legs and slamming it repeatedly against the doors. Again and again he struck, watching as the area around the knobs and lock began to chip, and splinter, and he hoped—he prayed—that he
would have the strength to continue.
When the screaming stopped, when it all went quiet, Pym experienced an even greater surge of wherewithal, and he intensified his efforts until the wood and knobs broke away, thumping down to the carpeted floor. Tossing the planter away, he threw himself at the broken doors, and felt their final resistance before they flew open into the solarium.
Pym practically fell to the ground, but managed to regain his balance. He stared about the room, taking it all in and wondering how something like this had happened.
Everything was burnt, blackened, and charred. The machines that he’d observed humming and flashing were now just twisted, ash-covered hulks, sitting silently.
But where was the fire? Where was the source of the smoke he’d smelled and observed creeping out from beneath the door?
Pym came further into the room; a blast of freezing wind, flecked with snow, struck his face as he turned toward the glass windows and saw that one had been shattered, letting in the cold, winter environment. For the briefest instant, he felt hope. Hope that his masters had broken the glass to escape whatever had transpired within the room, that all were safe and sound—but cold—outside.
The sound turned him around from the broken window. It was so very soft. It could easily have been the wind moving across the two piles of ash that, if one looked at them at just the right angle, might have resembled the remains of two human forms.
Again he heard it, and moved farther into the lab, his senses now fully alert, listening for another sign. The sound came once more, and that was when Pym found him.
It was some kind of miracle—what else could it be? Pym thought as he ran to the boy.
Bentley lay upon the blackened floor, curled up tightly in the fetal position, everything around him burnt beyond recognition. Pym knelt down beside the child and at once began to check him for harm, but the boy was fine.
Perfect, even.
His face, his clothes were barely even dirty.
How this was possible, observing the condition of the room around him, Pym had no idea—and at that moment, he did not feel the urge to question.
As gently as he was able, he picked up the child from the floor—his memory flashing back to the many times he’d done the same picking up Bentley from the floor of his bedroom, surrounded by his many books—and carried him from the room.
Away from the blackened remnants of what had transpired.
Chapter Seventeen
The steak sizzled noisily as it cooked.
Wearing an apron, Pym stood above the cast-iron frying pan holding a fork at the ready to skewer and flip the searing meat.
Bentley was very particular about how his steak was prepared.
Pym actually caught himself smiling with the thought of the young man and what he had done today. Perhaps Miss Marks was just what Bentley needed to draw him from his perpetually morose state, and distract him from his rather bizarre—and quite dangerous—extracurricular activities.
Sensing that the right moment was at hand, Pym stabbed the steak and turned it. Bentley liked his meat cooked medium, not rare, and certainly not medium-rare. Medium. And the young man wasn’t the least bit concerned about throwing the costly meat in the bin if it wasn’t cooked to his exact specifications.
Although, truth be told, Pym wanted this night’s dinner to be something special, a reward for what Bentley had done. He tried to remember the last time his young master had left the house with anyone other than himself. Strangely, the details completely escaped him.
The steak was ready, as were the vegetables: steamed carrots and a side of boiled potatoes. He quickly plated the meal, placed it upon a serving tray, and covered it up for delivery. Normally Pym would have demanded some decorum, ordering the youth to take his meal in the dining room, but tonight he was feeling a bit lax, nearly euphoric with the idea that maybe Bentley would be all right.
That maybe he needn’t worry so much about the boy’s future.
As he climbed the stairs, he actually found himself humming, something from a Gilbert and Sullivan production he’d seen ages ago. He was surprised that he still remembered the song, never mind how to hum. He reached the second floor and continued on down the hall, a slight spring in his step. Stopping before Bentley’s door, he carefully balanced the loaded tray on one arm while knocking softly with the other.
“Come in,” Bentley said, but his voice sounded strange.
Pym pushed open the door, and nearly dropped the tray.
Bentley was standing in front of his dresser, looking into the mirror, but it wasn’t the young man’s reflection that stared back at Pym in the doorway.
He was wearing the mask again.
The skull mask.
“What on earth are you doing?” Pym asked, his voice a whispering hiss, everything he’d thought the boy had achieved this day seeming suddenly far more distant.
“We met a man today,” Bentley explained, his voice strangely distorted by the mask. “Someone I need to speak with more … no, someone who Grim Death needs to speak with.”
“Bentley, please,” Pym said, almost begging. He set the tray down. “You’ve been out all day, doing things … normal things.”
Bentley didn’t turn, continuing to let his skull-adorned reflection speak.
“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” Bentley asked—was it really him? “That since I was out and about with Gwendolyn, my responsibilities to Death have been negated?”
Pym just shrugged. “Have you considered it? Have you thought about maybe just stopping?”
Bentley pulled the skull mask from his face and turned to face the man. “I think about it all the time, but then I remember what my mother and father … what Romulus tried to do.”
“They tried to help you.”
“They certainly did,” Bentley acknowledged sadly, approaching Pym. “But now I have to cover the cost.”
He stopped before the tray and lifted the cover. “Medium?”
“Exactly the way you like it,” Pym told him, watching as the young man pulled out the chair and sat down at the tray.
He grabbed his knife and fork and immediately cut into the meat to test its center. He looked at Pym and smiled before cutting his first bite.
The silence went on for far too long, and Pym was compelled to speak.
“So this person that you met today,” he began.
“One Charlie Huggston,” Bentley said around a second bite of steak. “An unpleasant drunkard of a man.”
“I see,” Pym said. “So you’re saying that you … Grim Death…”
“Very good,” Bentley complimented the steak, as if Pym weren’t even speaking.
“That Grim Death has to question this unpleasant man,” Pym continued without missing a beat.
“Exactly,” Bentley said, cutting more pieces from his meal. “He seemed to know things about the circus that I think might clear William Tuttle.”
“The man who confessed to murdering his girlfriend.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Confessed.”
“Yes, Pym, I understand he confessed,” Bentley said condescendingly. “But there’s something—besides the restless and unhappy ghost of his lover—that tells me there’s more to it than that.”
Pym watched as Bentley looked across the room at something he could not see, but the young man obviously could.
“Of course there is,” he responded, matching Bentley’s condescending tone.
“And time is of the essence,” Bentley said, fussing with his meal. “Tuttle is to be executed by week’s end.”
And without another word, Pym turned to leave the room.
“Pym?” Bentley called to him.
“Yes?”
“This steak is excellent.”
“Thank you, sir.” He started to leave again.
“Pym?”
He turned.
“I would like you to drive me tonight,” Bentley said, finishing the last bite of steak with
some carrots and potato.
“What if I said no?”
Bentley chewed thoughtfully for a few moments. “Then I would need to drive myself,” he finally offered.
Pym shuddered at the thought, remembering the last time Bentley had taken a car. “That won’t be necessary.” He sighed, resigned to his fate.
“Excellent.” Bentley rose and crossed the room to retrieve a map from his desk. “I picked this up today when Gwendolyn stopped to fill up,” he said, unfolding the map. “You will drive, and I will be your navigator.”
“Oh … good,” Pym said, not quite sure what to say.
“Can’t have you having all the fun,” the young man said with a smile, “can we?”
* * *
“The exit for Stewartville should be coming up on our right,” Bentley said, holding the flashlight beam steady as he hunched over the map in the large backseat of the sedan.
“If you had told me we would be driving all night, I would have refused to do this,” Pym said from behind the wheel, slowing the vehicle down as he prepared to take the next exit.
“Come now, Pym,” Bentley said. “You know you don’t mean that.”
“I certainly do,” the manservant said, turning the wheel and taking them down the curving exit. “This is insane, driving all this distance to track down a drunkard who used to work for the circus you’re investigating. You’re not even sure if he’s here.”
“I’ll find him,” Bentley said. “He mentioned living in a flophouse on Beaton Street … and it won’t be me who questions him.” He put the map down on the seat. “Beaton should be just beyond the center of town,” he said as he reached for the skull mask inside of his coat. He stared at it for a moment, his eyes caressing the grotesque contours, imagining a voice deep in back of his mind whispering, Put me on.
He slipped the mask over his head.
“Dear God,” Pym said from the driver’s seat. “Do you have to put that on now? It nearly scared me half to death when I looked in the rearview.”
“Sorry,” Bentley said, his voice taking on a more gravelly tone now that he was wearing the visage of Grim Death. “This looks like the town center. Look for something seedy.” He leaned forward to peer out the curved windshield. “There!” he said, pointing. “The Pinnacle Hotel. Does that look like it fits the description of a flophouse?”