by Mike Mignola
Grim Death evaded her approach, heading for the stairs.
“The guilty will evade punishment no longer,” he said as he descended the steps.
He could feel her eyes on his back.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she called to him.
He stopped in the doorway and turned to look up at her.
“Who are you?”
“I am the punishment that the guilty deserve,” he said before darting out the door to lose himself in the shadows of the night.
“I am Grim Death.”
* * *
“I thought I heard gunfire, and then a truck sped away from the property,” Pym said as Grim Death slid into the backseat of the car. “I was tempted to give chase, but…”
“There’s no need, Pym,” Grim Death said as he pulled the skull mask over his head to reveal Bentley beneath. “I’m very aware of where they’re going.”
Bentley paused, feeling a sudden exhaustion begin to wash over him, but he did not—could not—succumb. There was still work to be done, the murdered innocent avenged.
And perhaps an execution averted.
“It’s where we’re going,” Bentley said. “We still have a murderer to punish for their sins.”
“The circus,” Pym said.
Bentley nodded.
“The circus.”
Chapter Twenty-two
BEFORE:
The dead woman’s ghost remained, going everywhere he did.
Bentley was used to the dead—they were always a presence at Hawthorne house—but this was different. This ghost wanted him—haunted him.
And he wasn’t quite sure what he should do.
The bird, Roderick, had told him what Death had intended for him, but what did that mean? How was he to avenge those whose lives had been stolen too soon?
It totally perplexed him, but the constant presence of the old woman’s spirit was beginning to wear on him.
“Maybe you could tell me?” Bentley said to the ghost. He was in the kitchen in search of a glass of warm milk. Pym had gone to the market, leaving Bentley alone to fend for himself, which was fine. He wasn’t an invalid, despite what his manservant thought.
He took the glass bottle from the icebox under the watchful eyes of the ghostly woman, whose head continued to bleed into the ether.
“I know I’m supposed to help you, but how, exactly?” Bentley asked. He found a pot after a brief search of the cabinets, poured some milk into it, and placed it on one of the stove burners.
“Shouldn’t I go to the police?” he asked, putting the bottle of milk back in the icebox. “That’s what my rational mind tells me to do. To go to the police and inform them of your murder.”
The ghost continued to watch him mournfully, blood leaking from the break in her skull.
He wasn’t sure how long he watched her, his eyes following the trails of ethereal blood as it drifted into the air to gradually dissipate. It was a sudden hissing that finally broke his trance, and he spun around toward the stove to see that the milk had completely boiled away.
“Damn it all!” he hissed, instinctively grabbing the pot handle—and burning himself on the superheated metal.
“Gahhhhhhh!” he cried out as the pot dropped from his injured hand and crashed to the floor.
Bentley experienced a surge of anger and frustration, turning his ferocious stare on the hovering ghost.
“What do you want from me?” he screamed. “Do you want me to solve your murder for you? Is that it? Do you want me to bring your murderer to justice?”
He went to the sink, turning on the cold water and running his blistering hand beneath the numbing torrent.
“I’m sorry, but have you given me a good look?” he asked, turning away from the sink to address the ghost again. “Do I look like I’m capable of avenging anyone?”
The ghost was suddenly gone, and it startled him not to see her floating there. She had become a constant reminder of late.
“Where…?” he began, looking around.
The clicking sound startled him, and he looked to see the cellar door slowly swinging open as if touched by a gentle breeze.
There was not a hint of wind in the kitchen, not even the slightest draft.
He stared at the open door, noticing a faint flickering luminescence as if something were attempting to entice him closer.
It worked. He turned off the water and wrapped his blistered hand in a dishtowel as he cautiously walked toward the cellar door. He peered down into the darkness, catching sight of a glowing shape as it disappeared around the corner, moving deeper into the darkness of the cellar beyond.
Bentley reached out to put the light on, and found that it did not work.
It was almost enough to keep him out of the cellar.
Almost.
He started down the steps carefully, worried that he might stumble and fall and break something fragile. These had been concerns for the majority of his life and were hard to forget, even though he’d miraculously regained his health since the incident that had claimed his parents.
Again he thought of Roderick, and what the raven had told him of Death’s desires for him, and shuddered.
At the bottom of the stairs he waited, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. It was larger down here than he remembered, only having been down as far as mid-steps, his father having expressly forbidden him from venturing any farther.
Bentley saw the greenish glow at the far end of the room and found himself moving toward it. He walked carefully, not wanting to smash his shin on anything hidden in his path, but managed to get quite far, the greenish glow seemingly always just out of reach.
“Hello? Is that you?” he asked, curious if it was the old woman leading him, a response to his harsh words earlier in the kitchen. “Do you want me to follow you?”
The ground beneath his feet changed from concrete to loose dirt and rock, and he knew he had come to the farthest reaches of the cellar.
Bentley reached out in the darkness, his hands brushing against damp stone walls. He blinked furiously as his eyes attempted to adjust and find the source that had brought him down there.
Placing the flat of his hand against the wall, he felt his way farther and farther down toward the end of the vast, unfinished basement. Cobwebs stroked his face in the darkness and he reacted with revulsion, pulling the tickling strands away. Hand still pressed against the rough rock of the wall, he stopped, searching the void before him. Finally, ready to give up, Bentley had started to turn back toward the stairs when he saw the light again.
A green orb danced in the air, and for a moment he considered whether perhaps he’d been following some sort of bug. But by the way that it hung there, he knew it was waiting for him.
“Is that you?” he called out to the orb. “Give me some sort of sign that it is, and that you want me to follow you.”
In response, the orb went dark, returning the vastness ahead to total blackness. He’d been moving again, and stopped, and again considered that he might have been mistaken about the green orb’s origin. Then there was a sudden flash of orange light, as if someone had struck a match, and he saw that a lantern resting on the dirt floor ahead had been lit. The light was warm, dispelling the deep pockets of shadow around it, and Bentley quickly made his way toward it.
The flame danced within the oil lamp’s glass enclosure, and he wondered how it had been lit. Bending down, he picked it up and saw that he had reached the end of the vast cellar space, the light from the lantern illuminating a craggy rock wall before him.
“All right,” he said, hefting the lantern and moving it around to light the end of the basement. “Now what am I supposed to do?”
The orb had returned, floating before an area of the wall as if trying to capture his attention. Bentley brought the lantern closer to examine where the green circle of unearthly light danced. From what he could see it was all rough rock, and he reached out to touch it.
The rock moved in with a
click, and a section of the wall silently swung open into a tunnel.
“Dear God,” Bentley said, not believing his eyes. He held the lantern aloft and saw that the tunnel went on for a great distance, gradually descending up ahead.
The green orb beckoned for him to follow, and he did.
The tunnel went on for miles, and he came to realize that the lantern he used to light his way must have been used by somebody else as they made this very same journey.
But who?
He again thought of his father’s masquerade parties, and how the liquor—which was illegal at the time—had seemed to flow like water. Maybe this was how the unlawful drink had made its way into their home?
The passage hewn into the rock went on, and Bentley wondered where it would eventually take him. In his mind he suddenly saw a cartoonish image of Hell, a red-suited and bearded Satan waiting for him behind a desk, smiling at his approach.
Bentley stifled a shudder as he continued on his journey.
He had no idea how long he’d walked, time having somehow lost cohesion the farther he traveled, and had begun to worry that perhaps this wasn’t the best of ideas, when the passage suddenly came to an end at a large, metal door.
Lifting his lantern, he illuminated the heavy obstruction, and reached out to the door’s handle, giving it a solid tug.
Locked.
He pulled on it again just to be sure, and yielded the same result.
“Now what?” he muttered, frustrated that he might have traveled all this way for nothing.
But the green orb remained before him and seemed to be growing in size.
“Do you have a way in?” Bentley asked as the swirling sphere of greenish light more than doubled in size and began to take on a strange, almost human form.
He gasped as the apparition became more defined, and he knew at once who it was who now manifested before him.
“Father,” Bentley whispered as the specter took shape.
The emotions that he suddenly experienced were overwhelming, and he threw himself toward the spirit shape, to put his arms around him, but alas …
Bentley went through the man’s form, feeling a deep coldness that permeated to core of his bones.
Sadly, Bentley turned back to the ghost.
“I’m sorry,” he said, attempting to hide the quaver in his voice. “I know how you felt about public displays of affection.”
The ghost watched him with unblinking eyes.
“Are you … are you well?” Bentley asked.
The ghost continued to stare.
“And Mother?”
The ghost of his father showed nothing, turning away from him and passing through the metal door.
“Wait!” Bentley cried, going after the ghost, but coming abruptly to a stop when he could go no farther. He stood staring at the metal obstruction, and was seriously considering knocking on the door when he heard the door’s locking mechanism click loudly like a gunshot, making him jump back.
Bentley reached out, taking hold of the cold metal handle, and gave it a tug. The door swung open with a mournful creak, and Bentley found his father waiting for him on the other side.
He was surprised by how happy he was to find his father still there.
“I thought you’d gone,” Bentley said, passing through the doorway into another short corridor.
His father turned and floated away, turning sharply at the end of the passage. Bentley followed, curious as to where he would find himself now.
Around the corner, Bentley found his father passing through yet another door, with the sound of it being unlocked following immediately after. Bentley pulled that door open as well, and was startled to see that it led out onto a metal catwalk. Carefully he stepped out onto the walkway, and the realization hit him.
He lifted the lantern, illuminating what he could and confirming his suspicions. He knew where he was.
He was at the shuttered Hawthorne Munitions factory.
The light barely touched the floor below, but Bentley could see the numerous crates stacked about and wondered what they might contain. He believed the building had been emptied of all product and machinery weeks after the factory’s closure, all of it sold for scrap or to rival businesses.
His father waited for him on the floor below.
Bentley found the stairs and started down.
“What is all this?” he asked the ghost of the man who had sired him. Abraham just drifted there, his face lax and emotionless. “Is there something you want me to see here?”
“We thought it would be appropriate for him to be the one who brought you here,” a familiar voice said, startling Bentley.
He raised the lantern to illuminate the form of Roderick, perched atop one of the wooden crates. The bird flapped his wings and ruffled his feathers.
“How did you get in here?” Bentley asked.
“I have my ways,” the raven said, looking around. “So you were asking how you were going to go about doing your new job.”
Bentley approached one of the crates.
“What’s in the boxes?” he asked.
“The tools of your trade,” Roderick announced.
Bentley found a crowbar nearby and set the lantern down upon the floor. He went to work on the crate lid, prying it open with a whining creak. Discarding the lid, he retrieved the lantern and held it over the contents of the box.
“Guns,” Bentley said, looking at the contents.
“All kinds,” Roderick said. “Rifles, pistols, and even some explosives.”
“But I thought all of this stuff was removed when—”
“It was your father’s secret stash … prototypes and product kept off the books just in case there was a little bit of money to be made on the side, if you know what I mean.”
Bentley looked to his father.
“But that’s … illegal.”
“Yeah,” the bird croaked. “Your father was no angel … were ya, Abraham?”
The ghost just silently floated in the air.
“Stop that,” Bentley demanded. “He is … he was a good man.”
“You keep telling yourself that, kid,” Roderick said. “The guns and such will give you the means to extract payment that’s due.”
“Payment due?” Bentley repeated. He reached down into the crate and slowly removed a pistol. “You mean kill, don’t you?”
The bird cocked his head. “If you want to think of it in such crude terms. Certainly.”
Bentley looked at the Colt .45 in his hand, feeling the weight of its potential for death.
“I’ve never…” he began, suddenly repulsed by the object he held. He tossed it to the floor. “I couldn’t possibly do that … There has to be another way.” He looked to the bird. “There has to be another way.”
Roderick flapped his wings. “Afraid not, kid.”
“But I don’t even know how to fire a gun,” Bentley complained, “never mind kill somebody. Maybe I’m just not the person that your boss—”
“Our boss,” the bird interrupted.
“All right, our boss … maybe I’m not the person that our boss needs.”
“No, you’re just the guy,” the raven confirmed. “You just need a little bit of training, is all.” He turned his head toward Abraham’s ghost.
The spirit reacted as if to some unspoken command, drifting toward his son.
“What … what is he doing?” Bentley asked, beginning to back up as the ghost increased his speed.
“He’s gonna teach you a few things,” Roderick said as the ghost reached out to take hold of Bentley’s face, his fingers disappearing inside the terrified young man’s skull.
And teach him his father did.
Chapter Twenty-three
There was a flurry of activity as the circus was slowly taken down, dismantled piece by piece to be loaded onto trucks and transported to their next location, wherever that might be.
Grim Death stood in the shadows, having made Pym park their car off t
he road so it would not be noticed. He’d suspected the circus would be on the move this evening, especially after the failure of those sent to deal with Gwendolyn in her home.
He wondered if they had returned with stories of him—of the mysterious skull-faced benefactor who had appeared out of thin air to save the woman from attack.
Under the skull mask, Bentley smiled. He was finding himself more and more amused by these costumed antics, and wondered whether that was a good thing, or bad.
It would be something to ponder at a later date, after first dealing with the murderer who hid behind the typically joyful façade of the circus. Grim Death stayed in the shadows, moving from one patch of darkness to the next to avoid being seen.
The booths for the games of chance were almost down, the roustabouts working at a furious pace to dismantle every aspect of the amusement city in preparation for erecting it in some other place soon after. At this pace, the circus would be gone by sunup, leaving behind not a clue that it had ever been there.
Grim Death knew where he needed to go, where he was most likely to find the perpetrator of the multiple heinous acts. A big man leading an elephant passed him as he waited in the shadow. The pachyderm turned its enormous head and fluttered its ears as it passed, as if sensing him standing there.
As if sensing something dangerous.
The animal protested, trumpeting its disquiet, but the roustabout just told it to behave and continued to lead the animal across the circus grounds to the trucks waiting to transport the great beasts to their next destination.
The coast clear, Grim Death emerged from concealment to stand before Doctor Nocturne’s Chamber of the Unearthly. The building remained untouched. It was if the wooden structure had been imbued with some sort of sentience; the large wooden face, obviously depicting Doctor Nocturne, scrutinized Grim Death as he cautiously approached. Ascending the wooden stairs, he passed through the open mouth of Nocturne to get inside.
Instinct told him to prepare himself, and he plunged his hand deep into his pocket for one of the guns waiting there. He gripped the heavy metal in his hand and felt a kind of confidence flood through him as he entered the cool, musky-smelling darkness of the Chamber.