The man went to raise the bat to finish it. “Wait,” his son said softly. As he always did, the man waited for whatever it was the boy needed to see or think before proceeding. “He doesn’t know he’s in hell. He should, so he won’t fight so much to stay here.” The boy took a step to the left, and the figure on the ground continued to watch and crawl towards him, as the man raised the bat. “You shouldn’t fight,” the boy said clearly, with a tone of compassion and calm, to the thing at their feet. “It’s going to be all right.” The man could feel tears welling up, not for the present situation, but because his son sounded just like he had years before when he had sat at his own father’s hospital bed. The dead would always be objects of revulsion to him, but he could see that his son regarded them quite rightly as objects of sympathy and concern. His son turned to him. “It’s going to be all right.”
He nodded, then the bat came down once, hard, and there was no way to tell if the boy’s words had made the slightest difference to the one who now lay motionless before them. It would be nice to think that its final expression was one of peace and acceptance, but it could more easily and plausibly have been interpreted as defiance, or rage, or mere incomprehension. But the man knew the comfort that his son’s words hard brought to him, at least, if not to his victim. “Let’s go get you some more books,” he said as they got back on their bikes. “I think you get more out of them than I ever did.”
The Revelations of Dr. Maitland
CHARLES BLACK
“Okay, so you don’t believe in ghosts?”
Dr. Andrew Maitland stood at the window, looking at the moonlit grounds of Amicus House while his host, Roger Hilton, a businessman, sat in a comfortable leather armchair.
“Correct.”
“Well, what do you think happens after we die?” Maitland asked, drawing the burgundy-colored velvet curtains closed.
“Either we get put in a box in the ground and we rot, or our bodies get cremated.”
“Hmm.” Dr. Maitland turned his attention to one of the paintings that adorned the study walls and shuddered. Yet, “Remarkable,” was his verdict.
“What’s that?” asked his friend.
“This painting.” Maitland indicated the picture in question.
Hilton rose from his seat and joined his friend. “Dear God.”
The painting was a nighttime scene of four figures in a cemetery. At a glance, it appeared they were grave robbers. Closer inspection revealed that the charnel defilers were something less than human; they were bestial, and disturbingly obscene. By the light of a gibbous moon the hideous creatures engaged in acts far fouler than the theft of a corpse.
“It’s a remarkable piece of work, and a remarkable likeness.”
Hilton grunted. “Damned grotesque, if you ask me. Do you think it’s worth anything?”
Hilton had recently inherited the house and its contents and this was his first visit to the property. Much of what he had become heir to, he had found not to his taste.
“I don’t know.” Maitland looked closer. “I can’t quite make it out, but I think its signed ‘Pickman.’”
Hilton shrugged. “Doesn’t mean anything to me. You like it?
“No, I don’t. I find it terrifying,” Maitland paused. “And yet, I also find a certain comfort in it.”
“What are those creatures, anyway?”
“Ghouls, I should think.”
“Ghouls? When did you become an expert about the Children of the Night?” Hilton said, doing his best to mimic Bela Lugosi.
Despite his serious mood, Maitland had to laugh.
“Come on, Andrew. My impression wasn’t that bad, was it?”
“Roger, the Children of the Night are wolves.”
“Ah well… ghosts and ghouls. Vampires and werewolves.” Hilton snorted in disgust. “Load of rubbish, if you ask me.”
“You think so?”
“Of course I do.” The businessman resumed his seat. “The undead. Is that what this is all about?”
Maitland remained contemplating the painting. “Hmm?”
“You asked me what I thought happened after we die.”
“It was the fate of the soul, I had in mind.”
“Oh, you mean Heaven and Hell.”
“There are other possibilities,” Maitland said.
“Heaven or Hell?” mused Hilton. “That’s a big question,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “Build up the fire, would you Andrew?”
Dr. Maitland added some coal to the flames, then occupied the other armchair.
Apart from the ticking of the clock and the roar of the fire, the two men sat in silence. Hilton smoked, considering the question, whilst his friend gazed deep into the heart of the fire’s flames.
Eventually Hilton delivered his verdict: “Nope. Don’t believe in either.”
“How about reincarnation?”
Hilton frowned. “What? The belief that we’ve lived previous lives?”
“Yes, that’s it. The rebirth of the soul. The cyclical return of a soul to live another life in a new body.”
“No, I most certainly do not.” Hilton threw the remains of his cigarette into the fire. “Reincarnation, ghosts and ghoulies… all rubbish. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation, Andrew. Either we’ve had too much to drink or not enough.” The businessman reached for the decanter. “How about another?”
“Um, yes, please.” Maitland held out his glass for a refill.
“So, where’s all this leading?” Hilton topped up their glasses.
“I’ve been doing some research––” Maitland began.
Hilton interrupted with a groan. “Oh, for goodness sake, Andrew, don’t tell me you’ve been dabbling with some sort of spiritualism.”
“No, not spiritualism as such.”
“A world of charlatans and fools. I don’t know which I despise more.”
Maitland’s smile was brief. “Ah, like you, there was a time when I’d scoff at such things. But that was before––”
Hilton interrupted, “Come on Andrew; it’s nonsense. It must be. I mean, haven’t you noticed that everyone who claimed reincarnation was someone famous? How many were Cleopatra, or a Roman emperor? Without exception, all those previous lives were glamorous or important. They’ve been kings and queens, or at the very least a Red Indian princess.”
Maitland smiled again. “You’re exaggerating Roger. But as I said, I was skeptical myself. Then a colleague told me about a patient of his who claimed to have lived previous lives.”
“I don’t suppose this was a mental patient. Was it, old boy?”
Maitland sighed. “As a matter of fact, it was.”
“There you are, then.” Hilton grinned.
“I would have put it down to a delusion myself, but the patient was so convincing, and quite lucid… well most of the time. He was a scientist who specialized in recondite matters.” Maitland shrugged. “I was curious and looked into the matter a bit further.”
“A lot further, by the sound of it.”
“I read some strange books.”
“Undoubtedly written by a bunch of cranks.”
“Then I began to experiment with a drug called Liao.”
“Liao? I’ve never heard of it. And I’m surprised that you have. I never had you pegged for someone who’d be seduced by this new age counter-culture. You’ve not been seeing someone behind Barbara’s back, have you? Having an affair with some young hippie girl?”
“No, of course not. Barbara and I are very happy together.”
Hilton hastily apologized. “Of course you are. Sorry Andrew.” He poured fresh drinks. “Well, tell me about this Liao stuff.”
“It’s an Oriental concoction known to occultists and alchemists.”
“Ah, the mystic East.” Hilton smirked. “So, what’s it do?”
“It enables the user to travel in time––”
“Travel in time?” roared Hilton.
“Not physically of course.” Dr. Maitland si
ghed. “It’s rather difficult to explain the effect.”
“Try.”
“Well, I suppose the best analogy would be it’s a form of astral projection.” Maitland held up a hand to forestall the comment his friend was about to make. “Roger, the how is not the important thing. The important thing is, it works. And I’ve found that I lived many other lives.”
Hilton was about to say something about Indian princesses, but Maitland’s serious expression changed his mind. He decided it was best to humor his friend. “All right, suppose I said, prove it to me? Did you bring any of this Liao down here with you?”
“No.” Maitland shook his head. “You’d take it if I had?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Hilton lit up another cigarette. “You took it, and came through it unharmed, didn’t you?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Maitland echoed Hilton’s own words.
Hilton frowned. “Okay, so how are you going to convince me?” He cut his question short; the rest of it––the words: you haven’t gone mad––remained unspoken.
“I’m going to tell you about an occurrence that happened when I was not Dr. Andrew Maitland, but George Prendergast, a soldier… ”
* * *
Before putting it back in his jacket pocket, Private George Prendergast kissed the picture of his sweetheart Sally-Ann, wondering if he would he ever see her again.
He took out his cigarette case and lit a woodbine, then returned the case to the same pocket as the photograph, over his heart. Prendergast had never smoked before the war. But had taken up the habit after hearing how Tommy Morsan had escaped death, when a bullet meant for his heart had struck the cigarette case he carried.
Around him, his fellow soldiers were going through similar rituals, checking weapons and equipment, saying prayers. The bombardment of enemy lines had been going on for some time; it would not be long before the signal would come and they would attack.
The signal eventually came; too soon for some, not soon enough for others, and over the top they went. Charging the enemy. Charging Death itself.
A charge across a patch of muddy, rutted ground. Shell holes filled with scummy water. A desolate wasteland where nothing grew except the number of corpses. A quagmire of death. Machine guns spitting bullets. A charge into tangles of barbed wire––except it couldn’t really be called a charge. The weight of the equipment the men carried combined with the treacherousness of the mud meant they moved little faster than a walking pace.
Into No Man’s Land, the zone of death. Soldiers scythed down by the hail of enemy bullets. Shells exploding, hurling men hither and thither. Prendergast was unsure whether the shells were theirs, or those of the enemy. It no longer mattered to the dead men.
“Please God, don’t let me die for nothing,” Prendergast prayed, convinced his death was a certainty.
Prendergast repeated the mantra as he progressed towards the enemy.
An orange cloud was drifting towards the advancing troops. “Gas!” Prendergast shouted, struggling to put on his gas mask. Before he had, the force of a nearby explosion threw him to the ground. He remained unmoving, and the battle raged on.
In the distance the guns rumbled and explosions flashed, lighting the grey sky. But that was far off, the battle had moved on.
Private Prendergast realized he was still alive. He wiped his face with his sleeve, but did not notice the blood. Instead he looked around, and was sick, adding the meager contents of his stomach to the detritus of human waste that surrounded him. Bodies and body parts lay everywhere.
He recognized the mangled remains of friends and comrades. There was Private Bobby Owens, or at least his upper half. The rest of the young soldier had been blown to kingdom come. At least the lad would not be complaining about trench-foot anymore.
Others were beyond recognition.
He heard a groan––someone else was alive. Friend or foe? he wondered. Unsteady on his feet, Prendergast rose.
“What the bleedin’ hell… !” he muttered.
He could have sworn that he saw a severed arm move, its grasping hand pulling it along.
He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and laughed nervously.
The arm moved again, the hand clawing the mud, dragging the limb behind it.
Prendergast licked his parched lips. His Enfield rifle was near at hand; he wondered whether that was what the limb was aiming to reach. Prendergast crouched down and grabbed his weapon. He pounced, bayoneting the arm. The hand jerked, clawing spasmodically, then was still.
There was more groaning now. Prendergast pulled the blade free and backed away, almost falling over another body. The soldier moaned. Prendergast recognized a comrade: Dennis Trotter.
“Thank God you’re alive!”
Trotter groaned; his hand reached for Prendergast.
Prendergast bent over the wounded man, shrugging off his army pack. He would not be able to carry that and Trotter back to their own lines.
“Are you hurt badly?” he asked.
Trotter’s blood soaked jacket answered that question. Prendergast opened the jacket, reeled back, retching again. There was no way Trotter could still be alive with that gaping stomach wound.
Yet Trotter raised a hand and grasped Prendergast by the throat; he began to squeeze and pull the Private down towards him.
Shock kept Prendergast momentarily frozen; then realization that a dead friend was choking the life out of him spurred the Private into action. He struggled free, and smashed the butt of his rifle into Trotter’s face.
Around him, men of both sides, including Trotter, were rising slowly––men with terrible wounds, dead men. Private Prendergast began to back away.
They were closing in on him, staggering and shambling. Men that no longer breathed groaned and moaned. Some missing limbs, others with gaping wounds were spilling entrails. Staring with sightless eyes, ruined faces, one corpse entirely headless.
Prendergast watched dazed and amazed. “This can’t be happening,” he muttered. Hands reached out for him, but not all of them.
A Hun with his guts hanging out, grabbed, and pulled free, some of his intestines, intent on using them as a garrote.
Prendergast fired. His bullet hit the living corpse in the eye. Prendergast was amazed for two reasons. Normally he would not have achieved such accuracy even if he had aimed for the eye. Secondly, the shot had little effect––the walking dead man staggered at the impact, paused a moment, then continued its shambling advance.
“I’ll be damned if I let a bunch of dead men kill me!” he shouted, stabbing and slashing his bayonet wildly.
Though bullets had little effect, his blade proved more effective.
Prendergast fought as if possessed by the spirit of a Viking berserker. Thankfully, whatever perversion of nature had caused these dead men to rise had only affected this small corner of the battlefield. Hacking and slashing, Prendergast was able to fight his way free.
The zombies continued to pursue him, moving slowly.
Despite his wounds, and the treacherous conditions of the battlefield, the Private was able to outdistance them. He would be safe in the trenches, he told himself. Realizing this he began to laugh.
But Prendergast had become disorientated in the fog of war. He did not find his way back to the safety of his own lines.
A group scoured the battlefield, perhaps searching for the wounded. They looked up at his approach.
“God almighty!” Prendergast gasped.
There was something wrong with them.
They stood hunched, lean, and grey. Whilst some wore blood-drenched uniforms, others were dressed in tattered rags, the remnants of charnel shrouds. Skin discolored, faces misshapen, snout like. Creatures of nightmare, they did not carry rifles in their hands, the talons of these scavengers held gobbets of bloody flesh. They grinned, exposing stained canine teeth.
Private Prendergast began to scream.
And then the ghouls pounced.
* * *
“… An
d my last memory is of the charnel stench of the foul creatures, the agonizing pain as their fangs bit into me, and their claws tearing the flesh from my still-living body. My body rent apart, and the internal organs ripped free. Thankfully oblivion overcame me and I found myself Andrew Maitland once again, back in London, in the here and now of 1972.”
“Good God! I’ve heard of the horrors of World War One, but zombies, and ghouls!” Hilton brought his fist down on the arm of his chair. “This Liao, it sounds like it took you on a particularly wild trip. Had you been watching too many damned horror films?”
Dr. Maitland ignored the question. “I can understand your skepticism, Roger… and I might too accept your verdict of drug induced fantasy. But tell me, how would you explain this?” Maitland rose from his chair.
“Explain what?”
Maitland took off his jacket. Lately he had taken to wearing black polo neck shirts, and he pulled off the one he now wore, revealing a body covered with an innumerable number of horrific scars.
Hilton gasped and stood up, a shocked expression upon his face. “Andrew, I don’t know what to say. How on earth is it possible?”
“That I cannot explain. They are not self-inflicted. The bite marks do not match my dental records, and indeed, how on earth would I have been able to bite myself so, even under the influence of such a potent drug?”
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