“What I had not cured myself of was curiosity as to the cause.
“I spent several more days down in that dark chamber. There were no further visions of leather-clad dancers, no more Germanic chanting. But I kept as quiet as I was able while I carried out a detailed survey of the writings on the walls, and I did not dare attempt any more singing, whether that blasted carol or anything else.
“I was coming to believe that this chamber had been the focus of a great deal of occult activity over the course of many centuries, with adepts having been drawn to it for the same aural and visual qualities that I had myself experienced. Some of the writings and drawings on the walls spoke of a quest for enlightenment—and some even professed to have attained it. For my own part, I was satisfied with the gradual, if painstaking, accrual of knowledge.
“After three days I had barely made a dent in my studies, but matters back here in Chelsea called me back to my duty.
“That was merely the start of what has become a fascination—almost an obsession—with uncovering the true nature of that dark cavern. As you know, the lure of the caves has been strong, and I have told you many times that I have returned from attempting to delve into their secrets.
“And so it went on—many months of it—months of trial and error, of perusal of drawings and scratches on the walls mostly too ancient and too worn by time to be fully legible. I searched in antique tomes in libraries across the city, I talked to wiser men than I, and all the time I felt as if I was beating my head against the very walls of that blasted cavern in frustration.
“And so it might have ended there, had it not been for that recent business in East Malling. You will remember that we discovered that the pentacle valves could be controlled by a series of switches? Well I had been experimenting with that very thing, and had even gone as far as attempting to use the same set of switches to coordinate the pentacle with a phonograph. It was while I was lost in the intricacies of this task that I realized I had left one of the wax cylinders too close to the fire. The wax had thinned and was running—and in doing so it revealed traces—faint but clear—of previous recordings, still there embedded in the wax just waiting to be revealed.
“I had an epiphany—what if the rocks in that deep cavern were like that wax cylinder, giving up their secrets under the right conditions? And in this case, the right conditions seemed to require the sound of a previous recording—for want of a better word. When we sang in English, we got a playback of sorts. And after that had been exposed, the next layer replaced it, one that was played back when we sang in Latin. I wondered what might be revealed now if I subjected the cavern to the German chanting I still had as a recording.
“I was most eager to find out.”
c
Carnacki paused to knock out his pipe.
“We are almost up to date with the tale now, for my epiphany occurred just this last week. So if you would fill your glasses one last time, gentlemen, I shall bring the tale of the Chislehurst Caves to a final, if not entirely satisfactory, conclusion.”
Once again Carnacki waited until we were all settled. I noticed that Arkwright was almost bursting with eagerness to ask questions, but Carnacki gave him no time to interject and continued straight into his story without further pause.
c
“I realized on arrival at the Black Bull that I had made this current expedition only just in time. Scarcely had I checked that the carriage had delivered my full range of protections when I was hearing tales in the bar of dashed peculiar goings-on in the area. There were reports of strange singing being heard from the caverns, and of foreign folks dancing under trees in the moonlight. Even the inn itself had not been spared the visitations, with a clearly shaken barman relating tales of singing heard in the cellar—and from even further below. The fellow promised me free board and room if I could but relieve him of the problem, and I resolved I would make my attempt that very afternoon.
“Once again I lugged my equipment down into the depths, having to make three trips this time to accommodate the pentacle, generator, phonograph and the box of tricks that contained my latest experiment—control switches for the whole kit and caboodle.
“My protective circle was still clearly outlined on the floor of the cavern—it looked like no one had been down there since my last visit, which had been some months previous. As I did not have to redraw the lines, I was able to set up in short order and was soon ready to begin.
“I started by playing back the recording I had made of the Germanic chanting. I coordinated the chanting with the crystal valves, dimming and flaring the color in similar washes of yellow and green to those I had seen on the previous visit.
“And once again the results were immediate. The Germanic voices from the recording filled the cave; an answering chorus came out of the walls—higher pitched, a feminine choir of soprano voices so pure and filled with joy that it brought a catch to my throat and a tear to my eye. Then the dancers came—a flock of lithe, almost swan-like ladies in the purest and finest silks, green and yellow and azure in the wash of color from the pentacle. I was so enraptured that I almost forgot to switch off the Germanic playback and set it to record this latest manifestation, but I managed to do so just in time.
“The following hours were among the strangest I have ever spent. I played and replayed everything the wall gave out to me, pulling the aural and visual recordings out from the stone, like peeling the layers off an onion. After the dancing girls—who may have been Roman, but in any case most certainly predated the Germanics—I watched as painted tribesman, half-naked and screaming, cavorted drunkenly in front of me. And yet, remarkably, the tone and timbre of their song still matched, was still recognizable as that most favorite of carols that started the whole bally business.
“By Jove, I wish you chaps could have seen it. I felt like Mr. Wells’ time traveler, standing there as the eons unfolded backward just beyond my defenses. After the tribes people, there were others, in long robes that might have been white—bearded chaps who looked most severe and who I took for some kind of druidic sect. And further back I went—more tribesmen, and more still, each incarnation successively less melodic until much of the tune was lost in favor of rhythmic clapping and stamping of feet.
“Around this time the valves started to flare more brightly, and the volume of the sound within the cave rose to a crescendo. I was able to control matters with judicious use of my new control box, which performed admirably in matching the washes of color from the valves with the volume and beat from the phonograph.
“I was feeling rather proud of myself.
“And that very overconfidence was almost my undoing.”
c
“The crystal valves came under increasing pressure the longer I continued—the sound emanating from the walls shook and reverberated around me, bringing fine dust and loose earth falling from above in such a quantity that I almost had to desist. But once again my new control switches proved efficacious against the rising din. The wraiths accompanying the sound were thinner now, less substantial, hardly more than smoke and mist, as if greatly attenuated by time. I was still holding to the fact that my theory of drawing recordings from the stone was correct when the sound exploded in a concussion that threatened to knock me off my feet. The blue end of the spectrum on the valves flared, bright enough to almost blind me, and a new sound rose from all around, a great beating, as of a giant drum. The wraiths danced and whirled, spirals inside spirals, wheels within wheels, yellow like sunlight, red like fire, winking blue like the brightest stars. I believed I was looking at the very act of creation itself and I could only stand there in awe, the phonograph quite forgotten as it played itself out, my control box equally neglected at my feet as my head filled with dancing stars and darkness.
“It started to become cold—very cold. And it was around then that I began to doubt my earlier confidence, for there was now most definitely something else in that chamber with me. I felt its presence long before I saw any
sign of it—in the cold, and in the vista of stars and darkness that filled my view.
“Then it came, seeping out of the walls themselves, like water being squeezed from a full sponge, a deep blackness, endless and without form, a creeping cold that brought a shiver through my entire body. I do not know how, but I recognized this thing for what it was—it was an enemy, pure and simple, an enemy of life itself, something from the Outer Darkness that had been in these rocks since time immemorial, building its hate, biding its time.
“And I had set it free.
“My pride, my hubris, had brought this down on my own head—I had thought I was retrieving and playing back recordings. In truth, I was stripping away the bars of a cage—an aural and visual cage millennia in the making, and mere hours in my dismantling of it.
“The formless dark pressed against my defenses. The valves whined and flared, threatening to blow. I did the only thing I could think of. I reversed the phonograph and played back the last recording, a primal primitive beat that reverberated through the chamber.
“I breathed a sigh of relief as the blackness receded, but I had celebrated too early, for it came back with twice the force, pressing at the circle and threatening to take the top of my head off with the pressure.
“I do not rightly know why I did it, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I started to sing along in time to the beat—the blasted carol again, if you can believe it. I sang it in Latin for what seemed like hours. Then I sang in English until I was almost hoarse.
“And still the blackness pressed at me, and still my defenses howled and wailed and threatened to give at any moment.
“Finally I tried one last thing—my final fling against the dark. Using both of the phonographs I recorded myself singing and played it back, further recording myself again over the top such that after a time there were five, six, ten of my voices raised in that bally song.
“And finally, just as my generator batteries began to fade and the valves dimmed, the blackness fell away, seeping back into the wall as the drumbeat sounded and my voice, like a lullaby, sent the thing from beyond deep into the rock, and back from whence it had come.
“It seemed I had managed to rebuild the cage—and not a moment too soon.”
c
“There is not much left to tell,” Carnacki said. “I had to retreat rather sharpish, given the badly drained state of my generator’s batteries. I pulled my gear out just in time before the light gave out on me completely. But when I left, I felt none of the dread, none of the almost overwhelming sense of age and darkness. It was just a cavern again, although I was not tempted in the slightest to sing any carols.”
And with that, Carnacki got up from his chair, a sign that the tale was done and it was time for us to make our preparations for departure. As ever, Arkwright had questions.
“But what in blazes was it?” was the one I believe that was on everyone’s lips.
“A thing from beyond,” Carnacki said. “Imprisoned and held down there in the dark out of harm’s way by the power of rhythm and vibration, the power of song. The same power that can also be used to release it—as I almost found out to my cost.
“And I also believe something else. Just as I managed to release the bonds and hear all those old songs come back to me, might not someone, in years to come, go down into that cave? And when they are there, might they not sing a song—and hear my voice come back at them from across the years as the bonds are once more released?
“It is not something I wish to think on too closely. Now, out you go.”
We went out into the night. I heard carol singers in the distance as I walked along the Embankment, but hummed a tune to myself to cover the sound as I hurried home.
About the Author
William Meikle is a Scottish writer, now living in Canada, with fifteen novels published in the genre press and over 250 short story credits in thirteen countries. His work has appeared in a number of professional anthologies and magazines. He lives in Newfoundland with whales, bald eagles and icebergs for company.
He has described himself as “A psyche with a deep love of the weird in its most basic forms, and the urge to beat up monsters.” More at williammeikle.com
About the Artist
M. Wayne Miller is an illustrator for numerous book and magazine publishers as well as several role-playing game publishers. His list of clients includes Dark Renaissance Press, Tor/Forge, Dark Regions Press, Marietta Publishing, LORE Publishing, Thunderstorm Books, Genius Publishing, Journalstone Publishing, Gamewick Games, Dias Ex Machina, Chaosium, and Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show. Wayne continues his quest to learn and grow as an artist and illustrator. He lives in Greensboro, NC, with his wife, Carmen, and a very large cat.
Carnacki: The Watcher at the Gate Page 21