The Steampunk Megapack

by Jay Lake

  Wade scrubbed at his tearstained face and nodded. Opening his mouth, he paused, and then said, “Would you please light an extra candle in here, miss? Please?”

  Estella looked around the schoolroom. The light from the windows had a thin, strained quality to it, as if it were a struggle to come through the heavy grey clouds that were massed in the sky.

  “I suppose another candle will make you feel better?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  She nodded back and said, “I shan’t be but a moment. Why don’t you try and calm yourself by working on those mathematic problems I set you? Sums can be very soothing, I find.”

  * * * *

  In the kitchen, Mrs. Callaway nattered on about “—the poor young master’s weak spells”, and how she was sure that a spot of tea and some jammy dodgers would make him feel right as rain. Estella was mildly curious as to what about her requesting tea and biscuits indicated that the boy was feeling poorly. However, she was not curious enough as to engage the cook in conversation.

  As she walked, tray in hand, toward the back stairs, Master Chamington sauntered out of the library. His stare lingered on her curveaceous figure, but finally made it to her tawny gold eyes.

  “If it isn’t our Miss Hargreaves,” he said smoothly. “Tea and biscuits for an invalid, is it?”

  “Not in the least,” responded Estella crisply. “Children are more diligent about their studies if there is some sort of reward.”

  He smiled at her in a condescending manner. “You’ll spoil the boy,” he said. “But I suppose that everyone deserves a bit of spoiling. Don’t you agree, dear Miss Hargreaves?”

  With a thin-lipped smile, Estella said, “No, not really. I think everyone deserves what they get. If you’ll excuse me?” and continued on her way.

  * * * *

  Back in the schoolroom, Wade refused to be drawn into any more talk about the subjects of his sketches, and indeed retreated to communicating solely through shrugs and sighs. Feeling that the boy was worn out from the previous late night and the emotional storms of the day, Estella convinced Wade that he should turn in quite early. His agreement was partially procured through the bribes of two candles left burning on the side table and a bundle of matches.

  Once the boy had drifted off to an uneasy sleep, Estella soundlessly got up and left the room, then made her way downstairs. She paused, unsure if she had heard a scrabbling, thumping noise in the walls, or if it was merely her imagination, primed by Wade’s earlier outburst. When the sound did not reoccur, she continued down to the main floor of the house.

  The house was dark and silent and Estella was thankful she had brought a candle to light her way. The parlor doors were closed, and no flicker of light could be seen through the crack under them. There was no sign of Dorrie, Jane, or Mrs. Bailey. Feeling the slightest bit unnerved, Estella walked briskly to the kitchen.

  While cozily warm, the kitchen was also dim, the only light coming from the fire, and curiously empty. Shaking her head, Estella made herself a plate of buttered bread, picked up the newspaper that was sitting abandoned on the kitchen table, and then returned to her room.

  Back in her dingy room, Estella tried to settle down with the newspaper (she was hoping for a report of a mysterious explosion in a particular part of town, but it seemed that Professor Tenebrous had not yet set himself alight), but she could not focus her mind on reading. She would start, and then her eyes would drift over the words as if they had no meaning, while she thought about the unsettling drawings and Wade’s impassioned cry of “They say I’m not supposed to talk about it! It’s real!”

  A mewling, thumping sort of noise from the window jolted Estella to alertness. She looked over, but saw nothing there. She went over to the sill, threw back the curtains, pried the window open, and looked out. If she squinted, she could just see what looked to be a small bundle of fabric stuck to the wall a few yards under her window. She watched it silently for a few moments. There was no further mewling sounds, but the bundled shape slowly crept down along the timbers of the house, toward the ground.

  The sound of a voice, urgent but straining to be quiet, came from around the side of the house.

  “Master, look’ee! It managed to get itself outside again!” came the voice of Old Jed.

  Estella leaned back and shrouded herself in the curtains, hiding from those outside.

  “Curse you, Old Jed! You said you had tied it to the crib! Can you do nothing right!” came the muffled, but unmistakable, voice of Master Chamington.

  As if in response to their voices, the piercing wail of an infant came from below Estella’s window. She stretched out her arm to pull the window shut, taking care to stay in the shadows to avoid being seen. She walked briskly through the door to the schoolroom, and into the boy’s bedroom. Young Master Wade was sitting bolt upright in his bed, his arms wrapped around his knees, and his hands clutched around the bundle of matches. His eyes met Estella’s.

  “Yes,” she said. “I saw it. I heard it. I heard them.”

  They stayed awake until the first glimmers of dawn came gently through the windows.

  * * * *

  The next day, none of the servants would speak directly to her. Dorrie delivered a tray of tea and toast, but would not meet her eyes. Nor would Mrs. Bailey, who chattered about running errands while tying on a rusty brown bonnet, and then left with a plethora of baskets hanging off of her arms. It sounded as if Mrs. Callaway was in the pantry, but she would not respond to Estella’s calls. So Estella busied herself with packing a basket of apples, cheese, and bread, then went back up to the schoolroom, where she had left Wade drowsing over a stack of books.

  However, he was wide-awake when she returned, trying to avoid his father’s searching glare.

  “I found the boy sleeping instead of studying! What sort of governess do you call yourself, Miss Hargreaves?” he demanded.

  “The sort who recognizes when her charge has had a fitful night’s sleep, sir. I thought that since the day was mild, the boy and I would go for a picnic. The fresh air would do him good,” she replied.

  Master Chamington grasped her firmly by the elbow and led her to the end of the schoolroom farthest from Wade.

  “I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Miss Hargreaves,” he said in a concerned manner. “The boy is of a sickly constitution, and there is another storm coming on. Being outside in the changeable weather would bring on another inflammation of the lungs.”

  “B-but I feel quite well, Father,” called Wade, overhearing them. “Please, I would so like to go outside again.”

  “No!” shouted Master Chamington, then turned back to Estella, the mask of concerned parent slipping over his features again. “No, I cannot allow it. The risk is too great.”

  Deftly, he escorted Estella out of the schoolroom, grimacing at Wade in passing.

  “You see, it was an inflammation of the lungs that took the boy’s mother from us. The boy had always been weak, and the death of his mother has made him moreso,” he told her a touch too gravely.

  “He does not seem weak to me, sir,” she said, staring sternly up at him. “Perhaps in need of kindly treatment, but not weak.”

  He smiled at her. “But aren’t we all in need of kindly treatment, Miss Hargreaves?” he replied, gazing into her eyes.

  Estella took a step back. Master Chamington took a step forward, and another, until Estella was pressed up against the wall.

  “Yes,” he whispered in her ear, hot breath fluttering wisps of her hair, “Kindly treatment. Would you be able to spare some of that kindness for me, Miss Hargreaves?”

  Estella’s body stiffened with revulsion, and she turned her head away. Master Chamington laughed lowly, and backed away from her.

  “No?” he said, smiling wickedly. “Perhaps you should think on it. You’ve obviously bewitched me.”

  She glared at him coldly. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t. You would know if I had.”

  He laughed again, and sauntered d
own the stairs. Estella returned to the schoolroom.

  “What are we going to do, miss?” asked Wade fretfully. Estella patted him on the shoulder, but remained silent.

  * * * *

  The boy had fallen into a fitful sleep, but Estella made no move to wake him, for she knew he would need his strength. Leaving the door to the schoolroom open, she went and methodically packed her bags, then brought them back into where the boy was.

  As the light left the sky, she lit more candles. There were more muted thumps and scratches from the walls, and a few distant wails. Estella checked her watch, then shook Wade awake.

  “Do you trust me?” she asked him. He pressed his lips together, but nodded yes.

  “Good. Is there anything here, anything small, that you want to take with you?”

  He silently went over to the stack of workbooks, pulled out the pages with his sketches of his mother, and handed them to Estella. She placed them in her bag, and then handed him the picnic basket. He held on to it, but looked yearningly at the candles. Estella made a “go on” motion with her head, so he put the bundle of matches in his pocket, and picked up one of the candles. They crept out of the schoolroom, and down the stairs.

  Estella thought they were going to be able to sneak away unnoticed, but as they headed through the house, Dorrie walked out of a room and saw them.

  “”Ere, where do you think you’re going, now?” she asked, her voice seeming to echo around the rafters. As if pulled by a conjuror’s strings, Mrs. Bailey and Old Jed popped out of other doors.

  “The Master says Young Master Wade is not to be allowed outside!” exclaimed Mrs. Bailey.

  “Master! Master Chamington!” shouted Old Jed, weaving back and forth and waving a bottle.

  “Ignore them,” Estella told Wade, dragging him forward. She was holding to her belief that if you walked briskly and with purpose, most people wouldn’t actually try to stop you. It was a good belief, and it almost held true, but Master Chamington came roaring down the hall toward them.

  “Stop them, you fools!” he shouted.

  Dorrie and Mrs. Bailey shrieked in response and started running toward them.

  “I’ve plans for you, boy!” growled Master Chamington. “And for the oh-so-decorative Miss Hargreaves. It’s time there was a pretty face around here for me to gaze upon.”

  Estella and Wade continued backing toward the front door, both unwilling to turn away from their pursuers. Old Jed, unable to keep his balance, stumbled into Mrs. Bailey, who turned and slapped at him.

  “You old fool!” she hissed, snatched the bottle from his hand, and threw it at Estella and Wade. It shattered on the floor in front of them, the sharp reek of alcohol stinging their eyes.

  “You come here now, boy!” shouted Master Chamington, advancing upon them.

  Wade, shaking in fear, dropped his candle. The bright flame raced along the puddle of spilt spirits, back toward Mrs. Bailey and Old Jed. Estella grabbed for another candle that was sitting in a wall sconce, and held it under the edge of a dusty tapestry hanging, which took to the fire eagerly. Wade, eyes alight, pulled out his matches and lit some of them, carefully tossing them into corners.

  A wall of flame separated Estella and Wade from the other members of the household. Old Jed, panicked by the fire, grabbed at his sister, who screamed and lurched into Master Chamington as he moved past her. She flailed helplessly, causing both of them to topple into the flames.

  Estella closed the door quite firmly behind her and Wade, and ushered him down the porch stairs. Spying a large tree branch, she grabbed it and darted back to wedge it between the door handles. Ignoring the bellows of pain from within the house, she walked back to Wade.

  “Do you still have some matches left?” she asked.

  “Y-yes,” he answered, eyes huge with shock.

  “Good.” She led them around the house, stopping to quickly make little nests of newspaper and tucking them against the timbers before setting them alight. The flames crackled, leaping almost merrily up the house.

  As they came around the final corner, they heard wailing cries. Wade stopped, and looked at Estella for what to do. She put a finger to her lips, and looked carefully around them.

  Next to a fencepost lay a bundle of cloth. Estella set down her bags, walked over to it, and flipped back the topmost layer. An infant with a distorted mouth, a tiny snout-like nose, and a blank expanse of skin where it should have eyes, twitched and wiggled on the ground. Estella gave it a measuring look, and then went back to where Wade was watching her apprehensively. She opened one of her bags and rummaged around in it, pulling out a dark green glass bottle. She took the picnic basket from the boy, and unceremoniously dumped the food into her open bag, stopping to pick up an apple and hand it to him.

  “Do you trust me?” she asked him again. He nodded, taking a bite from the apple.

  Estella strode back to the monstrous baby, picnic basket over one arm, uncorking the bottle of Doctor Crighton’s Nerve Tonic as she approached. Its screaming was nerve-wracking, and Estella took a small amount of satisfaction from the spluttering, choking noise it made as she poured some of the nerve tonic into its mouth. She stood, looking down on it as the unholy din slowed and stopped. She picked the infant-creature up and held it out at arm’s length.

  “Well, not quite what he wanted, but I’m sure he’ll be able to think of something to do with you,” she remarked to no one in particular, then placed the infant-creature into the basket. She turned back to the boy and said, “Come along. We have a train to catch.”

  They walked away from the house full of fire.

  * * * *

  Wade walked behind Estella down the hallway, fascinated by the globes of glowing blue vapor that dotted the walls. As they came to each door, Estella showed him which key was needed to unlock it, then had him lock it behind them.

  The laboratory was rather worse for wear than the last time Estella had seen it. There were scorch marks stretching seven feet high up the walls, and the floor was littered with broken glass and crumpled papers. Professor Tenebrous was in a similar condition, his lab coat torn and scorched, a large gash on his forehead. He was poking at the charred remains of something held in a large vise when they entered.

  “Miss Bonder! I was led to believe that you had quit my employ!” he said crossly.

  “I changed my mind, sir.”

  “What if I’ve hired a new assistant? A better assistant?”

  Estella raised a pale blonde eyebrow, and glanced pointedly around the room.

  Professor Tenebrous looked at the shambles around him and harrumphed. “Well, fine. I didn’t.” He noticed Wade, standing slightly behind Estella.

  “Who is this, Miss Holt? You are bringing in urchins from the street? I won’t allow it.”

  Wade shrank against Estella. She patted him on the shoulder and airily replied, “Absolutely not, Professor. I decided that I need an assistant. Don’t worry, I will see to his training.”

  Professor Tenebrous harrumphed again.

  “Also, sir, I take it you still have not acquired a satisfactory mandrake root?” she asked.

  “No. All of the blasted things are mute. How can I prove my theory with mute mandrakes, I ask you?”

  As if in reply, a mewling, whimpering sort of cry came from the blanket-draped basket over Estella’s arm. She silently held the basket out to Professor Tenebrous, who took it and flipped back the blanket.

  He gazed at the contents of the basket for a long time, and then looked at Estella. She smiled faintly at him. He beamed back.

  “Miss Hargreaves, have I ever spoken to you of a raise in your salary?”

  Estella’s smile became more noticeable. She may have even dimpled.

  “Not that I recall, sir.”

  “Dashed shortsighted of me. Let us talk about it now, while your assistant tidies things up.”

  Professor Tenebrous set the basket carefully on his desk, while Wade went and fetched a broom and dustpan.

/>   THE WHISPERER IN DARKNESS, by H. P. Lovecraft

  Bear in mind closely that I did not see any actual visual horror at the end. To say that a mental shock was the cause of what I inferred—that last straw which sent me racing out of the lonely Akeley farmhouse and through the wild domed hills of Vermont in a commandeered motor at night—is to ignore the plainest facts of my final experience. Notwithstanding the deep extent to which I shared the information and speculations of Henry Akeley, the things I saw and heard, and the admitted vividness of the impression produced on me by these things, I cannot prove even now whether I was right or wrong in my hideous inference. For after all, Akeley’s disappearance establishes nothing. People found nothing amiss in his house despite the bullet-marks on the outside and inside. It was just as though he had walked out casually for a ramble in the hills and failed to return. There was not even a sign that a guest had been there, or that those horrible cylinders and machines had been stored in the study. That he had mortally feared the crowded green hills and endless trickle of brooks among which he had been born and reared, means nothing at all, either; for thousands are subject to just such morbid fears. Eccentricity, moreover, could easily account for his strange acts and apprehensions toward the last.

  The whole matter began, so far as I am concerned, with the historic and unprecedented Vermont floods of November 3, 1927. I was then, as now, an instructor of literature at Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts, and an enthusiastic amateur student of New England folklore. Shortly after the flood, amidst the varied reports of hardship, suffering, and organised relief which filled the press, there appeared certain odd stories of things found floating in some of the swollen rivers; so that many of my friends embarked on curious discussions and appealed to me to shed what light I could on the subject. I felt flattered at having my folklore study taken so seriously, and did what I could to belittle the wild, vague tales which seemed so clearly an outgrowth of old rustic superstitions. It amused me to find several persons of education who insisted that some stratum of obscure, distorted fact might underlie the rumours.