I climbed the thirteen steps to the first floor, where we kept our rooms.
Most of the doors were closed; those which were open showed signs of hasty retreat. I could see where two of my fellows crammed clothes into a valise and exited through an open window, I could see where someone had barricaded himself in the bathroom, leaving in apparent safety later. My own room had been ransacked, but, so far as I could tell, nothing taken.
That left the closed and locked door of a student named Harris. My newly found knowledge of locks enabled me to enter Harris’ room immediately, where a ghastly sight assaulted my eyes.
A horrific stench drove me back from the doorway, the first time I had ever smelt a decomposing corpse. The poor man lay on the floor face down in a thick pool of black and dry blood, his body covered by flies and similarly evil insects, his flesh rent to shreds by sharp claws. Down the stairs I went, in search of assistance, even as I choked back my rising gorge.
What could have committed this horrible atrocity? And where was the evil Moreau, the only one in command of such creatures?
After police removed Harris’ body, I forced myself into the room, looking closely at the scene before me. For the first time, I used my magnifying glass to study telltale bits of evidence. Paw prints in the blood, for instance, led me to posit the same creature which had attacked me; I was able to calculate its size from the size of the prints and their spacing, a trick I had long ago mastered. Someone had obviously let it in through the front door, explaining the chaos on the first floor.
Because it came upstairs, I had the chilling thought that this monstrous wolf-rat had tracked me there, no doubt by my scent. Which, if true, meant: it came to the rooming house specifically to find me.
Would it come back?
Penurious as I was, a hotel was out of the question, and I made a supper of bread and cheese, determining what I ought to do. I retrieved a bottle of whiskey from my room and took it to the parlor, taking draughts straight from the bottle, pondering my next move. The exertions of the day, combined with the soothing properties of the liquor, lulled me into sleep.
Midway through a dream in which I was being pursued by a horde of rats, a noise woke me. Darkness had fallen, but I distinctly heard something moving about in the cellar below. Lighting a lamp, my cane at the ready, I opened the cellar door as slowly and quietly as I could. The hinges, a bit rusty, squeaked as I shone the lantern down the stairs.
“Is anyone there?” I asked.
Nothing.
I should have listened to my instincts and closed the door, but the whiskey had fogged my judgment and I took a few tentative steps downward. Still nothing. Reaching the bottom, I shined the light into every corner I could see. Deciding the noise had been a part of my dream, I decided to hobble back up the stairs and find a policeman.
Sharp claws dug into my ankles as I reached the third step, and I tumbled backwards. With a hiss, the grey-furred creature from the lab, its red eyes blazing with victory, made to leap upon me, but I brought the cane down on its head. The creature ejaculated a sudden and shrill shriek, and I flailed again, striking one of its paws.
“Nelson!” snapped a command. “Heel!”
Alexandre Moreau stepped into the light as the creature meekly took its place at his side.
“I have come to hold you to account, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “You could have been hailed as one of history’s great scientists. Now, only a tombstone will reflect your name for posterity.”
“Doctor Moreau, you are a genuine madman!” I cried. “I don’t know how you created these—these—things, but they are unnatural and unholy. I know you will eventually try to modify human beings one day. I will not let them suffer as these animals have.”
“Why not? Are not the streets filled with criminals who have earned punishment? We sentence people to hang for the public’s entertainment. Do you not consider that barbaric?”
“That is justice, not science.”
“They can be the same thing. You think you have stopped me, Sherlock Holmes. I tell you I have just begun.”
I made a move toward the stairs, but Moreau gestured and the creature he called “Nelson” bared its sharp, glistening teeth.
“He hasn’t been fed in a while,” said Moreau.
My mind raced. I fumbled for my cigarettes to calm myself.
“The condemned man’s last request,” Moreau said.
“Please allow me this one final pleasure,” I said.
“Very well. You may finish it in the parlor. I have arranged transport. I am sad to say you will be remembered as nothing more than a sad suicide found floating in the Thames. You had great potential. But a more creative death would arouse suspicion, and I must be on my way.”
I hobbled slowly up the steps, my cane a vital support, followed by Nelson, and then Moreau. The cellar door opened into the kitchen; I glanced with some longing at the rear door, but I could not outrun the creature, so I made my way past the oven, which Mrs. Powell fueled with wood lit by newspaper. I dropped my cigarette on top of the pile as I made my way through the dining room into the parlor.
Once settled in our places, I in an armchair and Moreau on the sofa, he said, “And now we wait. I have arranged for transport to come here at eight o’clock.”
“Then you can tell me why Harris had to die.”
“The young man upstairs?” Moreau shrugged. “He could not escape in time and decided to take a stand. He had a letter opener, and he foolishly nicked Nelson with it. I daresay Harris? Yes? Harris learned a great deal about pain on that occasion.”
“You just left him to rot on the floor,” I said. “Did you even attempt to tend to his wounds?”
“I could not,” Moreau replied. “Too late. Nelson struck deep and severed the common femoral artery in Mr. Harris’ right leg. He bled to death quickly.”
Nelson suddenly raised his head, his ratlike whiskers twitching.
“What is it?” Moreau asked, swinging his head toward the kitchen.
Smoke began to filter under the door.
“What did you do?” Moreau demanded, rising. “Nelson, stay!”
Moreau went to investigate. As I had hoped, the newspaper caught fire and lit the kindling in the woodbox. Nelson chittered and looked about, uncertain of what to do, but poised for attack. I took the brief opportunity to tear some pages from a magazine and light those, placing them under a wooden end table. By now, Nelson had decided on self-preservation, and his head thrashed to and fro, looking for an egress.
I fashioned a torch from the magazine’s remnants, and thrust it at Nelson, which uttered a painful shriek, and jumped away from me. I hobbled over to the window and opened it, allowing fresh air to fuel the growing blaze in the parlor even as I clambered out. Moreau’s bursting back into the parlor was, I thought, my last sight of that evil man.
By now, neighbors had seen the smoke and raised the hue and cry. I took advantage of the chaos to make my escape, safe at last from the evil embodied in Dr. Alexandre Moreau.
Challenger’s Journal
January, 1887
It is fortunate that sounds carry in the underworld of London, for that is how we followed the thing which gorged on our bait. That is a rat’s normal behavior, but something unusual caught my attention, the sound of things hitting the bottom of a bucket. How could that be? Ordinarily, rats will cover up excess food for future consumption and leave it where it is, but collecting food for later use? This phenomenon would represent a long stride in rodent intelligence.
Though we were at some distance, when Jones stared at the creature, disbelief raced across his countenance, his eyes bulging with fear. I saw his hands shaking, and had I not taken his arm, he would have bolted.
“My God, Challenger, what is it?” he whispered. “That’s not a rat, is it? It can’t be!”
“Let’s get some policemen. I’m not going after that thing.”
“Where’s your revolver?”
“I don’t have one.”
I had anticipated this, and handed him a spare I borrowed from his brother.
“You’re the social reformer, correct? You want to purge the vermin? Take the gun.”
When the horrid creature left, Jones lit a lantern, the light of which we dimmed with smoked glass so as not to alarm our quarry. Yet it cast enough light so we could follow the rodent’s tracks down a slimy, narrow tunnel, where, we saw, those tracks joined with the tracks of others of its kind. I counted at least six.
Down into the depths they went, Jones and I close upon their trail. The narrow tunnels eventually became wider, and we saw, to our amazement, flickering torchlight ahead.
“Challenger!” whispered Jones. “Could these creatures have a master?”
“That would explain a great deal,” I hissed back. “But those sounds. It’s English. They’re talking!”
We heard the sort of chatter not unlike that before an anticipated event, the sounds of people making conversation before the formal commencement. When we rounded a corner, the most amazing sight greeted our eyes. Majestic Roman arches looked out upon a strange gathering, the atmosphere fraught with portent as something, clearly, had been planned.
“What could this be?” Jones wondered.
“It looks like an ancient Roman temple, or rather, what’s left of it,” I told him. “I wonder who else knows about it?”
An archeologist would have been in heaven. Somehow, these Rat Men (as subsequent events have forced me to call them) had discovered the ruins of a temple which had to date back to antiquity. I have an indifferent interest in history, so I could not identify the face of the god looking over the congregation. Jones speculated that perhaps early Christians had taken the space over, due to the arrangement of its seating. However, there were none of the usual signs of Christian worship, at least, nothing I recognized as especially Christian. Built of sturdy granite blocks with a great slate stage, it featured a makeshift altar which faced semi-circular rows of stone bench seating. No fewer than two dozen Rat Men sat in these rows, their eyes transfixed upon the stage as one of their number entered from below the stage.
No man living has seen such a strange sight as that of these Rat Men, deep under the streets of London. They stood, if one can call it that, ranging in height from one to four feet when they rose on their hind legs in a grotesque imitation of humanity, but invariably they would collapse onto their front paws, as God had intended.
Jones made no attempt whatsoever to disguise his fear, and he yanked at my sleeve, indicating the way back with an urgent shake of his head.
“Challenger, this is too much! What if they see us? “
“Jones, I should hate to think you’d abandon me now. What would your brother say?”
“Then we ought to slaughter every one of these filthy things before they attack.”
The scientist in me would not be denied, so I silenced Jones with a glare, and also drew my revolver. I must admit, however, that Jones did have a point. We were considerably outnumbered, with twelve bullets between us.
I saw, in an evil parody of a church service, a monstrous black Rat Man stand on the altar. For the first time, Jones and I got a solid look at the Rat Men, who managed to retain the repulsive nature of their origins and have somehow stamped a primitive humanity on their otherwise sharp and suspicious rodent faces, round scarlet eyes peering into the darkness, their whiskers twitching as if discerning something new in that miasma of stench. Something new like, perhaps, the scent of a man. Instinctively, we shrank back, barely out of sight.
The Rat Chief stood. He had donned some sort of ceremonial robe, once white, now a subtle charcoal grey. The chittering fell away into a hush of anticipation.
“What is the Law?” asked the Rat Chief.
The congregation answered in a bizarre liturgy:
“Not to go on all-fours; that is the Law. Are we not Men?
“Not to suck up Drink; that is the Law. Are we not Men?
“Not to eat Fish or Flesh; that is the Law. Are we not Men?
“Not to claw the Bark of Trees; that is the Law. Are we not Men?
“Not to chase other Men; that is the Law. Are we not Men?”
Because most were on all fours, despite their struggles to do otherwise, and the chant seemed more by rote, it seemed to be more of a ritual than any sincere desire to obey this Law. Then, the chant changed:
“His is the House of Pain.
“His is the Hand that makes.
“His is the Hand that wounds.
“His is the Hand that heals.
“His is the lightning flash.
“His is the deep, salt sea.
“His are the stars in the sky.”
“O Lawgiver,” asked one of the congregation, a Rat Man with grey and matted fur, “are we not free from the House of Pain? We are beyond the reach of the Hand that Wounds. Does that not make us Free Men?”
“Yet the stars look down upon us, and the lightning continues to flash,” said the Lawgiver. “We need help to understand, and I have found someone who can teach us. Bring forth the Interpreter.”
Two of the Rat Men entered from the darkness behind the Lawgiver, a plain woman with greying dark hair walking between them with great and fearful reluctance. She wore the simple black clothes of a missionary, her face made repulsive and pitiful by her terror.
“My Lord!” Jones whispered, barely able to contain himself. “That’s Sister Hastings! The missionary who’s gone missing!”
I silenced him, my own fascination growing. What could be responsible for this bizarre branch of the evolutionary tree? How could these creatures be natural? How could they believe in God?
“This is the female of their kind,” said the Lawgiver. “She speaks of the Law to her kind.”
“Please!” she cried. “Let me go! I’m not what you think I am! I only seek to spread the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ. Lord, hear my prayer now!”
“Can she summon the Hand that wounds?” asked one congregant.
“She tells her followers of a Great Power called God,” said the Lawgiver. “He created the stars in the sky, and throws the bolts of lightning which give power to the House of Pain. God created the deep salt sea.”
“Please! I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she cried.
“We are not of this world,” said the Lawgiver. “We have escaped our Creator. But this world is a dark and confusing place. We must understand to find our place in it.”
“You have no place!” the woman cried. “You are abominations! You are not God’s creatures! You bear the vile stamp of the vivisectionist! You are something foul and profane! I can’t help you!”
“If you don’t help us, Interpreter, who will?” asked the Lawgiver. “We know not the word ‘abomination.’ We do know our Creator. Is he not God?”
“His name is Satan!” the woman cried, her entire body shaking with terror, her eyes wide and unnatural. “God would not tolerate the likes of you!”
“God rejects his creations?”
“Your Creator is not God,” the woman said, “but God created him.”
The entire congregation broke out in hideous, frightening twitters as the Rat Men tried to digest this intelligence.
“Then who is our Creator?” asked the Lawgiver.
“Satan! The very devil himself!”
“Lawgiver, she speaks in riddles,” said one of the Rat Men. “We do not understand. Are we not Men?”
“Never!” she spat.
By now, I had seen en
ough. I leveled my revolver, determined to bring one of these creatures to a laboratory to learn exactly what was going on. But the entire congregation of Rat Men snapped their attention in my direction as I tried to quietly cock the pistol.
“It is a Man!”
I fired at the Rat Man closest to me, striking it in the shoulder and releasing a spine-shivering shriek I shall never forget. The Rat Man dropped to his front paws, but it did not fall. Many of the others scattered, while the woman was hustled away into the darkness. Four of the others, angry and confused, turned their attention to me. I fired again, but the bullet went wild, ricocheted into the darkness, and struck something which released a harsh cry of pain.
Jones bolted down the nearest tunnel.
One of the Rat Men jumped toward me, but God gave my legs new strength as I leapt aside in time. Running blindly into the Stygian underground darkness, I slipped on some wet slime and pitched forward, catching myself on my hands as cool air struck a now exposed leg, the result of cloth ripped from it. I stopped along enough to fire again, clipping one of my pursuers in the haunch. Mewling in pain, it collapsed onto the ground, slowing the others down.
Into the darkness I continued, until the corridor split into two directions. The Rat Men continued scuttling behind me, so I fired a bullet down the new corridor, hoping the echo would draw them away from me. Fortune favored the foolish; the Rat Men scurried right by the alcove where I pressed my body and held my breath, and raced down the wrong trail.
I had no idea where I was, only that I was cold, and filthy, and badly in need of whiskey. I slowly felt my way along the walls in the dark, my progress slow, time ticking by as slowly as molasses being poured on a frigid day. Alone now, I treated every sound, no matter how small or innocuous, as a harbinger of attack. My mind whirled with visions of what these aberrations, these perversions of science, might do if they caught me. Visions of my flesh being gnawed off while I still breathed added to my terror. Though not much of a religious man, I prayed with all my might that Providence would show me a way out.
When I found rungs in the stone, I climbed them to a heavy manhole cover, which took what seemed like hours to remove in my exhausted state. But, at last, the cursed thing was open enough to let me out into the fresh air, and the welcoming stars in the sky.
Sherlock Holmes and The House of Pain Page 5