by Tim Curran
“Only we were not alone—not entirely. Strange shadows crawled and capered in the corners, and once again I felt the tingle at my neck and roiling in my gut that told me there was more here than meets the eye.
“Jephson would not look at me, merely kept staring into the corner and mumbling.
“‘I know about the play,’ I said, but if I was hoping to get a reaction, I was to be sorely disappointed. His gaze never wavered from the corner.
“I talked about the Irishman, about the play, about The George, but nothing got a twitch from the chap. It seemed my trip had been for naught. Then I said one thing, one small sentence that changed everything.
“‘Tell me about Carcosa.’
“He turned his head, ever so slowly, and that dead-eyed stare fixed on me. The temperature dropped alarmingly, and it seemed to my eyes that the darkness gathered, swaddling the man in shadows every bit as constricting as the stitched jacket. He recited again, a singsong whisper that had more than a touch of the rhythm and cadence of a chant.
“‘Songs that the Hyades shall sing,’
“‘Where flap the tatters of the King,’
“‘Must die unheard in dim Carcosa.’
“At the mention of flapping tatters, I heard it for myself—a sound like cloth being taken and slapped by a wind. It lasted mere seconds before Jephson went back to staring at the corner. The shadows stilled in their dance, and the actor returned to muttering.
“A warmer breeze hit my face, reminding me of the season.
“And that was that, for a while at least. I could get nothing out of him. He was lost, in a far-off place—his Carcosa at a guess. Wherever it was, it was out of my reach at that moment.
“I knocked loudly on the door and, after a wait that almost had me wondering whether I was to join Jephson in his seclusion, the worried nurse finally let me out. I took the chair down the corridor a way, sat down, lit a smoke and waited to see what nightfall might bring.”
“I sat there for several hours. The nurse brought me tea and biscuits around six that did much to improve my mood, and several smokes calmed my nerves, frayed as they had been by the encounter in the room.
“I was still no nearer to discovering the nature of the thing I had come to investigate, but I got a clearer idea of what I was up against just after the sun went down. Darker shadows crept in the long corridors of Bethlem Asylum, only to be dispelled by gas lamps lit by an elderly janitor who scurried away as soon as the job was done.
“Several seconds later Jessup started whispering again. As before, the strangeness started with his reciting—I was coming to believe it must be passages from The King in Yellow.
“‘Strange is the night where black stars rise,’
“‘And strange moons circle through the skies.’
“I instinctively looked up through the skylight. There were no black stars, no strange moons, although if there had been I might have taken a blue funk and fled there and then.
“The corridor dimmed and darkened despite the gas lamps. It got colder fast, a layer of fine frost running along the hardwood flooring and up the walls. I happened to be looking along the length of the corridor, so spotted what occurred almost immediately.
“Something flowed out through the door of Jephson’s room—I know that is hardly much of a description, but I have no other words for it. It was at eye level and looked at first little more than thin smoke, but it quickly coalesced, going from gray to yellow, and solidifying into an object that spun in a slow circle, hanging in mid air. As I said, it was a deep yellow, almost golden, and was a solid representation of a pictograph or hieroglyph—three curved and distorted arms reaching out from a globular central hub. The symbol was neither Babylonian nor Egyptian—indeed it did not resemble anything I had ever come across in all my reading in the field.
“The yellow sigil spun in time with Jephson’s recital.
“‘Along the shore the cloud waves break,’
“‘The twin suns sink behind the lake,’
“‘The shadows lengthen in Carcosa.’
“The spinning sign made its way along the corridor, heading straight for me. As it passed by them, yells, groans and screams came from the previously quiet cells, tortured souls pleaded for mercy, others shouted their joy, and some laughed, too loud, as if they would never stop.
“I heard the noise I had heard before, the sound of cloth being taken and slapped by a wind.
“‘Where flap the tatters of the King.’
“The yellow sign spun faster. The corridor behind it seemed to melt and fade, like wet paint in heavy rain, washing away until I could see through, see beyond.
“And suddenly I was not looking at corridor walls and hardwood floors. I looked out from a high vantage to a moonlit scene—three pale yellow moons floating amid black stars, and a stunted forest along the banks of a black lake that drew the eyes to a castle, huge and decayed, perilously perched on an outcrop of crystal. And although it was far off, a figure clearly stood there on the highest battlement, long black robes flapping in the breeze. It turned towards me, a wrinkled yellow mask with no features.
“The King in Yellow fixed his gaze on me.
“I fled, screaming.”
Carnacki paused at this point, which we all knew was a sign to refill our glasses and get fresh smokes lit. No one spoke. Arkwright, as usual, seemed almost bursting to ask a question, but Carnacki looked sterner than his normal ebullient self, and gave Arkwright a stare that would brook no discussion.
“Before I go on I want to say something about what I have just related. You chaps have heard me expound many times on the Outer Darkness and the entities that dwell there. What I believe I saw was a direct vision of those realms, a place where dream, myth and reality are not separated by rationality as they are here in the inner microcosm. Somehow Jephson’s madness was inextricably linked to that place, and the connection enabled it to draw close, so close that the veil was parted. I could see through—and be seen. I have no doubt that The King in Yellow exists, over there in his high castle—for if we have royalty here on this plane, why not there?”
Once again Arkwright looked ready to ask a question, but Carnacki waved him away and headed for his chair. It was a matter of seconds before we were all settled again, and Carnacki took up the tale immediately where he had let off.
“I came to my senses sitting on a chair in a room on the ground floor with two nurses fussing over me, and feeling like a damned fool, although my nerves were not sufficiently strong to allow me to go back up to that corridor right away.
“You chaps know I am not prone to taking a funk without rather extreme provocation, but I am not afraid to tell you that I was rather severely spooked, and in need of a stiffener. I found Donaldson’s brandy in the desk in his office—the man himself had long since gone home for the evening—and helped myself to a double. After that, and a smoke of my pipe outside in the hospital grounds, I began to feel more like my old self, but even then I knew I would not be able to make myself go back to the top floor—not without the proper defenses.
“I had one of the nurses call for a carriage, and made my way back here, where I picked up my box of tricks and returned in the same carriage, arriving back at the Asylum just before midnight. I paused long enough for another leisurely smoke then carried the box up to the top of the stairs.
“It was time to pit my wits against whatever walked those corridors.”
“The top floor was once again quiet and still. Thin moonlight came in from high above but the flickering gas lamps kept any shadows at a safe distance. I stood there for several minutes in the silence, ready to flee again should an attack come before I was prepared, but it seems I had arrived at a lull in proceedings. I set about readying myself. I drew my circles in chalk on the hardwood floors, knowing that should nothing come of them, I was earning myself a telling off from the sa
me nurses who had tended to me earlier.
“I need not describe the nature of my defenses—you all know of the ritual circles and the electric pentacle—although Arkwright will be most interested in my newest battery, for it has a greatly increased life, and provides a much steadier power output than any I have tried previously. It was about to be put to its greatest test yet.
“I switched on the pentacle and stepped into the circle. The valves washed the corridor in an aura of rainbow colors, and the faint hum of the battery was the only thing breaking the silence.
“I stood in the center, lit up a smoke, and began my night watch.”
“I did not have long to wait. I got my first intimation that something was happening when the blue valve brightened considerably. At almost the same moment Jephson started in on his recital again, his whispering voice clearly audible even above the hum of the battery.
“‘Along the shore the cloud waves break,’
“‘The twin suns sink behind the lake,’
“‘The shadows lengthen in Carcosa.’
“Thin yellow smoke came through the door of the man’s room and began to thicken and solidify in the corridor. The temperature dropped markedly and once again frost ran along the floor and walls, although this time I remained warm, almost hot, inside my protective circle.
“The blue valve began to pulse in time with Jephson’s voice, flaring ever brighter as the yellow sign drifted closer.
“‘Strange is the night where black stars rise, ‘
“‘And strange moons circle through the skies, ‘
“‘But stranger still is lost Carcosa. ‘
“The occupants of the other cells woke, and once again there was a chorus of screams, laughter and howls of pain and anguish to accompany Jephson’s voice. The blue valve pulsed in sympathy.
“The yellow sign floated ever closer, coming to a halt in the air not three feet away from the edge of my defenses.
“And now I did indeed feel cold—a biting chill that seized at my calves and began to work its way upward. Jephson’s voice grew in strength and volume, echoing along the length of the corridor. The yellow sign flared brighter and spun in time, its glow threatening to overwhelm and consume the glow from the pentacle.
“‘Songs that the Hyades shall sing,’
“‘Where flap the tatters of the King,’
“‘Must die unheard in dim Carcosa.’
“The corridor behind the sigil melted and swam and I was given another glimpse of the forested landscape beyond. The robed figure still stood on the battlements of the high castle.
“And once again The King in Yellow turned his masked gaze upon me.
“Despite the protection provided by the pentacle, I felt cold creep into my very spine. Jephson’s whispering seemed to come from somewhere inside my own head, burrowing its way into the dark recesses of my mind.
“‘Song of my soul, my voice is dead,’
“‘Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed,’
“‘Shall dry and die in lost Carcosa.’
“The yellow sign drifted forward again to touch the edge of my defenses. As if I had suddenly focused a telescope, the robed king seemed to fly forward towards me until he stood there in the corridor, grim and tall in tattered robes, just beyond the sigil. His clothes flapped and fluttered in time with Jephson’s voice. The blue valve flared and pulsed, attempting to combat the yellow, trying to force it away into the darkness.
“The robed figure stepped forward and put his hand on the sigil, pushing it ahead of him, forcing it to clash with the pentacle’s defenses. The corridor lit up like a lightning storm in flashes of blue and yellow. Electricity crackled all around me.
“Jephson’s voice rose to a shout.
“‘Unmask!’
“The figure reached up to the wrinkled cloth over his face, at the same instant pushing the sigil, hard, towards me with his other hand.
“The blue valve blazed, flashed and exploded in a bolt of azure lightning. The yellow sign fell apart in a myriad of fragments that glittered and danced, vanishing before they hit the floor. The robed figure reached for me, the yellow mask the last thing to disappear as it faded into wispy smoke. Then it too was gone.
“Jephson screamed, one long despairing cry of agony that cut off sharply.
“My battery hummed slightly louder, then died, the pentacle falling dark.
“Silence fell in Bedlam.”
“I checked on Jephson once I was completely sure all the excitement was over. He lay on his back in the center of his room, gaze still fixed on the same spot in the corner of the ceiling, but he was quite, quite dead.
“The nurses took over as I cleared away the pentacle, and by the time I had the box ready to transport they were already moving the other patients away from the top floor.
“Most of them seemed to be in some kind of catatonic state, but one chap appeared to take an interest in me. He looked me in the eye in passing, and once again I felt a chill pass through me as he spoke.
“‘The shadows lengthen in Carcosa.’”
Carnacki sat back in his chair, his tale obviously done.
“Dash it, man, “Arkwright said. “What the blazes was that all about?”
Carnacki smiled.
“I cannot rightly say. But I believe I have had a damned close shave, for if I had caught even a glimpse of what was beneath that yellow mask, I might well be replacing Jephson in the vacant room. Just be thankful the peril seems to have passed gentlemen. And if you ever come across that blasted play—do not read it.”
He ushered us to the door without further explanation.
“Now—out you go.”
illie, just keep talking to me,” Frank said into his headset as he cracked open another Mountain Dew while watching the Lakers game on the muted television to his left. “Come on, you called because you wanted to talk, right?”
Billie was one of the regulars at the suicide prevention hotline Frank volunteered at. He usually ended up talking to the perpetually depressed seventeen-year-old girl two or three times a month. She never seemed sincere about taking her life, just very sad. Still, it was hotline policy to never, ever ask anyone who called if they were serious about suicide. Everyone had to be treated like they were literally out on the ledge at the moment of the call, even if most of them, like Billie, were just lonely and desperate to have someone listen to them, if just for a little while. Still, it’s always better to be safe than sorry.
Frank knew all about sorry.
He shot a quick glance at the black rubber bracelets on his wrist as he pulled the can of Dew from his lips. He felt too old to still wear such gaudy things, but they did a decent job of covering up the scars.
A soft, wet sob came through Frank’s headset and that caused him to stop drinking the sugary go-juice mid-swallow. While Billie always sounded sad, she had never cried before.
Better safe than...
“Billie? Talk to me, girl, what’s got you so upset?”
Low sobs was all he heard.
“Come on, no matter what it is, if you talk to someone about it, you’ll –”
“Bullshit.” It was a thick, phlegmy word.
“What’s bullshit, Billie?”
“All of it. Everything. Life,” Billie said and then snuffled.
“No, life is not bullshit, Billie,” Frank said, the hairs on the back of his neck starting to rise. Is she for real this time? he asked himself, while he continued, “life is all we’ve got and it’s a beautiful thing. So whatever—”
“Oh bullshit! You don’t know. You don’t know where I’ve been, what I’ve seen.”
“No, no of course I don’t,” Frank said on autopilot as his mind raced behind the scenes. She sounds really bad. Do I hit the panic button and let the cops handle this?
All calls to the su
icide hotline were routed to the volunteers at their homes from a central hub downtown. There was no office where people went and took calls at a switchboard. Not in this modern, wireless, and always connected age. Everyone who helped out on the hotline had a laptop provided to them, and the calls were sent through it. At a press of a button, Frank could send the caller’s phone number directly to the police where they could hopefully trace it back to an address, or use the cell phone’s GPS, if they had one. Frank was only supposed to hit this “panic button” if he felt the caller was beyond being talked down from the metaphorical ledge. Since he had started volunteering on the hotline over a year ago, he had never had to press the button.
Shit, what do I do?
“See, you’re not even listening to me,” Billie whispered.
“No, no, I am, I swear it. It’s just... look, I know what you’re going through. Really, I do. I’ve been there myself and well, I made a bad decision once. A real bad decision, one I hope you don’t ever make. That’s why I do this now. I want to help others so they don’t do what I did, because I got lucky, but many don’t get a second chance like I did.”
Frank stopped to let Billie respond, but for a long, cold moment, all he heard was the girl’s breathing. Then, “So how did you do it? And how did you fuck it up?”
“That’s not important, I just wanted you to know that I do know what you’re—”
“Tell me!” Billie shouted. Then, in a whisper, she added, “Please.”
“I slit my wrists.” Thinking about it always made Frank’s scars itch. He was sure it was some weird psychosomatic crap, but knowing that didn’t do a thing to stop the itch. “I got lucky, because the woman who was leaving me at the time happened to come by to pick up some things she had forgotten when she moved out, and she found me.”