Shortly thereafter he spotted someone leading a goat laden with burlap sacks toward the gate.
Finding the gates locked, the goatherd peered over his shoulder and passed out of sight, leading the goat around the corner of the stone cemetery wall.
Winter left the warm comfort of the pub in pursuit of the goatherd. He followed the man along a narrow and muddy trail beside the cemetery wall, partially obscured by overgrown weeds and shrubs. Winter kept his distance, keenly aware of every rustle and muddy splash as he crept along the trail.
Upon reaching the end of the wall, the goatherd turned the corner. Winter peered cautiously around the wall’s edge, cocking the hammer of his revolver.
The goatherd had stopped halfway along the rear wall to light an oil lamp. It cast a feeble glow on the man’s face and illuminated the cobbled alleyway behind the cemetery. He tied the goat to a nearby pine tree and proceeded to heave aside pine branches covering an old sewer grate. He had soon revealed a hidden depression in the earth leading into the sewer.
The goatherd turned to untie the beast. Sensing the opportunity, Winter stepped forward and aimed his revolver at the man. “Stop right there, if you want to live.”
The goatherd turned slowly. The man had sunken cheeks and weather-beaten skin, with a short-cropped beard flecked with grey.
“You best leave me be,” the goatherd whispered, bottom lip trembling. “For both our sakes.”
“And why might that be?”
The goatherd waved the lamp toward the sewer. “I don’t get this goat down there quick, we’ll both be dead.”
Winter slowly reached into his pocket and produced his badge. “City police.” He said. “I’d just like to ask you some questions. Cooperate and we won’t need to take a trip down to the station.”
“Help me with this damned goat, and I’ll answer your questions.”
Winter sighed, holstering his revolver. “Fine.”
While the goatherd held onto the horns, Winter gave the beast a swift whack on its rump. The goat bleated in protest but begrudgingly shuffled forward. The goatherd snatched up the oil lamp and led them into the sewers.
The stench was unbearable. The sewers reeked of excrement and spoilt meat, forcing Winter to cover his mouth and nose with his handkerchief. He attached it to his head in the manner of an outlaw. The smell didn’t seem to bother the goatherd one whit. Though cautious, he seemed to trudge through the maze of tunnels with a degree of certainty.
“What brings you out here, copper?” the goatherd asked.
Winter told him of Hughes and the impending execution. “I have reason to believe he’s innocent. I suspect a coverup.”
The goatherd nodded. “I reckon you’d be right. Jason’s a good lad, though a bit of a toff. I ain’t seen him in weeks. Figured he’d skipped town, the way things are going.”
“Jason? He a friend of yours?”
“Somewhat. More like a fellow cog in the machine. With a risky business like this, you gotta respect the fellas who survive. Pays well, but you need brass balls.”
“What line of business are you in?”
“Deliveries.”
“But why down here?” Winter felt stupid for even asking the question. It’d make for easy disposal of bodies, of course. But animals? Some form of underground trading network, perhaps?
The goatherd turned and grinned. “Oh, Mr. Winter. So naive.”
A sick chill ran through him. “How do you know my name?” He unholstered his revolver and pointed it in the man’s face.
“They told me I might run into you.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Powerful people are watching, Elliot. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll forget all about Jason Hughes, you’ll forget about me, and you’ll forget all about this place. It’s for the good of us all, really.”
Winter wrapped his meaty hand around the man’s scrawny neck, stopping him in his tracks. “I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on here.”
The goatherd’s eyes bulged and his face began to take on an ashen cast. The oil lamp dropped from his hand and fell to the floor. Winter reluctantly loosened his grip before the man passed out.
He coughed and rubbed at his neck. “These tunnels. They lead to the catacombs. This and the boneyard gates are the only ways in. We leave our deliveries here, and run like hell.”
Winter frowned. “Then what?”
“We live to survive another day. That’s all I know. Happy?”
Winter raised his revolver to the man’s forehead, finger hovering over the trigger.
The man’s features contorted as tears ran down his cheeks. “You must tell no one. No one!”
Winter nodded.
“All this.” said the goatherd. “It’s for the beast. We deliver it sacrifices, and it stays down here.”
“And if you don’t? Why not block the entrance and starve the bloody thing?”
“We do that, and we’re all damned.” The goatherd picked up the lamp and indicated the tunnel ahead. “We must hurry.”
The goatherd urged the animal forward, with Winter following close behind. He led them through the maze of passageways until the floor of the tunnel became littered with debris. Bone fragments? Winter squinted in the gloom.
They eventually came upon a junction of three tunnels leading away from the central clearing. A metal rod had been hammered into a huge stone in the center of the floor. Attached to the rod were several chains, manacles, and an iron cage about five feet high, all coated in dried blood and bodily tissue. Winter retched.
“Not long now, Mr. Winter. Just a few more preparations before we leave.”
The goatherd tied the goat to the metal post with a length of rope, and took the burlap sacks from its back. From one of these he removed a paper package wrapped in twine. From the other he took a polished brass horn, decorated with hieroglyphs. Winter remembered seeing similar symbols in the ancient civilizations section of the city museum.
“Hold this.” He handed the horn to Winter while unwrapping the paper package. Inside was a bloody collection of glistening organ meats. The goatherd dumped the lot onto the goat’s back and tossed the paper away, wiping his hands on a dirty rag from one of the sacks.
The goatherd snatched the horn from Winter. “After I blow this, we wait and listen. It’s part of the ritual. Then on my signal, we run.” The goatherd took a deep breath and blew the horn. A rich, sonorous note echoed throughout the tunnels. The goat bleated in response. The goatherd stuffed the horn back into its burlap sack and slung both sacks over his shoulder.
They waited. Winter strained to hear the slightest sound. Agonizing minutes passed.
Darkness encroached upon them from all sides. Winter fought back the urge to run blindly back the way they’d come, his mind conjuring up all manner of horrifying creatures that might be lurking in the dark.
When the sound finally came, it was difficult to tell whether it was real or imagined. The sound of shallow breathing drifted toward them through the dank air. This was accompanied by the rustling of dirt, as of something lightly scuttling through the tunnel. The temperature in the sewer plunged.
When the goat suddenly kicked its hooves and brayed loudly, Winter jumped involuntarily. The goatherd seemed unperturbed, nodding to himself as if this was the expected way of things.
They listened intently, waiting for a response from the tunnel. Instead, the air filled with a rank chemical stench that reminded Winter of something one might encounter in a morgue.
The light from the oil lamp wavered, as if something were attempting to snuff it out. The goatherd held it aloft and peered into the gloom.
Winter sensed movement directly ahead. It took a moment for his mind to comprehend what he’d seen. He’d caught a glimpse of rheumy eyes and a glistening maw, ringed with teeth.
The goatherd yanked on his arm. “Run!”
He led Winter expertly through the labyrinthine series of passageways. Mere moments later the goat cried out. Its voice
was abruptly cut short, followed by a wet smacking and sounds of flesh being torn from bone.
Winter fought back panic, all too aware that he might lose his footing at any instant and fall to the floor. He was convinced the goatherd would carry on without him.
They made their way unsteadily back to the entrance, emerging from the sewers several minutes later, struggling for breath.
The goatherd dragged the pine branches back into place over the cleft by the sewer grate and turned to Winter. “Speak nothing of this, if you value your life.”
Winter frowned. “That’s supposed to keep the thing from escaping?” he asked, indicating the loose pile of branches.
“No. But that will,” the goatherd said, pointing to the moss-covered symbols carved into the wall opposite. They resembled the same hieroglyphs that decorated the horn.
The goatherd turned to leave.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Winter growled. He cocked his revolver and waved it at the goatherd. “You’re coming back to the station with me for questioning.”
He spat in Winter’s face. “I would rather die here than answer your questions.”
Winter wiped his face against his sleeve, rage boiling in his blood. With an effort, he holstered his revolver and allowed the goatherd to leave.
“Drop the case, and leave it be.” the goatherd said. “Remember, they’re watching.” With that, he climbed up the embankment and drifted off into the night.
Winter awoke in an unfamiliar bed, momentarily disoriented. His head throbbed, and his mouth tasted of stale beer. Nightmarish fragments of the previous night came flooding back. He had decided to rent a room at the public house and get some rest. It had been too late to get a carriage back to his apartment.
Judging by the dim light streaming through the curtains, he was already running late. He threw on his clothes and shoes and hurried outside.
A short carriage ride later, he arrived at the cobbled square behind the prison. He’d expected to see the area filled with people, eager faces raised to the gallows to watch cruel justice meted out to the latest in a long line of miscreants. Instead, the square was empty, the gallows vacant, and the hangman’s noose was missing. Had he really been too late?
Winter headed for the warden’s office by the prison entrance. He flung open the front door, surprised to find no one guarding it.
He peered over the counter to find the warden slumped in a chair, a newspaper fluttering in his lap as the man’s snores ripped through the otherwise peaceful office. Any common thug could’ve strode behind the counter and shivved the fat bastard while he slept.
Winter slammed his fists down upon the counter, bellowing, “Good morning, warden!”
The warden jumped and nearly slid to the floor. His bloodshot eyes flicked haphazardly about the room before settling on Winter.
“Oh, detective Winter.” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Apologies. It’s been a long night.”
“Why’s there no one out back? Clock says I’m just in time.”
“Sorry?”
“Where’s the prisoner Hughes? The hanging?”
The warden stood, stifling a yawn. “Ah, yes. We tried to contact you last night, but you weren’t at the station. Hanging’s cancelled.”
Winter felt heat rise in his cheeks. “What?”
The warden chuckled. “Can’t very well hang a dead man, can we? Anyway, they carted him off to the catacombs. Last rites and all that.”
“Who are ‘they?’”
“The monks. You know the fellows from the abbey? Apparently our Mr. Hughes was a member of their order, and thus worthy of burial in the catacombs.”
“The hell?” Winter said. “Why didn’t that come up at the trial? Seems to me that’d discredit their testimony.”
The warden shrugged.
The wheels of suspicion began to turn in Winter’s mind. A common criminal turning out to be employed by the abbey would be bombshell enough, but to have those same monks testify against him and for him to raise nary a word in protest? Winter smelled a convenient pretext to spirit young Hughes away from the prison. His estimation of the warden sank even further, if such a thing were possible.
“Thank you, warden.” Winter spun on his heels and made for the door.
The warden called out. “Elliot, hold on.”
“Yes?”
“Odd thing.” The warden said. “Hughes was fine earlier in the evening. He ate a full meal and appeared in good spirits, considering. The monks stopped by around three, asking to visit. I took them to his cell and there we found him, slumped face down. Stone dead.”
Winter said nothing. Hughes had appeared anything but well, and it was curious that the warden would say otherwise. Either the warden had plumbed heretofore unseen depths of cluelessness, or he was a lying sack of shite.
The warden continued. “It was almost as if they already knew he was dead….”
On his way to the cemetery, Winter stopped by the station to round up his partner, the junior detective Russell Martin. The monks he could handle, but he wasn’t so sure about the thing that dwelt beneath the catacombs. He would’ve preferred some of the other men accompany him, but they’d already written the Hughes thing off as a wild goose chase.
When Winter entered his office he found Martin rifling through the drawers of his desk. “What’s this, then?” Winter snapped.
Martin glanced up at him and frowned. “I’m looking for the files for the Flanders case. Remember that? Thought you might’ve squirreled them away somewhere.”
“Top shelf, above the cabinet.”
Martin closed the drawer. “Thanks.”
Winter cleared his throat. “Listen, I need you to help me out. Gotta pay a visit to our friends at the catacombs. Right now.”
“Oh? Got a spot of grave robbing planned?” Martin grinned.
“They’ve taken Hughes.”
Martin gave him a look of disgust. “Not that bloody Hughes thing, again. You can’t…”
Winter hissed. “Keep your voice down!”
“It’s over.” Martin said. “The man’s dead. Give it a rest, Elliot. Besides, we’re supposed to be working the Flanders case today. Captain’s orders.”
Martin had a point. Winter knew it’d be best to tread lightly and not provoke the further ire of the captain, but the damned Hughes case continued to gnaw at him. He couldn’t let it rest until he’d exposed the thing’s seedy underbelly.
Martin sighed. “Look, give me a few hours to work the Flanders case and keep up appearances. I’ll join you around noon.”
“Fine.” Winter left his office and hailed a carriage to the cemetery.
When he arrived, he found the cemetery gates guarded by a solitary monk. Black clouds bathed the place in darkness, despite the early hour. Winter heard chanting drifting from within the catacombs.
“We’ve been expecting you, detective!” The monk said, catching him off-guard. The man had pale skin and a stubby nose. Winter recognized the man from his previous visit.
“I expect the warden sent word?”
The pale monk said nothing, instead turning to unlock the gate. “Mr. Hughes is presently being interred within the catacombs. The ceremony is almost complete. This way.”
He led Winter down the winding dirt path between graves. Most were marked with simple wooden crosses, with the occasional headstone.
As they approached the entrance to the catacombs, Winter shuddered. The narrow doorway was edged with skulls, mortared into place amongst the surrounding brickwork. A flimsy iron gate hung to one side. Amidst its swirling metalwork Winter again noted strange symbols resembling those carved into the outer wall of the cemetery, opposite the sewer entrance.
The monk closed the gate as they passed, leading the way down a narrow passageway. The sound of chanting grew louder. To Winter it was musical gibberish resembling something one might hear in the halls of a lunatic asylum.
As they descended further into the catacombs, the brick wall
s gave way to walls made entirely of bone. White candles lined the walls, their flickering light the only illumination in the steadily darkening tunnel.
Up ahead, monks stood within alcoves, silent sentinels in the gloom. It was only when they passed by that Winter noticed they were not among the living. Their dusty skulls leered at him from beneath tattered brown hoods.
Eventually the tunnel opened up into a small room, revealing two monks guarding a heavy oak door which stood ajar. It reminded Winter of the doors within the prison. It was the kind of door that would stand up to years of punishment and muffle the cries of the condemned.
The pale monk nodded at the guards, before leading him down a flight of stairs to a circular chamber. Flaming torches lined the walls. The corpse of Jason Hughes lay on a raised stone altar. A pair of chanting monks stood to either side of the body, swinging tins of incense. A third was bent forward over Hughes’s torso, stitching together a long wound that ran the length of the body from chest to groin.
The monk waved his arm toward the body. “As you can see, detective, we’ve just completed the embalming. The young man will shortly be delivered to his ultimate resting place.”
Winter noted with disgust the shallow tray at the head of the altar. A collection of various bodily organs lay loosely arranged within. If not for the strong aroma of incense filling the chamber, he may well have added the contents of his stomach.
“Well, that’s that, then. The warden told me Mr. Hughes looked deathly ill all day.” Winter lied. “They probably would’ve had to drag the poor sod out of his cell to hang, if not for his untimely demise.”
The monk nodded. “We came as soon as we could. He died soon after we had administered his last rites.”
The stitching monk completed his task and gathered up the tray, briefly passing out of sight down a dark tunnel leading further into the earth.
The other two monks ceased their chants and followed their colleague upstairs, leaving Winter and the pale monk alone in the chamber.
Seeing no signs of injury on the body, Winter sighed. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. Everything appears to be in order here.” He’d secretly hoped to find Hughes still alive, perhaps held captive by the monks somewhere within the abbey. In hindsight it didn’t make a lot of sense, but he’d managed to convince himself the monks had some role in the whole nefarious scheme the goatherd had described. Martin, the captain, and the rest had been right. He’d been chasing ghosts. His one remaining lead had been snuffed out, and it was time to pack it in and move on.
Lovecraft Ezine Mega-Issue 4 Rev1 Page 55