After that, boarding took only moments. Adriano stood in the waist, looking around. Van der Valk started sputtering again. "I still don't see why there was any need for me to come all this way. It will take days to get home to Maastricht."
"I told you, my men and I are not returning that way, we're going by sea from here to Antwerp and then up-river to Brussels. Van Loo and the city officials will need your report that the banished pagans have actually left the realm. Now, go see that they are berthed and their effects stowed, will you?"
Van der Valk went below, muttering, "I still don't see . . ."
Adriano turned to the mate. A smirk flashed across the man's face, and vanished again into blankness just as quickly. He held out his hand as Adriano reached into his purse for a sheaf of Wisselbank notes, already counted. "Herr Bang, here is the fare stated in your radiogram. Passage for three, to Hamburg."
Bang counted the money, and nodded.
Adriano stepped to the ship's side, descended the rope ladder, and tossed up one more bag to a sailor at the rail. Settling himself in the barge, he nodded to the craft's captain. The rivermen gave way. Corporal Loosvelt turned to Adriano in surprise. "Isn't Mijnheer van der Valk still on board?"
"You are perceptive, my friend." Adriano turned to face the ship, raised one arm with the elbow level with his waist and his forearm straight up, and waved his palm three or four times toward the watching mate. A child's gesture. Bye-bye.
The mate returned the gesture with a grin, and stepped up to the poop deck. "Man the windlass."
Loosvelt had a confused look on his face. "But why—"
Adriano smiled. "You wish to make yourself more valuable? To rise in the royal service?"
"Well, yes, of course."
"Then listen and learn. Much new information has come into Their Majesties' hands these years just past, concerning the power and wealth of nations. I was called to record some of the discussions. They have determined that to hold their position, they must make the realm strong. For it to be strong, it must be prosperous. And prosperity comes from business—the craftsmen and farmers who make things, and the merchants and financiers who get them from where they are to where they're wanted. What business desires above all is predictability. Therefore our rulers desire that they pay their taxes and fees at rates proclaimed in advance, and not be drained at a whim by whoever can lay his hands on a bit of power. And thus they can reasonably reckon the profit to expect by what they do, and be encouraged to continue doing it.
"Whatever the sincerity of his loudly proclaimed faith and orthodoxy, van der Valk's hope was to get for himself whatever he could whenever he could from those he denounced. This is not in keeping with the new policy. What is particularly objectionable is the injury and damage he caused all around him by the disorder he incited. He would not have changed his ways, and he was no asset to the land or the crown. And so his traveling bag that I just tossed after him has in it a radiogram from the capital dismissing him from the royal service, with my signature and seal attesting to its authenticity." He stopped for a moment, and gave Loosvelt a little smile. "Of course, this leaves an opening in the customs service. Are you an honest man?"
****
The Thing in the Up-Time Attic (A Monster Society Story)
By Eric S. Brown and Robert Waters
Now that I am near the end of my life, with the emperor of all maladies tugging at my body and spirit, I feel compelled to recount for you the terrible, frightening events that haunted my youth. How shall I go on? As Umberto Eco did…"I prepare to leave on this parchment my testimony as to the wondrous and terrible events that I happened to observe . . ." No, for nothing so vile as being witness to the gruesome murder of monks shall fill these pages. But terror comes in many forms and in varying degrees. And so it was that in the year of our Lord, 1635, I and members of the prestigious Monster Society were compelled to investigate the strange events surrounding the home of a young up-time Grantville citizen, whose nights were wracked with unimaginable horror and whose dreams turned to fearful nightmares. It began innocently enough on a street corner near my childhood home, where the leader of our little group of monster hunters was experiencing maladies of his own . . .
—excerpts from The Monster Society: The Early Years, by Natasha Clinter; YA Press, Bamberg, 1683
Grantville, 1635
John sat on the corner of the street staring at Natasha Cinter's house. There was no denying that he was down. So many bad things had happened with The Monster Society of late. Not all of it was his fault, but he took responsibility for it all anyway. He was the Society's founder and leader. He'd started the Society to escape his own life. There were times he couldn't even remember his real name anymore. Everyone, even those outside of the Society, called him John now because he had demanded that they do so.
His teeth worked on the end of the fake, wooden cigarette poised between his lips. He wished it were real. If there was ever a time he could use a smoke, it was now. Van had gone crazy, another member of the Society had been hurt, and just when things had seemed to take an upturn with Natasha joining, the group had almost killed a dog. Nothing was working out like it was supposed to. Part of him wanted to end the Society, but he knew deep down he couldn't. Without it, he would have no reason to live.
John was so lost in his own thoughts that he never noticed Natasha and Red until he heard Fox barking behind him. He turned to see the two girls looking at him with concern.
"John?" Natasha asked. "You okay?"
Ignoring the question, he said, "Ray said you needed me. I came as quickly as I could. "
"I'd say," Red laughed. "How long have you been waiting?"
"Not long. What did you need me for?"
Natasha took a seat on the curb next to him. "I have a friend named Alexander Eckerlin. They call him Sandy. Anyway, he's a good guy and really into war games, and . . ."
John shook his head. "We have enough members in the Society."
"She's not asking you to let him join, John," Red said. "Just listen to her."
"My friend Sandy has a problem. I thought we could help him. "
"We're not superheroes." John plucked at his cigarette angrily. "Although, judging how things have gone, perhaps we should change our monikers to . . ."
"His house is haunted, John," Natasha said quickly. "We may not be superheroes, but ghosts and the occult are sort of our thing."
"He has no one else to turn to, John," Red said, looking down at him.
John raised an eyebrow. "Why do I feel like you ladies have already agreed to help him?"
"We have," Natasha admitted. "Ray's on his way over, too. He seemed pretty excited about the chance to do something. We haven't done anything as the Society since I shot Fox a few months ago. You've canceled every meeting we've tried to set up. It's time we got things going again, and helping Sandy is the perfect chance to do just that. "
"She's right, John," Red agreed. "We all need this."
"Fine," John growled. "Is his house really haunted?"
"That's what he claims." Natasha smiled. "It's up to us to find out. He and his parents are out of town. Sandy gave us the okay to sneak in and check things out. "
He considered the idea. Who was this Sandy person? And why should he care about some assumed haunt lurking within his up-time home? But John had answered Natasha's call on this day, and why had he done so? Because in his heart, he knew that she was right: If the Gesellschaft der Ungethüme, The Monster Society, was to survive, it had to do something substantial…and quickly. Or, like all young friends, life would take them away from each other, and the Society would be nothing more than a fading memory in their dreams.
But we have to do it right this time. No cock-ups!
"Okay," he said, rising and trying to recapture the swagger that gave him his moniker in the first place. "We'll do it, love," he said to Natasha. "Once Ray gets here, you tell us everything you know about this Sandy person and about his home. We'll do it. We'll find his
ghost…and we'll banish it to hell."
****
Ray fiddled with the key in the dark. Natasha (aka Scully) wanted to snicker, but thought better of it. Ray had volunteered to be the point man in their little excursion, and she didn't want to make him nervous or any more self-conscious than he already was. They were at the basement door in the back of Sandy Eckerlin's house, so as not to be seen by neighbors in the front porch light. "Don't mess up my house," Sandy had told her. "If we come back and see anything broken, dirty, or—"
"Relax, Sandy," she had told him. "We'll be in and out quickly. We're as quiet as mice. We're professionals." She wanted to believe that, but so far, the evidence proved the contrary. She had not been a member of the Society for long, true, but her first outing had nearly killed Fox, and John had told her stories of problems that they had experienced in the past. Perhaps the best thing to do was to bring it all out in the open, to just declare publicly that they were live-action role-players, LARPers, and that they hunted monsters. But, no, John wouldn't hear of it. Not yet anyway.
The Ring of Fire had brought many social changes, he said, but there were still too many superstitious fools in the world, out in the small towns, ready to light their torches and tote their pitchforks in God's righteous armies. There'd be a mob at the door of their clubhouse by morning. So, they had to contend with skulking in the dark and fiddling with up-time keys in basement stairwells.
"Got it!" Ray said, a little louder than he should. Red shushed him. "Got it," he whispered and turned the knob. "Hand me the torch."
It wasn't a real torch. It was a flashlight, but John had forbidden them from carrying anything that might be misconstrued as a weapon. No real guns, no real knives, and definitely no real crossbows. They were going into this one with just their wits and a small light source. And Fox, of course. He was the only real weapon that they had. But he was a wounded warrior and still recovering from his stitches.
Natasha rubbed the dog's neck as they followed Ray into the house and spoke to him in the most genuine baby-talk voice that she could muster. "Who's a good monster hunter? Who's a good monster hunter?"
"Oh, I think I'm gonna be sick," Red said, and Natasha could imagine her eyes rolling. Red loved Fox as much as all of them, but she didn't like baby talk. "You're going to turn him into a sissy girl."
"What are you going to do with him?" John asked. "Is he going with us into the horrid unknown?"
Natasha shook her head. "No. He'll stay here in the basement, guard our retreat if some phantasm breaks free and follows us back through the exit."
"You said ‘some phantasm.' Do you mean there is more than one ghost?" Ray asked, clutching the flashlight with a shaking hand. Natasha smiled. He was playing the role of a nervous Nelly well. "There may be," she said. "They multiply by the hour."
She tied Fox's leash to the basement doorknob, gave him a gentle smooch on the head, and said, "Okay, let's go. Dangers await."
She knew what the dangers would be. She and Sandy had already seeded the ground.
. . . There was a restlessness in all of us as we ascended those stairs. I could feel evil, palpable in the air, like fog or smoke from a wet fire. Ray exhibited the most terror, for he knew what might await us, had experienced such deviltry in his younger days fighting the Crimson Ghost of Hamburg. He had come prepared, but we were not sure if any crucifix from God or some other blessed device would save us from the horror lurking above.
John led the way up the stairs, playing the part of the fearless leader well. The door of the stairwell opened into the house's kitchen. The members of the Monster Society followed him and spread out. Ray swept a strange, cross-like tool around in the air.
"What is that thing?" Natasha asked him.
"Oh, it's a holy object of sorts. It helps me measure the level of PKE disturbance here," Ray replied with a wide grin. Ghosts were his thing and he was really getting into this adventure.
"PKE?"
"Yes," Ray said, "it means Psycho-Kinetic Energy. The kind of energy ghosts and spirits give off. From an up-timer movie I saw once."
Natasha rolled her eyes but nodded. "Just be careful not to knock anything over with it, okay?"
Ray snorted with contempt. "It's not like I haven't done this before, you know."
"Hey, guys!" Red called out. "Over here!"
The rest of the group rushed to her side. "Look! Do you see that?"
Red pointed to a strange symbol that appeared to be etched into the wall. It was painted over and difficult to see even with John taking their torch and illuminating it.
"Is that what I think it is?" Natasha asked.
"It's an elder sign, for sure," Ray nodded. "Look at those arcane markings."
"Why is it painted over?" Red asked.
Ray shook his head. "Don't know. Maybe whoever owned the house before your friend's family carved it there."
"But why?"
"These kinds of symbols are used to keep the dark powers of the Great Old Ones or evil spirits at bay. Likely whoever carved it was trying to drive something out of this house."
"Or," John added, "to keep whatever it was being used against, inside."
"Uh, guys," Natasha said. "It's not the only symbol. Look!"
Sure enough, a trail of the symbols lined the wall heading towards a small, closed door opening in the ceiling.
"Where does that go?" Red asked.
"It goes up!"
John popped Ray in the shoulder. "Stop quoting up-timer movies and get serious."
"Sorry. I couldn't help myself."
"It goes up to the house's attic," Natasha said. "Sandy told me that's where the source—of whatever is doing the haunting here—is located."
"Because he's an expert in ghosts, right?" Ray's disdain for Sandy's layman opinion was clear.
Suddenly, the whole group froze as something on the other side of the door leading up into the attic stirred. An odd clanging arose above them. It had no rhythm to it. The noise was metallic in nature and totally inhuman. Even John seemed stunned by its sudden occurrence.
"Lord in heaven," Ray muttered.
"What?" Red said, raising an eyebrow. "I thought ghosts were your business."
"I…I was just caught off guard is all."
"So what do we do now?" Natasha asked, pushing the others on.
"Somebody's going to have to go up there and check things out, love," John said.
Ray swept his cross-like tool up towards the door. "There's something up there, all right. I'm getting some really bad vibes."
"Put that thing away, already," John ordered him. "This isn't a game anymore, Ray. It's real."
Ray nodded and tucked the tool into his pocket.
"I'll go," Red said. "Just watch my back."
The rest of the group backed away as Red approached the door. With a tug, she pulled it open from a cord that hung down about six inches. With a creak of hinges, a ladder of steps slid downward, and with it came something white, glowing, and the size of a full-grown man.
. . . The haunt's ethereal form, white and blue with shifting coal-black eyes, lunged at Red with outstretched claws. Its screams echoed throughout the house and made us all weak, fearful of everything around us. It was a trick of the mind, I knew, having been paralyzed numerous times before in the presence of such a specter. It was protecting something in that attic; there was no doubt about that, for its defense of those sliding steps was paramount, and Red was taking the brunt of the creature's rage.
But she held her own, our crossbow girl who had defeated the Werewolf of Jena, the Marsh Monster of Schleswig. The ghost lashed out and swiped its massive hand through Red's body, filling her with a dread that would have defiled a man three times her size. She wicked her red cape through the air, using it as a shield, and the ghost's glowing claws smashed against it. It roared, it slashed again, roared once more. It could not defeat Red's cape.
It then moved towards me. It reared up on its corded body as a bear might, opening its de
adly mouth to reveal a darkness I had never seen before. I stared into that darkness and saw nightmares I cannot describe adequately, but of fearful times as a child, when the Ring of Fire descended upon me and my family and thrust us into the past to face horrors and wonders tenfold. Surely this creature before me had been brought through the Ring of Fire as well, and in its anger of such a violation, was protecting the only thing it cared about.
I raised my crucifix and my Bible. I prayed and mouthed the words of the Apostle Matthew. I waited for the creature to strike . . .
They all screamed. Ray bolted to the house's front door and would have been through it and out into the street, had John not caught him at the last second.
Having little time to react and very few options available to her, Red did what she did best. She attacked. She lashed out, grabbing the white shape underneath where the black holes of its eyes rested on its face. She twisted with all her might. The thing gave no cry of pain. It didn't respond to her at all as her fingernails dug into it, and she whipped her hand back, tearing at it. The white shape then came loose from the attic steps and was flung across the room.
John pounced on it, jumping up and down on its body, before he realized it was merely a bed sheet with holes cut into it to look like eyes.
"What the devil?" Red blurted. "That isn't a ghost!"
John shook his head in confusion. "No, it isn't. It's just something that was set up to scare us." He shot Natasha a look.
"What are you looking at me for?" She asked, a little smirk on her face. "I didn't put that there."
John's expression turned into a glare. "Regardless, I'd say this ‘ghost' is defeated. Mission accomplished. We can all go home now."
As if to mock him, a muffled, cackling voice came from the attic, its cold, joyless laughter ringing out over and over again with a clang of metal, like two coins smacking together.
Grantville Gazette, Volume 65 Page 10