by Mike Mignola
“I’m going to get Jasmine. See you outside.”
Chloe nodded—and at that moment several people screamed. Proctor’s head snapped back round. In a hideous parody of childbirth, something was pushing itself out of the dark slit above him. It was a patchy, hairy, spindly thing, with a domed cranium and a jagged, skull-like face. Proctor felt a cold shudder, a shudder of primal terror, go all the way through his body. He suddenly wished that Hellboy were here to deal with this. And then he saw Jasmine, who had been backing slowly and awkwardly away on her new rollerblades, trip over the outstretched legs of another fallen child and crash to the floor.
That got him moving. Feeling shaky and uncoordinated, he plunged towards his daughter. The thing coming out of the slit was thrashing and shuddering now in its efforts to tear itself free. All at once it let out a hideous, ratcheting screech, which was immediately echoed by the screams of the people below.
Proctor reached Jasmine and bent down to scoop her up. She was crying, though whether that was because she was terrified of the thing pushing its way into the world, or because she had whacked her elbows on the floor when she had fallen, he wasn’t sure.
The thing screeched again. The sound corkscrewed its way through Proctor’s body with such force that it seemed to make his bones vibrate. Gritting his teeth, he slid one arm around Jasmine’s waist, the other beneath her knees and picked her up.
As he straightened, a massive shadow fell over him. He looked up. The thing had succeeded in freeing one of its spindly, multi-jointed limbs, and was now unfurling it, to reveal a vast and ragged wing. It was the wing that was casting its shadow over Proctor and Jasmine. He scrambled to his feet just as the thing tore itself fully from the slit.
It took to the air, flapping around the gymnasium. Now that it was out, Proctor could see that it was huge, maybe eight feet tall, with an equally wide wingspan. It was horrible to look at, a nightmarish combination of spider, ba, and monkey. As it swooped towards him, screeching, Proctor hunched over, Jasmine clutched protectively to his chest.
The claws of the thing raked his back, slashing open his leather jacket. Proctor dropped to his knees and hunched over further, to make himself and his terrified daughter as small a target as possible. He braced himself for a second attack, but the creature swooped away, evidently distracted by the commotion at the exit doors. Insensible with terror, most of the forty or fifty people in the gymnasium were now tearing and scrabbling at the doors in an effort to get out—though incredibly a couple of the dads were still pointing their camcorders at the thing. Children were screaming and shouting and crying. Proctor saw one hefty father shove a little girl aside with such force that she rebounded from the wall and was trampled underfoot.
From the corner of his eye, Proctor saw the DJ in the silly hat jump down from the stage and start to run across the gymnasium. He was a portly man, his belly bouncing beneath his tight T-shirt as his feet thumped the floor. The thing hovering above the mass of panicking humanity suddenly spotted him. It changed direction and swooped down, like a hawk diving for its prey, landing with unexpected grace and accuracy right in his path.
The DJ skidded to a halt, his mouth dropping open in his red face. The thing appraised him with apparent curiosity, cocking its head to one side, its movements jerky, like a bird’s. With the creature temporarily motionless, Proctor absorbed further details. He noted its dusty blue-black skin; the knobbly bone formations across its shoulders and down its back; the black hair, wispy as cobweb, which covered its body in clumps and patches; the long, twisting talons which curved from the ends of its fingers.
Suddenly, shockingly, the creature sprang forward, slashing at the DJ. The man’s T-shirt parted like wet paper, as did the flesh beneath. Proctor saw a gush of bright red innards and then the portly man collapsed backwards, a dead weight, into an already-widening pool of his own blood.
Proctor covered Jasmine’s eyes and, protecting her body as best he could, began to run towards the now-open double doors. He couldn’t see Chloe or Tina, and could only assume (could only hope) that they had managed to get out.
He was almost there, almost within reach of what he hoped would be safety, when the shadow fell over him again. The ratcheting screech of the creature was hideously close this time. Utterly terrified, Proctor ran like a soldier under fire, head tucked in low. He crushed Jasmine to him, shielding her. She and Chloe were the only people he cared about more than himself. He focused on the open door. In ten steps he would be there. He felt burning, stabbing pains in both sides of his rib cage. Stitch, he thought. But the pain increased, until it felt as if he were being stabbed by knives, and suddenly he became aware that the pain was accompanied by wetness, and a sense of tugging.
He felt his feet leaving the floor. In agony, he turned his head. To his horror he realized that the creature had dug its talons into him and was lifting him up. He kicked and screamed, but it was no use. He was like a vole in an eagle’s grip.
The creature turned in the air, swinging him round. The agony of its claws embedded in his flesh was unbelievable. Proctor could feel his own blood—far too much of it—running down his sides like hot water. He could barely see, barely think, with the pain, but he suddenly realized what the creature was doing. It was heading back towards the black, jagged rent that had opened up in midair—and it was taking him with it! The horror of that was almost overwhelming. Frantically Proctor tried again to struggle free of the talons buried deep into the meat between his ribs.
It was no use. Struggling merely cranked up his agony to such a degree that he could neither move nor scream. It was only his terror of what was about to happen that kept him from passing out.
He felt something squirm in his arms and remembered that he was still clutching Jasmine to his chest. All at once there was something even worse than the prospect of seeing what was on the other side of that horrible slash of darkness, and that was the thought of his daughter having to see it too.
“Run . . . find . . . Mum . . .” he barely managed to whisper into her soft blond curls, and then he opened his arms and let her go. She clung to him for a moment and then she tumbled to the floor.
The last thing Proctor saw before the unknown darkness rushed to meet him was his youngest daughter’s upturned, tearstained face. And the last thing he heard, distorted and echoing and finally spiraling into nothing, was her anguished scream of “Daddy!”
CHAPTER 10
—
The Three Cups had barely changed. It still reminded Hellboy of an old coaching inn from a Hammer horror movie. It was all dark wood and minimal lighting. The low ceiling was inset with raddled beams. The floor, coated with a fine layer of sawdust, creaked like the deck of a ship beneath his weight.
The barman, Martin, hadn’t changed either—although, on second glance, Hellboy realized there was something different about him. He was halfway to the bar before he twigged what it was.
“Hey, Mart!” he called. “You’ve shaved off the face furniture.”
Subconsciously Martin touched his upper lip, where once had dwelt a rather luxuriant moustache.
“I was warned you’d be coming,” he growled. “Your friends are in the back.”
“What?” said Hellboy, grinning. “No tearful reunion? No welcome-back hug?”
“Just be thankful you’re not barred,” said Martin. “Every time you come in here, stuff gets broken.”
Hellboy glanced at Cassie, who was standing beside him. “He loves me really,” he said. “What’ll you have?”
“White wine spritzer, please.”
“And I’ll have a pint of Wobbly Bob. And a big bowl of that prawn curry if you still do it, with poppadums and pilau rice.”
They carried their drinks through to the row of booths at the back of the pub. Cassie noted that most people blanched or gaped as Hellboy clumped past, and realized what a fearsome sight he must seem, emerging unexpectedly from the gloom and the swirling clouds of cigarette smoke.
Hi
s colleagues were tucked away in a booth, out of sight. Cassie recognized the graceful and rather beautiful Abe Sapien from magazine articles she had read. She guessed that the pretty girl who managed to look both hard and fragile at the same time was the camera-shy Liz Sherman. She had no idea who the rather studious-looking man with the spectacles was.
“Hey, HB,” said the girl, before appraising Cassie coolly. “Hi.”
Cassie said hi back, and then Hellboy stepped in and made the introductions. He was bumbling and awkward. It was clear that social etiquette did not come naturally to him. Rather than diminishing him, however, Cassie found his self-consciousness irresistibly endearing.
Those who hadn’t already ordered food did so, and then they got down to business.
“Abe’s got the lowdown on the All-Seeing Eye,” said Liz.
“You mean he beat Kate to it?” Hellboy replied, raising his eyebrows. “I’m impressed.”
“Kate didn’t have the British Library archives at her disposal,” Abe said, “though to tell the truth I was almost ready to quit when I chanced upon a little-known text entitled The One True Way by Maximus Leith.”
“Not the Maximus Leith?” said Hellboy.
Abe’s expression didn’t alter. “I know you’ve never heard of him, Hellboy. How gullible do you think I am?”
“On a scale of one to ten?” Hellboy said, which earned him a punch from Liz.
“Quit it, HB. Let Abe speak,” she said.
Hellboy rubbed his arm as though Liz’s punch had hurt. Abe gave a short nod in her direction. “Thanks, Liz.”
“My pleasure.”
“Now,” Abe continued, “Leith was basically a nobody, a minor nineteenth-century occultist who drifted from one organization to another, forever seeking the one true path. However, he couldn’t find fulfilment in any of the existing organizations, so in 1895 he decided to establish his own. This he called the All-Seeing Eye. They held regular weekly meetings above a Chinese laundry in Limehouse. As far as I can tell the group never numbered more than a dozen or so members, and their influence on occult society, even at the time, was pretty much negligible.”
“Sound like a fearsome bunch,” said Hellboy. “I’d be quaking in my boots if I were wearing any.”
“The All-Seeing Eye appear to have been active for only a short period at the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth,” Abe continued. “Leith’s pamphlet was published in 1902, and I can’t find any mention of the organization after that date. I did find a reference to Leith, though, in a copy of the London Times dated December, 1902. It seems he mysteriously disappeared, leaving all his worldly possessions behind.”
“And presumably his organization couldn’t carry on without him?” Liz said.
“Seems not,” said Abe.
“Did Leith’s pamphlet give you any insight into the beliefs and activities of the group?” asked Richard.
Abe nodded. “The All-Seeing Eye’s core belief was that the Devil was not a physical being, but a wave of destructive energy at the center of the earth. They claimed that this energy had the capability to corrode the barrier between dimensions and to corrupt men’s minds, giving them an overwhelming urge to inflict pain on their fellow human beings, even to kill.”
Liz sat up straight in her chair. “Well, that pretty much ties in with all the stuff we already know.”
“Right,” said Abe. “And what’s even more interesting is that Leith talks about the ‘Lock of London’ and also about the’ Devil’s Eye.’ Listen to this.”
He took a photocopied sheet of paper from the buttoned-down pocket of his leather flying jacket, unfolded it carefully. and read:
“ ‘Certain knowledge has been presented to me, and that knowledge is this: that there are establishments within the city which have been configured in such a way so as to formulate a locking mechanism of gargantuan proportions. Said establishments are but tumblers in this great lock, this Lock of London, and each plays its own part in keeping closed the Eye of the Devil. But it occurs to me: what of the man who discovers the key to this lock? What power shall be granted to him who holds the devil in thrall? I asked this question of my confederate, a most learned man whom I shall not name, while in his cups, and at first he would offer me no answer. But I persevered and finally he did. “The blood shall have it,” he told me, “but beware, for he who falls into the Devil’s Eye shall be his forever.”And that is all he said.’ ”
Abe refolded the piece of paper and put it back in his pocket.
“A dam, a lock. I guess it amounts to pretty much the same thing,” said Hellboy.
“ ‘The blood shall have it.’ That obviously refers to sacrifice,” Richard said.
“Almost sounds too easy, though, doesn’t it?” said Liz. “I mean, if blood being spilled is all it takes to pick this lock, why hasn’t it been done before?”
“Perhaps because it’s too dangerous, hence the warning,” said Abe. “Or maybe it’s just that no one worked out before that London itself was the lock. It’s a pretty audacious notion, you’ve got to admit.”
“ ‘He who falls into the Devil’s Eye shall be his forever,’ ” mused Liz. “Why ‘fall,’ do you think? Why not ‘look’ or ‘stare’?”
Abe shrugged. “It could be metaphorical. Or it could be that the source of the energy, the Eye, is underground, maybe at the bottom of a pit or something.”
Cassie had been following this exchange silently, and with growing alarm. This was so far out of her comfort zone. However ,in a game attempt to contribute to the conversation, she said, “So do you think Leith and his followers fell into this Eye, despite the warning?”
Before Abe could answer, Richard said, “Maybe they didn’t see it as a warning. Maybe Leith interpreted it to mean that by opening the Eye, the devil’s power would be his to control?”
“Maybe,” Hellboy shrugged. “Not sure how much further all of this gets us, though.” He pondered a moment, then asked, “Who was the last person to look at that pamphlet before you, Abe? Because whoever it was—”
“I already thought of that,” said Abe, “and the answer is no one. According to lending records, no one has looked at the pamphlet since the day it was bequeathed to the library.”
“Bequeathed?” said Cassie. “By whom?”
“By Maximus Leith’s landlady. As soon as it became apparent that he wasn’t coming back, she donated all his books—of which there were many—to the library.”
“Did you see the rest of his books?” asked Liz.
“I saw a list. Standard occult texts for the most part. I didn’t have time to examine them closely because you, Liz, called me away.”
There was no rancor in his voice, no tone of accusation; he was merely stating a fact. Their food arrived and they began to eat. Hellboy swallowed a mouthful of curry, then said, “So unless they’ve been hiding themselves away for the last eighty-odd years, it looks as if someone’s started up Leith’s organization again. Only this time with an added ingredient.”
“Muti magic,” said Liz.
Hellboy nodded. “Right. And now they’re trying to open this damn Eye up again.”
Even as he was propounding his theory, however, he was frowning, as if he didn’t quite believe it.
“Problem?” said Liz.
Hellboy shook his head. “Aw, I dunno. I guess it’s just that it still seems all messed up to me. I mean, why complicate things with this muti stuff? It doesn’t make sense.”
“You’re the expert in this area, Richard,” said Abe. “What’s your opinion?”
Richard looked thoughtful. He toyed with his fork a moment. “I think there are a couple of possibilities,” he said eventually. “One could be that the muti angle is a smoke screen, to throw the police off track. And the other could be that a group of muti practitioners are simply utilising the magic they know in an attempt to open the Eye.”
“I guess,” said Hellboy. Then he nodded more decisively. “Yeah, that makes s
ense.”
He was about to say more when their chat was interrupted by a commotion from the bar area. A woman was shouting, her voice shrill with fear.
“What the hell—” Hellboy said, half turning.
“Aw, it’s just people arguing, HB,” said Liz. “The British do that when they’ve had too much to drink. It’s an old custom.”
Hellboy arched an eyebrow at her. Cassie said, “The woman’s talking about something outside.”
“I’m gonna check it out,” Hellboy said.
“I’ll come with you,” said Abe.
“Yeah, me too, I guess,” sighed Liz, putting her fork down. “Look after my lasagna for me, would you, Richard? I’ll be back in a minute.”
The three of them trooped through to the bar, Hellboy in the lead. It was immediately evident whose voice they had heard. The woman in question was propped against the bar, sipping a brandy. Martin and another man were attending to her solicitously.
What surprised Hellboy—though he didn’t know why it should—was that the woman was young and well dressed. She looked as if she had just come from a business meeting, or was on her way to one.
“What’s the problem here?” Hellboy asked.
The woman turned to see who had spoken—and almost passed out. She gave a screech and her whole body jerked, causing brandy to slop from her glass and over the bar.
Hellboy raised his hands. “Hey, lady, take it easy.”
She continued to goggle at him. Then she raised a trembling hand and all but poked him in the chest.
“You’re that . . . that Hellboy person,” she said.
Hellboy grinned. “You know, it’s funny. People are always mistaking me for that guy. I think it’s the goatee.”
Liz tutted and pushed herself in front of Hellboy. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“Ask me again after another few of these,” the woman said, holding up her glass. She redirected her pointing finger towards the door. “There’s something out there.”
“What sort of something?” Hellboy asked.