Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell

by Paul Kane

  “Here,” he said, “let me have a look.”

  He took his friend’s arm and turned it over. The cuts were quite minor, thankfully. It could have been a lot worse – what if their leader had decided to slice off Watson’s hand with that glass blade of his, to get the box back? It did not bear contemplating.

  “I think I should be the one saying that,” Watson replied, nodding at Holmes’ afflictions. But there was more wrong with the good doctor than these slashes to his wrist, Holmes could see that now he had the time to look. Watson appeared drawn, fatigued.

  “Watson, what happened to you in France?”

  “Malahide,” was all he would say.

  “You went back then, even after I specifically told you not to!”

  “Yes, I went back, Holmes. My conscience would not allow me to look away while people were being treated so contemptibly. The same conscience that would not leave you here to the mercies of... I waited for you to get back in touch with instructions, but –”

  “I was occupied,” Holmes retorted. That was partly true, but he could have sent another telegram to make sure his companion didn’t go off on some damned fool errand that could get him killed.

  “Yes, I can see that.” Watson looked up, and the hurt was immediately apparent. “And look where this obsession of yours has brought you.” Watson snatched his wounded arm away and waved his hand around. “Brought us!”

  “You’re right,” Holmes admitted. “But it was never my intention to involve you in this part of it, Watson. In the endgame.”

  “No, you sent me away – probably because you knew I would have talked you out of... whatever it was you were planning on doing.”

  “Actually I...” Holmes shook his head. No amount of explaining would make any difference. Watson was in no mood to listen to the reasoning behind his being ‘banished’.

  “What were your intentions anyway? To find the box, to recreate those crime scenes – try and draw the attention of the Order? Well, I’d say you succeeded, judging from the state of those people back there. I mean, Holmes – did you see them! Did you see what had been done to them? What I suspect they may have done to themselves? This is not some ordinary criminal organisation or cult we are dealing with.”

  “Once more, you are correct. They are anything but ordinary – and I’m not sure you could classify them as people, either.”

  Watson frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Look around you, Watson,” said Holmes, sighing. “You cannot ignore the evidence of your own eyes, no more than I can.”

  “It’s another one of those secret passages, like Monroe’s. Like the one I discovered Malahide had under his institution, where he kept the patients he experimented upon. It is where I would still be, if a friend hadn’t returned to rescue me.”

  “What friend?” asked Holmes.

  Watson shook his head. “It’s not important. The point is, we need to bring in the cavalry. This is all getting a bit beyond us.”

  “It is certainly... beyond our experience.”

  “Stop talking in riddles, man!”

  “Watson, none of this should be here! There was no room in that old house for one secret corridor, let alone this many. No hidden space where they could possibly be! How is it even lit? There are no torches, no electric lights... And those members of the Order back there, how could they have had all that done to them and still be alive? How could they have withstood it? Before today, we would have said such things were impossible. But now, all evidence points to the contrary.”

  “This is nonsense, I –”

  “Watson, I fear I may have done something rather ill-advised in my pursuit of the truth. Because of my, as you call it, obsession with this affair.” It wasn’t very often Sherlock Holmes admitted he was wrong. “I underestimated our enemy, and for that I sincerely apologise.”

  “Holmes, I... I still do not fully understand.”

  “Sadly for me, everything is starting to slot into place,” the great detective said wearily. “On my travels I came across mendicants who spoke of transcending our reality. Of reaching other dimensions, other worlds.”

  “Holmes, this is Verne and Wells territory. The kind of thing readers of their stories might –”

  “I am not talking about reaching the stars, Watson. About exploring the oceans. But travelling via...” Holmes tapped the side of his head. “I had assumed that even if it were possible, then it would be the mind – the spirit – that would undertake such a journey. Not the body. And yet...”

  “This is preposterous! We are both suffering from fatigue, from the after-effects of drugs, of poisons. Shared hallucinations, the result of mental and physical abuse... I know I have seen some strange things, but none of them could possibly be real.”

  “No? Then how do you explain the pain you’re feeling in that wrist? The fact that you were out of breath from running. Watson, we have to face facts: it is my firm belief that we have crossed a bridge to... somewhere else. Just as one might open a door and step through into another room, the box –”

  “The Lament Configuration.”

  “– opened a doorway to here. To them, the members of the Order. Just as it did for Francis Cotton, for Mrs Spencer and Mrs Thorndyke’s husbands, for Monroe and Kline... The Gash came for them, brought them back here either before or after they’d killed them. It is the only possible explanation given the circumstances and what we already know.”

  “Good God,” Watson breathed.

  “I do not think that God played any part in this. You remember the kind of material Monroe was obsessed with. The pictures, the books.”

  “No,” said Watson. “No, it can’t... But we –” A low-pitched rumbling interrupted the conversation. Both of them looked up and down the tunnel, but it was impossible to tell which direction it was coming from. Watson regarded his companion. “Another earthquake?”

  The sound transformed into not so much of a rumble as a growl. A long, drawn-out growl, one that they both recognised. “I don’t think so, no,” said Holmes.

  “The... the Hound? But that’s...”

  “Not possible?”

  “No. We killed it, Holmes. A large dog, yes. But not the Hound.”

  Holmes cocked his head. He knew as well as Watson that the animal they had encountered on the moors, the one that had slaughtered poor Sir Charles Baskerville, was no more. But now came a howl, and that set the seal on it as far as Holmes was concerned. His expression told Watson as much, but the Doctor still shook his head in disbelief.

  However, when the shadow of the creature appeared ahead of them on the wall, followed swiftly afterwards by the thing itself, there was no denying the resemblance. It was the Hound they had both witnessed, glowing once more. Yet something had been done to it, the beast shorn not only of its fur, but also its skin in places to reveal the muscle and bone beneath. It was strapped up here and there with black leather, including at the collar, and across the eyes, rendering it blind. Drool cascaded from its jaws. It was as if someone had taken the Hound and made it even more nightmarish. It paused to sniff the air with its slit-like nostrils, and turned its head towards them, wagging a stumpy tail.

  “W-what do we do, Holmes?” Watson said, as the creature padded towards them. “Keep still?”

  The Hound drew closer, clawed feet tapping out a staccato beat on the floor.

  “We...”

  “Yes?”

  “We... we...” Holmes grabbed Watson’s arm and pulled him back slowly. “Watson, we should...”

  “Yes?”

  “I think we should... run!”

  It was sensible advice, and both turned at the same time to begin sprinting back up that corridor, with the Hound in pursuit. At one of the junctions, Holmes pointed and they skidded to turn left. The Hound behind them attempted to stop, but couldn’t get a grip on the stone floor and ended up sliding past the archway. It only gained them a few moments, however, as the creature soon righted itself and dragged
its lumbering frame through.

  “It... it doesn’t matter... how far... we run... Holmes... or if we hide... the beast will still find us,” Watson panted as they made their way towards another arch. “That blasted sense of smell!” What they needed was some way of fighting the thing, but there was nothing to hand – the walls pitifully free of any adornments, just smooth stone that apparently went on forever.

  Watson rounded yet another corner, but in so doing stumbled and fell. Holmes was already a few feet ahead of him before he noticed and turned back, but by that time the Hound was bearing down on the Doctor. “Watson!” called out Holmes, but there was nothing he could do.

  Watson looked away from the Hound, screwing up his eyes and waiting for the inevitable. The Hound blew out a jet of air through its nostrils, which ruffled Watson’s hair. Then it moved away from him, looking up towards Holmes.

  “Hoi... Hoi there!” Holmes began shouting, waving his arms. “Here – I’m here!” He needn’t have bothered, for it was obvious who was the real target when the Hound began moving off at a trot in his direction. “It’s me he wants, Watson.”

  “No!” Watson called from behind, standing and running after the Hound. He caught up and leapt at the great animal, grabbing it.

  “Watson, don’t be a fool. Run!”

  But Holmes’ companion wasn’t listening; and with a flick of its hips, the Hound threw Watson into a wall, where he slid to the ground.

  “Watson!” cried Holmes, but he knew he couldn’t go and see whether his friend was all right – it would simply lead the animal back to him. No, Watson had bought him a head start and he had to lead the thing away.

  Sherlock Holmes began running again, until both he and the Hound were out of sight.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A Vision of One War...

  AS WE FLED from the Order, up one secret corridor and down another, I grew fatigued and eventually had to pause for breath. My arm was aching where the whip had caught it, though by comparison to Holmes’ wounds it was a mere trifle. There had been little time for a reunion while we were fending off the Gash, and only now did we speak of what had happened. There was no sign that Holmes was happy to see me – nor a hint of gratitude that I had just saved his life. Indeed, I got the distinct impression that he was angry at me for returning – and that only increased when he found out I had revisited to the Institute and been captured myself.

  “You went back then, even after I specifically told you not to!” he said to me, shaking his head. “Oh Watson, it was never my intention to involve you in any of this.”

  No, his aim was to keep me in the dark, not include me in his final move – that of securing the box and replicating what Cotton, Spencer and the others had done, using himself as bait, no matter what the dangers might be.

  It was at this juncture that the conversation took a turn for the surreal, with Holmes talking about other realities and dimensions. I’m afraid to say I railed against this even after everything I’d seen and experienced. The alternatives I laid out were shot down, but why not put the blame on drugs, on the abuse our bodies had taken, on some form of hypnosis – yes, I kept returning to that one. Better that, than facing the truth of the situation.

  “I do not think that God played any part of this,” Holmes told me emphatically, only for our ‘discussion’ to be interrupted by a rumbling noise. And then, as incredible as it might seem, a creature that looked for all the world like the Baskerville Hound was before us! But it had been horribly changed – shaved, skinned, strapped up in leather, and blinded.

  We managed to evade the beast, tricking it at first one turn then another, but eventually it caught up – not helped by the fact that I tripped and made myself easy prey. As its fetid breath blasted into my face, I turned away and closed my eyes, knowing this was the end.

  But it did not want me; it had been following Holmes’ scent all along. Trained, just like the original Hound, to be directed at one individual. I tried to stop it, jumping on its back as it bounded after Holmes, but the monster threw me off and into a wall, winding me.

  There I lay for some time, trying to work up the energy to clamber to my feet; thinking that if I just closed my eyes and opened them again, I would wake up (only not in that chamber back at the Institute – please God, not there). I would wake in a time before Holmes had even heard of Moriarty, back when our friendship was firm and I knew exactly where I stood with him. Before he ‘died’ and came back aloof; before our encounters with the box and the Order of the Gash. A time before skinned men and flayed priests with glass sticking out of their faces, or fists for skulls, or diseased flesh or...

  Of course, when I opened my eyes, everything was still there. The hardness of the stone floor, the bleakness of the corridor, the strange blue light which illuminated this hellish place.

  When I struggled to my feet, I ached in places I did not even know I had; ‘old’ wounds from my time with Malahide were flaring up again, my body in no shape to be tackling vicious animals. I placed a hand against the cool wall for support and slid myself along it, towards the direction I’d last seen Holmes and the giant dog heading off in. When I got to the next junction, I could see no sign of them – and there were three options now ahead of me to choose from.

  I let out a resigned breath and plumped for the middle tunnel, stumbling up it for want of any better plan. I was already lost, hope dwindling of ever finding either Holmes or a way out. But I would not just lay down and die. I didn’t survive all those times on the battlefield, nor my adventures with Holmes, to shuffle off my mortal coil there.

  Just when it seemed like the passageways would go on indefinitely, I found an exit – but quickly wished that I hadn’t. The corridor opened out onto a platform or balcony of sorts. I hobbled towards the edge, but swiftly pulled back when I saw the drop before me. Looking out over this new landscape I saw the corridors and arches from a very different perspective, and from a distance now – all interlacing and making up the many levels of this confusing place. The whole thing was a complex labyrinth, a network of streets and roads that wove in and out of each other, so many times it made my head spin. The levels I could see, for I felt sure that it reached down lower still – possibly into some sort of pit – were vast, stretching out for miles and miles (I tried to push away thoughts of Dante wandering through his circles). At the same time, I couldn’t help thinking that the surface looked a little like a giant chessboard, like the patchwork countryside in one of my favourite books from childhood.

  There was no way I could deny that I was in some other... what, world, dimension? That’s what Holmes had called it when he was trying to get me to see we had stepped through a breach into somewhere else.

  I was Alice at the bottom of the rabbit hole, on the other side of the looking glass – but this was no Wonderland. Far from it. The dizzying sight of it all chilled me to the bone. Especially when, here and there, I caught shadows flitting about along those corridors, framed against more arches; some recognisably human in shape, others not. But it was what I saw when I looked above the maze that frightened me more.

  Something huge in the distance, hanging above it all – suspended. At first it was quite far away, then it was suddenly very near. Each time I blinked, it seemed to change its appearance. One moment a geometrical shape, gem-like, the next a huge monstrous creature with many tentacles, like something ancient mariners might speak of in hushed tones: a Leviathan. Then it more closely resembled the box that had brought us here. In every incarnation, it was spewing out something: black jets of what I took to be liquid – possibly oil, or perhaps smoke? Then I remembered what Mrs Spencer had said about that summerhouse, about what she’d seen just before her husband had vanished (had been taken here?).

  The black light.

  To begin with it was aimed away from me, but the huge shape’s gaze soon found me. Seconds later, so too did that blackness, rotating like a lighthouse beam in my direction and striking me before I could do anything abo
ut it.

  I think I screamed then as the tendrils of evil found their way inside me.

  Screamed like I had never screamed before.

  THE NEXT THING I knew, I was somewhere else again.

  Back on the battlefield, in Maiwand, our regiment being attacked by the Afghans. Soldiers – my friends and comrades – were being slaughtered left, right and centre. There was blood... so much blood. My own screaming was being drowned out by theirs.

  “No! Not again – please!”

  I was dreaming; some part of me recognised the fact that I was back in my nightmare, facing my greatest fear of being in the midst of battle. Soon it would be my turn to be shot. I didn’t even see the bullet that caused the damage, that would later in my life still cause me so much pain – especially in damp weather. Just felt the blasted thing as it tore through my leg, looked down and saw the gaping hole and the blood pumping freely from it.

  I was vaguely aware of someone strapping up my wounded thigh, and bundling me on a horse, to travel back to the Army hospital in Peshawar, where I would begin my slow recovery. As I was loaded onto the animal, I do remember seeing something... a figure in white robes, walking amongst the men. Bending and shaking its head – her head – as she examined the wounded and the dead. Some kind of nurse? An angel? Come to bring peace in their final moments, to help them on their way?

  Everything blurred, and I was in another time, facing another enemy. Now I was in a trench with people I did not recognise. It was night-time and explosions sounded all around me. I ascended a ladder and risked a peek out onto this other battlefield. It was a desert of churned up earth and barbed wire, where dozens of men wearing tin hats were shooting at each other. A shell landed not too far away, throwing me backwards. Body parts rained down from the sky: a hand here; a foot there. Infantry shredded by the might of modern warfare.