The hand on the freezer continued to push and McLaughlin was screaming like a woman now. Calvin redoubled his efforts and the translucent ribbons of hues flitted about in his corner of his skull, finally venturing into the void of the greater blackness that owned his body. He pushed at the vile, pitch black thing, opening up some room around the tiny space that was still Calvin, giving him the area to generate more of the colors.
Then the freezer tipped. . .
Deep within his mind, Calvin shrieked, but the black thing that held sway over his facial muscles grinned and winked at McLaughlin as the freezer shot down the staircase smoothly, hitting the agent squarely in the chest. It slammed into him, rocking him back, his arms popping from their sockets. For a moment it seemed they would tear, that the freezer would slam straight through him, parting flesh and bone and sinew, but he held. He sagged back, the weight of the freezer rocking into his ruined frame, a huge gout of blood slipping up his throat to stain the white porcelain. Calvin stared down at the shattered corpse in silence. The only sound was the blood dripping softly onto the stairs and the concrete floor below.
The Konklin-thing walked down the stairs slowly. He stopped at the freezer, leaning over it, adding his weight to the balance and feeling what remained of McLaughlin strain. The colors swam through the pooling blood, and it picked at them randomly, each touch winding them tighter, little spools of ribbon that seeped through his skin and disappeared, devoured.
Inside Calvin Konklin's head the colors blinked out one by one, like candles being snuffed by the wind.
Edmond Curit gazed into the face of insanity.
Seated across the desk from him, pistol leveled between his eyes, sat Calvin; young Calvin Konklin, his Head Assistant. Something was very wrong. Calvin's face was the color of slate, his eyes black and somehow ashen-looking, a large scar cut across his forehead. Despite all this, the finger that rested on the trigger was steady.
"Can we talk, Calvin?" He asked, trying to hide the fear in his voice. "If something is wrong . . . is it money? Please, I want to help."
"Thought you were pretty clever, didn't you?" Calvin's deadpan gave no indication that he had heard his captive. The words seemed very distant, lost. "THT filters, incomplete plans. You saw them all coming, didn't you?"
"I don't know what you mean," Curit said, heart sinking.
"Sure you do," Calvin leveled the gun between Curit's eyes, "I've seen the Balancer work without the filter. Marvelous," Calvin said, his voice dropping several octaves as he leaned forward in his chair, "Simply marvelous."
There was something terribly wrong with Calvin. Curit could see it in the man’s eyes. Things seemed to be moving around just beneath the surface of the skin on his face. Little pockets of flesh shifted position on his forehead as he spoke. Curit just sat, sweating, wondering what in God's name this thing was sitting before him.
"But why do you suppose," Calvin continued, "a genius like yourself, caught in the spotlight of glory, would want to keep such a secret, such a miracle, from the people?"
Dropping all pretense in the hopes of reasoning with this man, Curit replied, "You must see, Calvin, surely you must. They will take it, warp it, kill with it. Such power does not belong in the hands of men; the healing is enough."
"Maybe, maybe not." The scar over Calvin's brow suddenly opened up a crack and blood seeped down his brow. "Now it's too late, though. I've sold you out. I made my own Balancer, you see. Trusted your plans. They're very interested by what it can do. Very. Seems something was missing in my version, though. What do you suppose it is, a circuit card? Another filter? Why don't you just tell me?"
Curit had barely been listening, fascinated by the bleeding wound that was coating Calvin's face with a crimson sheet while he obliviously talked right through it.
"I . . . I can't," Curit said, trying to take his eyes from the wound and the gun and the eyes and the blood. Jesus, what the hell is going on?
"I can't do that, Calvin," he reiterated. "Why did you go to them, why not to me?" Curit had chosen a point on the wall over Calvin's left shoulder on which to concentrate, willing his mind from what he was seeing. "We could have talked, shared the research. God, I wanted to share it. How would you like to hold a miracle in your mind and be unable to tell anyone about it?"
"All unimportant. And much too late," Calvin cut in. "I figured you wouldn't talk; planned for it. Hold out your arm, please."
Curit's eyes snapped back to Calvin to see the syringe in the madman's hand. He backed up in his chair involuntarily, scanning the room for an escape that wasn't there. "What are you going to do, Calvin?" he asked, voice finally wavering as the terror rose to consume him. "What's in that needle?"
"Anesthetic. Nothing harmful." The thing that had been Calvin Konklin grinned and bared its teeth; less a smile than a show of strength. The original desires that had brought this blackness, this malignant filth to Calvin Konklin, were now speaking up, demanding to be heard. "I just need to be sure you'll cooperate. If you and I were to both be hooked up to your Balancer—THT filter removed—I'd know how to fix my version of the balancer . . . I'd get all the money, all the fame, and I'd get all your Genius in the barg—"
The real Calvin bucked in the Konklin-thing's mind, stopping the voice mid-sentence. He'd conjured the colors again, clandestinely, in his claustrophobic little corner, patiently forming them over the past couple of hours. He’d carefully woven them to a solid tapestry in his mind's mind. Now, in one fantastic jolt, he had released them, and they made the blood flow from the scar in his head even faster, some of the red-black, fetid ichor slopping into his lap.
Curit mumbled something under his breath and started to stand up, fear evaporating into the instinctual need to just get away.
Calvin pumped a slug into the Doctor’s right thigh.
Curit screamed and clutched his leg, slumping back down into the leather chair with a moan, his hand clamped over the wound tightly.
"You're not going anywhere," the Konklin-thing said, nervousness creeping into its voice as it felt the colors growing in strength and number.
I know that my little girl will die if McLaughlin wasn't bluffing, the real Calvin thought, buoyed by his mini-victory, and creating more and brighter ribbons in the seeping blackness in his head, but I'm not gonna let. . .
Another plethora of ribbons burst into Konklin's head, forcing little black slugs out the sides of his neck. They erupted through the flesh and hit the floor with a wet thumping noise, then slithering away between the floorboards.
. . .this motherfucker kill anyone else!
Calvin's body doubled over and he bashed his head on the desk in front of him. Blood flecks speckled Curit's face, but he didn't notice. What he was seeing, coupled with the throbbing, excruciating pain of the gunshot wound, was clouding his thoughts.
"Get . . . the rat," the thing bubbled through the blood on the desk. The ribbons had begun to cavort now like Calvin had first seen them that day in the lab, twisting around and through each other. He was gaining the upper hand.
"What?" Curit managed, through parched lips.
The thing was trying to cough out another one of those blood clots, to come back in through Calvin's face, reasserting itself into power, but Calvin was fighting it now with the ribbons. More of them fluttered about everywhere in his head and they were now visible through his eyes. They danced in his pupils as before, but this time they weren't going to be consumed; this time, Calvin was fighting with them.
"Get . . . Abner. . ." More blood gushed from the reopened scar on Konklin's forehead, pooling across the desk. He didn't know what physiological changes the malevolent thing had wrought throughout his system, but he couldn't bank on them. At this rate of blood loss, he wasn't going to live much longer. He had to make it clear to Curit to get the rat.
With all his remaining strength and the strength of the ribbons, he lifted his bloody face up to Curit, eyes imploring, and said, "Send it back where it came from, Curit. Get Abne
r and . . . fucking send it back!"
Finally, Curit understood. As the thing flopped its bloody head back onto the desk, Curit hobbled around to where the rat sat atop his bookshelf, nosing around in his shavings while all hell broke loose across the room.
Leaning all his weight on his good leg and sucking air in through his teeth, he reached up and lifted Abner's cage from the shelf. Abner looked at his friend and wiggled his nose, oblivious to the bubbling, convulsing thing bleeding to death below.
McLaughlin staggered over to the Balancer across the room and set Abner's cage down on the first metal table. He opened up the cage and removed the rat.
More little slug-things vacated Calvin’s head, busting out around the eye sockets, scurrying out of his mouth, and cracking the top of his skull to jump from him like rats from a sinking ship. The core of the diseased beast was firmly entrenched in Calvin's psyche and had no place to go, but the bits and pieces that could wrench free were not so stable.
Calvin wrenched his body up to a standing position, and began lurching toward the second metal table. A low growling slid roughly from his throat and the blood clotted there threatened to dislodge itself. It would not help the blackness though, unless it was able to topple the body, and Calvin wasn't about to let that happen.
Beginning to feel more than a little woozy from blood loss and the pain in his leg, Curit attached the Balancer's electrodes to Abner's torso, the rat's beady eyes still showing no hint of concern over what was about to happen. He sat, contentedly cleaning one of his paws to pass the time.
More ribbons, more colors. The blackness was coalescing, rising for a final strike and Calvin laid helplessly on his back, his head lolling to the side.
"Come . . . on, Curit!" Calvin hissed.
Curit picked up his pace as best he could, turning dials and switching switches on the Balancer, making sure to disengage the THT filter. He glanced over at Calvin where he lay on the table, blood still seeping slowly from the wound in his head. He saw the lump in Calvin’s throat begin to move upward toward his chin. Calvin tried squeezing out a few more words of warning, but the lump was too close now, and was cutting off the sound. Only Calvin's eyes were able to convey any sort of message. And they were turned on Curit, wide, staring black orbs with little lights dancing deep within.
Curit ignored the throbbing in his leg as best he could and hobbled around to Calvin's table, attaching the electrodes to the man-thing’s blood-soaked chest.
The lump in Calvin's throat was close to busting out through his mouth now, and Curit had no idea what would happen if whatever it was in there got out, so he gritted his teeth and dove across Abner's table, flicking the switch to start the Balancer.
The machine thrummed to life, and as he watched, pulling himself painfully up off the floor, the lump in Calvin's throat peeked over the top of his teeth and popped, sending more blood flying through the air. The lights in Calvin's eyes doubled, then trebled as the machine's humming increased, reaching its quiet crescendo.
Then, one by one, the lights began winking out.
The body of Calvin Konklin lay inert on the table, blood-soaked; his chest neither rising nor falling.
Abner sat hunched over, still cleaning his paws, colorful little ribbons dancing about in his oil drop eyes.
Edmond Curit blinked his eyes a few times, trying to get the rid of the blackness that had begun to seep into his peripheral vision.
Death Did Not Become Him
By Patricia Lee Macomber & David Niall Wilson
It has been many years since the events I now record took place, and even now, running through them in my mind, I’m uncertain if I should continue. There is a question of privacy involved, to be certain. There is more. I fancy that when all is said and done, these words will one day find their way into the hands of others. Still, my purpose over the years has never been to further my own reputation, and certainly I’ve been brutally honest when it comes to others.
Let me begin by mentioning the most glaring oddity of all. In this case, when my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes admitted his newest client to 221 Baker Street, it was none other than myself, half-crazed and shaking like a scared dog.
Upon my arrival, the clock in the church tower chimed eleven. It was later than I had thought, and far too cold for a sane man to be about. All but one light was out in Holmes' flat and I assumed him to be asleep. It did not matter. The burden of that night was too much to bear alone, and at the very least I needed the comfort of my old friend’s solid intellect.
I paced, until my shoes threatened to wear ruts in the sidewalk. I wanted desperately to turn around and return to my own home, have a brisk shot of brandy and slide between the cool sheets of my bed. What I most emphatically did not want was to see my relationship with Holmes tainted by the appearance of insanity. Still, there was nothing for it but to plunge ahead, and I finally dashed for the door in desperation, wanting to reach it before my traitorous feet turned away yet again. Before I could raise my hand to the door knocker, the door swung inward, and I found myself stumbling to a clumsy halt, staring into the grinning countenance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
"Do come in, Watson," Holmes said with a twinkle in his eye that set my cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Another few paces and you’ll wear the leather from your soles." As he took in my own expression, Holmes grew more serious, and he closed the door quickly behind us, taking my coat.
"I'm terribly sorry about the hour, Holmes," I blurted, "But the matter simply can't wait."
"I gathered from the odd slant of your hat and the mismatching of buttons that this was a matter of some importance," he replied. He turned and disappeared into his study, and I hurried to catch up with him. When I reached the dimly lit room, he was already in his chair, legs stretched out before him and his fingers pressed together under his chin. "So tell me what brings you out so late on a cold night."
"I've come to offer you a new client, Holmes."
"But you've come alone. Who, then, would your client be?"
I watched him for a moment, steepling his fingers and staring at me, eyes twinkling. I knew he had already deduced my reply, but I made it anyway. "It is I, Holmes. This time, it is I who seeks your aid."
The skin around his eyes drew taut and his lips pursed. "Very well, Watson. Why don't you sit down, take a brandy, and tell me your story."
I sat back, closed my eyes, and let the events of the evening flow back into my consciousness, telling the tale as best I could. I knew any detail I left out, or forgot, might prove the one thing Holmes needed to see through it all as nonsense, so I was careful. The brandy helped. This is the tale I told.
It was but a few hours ago when a knock came at my door. It was later than I was accustomed to accepting callers. I immediately assumed it to be you, Holmes. Who else would call on me at such an hour? My heart quickened at the thought of adventure, and I hastened to open the door.
The man who met my gaze was gaunt, tall and weathered as if he’d spent long years on the deck of a ship, or working a farm. His complexion was dark, and his coat clung to him like a shroud. I could make out two others standing directly behind him in the gloom.
"Dr. Watson," he asked, his voice sharp and edgy.
"You have me at a disadvantage," I countered. "I’m Watson, and you are? My God, man, do you know the time?"
"I am well aware of the time," the man answered. "My business with you cannot wait."
The man held forth a sheet of paper, pressing it toward my nose as if I could read it in the dark. "Did you sign this?" he asked sharply.
"I can’t see what it is from here," I said. "Step inside Mr. . ."
"Jepson," he said, stepping hurriedly through the doorway. "Aaron Jepson. My companions are Mr. Sebastian Jeffries and . . .well, read the paper, and you may see who else accompanies me."
I knew I should have told the man to return by daylight, but I’d invited them in, and the deed was done. I glanced at the other two, who remained silent. The firs
t was a white haired old chap with ruddy features and wide, bulging eyes. His cheeks were overly full, making his lip drape oddly downward. I didn’t know him. The third wore a dark coat, as did Jepson, and a hat pulled down to hide the features of his face.
I glanced back to the paper and began to read. It was a death certificate. I had signed it only a week before, pronouncing one Michael Adcott dead of a knife to the back. Mr. Adcott had been out too late in the wrong part of town, and apparently someone had fancied his wallet a bit more than he himself.
"What has this to do with any of you?" I asked bluntly.
"Mr. Jeffries," the first man explained, "is my solicitor. I should say, he is my cousin’s solicitor. I’m not certain if you would have been told, but there was a sizeable investment - a tontine - involved in the death. Michael was one of only two surviving members of the tontine, and upon the declaration of his death, the courts moved to deliver the tontine’s assets to a Mr. Emil Laroche.
"I knew of no tontine," I said, "but I see no way I can help you in such a matter. Mr. Adcott died, and as I understand such arrangements, that would indicate that the courts were in the right."
"So you say," Jepson said, "and yet, you would be - for the second time this week - mistaken."
I blinked at him. "Mistaken? How . . ."
Jepson held up a hand, then turned to his third companion.
"Michael?"
My heart nearly stopped. The man removed his hat slowly, staring at me through eyes I’d seen glazed and closed so few days in the past. He didn’t seem to see me, not really, and yet he reacted to Jepson’s words with perfect understanding. The dazed, haunted expression of those eyes burned into my mind, and I had to shake my head to clear the sensation of – something – something dark and deep. Something wrong.
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