“So what do you really think about the amulet?” I asked him as I puffed gratefully on the Marlboro, finally beginning to come awake.
“You mean, out here, in the middle of nowhere, with the dark wind howling and the trees writhing in the rain? At the moment I think you’re right: the sooner we get shut of it, the better. It doesn’t feel right. Let’s just get rid of it so we can get home and demolish the rest of the whisky. Okay?”
I was in complete agreement. I wound down the window and flicked the smoldering butt of the cigarette out into the rain. I opened the door, wincing as the wind and rain swept in and the cold hit me. I put one foot out of the door, and it was on me before I had time to react.
The combination of cigarette smoke and wind must have stopped the smell from getting through before, but now my nostrils flared in disgust. The first thing I felt was a jolt as a tentacle lashed across my face, the tiny jaws zipping past my eyes, just missing taking my nose off as they snapped shut with a disappointed squeal. The rest of it came through into full solidity.
I found myself looking into a nest of writhing, chittering tentacles that swayed and danced in a forest around my head. Before I had time to react I was caught by the shoulders by at least four tentacles. They dragged me completely out of the car, kicking and squealing.
Doug screamed at the top of his lungs behind me. I felt like joining in, but the fear had almost paralyzed me, my heart felt tight and the screams bottled up in my throat. The tentacles parted and the great red head was revealed in all its gory glory.
I knew that somewhere in the depths there was a pair of scarlet, burning eyes, but they seemed to be covered in convoluted folds of raw, steak-like meat which squirmed as if a horde of maggots was squirming underneath the skin.
It pulsed, and the mouths on the tentacles screamed in rhythm as I got hauled closer to the main body. I hit out at the head, as hard as I could, and felt the flesh squash and buckle under my fist. It flowed and melted, beginning to crawl over my knuckles, and I just had time to pull my hand back before the flesh engulfed it. I left behind a large indentation in the head that seemed to fill with red, viscous blood before it flowed back into position.
The tentacles at my shoulders gnawed at the material of the jacket. I said a silent prayer to the god of black leather—it seemed to hold off their assault, for now, anyway. The beast lifted me higher and my feet left the ground.
Two of the tentacles waved in front of my eyes, hypnotic and enticing. The tiny silver teeth gleamed wickedly, and a long, forked tongue slithered and squirmed inside each of the mouths. They targeted themselves on my eyes, and moved closer.
Suddenly the thing dropped me to the gravel. I hit it hard and earned myself a new burst of pain from my damaged arm. For several seconds all I could do was lie there gasping, sucking in the rain.
Doug stood on the far side of the car. He held the amulet above his head and had the book open in his other hand.
“Barak klendor ig-nylauh prantan.”
“Ia C’thulhu, Ia Sototh”
“Karam Ig F’thang”
The chant rang through my head, and the legs of the thing buckled as it made for Doug. It didn’t go round the car—it climbed over it, giving me a perfect view of its hindquarters.
Down there, amongst a matted mess of pubic hairs, two tiny tentacles, no more than six inches long, waved and swayed in the wind.
The long talons on its feet scratched deep gouges in the bonnet of the car as it pulled itself over, closer to Doug.
I tried to push myself upright, but I had forgotten about my bad arm—it gave out under me and I fell back to the gravel.
“Cylar kornat trantom Ka”
“Karam Ig F’thang”
“Karam Ig F’thang”
Doug shouted through the rain, and time seemed to stand still. The amulet flashed blue in his hand, an almost blinding glare that seemed to freeze the creature on top of the hood. It raised its head and screamed, a howl that shook leaves out of the trees above us and threatened to chill the blood in my veins.
I almost cheered as the tentacles pulsed in and out of reality. I could make out the shape of the house beyond through the rapidly disappearing body of the creature.
“Get the fucker!” I shouted to Doug, not realizing that I was laughing.
But I celebrated too early. Still fading, the creature fell on Doug and tentacles grabbed him at the arm and waist. He looked over at me, the fear big in his eyes. He didn’t even have time to struggle before fading along with it, his body becoming almost translucent.
A tentacle entered his cheek, slowly tearing a strip of flesh into ribbons and sending a gout of blood out into the night. His body faded down into transparency and I heard him scream, a long fading howl as they faded for the last time. I heard a thud as the book hit the gravel, but the amulet was gone, taken with them.
I crawled round to the spot where they had been.
“Doug!” I shouted, but there was no reply.
I picked up the book, hoping to find something, an incantation or a spell, which would bring them back. But the rain blinded me, and the water ran across the pages, leaving the text as a rippling blur. I tossed it away from me in disgust.
I think I could quite happily have stayed there in the rain, screaming my frustration and rage and pain into the gravel, but a hand on my shoulder stopped me. I turned and looked up into the sad blue eyes of Mrs. Dunlop.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Adams. We weren’t strong enough to stop it.”
I noticed that she had already picked up Doug’s book from where I’d thrown it. She helped me to my feet and began to lead me towards the house, but I wasn’t ready to go just yet.
“Bring him back. You know something about this mess. Bring him back.”
I realized that I’d screamed at her, only six inches from her face, but she didn’t flinch, and, if anything, her eyes looked even sadder.
“I’m afraid we can’t do that. We just don’t have the power...not at the moment, anyway. You had better come inside. I think Arthur and I have some explaining to do.”
I closed the car door after retrieving my cigarettes, and had to fight to suppress a sob. Doug was gone, and I had got him into it. Another friend had asked me for help, and once more I’d let them down. I wasn’t going to be able to forgive myself, but someone, or something, was going to pay for this night’s work.
The rain pelted down again, and I got soaked, but I stood for long seconds by the car, looking at the gouges on the bonnet, remembering.
“Just stay alive, Doug. Just stay alive till I get to you “ I whispered, and had to shake my head. For a second it seemed as if he had answered, his voice screaming from a great distance:
“Help me. Help me.”
I stopped and listened, straining at the edge of hearing, but there was only the wind in the trees. Dunlop’s wife was already on her way back to the house, and I finally followed, hunched over against the rain.
The house was a huge, ancient, crumbling pile, all sandstone and ivy, and once into the hall it was like stepping back in time. The walls were hung with tapestries, old worn pictures of long forgotten battles. A grandfather clock stood imperiously in the corner. I’m no expert, but I would guess it was at least three hundred years old. Interspersed among the tapestries were ancient weapons, well worn, glistening with the patina of old age: claymores, muskets and pikes.
I half expected to come across a suit of armor or a bearskin rug, and wasn’t surprised to find a rack of cabinets containing, amongst others, a stuffed otter and a very old badger with a sad case of mange.
I dripped water across the thick pile carpeting as she led me further into the house and showed me into a large room. The floor had been stripped bare, revealing shiny, varnished floorboards.
The second thing that caught my eye was the fireplace. It stood almost eight feet tall, and the blaze in the grate would have done justice to many a Guy Fawkes celebration. At that moment all I wanted to do was curl up
in front of it and fall into the blackness of sleep, but I didn’t think sleep would come, not for a while yet. Doug’s screams still rang in my ears. There was more weaponry on show around the walls, and enough hardwood fittings to keep a small rain forest going. But more than that, there were the books—rank after rank of fine leather tomes in fine mahogany cases.
It was only after my gaze had circled the room that I allowed myself to look at the center, at the thing I had been avoiding. Some sort of diagram had been drawn out on the floor—a large circle with a five-pointed star inside. At each point of the star there was a candle and a small incense burner sending blue smoke up to hang in a heavy sheet in the still air.
The outside of the circle was inscribed with some indecipherable script, reminding me of Hebrew more than anything, and inside the circle, propped up on a bed of blankets and cushions, was Arthur Dunlop.
He wore a dressing gown that was faded and ragged with age and looked at least three sizes too big for him. It was only when I looked closer that I realized that he had once been a much bigger man.
“Sit down, Mr. Adams “ he said, and his voice was weak and throaty. His skin was tinged yellow and his lips were almost black. He looked like a man who didn’t have much longer to live. I opened my mouth to reply, to vent some of my pent-up anger, but he spoke first.
“I’m truly sorry about your friend “ he said, but he didn’t look sorry; he just looked sick. I suddenly felt angry—angry, confused and pissed off with this whole case. All I wanted to do was to get myself home, eat three pizzas, roll into bed, and sleep for a week.
“Sorry? Is that all you can say? Just what the hell is going on here?”
He coughed before he replied, and I’m sure there were flecks of blood on the handkerchief he used to wipe his mouth.
“‘Hell’ is the operative word, Mr. Adams. I’m afraid we have brought you close to its gates.” He actually grinned at me as he said it, and I had to fight to stop myself shouting. This gangster was patronizing me. I was cold, I was wet, and I still didn’t know what had happened to Doug.
“Maybe if you had told me how dangerous that trinket of yours was I would never have taken the case. Maybe…”
He stopped me with a wave of his hand, a small movement, but enough to bring on a fresh bout of coughing.
“No time for recriminations. I have a story I need to tell, and I think you need to listen if you are to have any chance of seeing your friend again. Now sit down. Please.”
I sat in a huge red leather armchair, and his wife brought me a whisky. She left to stoke the fire in the large fireplace and I watched her move as the man started speaking.
He looked over at me. “Help yourself to more whisky at any time “ he said, motioning towards the bottle on a table in the corner of the room. “We have a long way to go. I’m sorry if it seems over elaborate, but it is all pertinent to your problem.”
I was puzzled. The man in front of me didn’t seem like my idea of a gangland boss, but then again, I had never knowingly met one. Maybe they were all as cultured as he seemed.
I couldn’t reconcile this man with the stories I’d heard. But, no matter how sick he was, if he had caused Doug’s disappearance, or been involved with Wee Jimmy’s death, I intended to see that he got put away for a long time. All I had to do was figure out how to make Stan and Ollie believe me.
I realized that my mind was wandering—a combination of the night’s activities, the whisky and the comforting warmth of the fire.
“This is rather a long story, Mr. Adams. It might be better if you slept first—you look done in “ Dunlop said.
“You don’t know the half of it “ I said. “But I’ve got a feeling we don’t have time. Just tell your story. I’ll try to take it all in.”
Dunlop started talking but my brain was finally beginning to shut down. He told his story, and it seemed that I relived it in my head, in vivid, dream-like pictures.
I was looking into this self-same room, through the keyhole, and I was fourteen years old.
Andrew Dunlop was angry, no, more than angry, he was almost incandescent with the kind of rage that only teenagers seem able to manage.
His father had returned from the desert a whole two weeks ago, and so far Andrew hadn’t been allowed to see any of the finds, let alone touch them. It was as if he was still a child, as if he couldn’t be trusted with the exhibits. He was reduced to eavesdropping, creeping around in corridors, all the time trying to sneak a look at the treasures he knew to be there. Father would weaken, given time, but Andrew couldn’t wait—he’d waited for long months while Father was away, and he didn’t see why he should wait any longer.
Which is how he came to be peering through the keyhole into his father’s study, crouched in a painful stance by the door, ready to jump away if he should be discovered.
Father had a visitor, which was in itself unusual—he was normally a solitary man, preferring the company of his books. What’s more, he seemed to be arguing, his voice raised to a hoarse shout—a first in Andrew’s admittedly limited experience.
The man he was arguing with was a good six inches taller than his father—a huge, fierce, proud man with jet black hair swept back from his forehead and deep, blue, piercing eyes. Andrew had never seen him before, but he knew this man must be Johnson.
He strained to hear the raised voices through the thick wood of the door.
“You must let us see it!” his father was shouting. “It belongs to everyone—not just to you. You’ve no idea how important this thing is.”
Johnson was smiling, a strange, almost feral grin.
“And what if I told you I had no intention of letting it go, that I have every idea how important it is?” he said, his voice soft. Andrew was suddenly, for no obvious reason, frightened, and he wanted more than anything to leave, but something kept him there, crouched behind the door.
His father’s voice was louder than before when he replied.
“I’ll fight you Johnson!” he shouted. “I’ll take it to the authorities! I’m sure they’ll agree with me.”
, Johnson’s voice was almost too low for Andrew to hear, and he seemed to be talking to himself.
“Yes. I’m afraid they would. Which is exactly why I can’t allow it.”
A sudden chill swept through the keyhole, and Andrew was surprised to find that the door was cold to the touch when he pressed against it. He had to cover his mouth and nose with a hand—the smell suddenly threatened to choke him. His eyes watered, but he managed not to sneeze or cough.
Johnson started to speak, almost to sing, a harsh, foreign, almost animal sound. Andrew saw his father’s eyes widen—in surprise at first, then in fear.
Suddenly it smelled even worse, as if something had died in the room, and his father’s eyes were drawn to something in the corner, something out of Andrew’s line of sight.
His father stepped forward, out of Andrew’s view. Then the screaming started—a high- pitched keening that Andrew was unable to associate with his father. All he could see was Johnson laughing a great booming laugh as the screams went on and on before finally being cut off in one last, fading, echoing wail.
Nothing moved in the rest of the house. Andrew was waiting for someone to investigate, then he realized that there was probably no one else around. Mother had gone shopping, and Mr. Brown would be too far out in the garden to have heard anything.
Andrew couldn’t wait any longer—he threw open the door, ready to protect his father, and was nearly knocked over by the departing figure of Johnson. The man didn’t take any notice of him, merely swept passed and out of the house before Andrew had time to react.
His father’s body lay curled, strangely small in one corner of the room, his hands curved into claws in front of his face, claws which hadn’t been able to help him. His eyes were open, and red, bloody tears ran from their corners. Apart from the prone body, there was nobody else in the room.
His father’s stomach had been opened, almost che
wed, in a red gore-filled hole. A pool of blood was still spreading around him. Andrew sobbed and stepped forward, just as his father let out a small, almost imperceptible, cry of pain.
Andrew knelt and cradled the old man’s head in his lap, unable to prevent the hot tears that ran down his cheeks.
The old man spoke just before the end.
“The amulet “ he said, blood spattering from his mouth to join the pool on the floor. “You must get the amulet. Johnson will use it only for his own ends—it is a great evil that must be stopped.”
Andrew nodded, and bent to move some hair from his father’s eyes, but the old man was already dead. A wet mist clouded Andrew’s vision, and there and then he vowed to have his revenge on Johnson.
The scene shifted, and Andrew grew older. And in every frame he was pouring over old books, books of ancient magic, always reading as his body filled out. Lines appeared on his features and his beard grew out into a long gray, flowing thing more befitting an Old Testament patriarch.
I jerked awake. Dunlop was still talking, but he stopped as I went over to the whisky bottle and poured myself another. I thought that if I had to go through twenty-four hours without food, I might as well get some calories into my system.
It took twenty long years as Andrew grew to manhood, grew to have enough strength for his challenge. He devoted his life to following his father in the study of mythology, but where his father had only harbored an academic interest, Andrew became a practicing magi, a master of ceremonial magic. He traveled extensively, and in his notes he tells of visits to occult schools around the world. He joined the Golden Dawn, and the O.T.O.
During the same twenty-year period Johnson’s wealth had grown and he was now a very important man. He lorded it over Glasgow society, throwing wild parties that were famed for their debauchery. The press loved him, for his larger-than-life persona and his sense of style. They called him The Glasgow Capone.
Andrew followed his enemy’s progress with great avidity, and was even more interested when an ancient Arab began to be mentioned in some of the reports.
The Midnight Eye Files: Volume 1 (Midnight Eye Collections) Page 14