“Let her go!” he demanded, knowing even as the screaming wind stole his voice away that he could not intimidate them, not one man against so many.
Still, he intended to save her, whatever the cost.
Harry stepped off the platform, advancing toward the back of the train car, and two of the hooded acolytes that separated him from Anna and her captors glanced up, flinching at his approach. One of them was the Austrian journalist, Herr Kraus.
The other had the head of a tiger. Its black lips curled back from its fangs in a low growl as it began to rise.
Harry heard the ratcheting of the car ahead of theirs and braced himself as the train jerked to one side, following the tracks. Jostled, the tiger-headed man went back onto his hands and knees. Harry took two long strides and lunged between him and Kraus, landing just in front of the platform where Ned had just been murdered. The chanting increased in volume and speed.
He caught a few words on the wind and glanced back toward the front of the train. Abdul Reis had spoken.
“Not this time, Houdini,” the Egyptian shouted. “This time, you will die.”
Abdul Reis barked an order and the two men holding Anna drove her forward and shoved her at Harry, who caught her even as the collision forced him backward. He fell with her wrapped in his arms, the two of them sprawling past the hooded ones and crashing to the platform atop the coiled chains Harry had just shed.
Anna’s eyes were bright with pain and she screamed against her gag. He tugged the cloth down and her words flowed in a frenzied, anguished torrent.
“It hurts. Oh, Harry, it’s tearing me apart inside.”
Harry shushed her as he worked her free of her bonds. On his knees now, holding her, he turned to glare at Abdul Reis.
“What did you do to her, you monster?”
Abdul Reis only smiled and gestured to the others. The chanting grew louder still, the acolytes lowering their heads so far they could have kissed the metal roof. The words had changed, and so had that guttural rhythm. Their ritual had entered a new phase.
Anna screamed and thrashed against him.
“Damn you, take me! You wanted me for your sacrifice!” he roared at the Egyptian. “Take me!”
The smile vanished from the Egyptian’s features, replaced by open loathing and malice.
“You misunderstand, Houdini,” Abdul Reis called to him. “You are the sacrifice. You have always been the sacrifice. You have escaped death again and again, and each escape has made your life force more powerful, more radiant. Your death will be a beacon, sure to guide the Old Ones into the world.”
“Then let Anna go!” Harry shouted.
“No, you fool,” the Egyptian said. “You are the sacrifice, but she is the door!”
Anna cried out to God and threw her head back, going rigid in Harry’s arms as her eyes rolled up to their whites. She bucked, thrusting her abdomen upward, and he looked at her pale, smooth belly to see that a pulsing, bloodless slit had appeared there, a vertical mouth that began to open.
With a grunt of revulsion, Harry released her and tried to scramble away, but in the same moment a pair of thick tentacles slid from the pouting slit of her abdomen, probing the air like dogs seeking a scent. The chanting grew louder and Harry could hear the laughter of Abdul Reis as the hideous tendrils extruded further, joined now by a third.
Jerked forward by the things forcing themselves from within her—no, he thought, not within her but somehow through her; she is only a door into this world from some vast, chaotic other—Anna looked down at her naked, obscenely split belly and began to scream as madness took her. She whipped her head around, eyes wild and searching, and locked her gaze upon him.
“Harry,” she whimpered. “Please, Harry.”
He twisted around, scanning the tracks far ahead in search of that tunnel, wondering how long before it would smash all of them from the roof of the train. He saw that they were approaching a bridge that spanned a deep river gorge. Regret and guilt swept him as a terrible decision presented itself. Harry tensed, crouched on the roof, balancing himself with his hands.
With wet, sticky sucking noises, the tentacles shot further from Anna’s belly and seized him, slithering and coiling around him like serpents. Harry tried to fight them but his struggles only caused them to tighten. The thick, mottled tendrils dragged Harry toward her even as the slit in her belly grew, splitting her breastbone so that it seemed the entirety of her was opening to him, trying to pull him in.
A noxious, stinking gas exuded from that hole, the stench of some hellish otherplace, and as he gazed inside of her, the moonlight revealed nightmare things that had never existed in this world, other shapes that made his mind scream with their impossible geometry.
“No,” he grunted, as the chanting reached a fever pitch.
His hands wrapped around Anna’s throat almost of their own volition. Her eyes rolled back again and she jerked in his grip. Harry felt her life pulsing in the veins of her throat and he knew he could end it, knew that he had to end it, not just to save himself but to prevent the abominable others from being birthed into the world through the vast womb that her body had become.
Yet he could not. He thought of Ned, barely more than a kid and now dead because he had joined Harry on this journey. And then he thought of Bess, his sweet Bess, his best friend and staunchest ally, the foundation of his life. He had to get home to her, and to keep the world unmarred by the unimaginable malignance of the Old Ones.
Tentacles squeezed him, crushing the air from him, and he felt his body pressed to the moist, stinking gap in Anna’s belly like some obscene lover.
The train began to rattle across the bridge. Beyond it he could see a low, narrow tunnel cut into the rocky face of a hill. Time had run out.
Harry counted to four, prayed they were over the river, embraced Anna Carter, and then pistoned his legs to hurl them both off the side of the train. He heard Abdul Reis scream in fury as they fell, and then he could hear nothing but the air whipping by his ears and the slippery squirming of the tentacles around him, pulling him into those sucking, wet folds.
The fall seemed to go on for eternity. Just before they struck the water he drew a ragged breath and held it, and then they plunged into the cold, deep river, the current carrying them swiftly away from the train bridge. Submerged, dragged along the river bottom, Harry fought against the tentacles and against Anna’s flailing arms, but he did not strive for the surface. Instead, he struggled to stay down. The Great Houdini could hold his breath for a long, long time.
As they floated upward, he twisted in the water and kept her down, until at last Anna went slack in his arms and the tentacles loosened their hold and began to withdraw.
The river swept them into a shallow pool near its bank, scraping them against the rocks, and Harry dragged Anna up onto the shore. He could see the long slit that stretched from her groin to her throat, peeling her open. Nothing shifted in the dark, glistening cavity within her. He could see gray organs and pale bones, but whatever passage had opened inside of her, that door had closed with her death.
Harry wept into his hands, shaking with sorrow and fury.
When he could catch his breath, he lifted his gaze and stared upriver at the bridge spanning the gorge. The train would be far away by now. It would arrive in Istanbul without him. The homecoming he had imagined was not to be, and yet he had no intention of completing the journey. Home had taken on a new meaning for him, not his childhood home, or even the place he and Bess had made a home for themselves. He had caught a glimpse of what waited outside of his reality, and it had made him understand that the whole world was his home, and he would do anything to defend it. He would meet Abdul Reis el Drogman again. He would seek out every occultist and sorcerer, expose the charlatans and destroy the true practitioners, until he found Abdul Reis, and then he would kill the Egyptian.
For this had been no dream. He would never be able to persuade himself that it had been a nightmare, nor did he wish to
. Anna’s death demanded that he remember. More than that, he had seen the nameless things moving on the other side of the door that had opened inside her, and he knew those things could never be allowed to come through.
Harry Houdini sat bloody and bruised on the bank of an unknown river and pondered what would have to be his greatest escape. He understood now that he was still a prisoner, bound by a future whose chains would continue to tighten around him until at last either he or his enemy, the diabolical Abdul Reis, was dead.
Only then would he truly be free.
THE CUSTER FILES
RICHARD CHIZMAR
The handwritten letters, journal entries, and notes excerpted below are from the personal collection of esteemed historian Ronald Bakewell. The papers were discovered after Bakewell’s recent death and assembled into the narrative that follows by Bakewell’s longtime associate, Byron McClernan. They have not been made available to the public until now. In an effort to provide clarity, minor editing has been done to the language, and spelling and punctuation errors have been corrected.
***
(Personal letter—Private George E. Adams, Seventh Cavalry—June 21, 1876)
Dear Father and Mother,
I miss you both desperately but believe you would be very proud of your youngest son. I have learned so much during my time here and the men I ride with are of the finest caliber. I am proud to serve by their side and pray I will distinguish myself in battle, as so many others in the Seventh have done before me. Lieutenant Colonel Custer is a larger than life figure. He reminds me of Grandpa Frank at times, with his booming voice and ability to make the tallest of tales seem believable. The men admire and fear him in equal measure. Some believe him to be aloof, even cruel, but I find him charming and confident, and would follow him anywhere . . .
(Journal entry—Corporal John J. Callahan, Seventh Cavalry—June 21, 1876)
. . . and because of this strategy it has been long days of riding and short nights of rest. It is no wonder the men are so tired. Still, I have heard few complaints and witnessed even fewer moments of weakness amongst the men. We have been trained well and know the routine. I have little doubt the campaign will be successful.
Oh how I wish you were here with me, my darling Wanda, sitting beside me on this dark prairie, staring up at the magnificent night sky, counting the stars and playing our wishing game. My first wish upon a star tonight would be for our precious baby Genevieve to grow up to find happiness and good health. My second would be for you and me to build that cabin by the lake we always dreamed of, to grow old together, and watch our grandchildren play at our feet. One day, soon, I promise you . . .
***
(Personal letter—Private George Eiseman, Seventh Cavalry—June 22, 1876)
I hate it. The men are filthy. Fighting, cursing, farting, burping, shitting, pissing. They are no better than the horses that carry them. The officers offer meager improvement, bullies and barbarians to a man. The days are endless, the mess tastes like buffalo droppings, and there is not a single aspect of this dreadful land I can give praise to. I hate it here.
***
(Journal entry—Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer, Seventh Cavalry—June 23, 1876)
. . . therefore I can only describe it as a feeling of being set free after a long imprisonment. Imagine an eagle taking flight for the first time after enduring a lengthy injury to one of its wings, a grizzly bear healed of its hindquarter wound and returning to the fast hunt. That is akin to what being on campaign feels like for me. I was born to lead men in the field. I was born to chase glory. I sit here on my cot inside my tent, writing by the light of a single lantern, and I am at absolute peace with but one corner of my heart left incomplete. I will return to your arms soon, my dearest Libbie, and we shall once again sit upon the porch at Fort Lincoln, sip your splendid tea, and doze to the setting sun. Sleep now, as shall I. More tomorrow, my Rosebud.
(Journal entry—Corporal John Foley, Seventh Cavalry—June 23, 1876)
I believe the men feel it, feel something, even if the officers continue to turn a blind eye. First, there was the missing food supplies. The cooking staff was publically scolded for being careless but the matter was never investigated further. Unusual to say the least. Reno is the most detail-oriented officer I have ever served under. Then there was the captured scout from two nights ago. Reno insisted that he was Lakota, while Tom Custer and Benteen argued that he was Cheyenne. Well, then why did my old friend Sergeant Perkins tell me confidentially that the scout was of neither tribe? That he was some new breed he had never seen before. Wild, feral, with the strangest markings on his pony Perkins had ever seen. Eyes the color of blackest night. Skin paler than many white men. And then there are the rumors of how the scout had bitten two men during his capture. Both soldiers now quarantined in Sick Hall. Finally, there is the matter of so many other men falling ill. Why so many? And why all the secrecy surrounding their illnesses? I am not a man of superstition, but it is beginning to feel as though this campaign has been cursed.
(Personal letter—Captain Thomas Custer, Seventh Cavalry—June 23, 1876)
. . . but I imagine we will just have to wait and see. Terry and Gibbon are out there if we need them. The same should be said of Crook, but I believe he would be a tad slow in coming to our aid, even if summoned. (That was a joke. I think. I hope.)
George is clear-headed and affable thus far into the march, if a bit more subdued than his usual nature. One of the Crow scouts asked me yesterday, a look of sincere concern etched across his brown face, why George had cut his long yellow hair. He was convinced that it was bad luck for him to have done so before battle. I could only chuckle when brother Boston chimed in and responded with that crooked grin of his, “Come now, haven’t you ever heard of ‘Custer Luck’? The only kind of luck George has is of the good variety. The man was practically born with a horse shoe up his rear end.”
I will write again, old friend, when time and temperament allow. In the meantime, light a cigar for me next time you sit down at the chessboard. Tell Charlie I said to break a leg.
Yours truly,
Tom Custer
(Personal letter—Sergeant Robert H. Hughes, Seventh Cavalry—June 23, 1876)
Something is wrong here. It began as an underlying feeling of unease–the past few nights have been too quiet; where have the night creatures gone? Even the crickets and frogs remain silent–but it has since grown into something else entirely. I have the most dreadful feeling.
***
(Journal entry—Corporal George H. King, Seventh Cavalry—June 24, 1876)
I was on the way back from my morning smoke when I overheard Curley and Bloody Knife talking to some of the officers. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I listened to them report, “Big camp. Many lodges, many fires burning. Too many braves to count.” I pulled Bloody Knife aside later in the day and asked for more details. His eyes told me everything else I needed to hear. “Must wait for more men. Bigger guns. Yellow Hair is brave but will not listen.” Bloody Knife’s voice was solemn, his eyes anxious. I have never seen him act in such a manner. He told me he is praying to the Great Spirit for a vision to be sent to Custer in his sleep. I’m not holding my breath. I’m not sure the bastard ever sleeps.
(Personal letter—Sergeant Jeremiah Finley, Seventh Cavalry—June 24, 1876)
We lost another two men last night. Their rifles and packs and horses remain, but they have otherwise vanished. This brings the total to nineteen missing. Desertions are rare for the Seventh, this level of frequency unheard of. Who leaves all of their personal belongings and sets off on foot in the middle of this inhospitable terrain? It makes little sense. We have doubled the guard and still no one has seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. To the contrary, the nights have been unnaturally quiet and still. We long-marched almost eighty miles today and with good reason, I figure. We better hurry and catch up with Crazy Horse or there won’t be enough of us left to fight . . .
&nbs
p; (Personal letter—Captain Thomas Custer, Seventh Cavalry—June 24, 1876)
. . . which is perhaps a stroke of profound good fortune, as we should be close enough to engage the enemy within a day, two at the most. Once again, George has managed to accomplish what many others before him could not. His unbridled energy this campaign is only matched by his fierce determination to defeat the legendary Crazy Horse on the field of battle. I asked him during this morning’s ride if he would be satisfied with Crazy Horse’s surrender. He appeared shocked and rather dismayed at such a proposition. His response? “Sitting Bull, yes. Crazy Horse, I want to destroy.”
(Journal entry—Private William Moodie, Seventh Cavalry—June 24, 1876)
They’re lying and for the life of me, I cannot figure out why. There is no way in hell I’m believing that Elmer deserted. And without his horse? His gun? His lucky squirrel tail? I don’t believe it. He would just as soon run out of here without any trousers and boots on than leave without his lucky squirrel tail and carbine. Private Elmer Babcock is a lot of things–a shitty poker player at the top of that list–but he ain’t no goddamn deserter. You couldn’t find a more loyal soldier anywhere.
(Journal entry—Private James Brightfield, Seventh Cavalry—June 24, 1876)
I know what I saw and I know what I heard. I was standing guard post on the northern perimeter of camp. It was after midnight when I heard one of the men crying out in the dark. A quick, muffled bark, and then silence. At first I thought maybe my ears were playing tricks on me–there shouldn’t have been anyone out there beyond the safety of the firelight–but then I heard the sucking sounds. A wet smacking, slurping noise like a starved animal feasting on its kill. It was then I knew it wasn’t an Indian. They may be savages, but they move like the wind. I mustered my courage, and with my rifle pointed in front of me, I went to investigate. I freely admit that I made as much noise as I could manage with the hopes that whatever was doing the feasting would soon be frightened away by my approach. Thirty or so yards outside of camp I found a wide circle of blood. Splashed on the grass. Soaked into the dirt. And a scrap of bloodstained cloth that looked like it came from an undershirt. I stood there scanning the shadows and had the strangest sensation that I was being watched. Looking over my shoulder the entire time, I hurried back to camp and reported what I had found to my Sergeant. He thanked me and promised to relay the information to the Captain. It was only later that I realized something: Sarge hadn’t looked the least bit surprised when I had told him my story. I find that rather unsettling. Sarge also made me swear not to repeat any of the details to the other men. Not that I would have anyway. Who would ever believe such a tale?
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