Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2011

by Mike Davis (Editor)

  Anne gradually roused from her shock, and finally broke free of my guiding hand, reclaiming the torch and pushing on with grim determination. Its light punched through the darkness, the beam bouncing and wavering with each frenetic step.

  We reached the bridge, and as we crossed I chanced a look back at our pursuers. What I saw was a broiling mass of distorted shapes skirting the light’s edge.

  By now my breath came in great gasps, and Anne stumbled from exhaustion. We had covered barely half the distance to the cave entrance, and I sensed we would never make it.

  I produced my pistol and urged Anne forward. “Keep going,” I said. “They may be unfamiliar with this. With luck I will delay them, and then I shall join you.”

  Anne regarded me dubiously.

  It was then I spied a shape at the other end of the bridge, a black silhouette planted firmly before the entrance. I motioned Anne toward it, and as we approached I realized with a start it was a statue, an ebony slab of some unknown substance in the shape of a man, standing like a stoic guard. Was this what had been taken to London, sparking those grisly murders? And who had returned it? Those small men the night watchman had mentioned? And why to this spot? I cast about for signs of life, but saw nothing.

  The horrors pursuing us reached the bridge, their gibbering loud in the voluminous cavern.

  Pointing at the path leading to the cave entrance I said, “Go now, Miss Stiles. Please.”

  Anne backed away slowly; her features conflicted at the thought of abandoning me.

  I managed a weak grin and waved my pistol, urging her to run; then faced the bridge, holding the weapon steady in both hands. I prayed one or two well-placed shots would sufficiently scare these creatures back to their hellish master.

  But the sound of pursuit ceased, and the air grew still. I peered into the darkness, sensing shapes clustered on the far side of the bridge and along the chasm. They made no move to approach.

  I started at a presence beside me. Anne. I opened my mouth to rebuke her, but she voiced my very question.

  “Why have they stopped?”

  I shook my head. “Fear of my pistol?”

  Dismissing my weak attempt at humor, she gently touched the statue. “Perhaps it is this.”

  I pursed my lips in contemplation. The idea was outlandish, of course, contrary to my professional training. I dealt in facts, not superstitions. There had to be a logical reason, even though those creatures and the thing they worshiped were most certainly not superstitions. Truthfully, I could offer no rational explanation. Reluctantly, I said, “Then let this guardian keep them at bay while we make our escape.”

  Anne nodded sharply, but as I turned to leave she reached into her coat and retrieved her brother’s journal. Quickly she approached the lip of the chasm and heaved the book so it dropped from sight into darkness. Rejoining me with a dour look on her face, she said, “No one should ever learn of this damnable place, Doctor Watson. No one.”

  I grunted my approval. As illogical as it appeared, I suspected the mutilations and kidnappings of the past few days would cease now that the mysterious statue once again stood vigil before the bridge.

  Taking the stone path for the passage leading to the exit, I chanced to notice a smallish man standing in silhouette atop a distant rock, a bow clutched in one hand. When I looked again, he was gone.

  –

  –

  While born in Toronto, Ontario, Bruce Durham has lived most of his life in neighboring Mississauga. He spent over 30 of those years in the CATV industry in a variety of capacities, most recently as a consultant. Though he has been described as ‘older than dirt’, the reality is that he’s 56 and has been happily married for 27 years. His award-winning short story, The Marsh God, has been adapted into a graphic novel — view the Youtube video trailer here.

  Illustration by mimulux.

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  NOTE: Images contained in this Lovecraft eZine are Copyright ¬©2006-2012 art-by-mimulux. All rights reserved. All the images contained in this Lovecraft eZine may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, borrowed, duplicated, printed, downloaded, or uploaded in any way without my express written permission. These images do not belong to the public domain. All stories in Lovecraft eZine may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, borrowed, duplicated, printed, downloaded, or uploaded in any way without the express written permission of the editor.

  The Call of the Dance

  by William Meikle

  An original Lovecraftian Sherlock Holmes story

  I hoped that my friend Sherlock Holmes would be more settled when I called on him that evening in May of ’87. His recovery from his travails in France meant that a period of house rest was prescribed. As ever, he paid little attention to doctor’s orders, however well intentioned, and had remained active, if at least housebound for most of the time. He had driven poor Mrs. Hudson to despair with a long string of requests for exotic beverages and fruits that required her to scour every market north of the Thames to satisfy him.

  I expected it to be the lady herself answering the door, but Holmes greeted me in the hallway as I entered the apartments in Baker Street.

  “Come in Doctor Watson,” he said in a near perfect impression of Mrs. Hudson’s Scots brogue. “You’ll be wanting some tea?”

  He laughed, and bounded up the stairs to his apartment. I had not seen him in such good humour for several months. I discovered why when we arrived in the apartment.

  He had something new to occupy his mind. A small contraption of cogs, wax disks and tin foil sat on his desk.

  “I took a stroll down Regent Street this morning,” he replied. “And procured this fine item. I believe it is called a Graphophone and they say it is the future of music.”

  He turned a key and his voice – tinny and muted but most definitely Holmes – asked me whether I was having a good day.

  “It records via a series of markings on wax discs,” Holmes said, clearly fascinated. “And it is newly issued from the Bell – Tainter Laboratories. I do believe Watson that we will soon have a new way for you to transcribe your histories of our work together.”

  He took great delight in showing me how it worked. It did indeed seem a marvellous thing, but I could not imagine it ever replacing my trusty pen.

  Finally I managed to get Holmes to sit. As ever his quick mind had already moved on to other matters and we spent a pleasant hour discussing the merits of the HMS Buzzard. It was being launched on the morrow. Holmes had a hankering to take a trip to Sheerness to view the first sailing of the new scoop, and I agreed to accompany him.

  But our plans were soon scuppered.

  The first indication of something amiss came when we heard the front door open and the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.

  Holmes smiled.

  “See what Thomas wants will you Watson. He has already delivered the post today.”

  I knew better than to ask at that point how he knew the caller’s identity, but as ever he was correct. Thomas Jeffries stood outside Holmes’ door, cap in hand, looking as sorry and hangdog as any man I have ever seen.

  “Begging your pardon Doctor,” he said. “But would it be possible to talk to Mr. Holmes? I have need of his services.”

  Thomas and I both knew that he scarcely had two pennies to rub together, but he looked so lost that I could only stand aside and show him in.

  And so began the strangest case I have ever had to relate.

  *

  At first Thomas was ill at ease, perched on the edge of a chair as if afraid he might break it. But once Holmes got him talking, it was difficult to get him to stop,

  “It’s the workshop Mr. Holmes,” he said. “I’m feared to go in there at night. But I’m paid to watch the place and I can’t lose the job, not if I want to feed the kids. It’s hard enough as it is keeping both that and the post job going without a haunt trying to stop me.”

  I had not known that
Thomas was also working another job, but if Holmes had been ignorant of the fact he did not show it. He sat back in his chair, his elbows on the arms, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth, lips already pursed in concentration.

  “Tell me,” he said quietly, and that started Thomas off.

  “You don’t know Mr. Boothroyd, the gentleman who employs me Mr. Holmes,” he began. “He keeps himself to himself, working away all day in that workshop of his. But word went round the Market Porter last month that he needed a night watchman, and as I’ve said, I need the money. He took me on straight away and I started that very night.

  “Right from the get-go I knew there was something dodgy going on. When he showed me round the workshop he tried to explain the machinery to me. I ain’t got the schooling for stuff like that – there something about ether and emanations but it was all gobbledygook to me. I was just happy to get paid.

  “Or so I thought. But as soon as he left me alone in the night I got the heebie-jeebies right bad. There’s a big iron drum in there that sings to me, every night. I feel it in my head even now. And it glows – green and sick. It ain’t natural Mr. Holmes, I’ll tell you that for nowt.”

  Holmes spoke softly.

  “But that is not why you are here. Is it Thomas?”

  For long seconds I thought Thomas would not reply, and when he finally spoke it was with a tremulous tone unusual in the man.

  “I would appreciate your help sir,” he said. “You’re the most learned man I know. You must talk to Mr. Boothroyd – get him to stop his experiments. I fear that I am in greater peril every night I spend there. But Mr. Boothroyd is even worse off. He came in last night to do some work on his machines. The lights weren’t on, and that’s when I saw it – the green stuff that glows. It was inside him Mr. Holmes – inside him and shining out of his eyes.”

  *

  Of course I knew immediately that, payment or not, Holmes could not turn such a matter away from his door. His curiosity was piqued, and there would be nothing for it but to charge ahead until an answer was forthcoming.

  After we sent Thomas home with a promise to help where we could, I tried to impress on Holmes that he was not in the best of health and that a new case at this juncture might prove too much for him. But he would have none of it.

  “Do not attempt to mollycoddle me Watson. I have had more than enough of that from Mrs. Hudson.”

  I did however insist that we at least filled our stomachs before venturing forth, and we went to Dawson’s Pie and Ale House for a hearty late lunch. Even there Holmes was distant and distracted, already worrying at this latest mystery.

  “So what do you think Holmes? Is Thomas havering?”

  Holmes laughed.

  “No. He seems a steady enough sort. But I need more information before I can comment further. But I will tell you this Watson – I do not like what I have heard.”

  He said no more, even although the carriage journey to the Boothroyd House on the south edge of Hackney took nearly fifteen minutes. I was used to Holmes’ quiet spells and contented myself with watching the city pass by outside as darkness slowly descended. The streets became quiet as we passed beyond the commercial areas, and by the time we reached the boundaries of Hackney there was scarcely a person around.

  The carriage left us at the end of a long drive and departed into the night. Everything fell quiet, and I was just starting to wonder whether we might have been dropped at the wrong house when there were heavy footsteps on the drive behind us.

  Holmes did not even turn.

  “Well met Thomas,” he said. “Are you ready to show us what Master Boothroyd is up to?”

  Now that we were there, Thomas had suddenly become nervous.

  “I’m not sure if I should…” he started, but Holmes was already striding away up the driveway.

  “Come Watson,” he said looking back. “I am keen to see what manner of new thing Master Boothroyd has wrought. Maybe we should just knock at the main house?”

  That last was for Thomas’ benefit and, as Holmes knew it would, got the other man moving. He ran up to Holmes’ side.

  “There’s no need for that Mr. Holmes sir. It’s more than my job’s worth to interrupt him after dark. Let’s just have a quick look at the workshop. Then you’ll see what’s what.”

  “I thought you wanted us to talk to your master?” I started, but Holmes put a finger to his lips and hushed me.

  “I believe we need to see the lay of the land first Watson. Now come. It seems some burglary is called for.”

  We walked the length of the drive in silence, keeping to the deeper shadows under an avenue of mature chestnut trees. There was a single flickering light ahead in the main house, and as we approached I saw a figure move inside. Thomas gripped my arm and pulled me aside, leading us around the south side of the house where a large wooden shed dominated what in another house might have been given over to lawn.

  The structure sat in darkness, and was darker still inside. Thomas got an oil lantern lit and headed off into the interior. We followed. As my eyes adjusted to the faint light I saw we were surrounded by machinery in various stages of construction. I’m afraid I have never had much of a head for engineering, but Holmes seemed fascinated.

  He stopped so often on our walk through the workshop that Thomas had to keep walking back to our position to shine the light on something new that took Holmes’ interest.

  “Boothroyd is certainly serious in his enthusiasms,” Holmes said. “This has all cost a large amount of his money – some of this equipment has come all the way across the Atlantic. But the purpose of it all still escapes me.”

  Thomas spoke up, and there was obvious exasperation in his voice.

  “That’s what I brought you to see Mr. Holmes – the main machine he spends all his time on these days. Come – it is at the far end here.”

  We followed the bobbing lantern along the length of the workshop. I had to shoo Holmes forward on several occasions when he seemed tempted to stop and examine another machine of interest, but eventually we came to a halt beside Thomas.

  “Here you go Mr. Holmes. I hope you can make something of it, for I am at a loss.”

  He leaned forward and shone his light over a particularly large tube of black metal. To my untrained eye it seemed to be merely an empty cylinder wrapped in copper wire, but as I bent closer every hair on my head stood up straight. A blue bolt sparked across the roof and discharged with a distinct smell of ozone. Holmes laughed at my obvious discomfort.

  “It is a simple charge generator Watson,” he said. “It seems friend Thomas has brought us here under false pretences.”

  He turned to get Thomas’ confirmation – but Thomas was already backing away, staring at the metal tube with something that looked like abject terror.

  “You’ll see Mr. Holmes. Now you’ll see.”

  And with that he could take no more. He turned and fled, leaving Holmes and I there in the dark.

  *

  Only it wasn’t dark.

  I realized I could see Holmes quite clearly, although his face looked to have taken on a sickly green tinge. He moved towards the black cylinder.

  “I say old chap, do you think that’s wise?”

  As ever, Holmes had his own view on what was required in the situation. And as I turned to follow him I saw what had taken his attention. The cylinder was no longer black. It had taken on a green glow.

  “What is it Holmes?” I whispered, but my friend did not answer. The glow from the cylinder intensified. At first I thought Holmes was moving in for a closer look, then I saw he was intent on something on the trestle to one side – a journal of some kind. But as he stepped slowly nearer, so the glow grew brighter. I have seen the aurora in Northern climes, and the light that danced there above us in that workshop reminded me of that. But I was not inspired by the same sense of awe – no, this was more like fear, an animal terror of something unworldly, something far beyond my experience.

  I forced my
self to concentrate. Holmes was already at the trestle, but it was hard to make out his form inside an ever-moving cloud of glowing green mist.

  “Holmes!” I called out.

  “I’ll be right with you Watson,” he replied, but it sounded like he was shouting from a long way away in a wind. More blue sparks ran across the roof of the warehouse. I felt a chill at my back, as if a door had been opened.

  “Thank goodness Thomas,” I said. “I need some help here.”

  But when I turned to the source of the breeze it was not Thomas I saw. A tall gentleman stood there, dressed in a waistcoat and trousers that were long in need of a good wash. He had not shaved for more than a week and his hair was disheveled. All these things I noticed, all while I was trying not to notice his eyes. Thomas had been right – this must be Boothroyd – and his eyes did indeed glow. Whatever that iron cylinder might be, it had infected him. The green flickered as his gaze fell on me.

  And just like that, I was gone.

  I felt it first through the soles of my feet, but soon my whole frame shook, vibrating in time with a rhythm that seemed to beat through the mist. My head swam, and it seemed as if the very walls of the workshop melted and ran. The black cylinder receded into a great distance until it was little more than a darker blob in a blanket of darkness, and I was alone, in a vast cathedral of emptiness where nothing existed save the dark and the pounding beat from below.

  Shapes moved in the dark, wispy shadows with no substance, shadows that capered and whirled as our dance grew ever more frenetic. I was buffeted, as if by a strong, surging tide, but as the beat grew ever stronger I cared little. I gave myself to it, and I know not how long I wandered, there in the space between. I forgot myself and I forgot my friend, lost in blackness where only the rhythm mattered.

  I do believe I would be there yet if Holmes had not come to my aid.

  Even then I was confused as I felt his hand in mine, there in the dark. It was his voice, and the calm reassurance of it, than brought me back to myself.

  “It is time we were going Watson,” he said. “I fear we have overstayed our welcome.”