“I… am… here.”
“Roger Rutherford?”
“Yes. I have… been allowed… to come.”
(“Allowed?” I heard Appleby whisper. “Allowed by who?”)
Quickly, I checked the Sâr. There was no movement of his lips, no pulsing of the throat that might indicate ventriloquism. But I had met professionals before. I kept my eye on him as Gianetti continued to speak:
“Do you know why we have summoned you?”
“Yes. The Beast.”
“Are you the Beast? Is it your ghost or the ghost of one of those hung with you?”
“Difficult…to speak beyond the veil. Very… dangerous. But no… it is not. It is… something different. Something not… of this side.”
“Then what is it?”
“I cannot explain. It is not… of this side. That is… all I know.”
“Were you ever the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange?”
“No. I was… only a man. I did not… practice the occult. That is why I was allowed to come… to tell you.”
“Then what was it?”
“A gypsy beast… that escaped. Spotted and laughing. Fierce. It… hurt me. and I was taken for it. But only… a beast.”
That matches what I read in the diary, I thought. Spotted and laughing–that sounded much like a hyena. Could the gypsies have brought a hyena with them and it escaped? That would certainly fit the description–a creature bigger than any dog anyone in the area had seen, very ferocious, and which would’ve “laughed” when they saw it! Almost certainly no one in Wolfsbridge would have ever seen one before–they were not stupid people, but with their lack of education, it certainly would’ve seemed like something supernatural! But then the thing I saw looked no more like a hyena than it did a real wolf.
Very quietly, the Sâr spoke. “Do you know who is responsible for this?”
“You… already know.”
“Indeed I do.” The Sâr nodded sagely. “I thank you.”
“I… must go. Already the… dark dwellers approach. And the voice… calls me home. I… must go. But Christina… Christina Rutherford…”
“Y–Yes?” the girl asked uncertainly as tears streaked down her face.
“Your family told me... They love you. They love you… Christina.”
She swallowed. “Tell them… Tell them I love them, too.”
‘‘They know. The dwellers come. Good-bye. Good-bye...”
“Wait!” Darshan cried out, almost breaking his hold on the Sâr’s hand and reaching out to the light. “I must know! My sister! My sister, Ashanti! Is she there? Is she there with you?”
There was a pause. Then:
“She is not… On this side of the veil. That is all I know. The dwellers… Must go… Must go now…”
The voice faded and the blue glow began to shrink. But in its place something else began to form. It began as a pinprick, just a sliver of blackness at the bottom of the blue, somehow seeming darker than the room itself. But it was growing swiftly, growing wider and stronger, seeming to absorb all light, even the light of the pentacle, and at the very core of my eardrums I heard a strange sound… a sound that seemed like the inane chattering of evil apes…
“Pull out!” cried the Sâr, tearing his hands from ours and extending them toward the pentacle. “Gianetti, pull out now!”
With one heave, he yanked the cord from the wall. The light of the pentacle instantly went out and the blackness vanished like the reverse snuffing of a candle. Gianetti fell backwards, and it was just barely that Lord John managed to catch her. I found sweat beading down my face. I was feeling most uneasy. Throughout the entire sequence, I had looked and looked, and had found nothing my father had taught me to look for when dealing with a hoax. And that noise at the end... somehow that reached deep into my soul and made it tremble. I dared to take a look at Appleby. He was on his knees, thanking God. The Sâr clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“You sensed them, didn’t you?” he asked. “If it were not for you, the Dwellers in the Dark would certainly have interfered that much sooner. We were fortunate.”
The butler shook his head. “Don’t thank me, sir. Thank God.”
The corner of the Doctor’s lips twitched. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said and went to attend to his assistant. Gianetti was gently being helped up by a worried Christina and Lord John.
Kritchna came over to me. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think,” I had to admit. “I’m just… I’m just very confused.”
“So am I. But somehow–somehow, I think that was real. Don’t ask me how I know, I just feel it. In my bones. That’s why I asked about my sister. At least now I know… she isn’t dead.”
“But if Alexander didn’t kill her, where could she be?”
“I don’t know.”
The older men were carefully helping the girls into chairs and bringing them water. The tears were flowing freely down Christina’s cheeks. “They’re all right,” she whispered. “They’re really all right.”
“Well, Doctor?” Roxton stood before the Sâr. “Did that little contretemps really solve anything?”
“Indeed it did, Lord John,” the Sâr replied seriously. “I know precisely what we’re dealing with now.”
“And that would be?”
A grim smile played across the Sâr Dubnotal’s lips. “Let me make one more telephone call. And then, you might wish to load your rifle.”
For the next half-hour, we made our plans. The Sun was now up, spreading its light into the gloom of the Grange. Under normal circumstances, the dawn was the most welcome of visitors to this house, but now it appeared a intrusive stranger. I found myself making a vow that this would be the only time that would ever be. The Sâr had sent the servants away, with strict instructions not to speak to anyone, and assured them that Miss Christina was now free from any possession and that the Beast would be conquered. Not even my mentor could sound so convincing.
We managed a quick breakfast, then the Sâr took Appleby into the kitchen to make a call. When they returned, the butler looked very uncomfortable. The Doctor just looked determined and spoke in low tones with Roxton and Gianetti. Then we all settled down to wait. Roxton waited by the door, rifle by his side, while the girls huddled together, speaking lowly. Darshan noted the Electric Pentacle was still assembled and asked if the Doctor wished the power turned off. The Sâr told him to leave it as it was.
Ten minutes later, a car pulled up outside. There was a furious knocking upon the door.
“Open it, Appleby,” the Sâr Dubnotal said.
Nervously, the butler complied. Sir Henry and Alexander Westenra pounded in, red-faced and looking extremely tired, with Sir Henry barking: “Damn it all, Appleby, you’d better have an explanation of what you’re doing here instead of at the House!” His eyes widened as he took in me, Kritchna, and above all, the Sâr. “What are you doing here? What is the meaning of this?”
“Sit down, Sir Henry.” The Sâr gestured to a couple of empty chairs near the Pentacle.
“I most certainly will not!”
“I think you will,” said Roxton, shutting the door behind him. He fingered his rifle, now lifted, pointedly.
They sat, looking from one to the other of us in confusion and irritation.
The Sâr regarded them solemnly, fingers steepled to his chin. “I can see you’re quite exhausted, gentlemen, so I will keep this as short as possible. You are, of course, perfectly aware of what happened to my old friend the Duc d’Origny at your estate last night. What you may not know is that this Beast was also here, where it killed Mrs. Althea Rutherford and one of the Spiritualists she was hosting.”
“So it’s true?” Alexander asked “They really did call up the spirit of the Werewolf Grange?”
“Nonsense,” snapped Sir Henry. “It was just some creature this man bought to disrupt the conference. I know it!”
The Sâr paid him no mind. “Oh, they certainly called up something
during the séance, there’s no doubt about that. But if my theory is correct–and they are never wrong–it was by no means a ghost.”
Now it was my turn to be surprised. “What? Then what was it?”
The Sâr frowned at me, making it clear he disapproved of my interruption. He turned back to his unwelcome guests. “May I ask you a question, Mr. Alexander? During your time in India, you frequented many places, did you not?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“That is, places where an Englishman of your standing would rather not be seen if he wanted to keep his reputation. I don’t mean brothels. I mean your other associations–such as those with certain Russian agents you met. And temples of certain cults the British authorities consider dangerous and illegal. Oh, don’t look so shocked. I’ve heard of your exploits, as has Lord John here. You were a wild and reckless youth back then, weren’t you? Always looking for fun. You even made the acquaintances of several native women, or so I’ve heard.” He glanced toward Darshan, who was looking at the Westenras as a cobra does his prey.
“So? That proves nothing! I’m no traitor!”
“I didn’t say you were. And then, your father was always there to pull you out before things got too bad, wasn’t he? Good for him. But, you may have heard of a few things when you were associating with the darker magicians and occult masters you enjoyed so much. So I was wondering, have you ever heard of a tulpa?”
“A what?”
“A tulpa. It’s very special.”
“No.”
“Ah. Then listen carefully. A tulpa is something very difficult to create. Very. Indeed, only the most learned or powerful of yogis can even try. But if you can… then, you have created yourself a very powerful weapon. If you can control it. And that’s the hardest part. You see, a tulpa is a form of being created from the mind itself.”
“What?” I was incredulous. “Now this is going too far!”
“Quiet, Dickson.” Lord John said quietly. “The Sâr is right. I’ve seen these things in Tibet.”
“Right enough,” the Sâr replied. “We saw them together, didn’t we? But to get back to what I was saying, the tulpa is neither a ghost nor a natural spirit. It is pseudo-life: an animated creature, often in the form of a natural beast or person, created from ectoplasm by the imagination of the yogi. As I said, only a few people can make them. And even fewer can control them for any length of time. They’re very fierce–for they know that they are not real and you are, and they resent it. You should have years of study and meditation before even attempting such a feat–but a tulpa can be created, if you’re powerful enough. Not very well, but you can.”
By now Alexander was beginning to look bored. “All right, yes; I’ve heard of them. But what does this have to do with anything?”
“The Werewolf who killed Mrs. Rutherford and my friend last night was no ghost. It was a tulpa.”
Sir Henry took the cigar out of his mouth. “For God’s sake–” but the Sâr continued.
“I first began to suspect when my Star-Stone didn’t draw any curse out of poor Christina here–yes, gentlemen, she was the ‘werewolf.’ Not of her own accord–someone used her. When we found her in the road, surrounded by ectoplasm, I knew we weren’t dealing with a true lycanthrope. The Werewolf was a shell around her, not a physical transformation. One that temporarily controlled her, but not strong enough to last permanently. That made me think it must not be a very experienced psychic who created it; otherwise, it could exist in and of itself, and whoever did it needed a base to form around it. A ‘skeleton,’ as it were, so the Beast could move and walk and do what its creator wanted it to.”
The audience sat spellbound by the Doctor’s words. So intent, in fact, that even Roxton had turned his attention away from his surroundings, leaning forward to catch every word. So he did not notice as I did when the drawing room door slowly and silently began to creak open.
“Look out!”
To his credit, Roxton was instantly alert and turning, bringing up his rifle to face whomever it may be, but the door burst open and the cold barrel of a pistol pointed directly toward his heart.
“Hold up there, Lord John, if you please,” Peter Westenra said mildly. “Now, kindly lower the rifle to the floor... That’s it. Thank you. Now, please, move over there with the others. Everyone else, kindly stand with your hands in the air. That means you as well, Doctor.”
“Ah,” the Sâr said calmly. “I must admit I wasn’t expecting you to follow your elders, young man. Careless of me.”
“Oh, I doubt that, Doctor. In fact, I think that’s exactly what you wanted.” He gestured with the pistol. “All of you, in one group, over there. But please do not think of rushing me, for I would hate to have to shoot one of the ladies. And I shall, if you try anything.”
All of us, Appleby included, obeyed. Sir Henry heaved in relief. Even Alexander was impressed.
“Thank God, Peter!” he ejaculated. “Finally you ended up doing something right! Here, kick that rifle toward me, and we can–”
“Alexander,” Peter stated calmly, pointing the pistol straight at him, “shut up.” And he sent a bullet through his brother’s head.
Christina screamed. Alexander Westenra, blood streaming from the hole in his forehead, teetered a moment, as if unable to quite process what had happened. Then he fell over, spreading crimson upon the carpet.
“Son!” cried Sir Henry and made to go to the body, but the pistol had swerved to cover him while its holder never took his eye off us.
“Get over there with the rest of them, Father. Now!”
“Peter Westenra, what the Hell are you–”
“Do it!!!” screamed Peter, finger tightening on the trigger. The look on his face was the antithesis of the sallow, sad expression I had known before “Get over there!” After a moment, unable to tear his eyes from the body on the floor, Sir Henry obeyed.
“I have to admit you surprised me on this one, young man,” the Sâr said. “I honestly did believe it was your brother.”
Peter smiled, bitterly. “The more fool you, then. Isn’t it always the one who seems the meekest? Actually, I’m bloody surprised you didn’t figure it out, Dickson–you’re supposed to be the great detective, after all. Ah, well–the truth never matches up to the fiction.”
“Son!” Sir Henry cried, “What are you doing? “
“Oh, it’s ‘son,’ now, Father? Please. You never paid any attention to me before, why start now? After all, I’ve only ever been an embarrassment to you. Because I was sickly and weak, and never came up to your standards of manliness. Kindness and compassion were always detriments to you.” The pistol held steadily at us. “Well, congratulations! Years ago you finally burned all the compassion right out of me. Including whatever I may have felt for you. Oh, I hid it well. I decided to. There were too many advantages. That way, you left me alone. And you never stopped to consider what I might really be getting into while in India.”
“Of course,” I said. “When Alexander took you around, trying to make a ‘man’ out of you. You must have met fakirs among the rest of the riff-raff he made you associate with. They taught you about tulpas.”
Peter nodded. “They taught me quite a bit, actually. The only problem was, I didn’t have the innate talent to use it. None of us Westenras have. So I had to find someone who did. And, lo and behold, she came to me. Would you like to meet her?” He dared a quick look toward the door. “Come on in, darling.”
From the doorway, there was the sound of light footsteps, and a woman walked in. No one was surprised to see Rosemary Underwood, also holding a pistol. But we were when she reached up and yanked the drab brown wig off, revealing a long mass of luxurious dark hair and rubbed her cheeks with her hand, brushing away the greasepaint that gave her a Caucasian appearance. Beneath that makeup, her skin was a light brown, smooth with young womanhood, and as a false nose came off, the green eyes took a more lustrous tone. The classical features of a most beautiful Indian m
aid appeared before us. And Darshan, eyes boggling, cried:
“Ashanti! Ashanti!”
“Hello, brother,” the former Miss Underwood said, pointing her pistol at him.
Darshan’s sister! Still alive! Darshan obviously couldn’t accept it, either.
“By the gods, Ashanti! We thought you were dead! Mother was heart-broken! I searched and searched, but–” He seemed to become aware there was a gun in her hand. “What are you doing?”
The girl almost seemed sad. “What I must, Darshan. For you, I’m sorry, I truly am. But I’m not sorry he’s gone...”–she gestured to the body on the floor–“or that he’s going to go.” She motioned to Sir Henry. “Or about the rest of these.”
“That’s why you ran away,” I pointed out. “You weren’t afraid the Sâr would recognize you. You were afraid Darshan would.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
She looked pointedly toward her brother. “Two reasons. First, revenge. You know what that bastard did to me. It wasn’t enough he seduced me, he had to throw me out when I got pregnant. And he felt nothing when I lost the child. But Peter–Peter came to me.” She smiled at her companion. “Unlike everyone else, he treated me kindly. He gave me money when I needed it. And we fell in love.”
“But–but that’s impossible!” Sir Henry interposed. “Peter, you’re–”
“No, Father. I’m not. You assumed I was. Because I wouldn’t sleep with the whores you and Alexander brought, even while you were married to Mother. It simply became easier to let you believe it. Even when you tried to marry me off to poor, foolish Christina here. Yes, my dear, I regret to say I had another lover while we were ‘courting.’ She had something I wanted; I had something she wanted. Love was just an added bonus to our relationship.”
Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night Page 11