A cold smile crossed Ashanti’s beautiful lips. “Which brings me to my second reason. You know how Father denied us our birthright, Darshan–the powers that were supposed to be ours. You didn’t care. But I did. I wanted to learn. And Father wasn’t going to let me. But then Peter came up with the perfect solution.”
“Might I guess?” asked the Sâr. “Young Westenra wanted revenge on his family for years of neglect. You wanted revenge on the same. So you made a deal. Peter would arrange for you to meet other fakirs who would teach you the use of your psychic abilities. In return, when the time was right, you would use those to kill his family. He must have paid to send you here alongside him, where you set yourself up as Spiritualist Rosemary Underwood. When news of the conference arose, the two of you saw your perfect opportunity.”
“Not quite,” Peter said. “When the séance arose, we did. Destroying the conference was just a bit of opportunistic coincidence. We were simply going to kill Alexander and let Father destroy himself mourning–but why not remove his reputation and career while we were at it? The legend of the Rutherford Werewolf was perfect to use. Of course, Ashanti had never tried to form a tulpa before. It needed testing. So two nights before the conference, we tried to summon one up as a test.”
“The footsteps on the roof,” I said. “The thing that killed Colleen.”
“Yes. Killing the cat wasn’t intentional, by the way. She simply got in the way. But we found that, despite her power, Ashanti still didn’t have the expertise to create a tulpa out of whole cloth. The first fell apart very quickly, as you found out, Dickson. The ectoplasm–the remains of our first tulpa melting away.”
“But we needed a solution, and quickly,” Ashanti continued. “So we came up with the idea–we couldn’t create a full tulpa, but we could create the shell of one. And if we put it over a living being–”
“You could temporarily control that being through your personified rage at the Westenras,” the Sâr finished. “The person–Christina–would have no conscious control over her actions. The tulpa’s rage would be her driving force. A rage bent right toward the Westenras.”
“But my mother–!” screamed Christina.
“Ah, yes. Poor Althea. We underestimated the bloodlust of the tulpa shell. But then, according to legend, the werewolf always kills first what it most loves Still, for what it’s worth, neither your mother nor the Duc were our intended targets. Only Alexander, and, if possible, Father. The other two–simply got in the way. It happens.” Peter shrugged.
Roxton cursed them, deeply and bitterly.
During this time, Sir Henry was sinking further and further to the floor, mopping his brow, unable to comprehend everything he was hearing. “This is not possible My own son–!”
“Believe it, Father. It’s the last thing you’ll ever do.”
The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “So I suppose you intend to kill us all now? I wonder how–if you shoot us, the Police will certainly look to the only surviving Westenra”
“Naturally,” Peter said, lowering the pistol. “But we don’t need bullets to kill you.” He smiled, a long, wide thing that seemed to split his face in two. As he spoke, Ashanti had closed her eyes. My first instinct was to charge them, but I knew they could raise and shoot within a second’s notice.
“We’re going to bury the body of poor old Alexander where no one will ever find it,” Peter was continuing, and, somehow, he seemed to be becoming larger as he spoke. The hair on his arms was thickening, and a peculiar shimmering filled the air about him. His nose and lips seemed to be extending, pushing themselves out into one snout-like appendage. But no–it wasn’t. Something from the air itself was surrounding the man, shaping itself like clay about the form of Peter Westenra, taking on fleshly color and solidity, then rippling as a thick mass of fur ran over it. The voice became deeper and harsher, the words more difficult to enunciate or understand. “But, you–what remains of you will be found.” The hands seemed to extend out, fingers merging into a thick thumb and two digits. Claws appeared on the ends of them. “They’ll never be able to put any of you back together, of course.” The body slouched over as the knees of his legs seemingly reversed themselves, bending in the back like the hind legs of most canines. “And don’t think your precious prayers or magic stone will work this time–it didn’t work the first!”
Peter Westenra, now covered in the form of a Werewolf, threw back his head and howled.
Ashanti laughed and stepped aside, gazing admiringly at her handiwork. Unable to reach his rifle, Roxton placed himself before the women and poised himself. He knew he had no chance against this monster, but he was prepared to defend his niece till his last breath. The rest of us, consciously or not, did the same. Save Sir Henry, who, terrified, shrank back, making little noises and an awful smell coming from his pants. Our carefully-prepared plan was in shambles. Peter was nowhere near the Electric Pentacle and was obviously going to make no attempt to do so!
Grinning and laughing its terrible laugh, the Beast slowly rotated its neck across us, trying to decide whom it should kill first. Moving to the side, Ashanti’s foot brushed against the outer rods of the Electric Pentacle. It made a dull clinking sound as she did, and the Beast’s attention pricked, turned to see what had caused it. The red eyes fell upon the girl, who was stepping away from the contraption with a frown.
The werewolf always kills first what it most loves.
That must have been the reason. Whatever true feeling Peter Westenra may have had for Ashanti Kritchna, whatever humanity hadn’t been dried up by years of being raised by Sir Henry, had been buried under the rage of the tulpa.
Ashanti clearly hadn’t expected it. She looked up, surprised as the Beast turned fully toward her. “Peter?” Then she screamed as it leaped toward her.
“Kritchna! Dickson!” the Doctor yelled and all three of us dashed forward.
Roxton lunged for his rifle on the floor. Our only thoughts were to get this monster away from the girl and into the borders of the Pentacle. But it was too late for Ashanti. The great claws had reached out and ripped the flesh from her face, and she joined Alexander on the floor, dead instantly.
Darshan roared and shoved the Beast forward. Startled, it tottered backward, stepping over the metal rods until it was in the center of the Pentacle.
“Appleby! Pray!” cried the Sâr and he began to dash about the Pentacle’s edges, chanting in a loud voice. From various pockets, he brought forth Star-Stones, dropping them in what seemed to be random places (but weren’t) and never pausing for a breath.
The tulpa paused, snarled, tried to step out of the Pentacle–but couldn’t. Something seemed to be keeping it inside. It drew back, glaring at us evilly with its little red eyes
The Sâr paused long enough to cry, “Peter! Let it go! Let the tulpa dissolve! Otherwise, it will burn!”
He only got a howl in response and the Beast threw itself at the edge again and again. But it still failed to step beyond.
“Appleby! Keep praying!”
The butler did. As did the Sâr, continuing his monologue. And now the Beast was stepping back, wincing, just like I had seen in the garden of Westenra House. But now something new was happening.
All over the tulpa’s body, arms and legs and face, the fur and skin were bubbling
Tiny bursts of ectoplasm, like miniature geysers, were erupting from all parts of its torso and up and down its limbs, expending themselves in obscene, squishy pop-pop-pop noises that made me think of great boils somehow lancing themselves.
It turned to face us, painfully. It tottered uneasily on the bent, twisted appendages that served it for legs, as the true, human limbs of Peter Westenra beneath trembled uncontrollably. The look of pain on the monster’s face was horrific. I could only guess what was happening to the man beneath. Peter Westenra was now controlled by the rage and hatred of his own creation, and lunged again and again at us. But for some reason it could not go beyond the last rod of the Electric Pentacle.
> Behind me, I could hear Appleby increase the determination of his prayers; I could see before me the creature flinch with every word. For his part, the Sâr was practically dancing about the Pentacle, dropping Star-Stones and chanting his deep, unintelligible syllables. I sensed Gianetti and Christina clutching each other, I heard Lord John bravely but fumblingly load more bullets. But the tulpa would not relent.
It advanced, menacingly, but was forced to stop at the edge of the Pentacle. Placing its hand-paw against the air, it seemed to push against it, like an invisible wall was holding it back. The bubbling was continuing, and the top half of the Beast’s head had almost melted away. I could see the beginnings of Peter’s forehead show from beneath the ectoplasm. It was smoking–turning red and blistered as the power of the Pentacle and the incantations worked upon it, the fur on his arms peeling away to show black and burned human flesh, white bone beginning to show beneath the skin.
The fair hair had been burned away, leaving scorched scalp. Our nostrils were assailed with the stench of cooking meat. I myself could only stand there, watching in helpless fascination as everything I’d never believed in stood there and melted like it was made of hot treacle.
Craning its percolating neck, the tulpa’s eyes bored on the figure of the Doctor. It breathed heavily, as if gathering up its strength for one last attack. The latter had stopped both his dancing and chanting now, gazing evenly but with pity at the snarling Beast in the Pentacle. “It’s over, Westenra. Surrender. You’ll die if you don’t. I don’t want that.”
The creature that had been Peter Westenra snarled. And then, it leaped at the edge of the Pentacle with all its remaining might, shoving against the invisible “wall.”
For a moment, I almost imagined the air bending outward like a bubble beneath its power. Then the bubble burst and the tulpa was outside the Pentacle and its power. It seized the Sâr and knocked him to the carpet.
By now, the werewolf form was almost entirely gone, leaving a charred, burning, but still-alive Peter Westenra behind. But whatever humanity he had, if he indeed had ever truly had any, had been burned away as well. Only the animal remained. Teeth gleamed between the charcoal-black lips, reaching down for the Sâr’s unprotected neck…
Instinctively, I lunged for the Beast. I heard something explode and then nothing but red pain was before my eyes as something tore into my side. Lord John had reacted automatically as well, shooting toward the Beast. But I had gotten in the way. I fell as the bullets tore into my hip.
Someone–Christina or Gianetti–screamed, and I was only vaguely aware of Kritchna pulling me away. Lord John, unable to reload, was still attacking the tulpa, using the rifle as a club, striking it again and again with the butt. Given the briefest of escapes, the Sâr tried to reach out for a star-stone. But Peter stepped upon his hand. In one arm, with the strength of a madman, he held back Roxton, pushing the rifle away with the other. Then, with a heave he sent the aristocrat to the ground. Before he could rise, the tulpa, now almost totally Peter Westenra, threw himself upon the Sâr, pushing back the Doctor’s head to bare the tender flesh of the throat.
Peter threw back his head and howled.
Then screamed.
For he had forgotten the others.
On either side, two Star-Stones were suddenly and firmly pressed into his cheeks. Smoke poured from the indentations. But Darshan Kritchna and Christina Rutherford stood firm, pushing the stones further and further into his face.
Free, the Sâr began his chanting again–as did Appleby, who was now going through the only thing he could remember, the Ave Maria. I could hear the voice of Gianetti call out, a Latin prayer I could not immediately identify. And, lastly, despite my pain, I heard another voice ring out again and again, and could not believe it was my own:
“When the impossible has been eliminated, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. When the impossible has been eliminated, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
Peter Westenra, black and bleeding, trembled.
“Get back!” There was the click of a gun being primed, and then explosion. What remained of Peter’s head went up in a ball of crimson fluid. The body twitched just one last, brief moment and became still.
Lord John staggered back, dropping his rifle.
There was only the sound of Sir Henry, sobbing in the background.
Somehow, in the midst of it all, I managed to roll over onto my back.
“You know, I was going to call in my mentor to see what he could make of all this,” I said weakly. “But now, I believe I shall refrain.”
“You’re a very lucky young man, Dickson,” the Sâr said as he finally finished wrapping the bandages around my waist. “You were in just the right position for the bullets to miss any organs. I wouldn’t try anything strenuous for some time, but you should recover.” He smiled broadly. “Certainly you shouldn’t go hunting any more werewolves.”
“Werewolves,” I sighed, shaking my head wearily. “Tulpas. The occult.”
“You still do not believe, do you, Dickson? Not really.”
I was quite for a long time. Then: “It goes against everything I was ever taught, by my mentor or otherwise. Even now, I wonder if it could not have been some form of mass hypnosis, something we saw because we were supposed to see it.”
The Doctor turned on the sink to wash his hands. “I cannot make you believe, Dickson,” he said. “Only point you in the direction. Ultimately, it’s up to you. If you choose to feel there’s a rational explanation for all that has happened, I’m certain you’ll come up with one. Until then, make your own decision.” He tossed the towel aside. “Or perhaps you could try Appleby’s way, and just have a little faith.”
The door opened and Lord John strolled in. “Well, I just got off the telephone with the Government. M’s sending a contingent to wrap things up. You know M, don’t you, Dickson?”
“We’ve met,” I smiled.
“Well, he’s asked that we all remain until his men get here. Debriefing, I suppose. God knows how they’ll square all this with France, being as one of their most influential diplomats is dead. He also said he’ll take care of things with your employer, Dickson.”
“Oh. Goody.” I could just see that. As well as the red ears I would get when I returned.
“By the way, I poured through Roger’s old journals. Found a picture of the original ‘werewolf.’ Look.” He held up a book, opening to a certain page. On it was a rough drawing, that of a spotted, sloped creature vaguely like a dog, but much bigger and ratty. “A spotted hyena. Found in Africa. Just as we suspected. There was no real werewolf of Rutherford Grange after all.”
“That’s good,” the Sâr declared as he picked up his omnipresent carpetbag. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to give our regards to M. Gianetti and I are leaving for Paris.”
“What? But you can’t leave! Not when M wants to speak with you!”
“Certainly I can. I despise debriefings. I’m sure you’ll do fine without us.” He paused at the door, turned back, and smiled. “Besides, knowing you, Dickson–you’ll come up with some rational explanation for our departure.”
Thus ended the Adventure of the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange. A cover story was set up about a huge and feral dog on the loose, killing people, but most seemed to accept it. It was better than the truth. Only a few more things remain to be said
Two days later, the funeral for Althea Rutherford was held. Sir Henry Westenra did not attend. He was a broken man: deprived of one son, betrayed by another, forever lost to both, his career was in ruins and no amount of favors owed could help him now. Eight months later, the town Constable found him with a broken neck and eyes rolled back to his forehead–he had taken a rope and hung himself from the very bridge his ancestor had hung three innocent people almost 300 years earlier. I wish I could say I felt sorry for him. I presume the family of the Duc d’Origny had their own ceremony, but I was not invited to that. If the Sâr Dubnotal attended,
I am not aware of it.
Although I had sworn never to return, I did visit Wolfsbridge again almost a year to the day later, when Lord John Roxton gave Christina Rutherford away to a young Indian named Darshan Kritchna. I served as best man. I think more people were perturbed about Christina marrying out of her race than the fact her mother had been horribly killed, but I was thrilled. The two had suffered much and in looking for comfort, found each other.
Darshan never told me what he did with his sister’s body, and I did not ask. The vengeance he had wasted years trying to gain had been ripped from him and it was painful for him to face it. They moved back to India, where I understand Roxton used his contacts to gain for him a comfortable job as some sort of go-between between the Government and various factions in Bombay. I wish them both the best.
Appleby left Service. He returned to school, even at his age, to finally fulfill his dream of becoming a preacher. He did well and eventually made quite a success for himself as a speaker–against Spiritualism and the occult. I had occasion to meet him on a London street one day and ask him about it. He clearly still respected the memory of the Sâr but said, “A fake séance raised a tulpa, Mr. Dickson. Have you any idea what a real one might call up?”
I had no answer to that.
As for myself, I returned to my apprenticeship with Mr. Blake, where my ears were promptly blistered for not calling him immediately. Then he listened in fascination while I told him what happened. I returned to school and eventually did realize my dream of opening my own agency–although it took the Great War and much Intelligence work to finally work a callow youth into a mature, thinking adult. You may have read some exaggerated versions of my adventures in the popular magazines. To this day, I still don’t know what to think about it all, so wisely I don’t. A mind so powerful it can call entities into being right out of the aether? A mixture of science and the supernatural to call up the ghosts of the dead? It still goes against my grain.
Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night Page 12