by Gafford, Sam
Carnacki was quiet for so long that I thought he would not answer.
“Perhaps,” he replied. “But I cannot get that last sight out of my mind—the sight of the black ooze seeping down through the cracks in the decking. And I wonder . . . did I banish it? Or did it merely take up a new home?”
He led us out into the hallway to collect our coats.
“I will tell you something,” he said as he opened the door. “You will never persuade me to go back on that vessel again, and I would suggest that you chaps give it a wide berth should you ever encounter it. Now, out you go.”
He showed us out into the night.
I took the long way home, avoiding the Embankment entirely. Somehow, the water did not seem very enticing.
Monmouth’s Giants
Josh Reynolds
Thomas Carnacki puffed quietly on his cigarette and checked the filaments of the neon tubes that made up the points of the electric pentacle for the fifth time in as many minutes. It was a nervous habit, but one that had served him well in his career. Here, now, in the Year of Our Lord 1913, he had no intention of changing it. With quick, careful fingers, he tapped each bulb on the line, ensuring that it was properly placed.
Carnacki was a tall man and sturdily built, with an athlete’s grace and a sailor’s steady precision. He had longish hair and a well-groomed moustache, and wore a heavy pea-coat over his suit, his concession to the chill clinging to the stones. Three iron rings encircled the appropriate fingers on his left hand, and there were faint scars on his fingers and face, relics from previous cases.
He looked up, examining the darkness that nestled within the vaulted arches of Guildhall’s west crypt. Above, the wards of Bassishaw and Cheap in the city of London went about their evening business, leaving the dark and the quiet to Carnacki. He swept the shadowy confines of the crypt with a keen gaze. A narrow set of stairs led up into Guildhall proper. Heavy wooden benches were scattered about, pressed tight to the walls. Columns thrust up into the vaults at intervals, piercing the ribbons of stone carvings that decorated the scooped ceiling like the ribs of some vast beast. The least little sound carried like a shout in these spaces, and Carnacki was careful to keep the noise to a minimum. He had no intention of alerting his quarry before time.
He took a drag from his cigarette and pressed his fingertips to the cool solidity of the stone floor. There was the barest hint of a vibration there. The Central London Railway ran some distance beneath the street, he knew, but, with an instinct born of experience, he doubted that the London Underground was the cause of the quiet tremble he detected. Something was coming, clawing its way out of the deep dark, to impress its intent upon the stones of Guildhall, as it had every night for several weeks. Or so he’d been assured by the concerned aldermen who’d visited his residence and made a convincing request for investigation.
“From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night, good Lord, deliver us,” he murmured softly, touching the pentacle again. Carnacki sucked the last erg of heat from his cigarette and plucked it from his lips, dropping it to join its previously served fellows in a neat pile at his feet. He’d been crouching in the dark since sunset, lying in wait for something that only came out between the stroke of midnight and the tolling of the morning bells at Westminster. He’d set up the pentacle just after eight and eaten a fine pork pie, a bit of sharp, aged cheddar, and an apple for a late repast, while studying the folio of information he’d collected on the site.
Guildhall was old; older than London, as it currently stood. There had been an amphitheatre here once, when Caesar’s legions had marched across British soil, and some structure occupied the site even earlier. Geoffrey of Monmouth, in his Historia Regum Britanniae, had sworn that it had been the site of the palace of Brutus of Troy, after the exiled Trojans had thrown down the giants and settled their new land.
At the thought of that bit of creative myth-making, he recalled the two monstrous effigies which crouched within the antechamber of the hall above—Gog and Magog, the giants of London. The effigies had first appeared at the coronation of Elizabeth. The wickerwork and pasteboard figures had made regular appearances in the Lord Mayor’s Show, before replacements were carved from wood and ensconced in the Guildhall.
Carnacki had no opinion about giants either made of wood or in the flesh, or, indeed, about Guildhall. All he cared about on this evening was ghosts. They were fairly nasty ones, if the aldermen could be trusted, and growing nastier as the nights wore on. That wasn’t unusual, in Carnacki’s experience. What was unusual was the nature of the entity or entities in question—formless, voiceless, but massive. It was a looming presence that seemed to become more solid, more dangerous, with each midnight chime.
That had been enough to raise Carnacki’s hackles. He’d encountered similar manifestations before, most recently in the case of poor Bains and the cacodaemonical swine that had haunted his nightmares. The thing had grown stronger and stronger the more it manifested itself, leeching strength from Bains, feeding on his psychic essence like a material parasite. This wasn’t shaping up to be quite the same sort of thing, unless there was a factor at play that he wasn’t yet aware of, but it was close enough to make him nervous. The swine-thing had been dangerous to more than just its addled victim, as he had discovered to his chagrin.
He froze as he heard a clang. The noise was sharp and sudden, piercing the gloomy silence of the crypt. His hand inched towards his shoulder-holster, where the heavy, comforting weight of his Webley service revolver rested, all thought of past cases flushed from his mind. But he resisted the urge to draw the weapon. Instead, he checked the pentacle and quickly turned on the small, portable generator that powered it. An electrical hum rose from the lines of multi-coloured tubes, and the alternating ribbons of light began to strobe across the nearby walls and ceiling, surrounding Carnacki in a coruscating prismatic cage.
The pentacle had stood between Carnacki and predatory outer intelligences more than once. Nine times out of ten, it was the most powerful tool in his repertoire, enabling him to observe phenomena safely behind the protective barriers of colour as prescribed by the Sigsand Ms. On other occasions, as it had during the affair with the unfortunate Bains, it invariably did just the opposite—creating a deadly trap, rather than a protective barrier.
I hope this isn’t going to be one of those times, Carnacki mused. He reached into the pocket of his pea-coat, and his fingers fastened on the odd shape of the Monas Glyph. Created by Dr. John Dee in the reign of Elizabeth, the esoteric sigil was a composite of various astrological and religious symbols, combining ankh, cruciform, and crescent. It was a potent artefact, but one that Carnacki had rarely employed, choosing instead to rely on the words of the Saaamaaa Ritual and, occasionally, the Incantation of Raaaee. But his encounter with certain Outer Monstrosities had taught him that a varied arsenal was necessary. Even the cartridges in his Webley had been inscribed with the Eight Signs of the Saaamaaa Ritual.
The noise was getting louder. It had split and resolved itself into a babble of voices. Carnacki didn’t relax. No one was supposed to be down here at this time of night, except for him. Light spilled down the stairs and pierced the shadows. The voices got louder, ringed by bawdy laughter and the clatter of shoes. The echoes bounced off the stones, redoubling the noise. Beneath Carnacki’s feet, the floor seemed to tremble in quiet anticipation. He had the queer sensation that something was nearby, waiting. But for what, he couldn’t say.
A number of shapes, clad in fashionable evening wear, burst from the stairwell in a gaily chattering flood. There were four of them by Carnacki’s count, and quite obviously tighter than owls, the lot, despite their age. He relaxed slightly, a frown creasing his features. They hadn’t seen him, being far too concerned with one another.
“Is this it, then?” a nasal-voiced young woman inquired loudly. “I say, Sippy, it’s dreadfully dreary down here!” She was a thin thing, and dressed in a hobble skirt and f
urs.
“Drearily delicious, Florence, I rather think you’ll find,” another young woman said, sliding across the stone floor in a tipsy shimmy, her movements awkward in her skirt. “Better than one of Runcible’s tedious old parties any evening,” she added, spinning in a circle. She had a bottle of champagne in one hand and gave a nearby column a good sloshing.
“There’s booze at the party, Bobbie,” a young man said. “All I see down here are a lot of old stones; certainly no ghosts, what?” He looked like a tramp cyclist, or a juggler who had been dragged through a hedge backwards.
“Ghosts are everywhere, or aren’t you up on your spiritualism, Boko?” another young man said, a cloth-wrapped bundle on his shoulder. He was a marked contrast to his fellow, being dressed in a Savile Row original. He had sharp, olive features marked by dark eyes and hair just a touch too long to be properly pomaded. He gestured melodramatically with his free hand. “The unseen world crouches just at the edge of the eye, as old Harzan has it in his monograph.”
Carnacki blinked at the mention of Harzan. The monograph on counter-vibratory frequencies was as esoteric as it got, even among the psychical set. The young man had obviously read it, though, or at least skimmed it, given the accurate paraphrasing.
“Really, Sippy,” Boko said, “what you see in those oldy-mouldies, I’ll never know. Don’t you get enough of books at university?”
“One can never get enough books, chum.”
“I think you mean bourbon, Sippy,” Bobbie said, leaning against Chaz. “One can never get enough bourbon.”
“It sounds like you’ve all had quite enough, actually,” Carnacki said, stepping out of the pentacle. “How old are you lot? Not old enough, I’d wager.” The looks they gave him were comical, ranging from bleary incomprehension to incredulity to fright. The girl called Florence gave a startled squawk and shimmied for the stairs, Bobbie sat down abruptly, spattering the stones with champagne, and Boko froze like a deer in a spotlight as Sippy—
The sword came out of its cloth with a hiss and was levelled in the general direction of Carnacki’s chest before the cloth hit the floor. It was old, older than any cavalry sabre or dusty Norman broadsword that one would find hanging over the fireplace of landed gentry or titled family, and of the double-edged style used by the ancient Greeks. Leaf-shaped and not very long, it was fairly black with age, but not pitted or fragile-looking as one might expect given its obvious antiquity.
Carnacki, while not as quick on the draw, was far enough away that the Webley that appeared in his hand a moment later gave him a distinct and obvious advantage. “A xiphos, if I’m not mistaken,” he said mildly. “Very old, that. Put it down slowly, if you please.”
“Who the devil are you? You’re no bally watchman, I’d wager,” Sippy said as he put the sword down. He didn’t look frightened, despite the pistol. But then, that was likely thanks to the alcohol. “Unless they’ve hired one since the last time . . .” He took in Carnacki’s coat and hair and perked up. “I say, you’re not one of those Bolshevik chaps, are you?”
“Maybe he’s come to plant a bomb?” Florence said.
“Isn’t that anarchists?” Bobbie asked, from the floor.
“I rather thought it was Rosicrucians,” Boko said, snagging the champagne bottle from Bobbie.
“Pretty sure it’s the Bolshies, old man,” Sippy said. “I mean, he’s wearing a damned pea-coat, for God’s sake.”
“Nobody is here to plant a bomb, and this coat was a gift, thank you,” Carnacki said sharply. “Now who are you?” he said, indicating Sippy, “And where did you get that?”
“St. Cyprian,” Sippy said, “Charles St. Cyprian. And it’s an heirloom, what? It’s been in the family since Canute waved at the sea. And who are you?”
Carnacki nudged the sword with his foot. “My name is Thomas Carnacki. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“Not that Ghost-Finder chappie that the Dodgson fellow writes about for the Idler?” St. Cyprian said, wide-eyed.
“Is he the fellow who went to Switzerland and fell over a waterfall? Only I thought he’d be older,” Bobbie said, peering up at Carnacki and blinking owlishly.
“That was Sherlock Holmes,” Carnacki said, not looking at her. He kept his gaze on St. Cyprian, who chewed his lip nervously. “What did you mean ‘since the last time’? Have you been down here before?”
Before the young man could answer, something did it for him. It started as a hiss, but built to a strident whistle, like a kettle reaching a boiling point. It was the sound of a sudden avalanche or an approaching train, and as it assaulted his ears, Carnacki realised that it had been building since the arrival of the four interlopers. The room seemed to shudder, but only for a moment, as if whatever it was had receded at the last moment, or had charged past, uncertain of its target.
“What was that?” Boko said, looking around wildly.
“Something unpleasant,” Carnacki said, “I’d go, if I were you.”
“Go? But we just got here,” Bobbie said, clambering to her feet. “Sippy promised us a séance, didn’t you, Sippy? Said he had a line to the spirit world, what?” She wobbled into St. Cyprian, who had the good grace to look embarrassed. “I want to talk to Helen of Troy. I bet she’s bloody interesting, all those chaps killing each other for her.”
“Line to the spirit world, is it?” Carnacki said. St. Cyprian flushed.
“Just a bit of fun, you know,” he said, steadying Bobbie.
“Fun is over, I’m afraid,” Carnacki said as he looked around warily. There was dampness in the air. He didn’t like it. It was the wrong sort of cold for this time of year and this sort of place. A deep, wet cold, such as you got below the banks of the Thames, or down in the earth. It was the cold of the grave.
“It wasn’t Helen of Troy anyway, was it, Sippy? It was Brutus. Sippy’s a relative, donchaknow,” Bobbie went on. Carnacki looked at the young man, who shrugged helplessly.
“Family legend, what?” he said, jerking his chin at the sword on the ground. “Bit of olive in the mix, you know . . .”
Carnacki looked hard at St. Cyprian. He could easily have passed for Greek, or Italian, or Spanish. There was something of the old Roman emperors about him, a faint resemblance to the images on old coins that Carnacki had seen. He looked again at the sword: it was trembling on the floor. He could feel the vibration stretching up through his legs, like the tread of an approaching pachyderm. Dust sifted from the ceiling, and the sound of ancient stones grinding against one another filled the crypt from column to corner.
“Out you go,” Carnacki said, hefting his Webley meaningfully. Boko blanched and grabbed for Florence. Bobbie opened her mouth as if to argue, and Carnacki fired a round into the floor. “Out, I said!”
Boko and Florence hustled Bobbie towards the stairs. St. Cyprian didn’t move. The young man’s head was cocked, as if listening to something. “You as well, Mr. St. Cyprian,” Carnacki said.
“I—” St. Cyprian began, his eyes darting to the sword. “I can hear something.”
“That is almost certainly not good,” Carnacki said. He glanced towards the pentacle.
“I heard it before, when I was down here a few weeks ago,” St. Cyprian said absently. “As if something were calling my name.”
“Definitely not good,” Carnacki said. He looked towards the stairs. St. Cyprian’s friends were already gone, having fled up the stairs. Carnacki grabbed the young man’s arm and hauled him tow the exit. “I need you out of here now!”
And then something moved. The floor trembled and squealed, as if jostled by an earthquake, and a vast, indistinct shape, composed of dust and shadows and stinking of the grime of forty centuries, was suddenly there, between eye-blinks. A shape that might have been a hand slammed flat across the door to the steps, blocking it. A bulbous mass thrust forward, and a thunderous cacophony vomited forth from a crevice that might have been a mouth. A second hand-shape stretched from the shadows, lumpen talons spread. Carnacki knew in that
moment that the hand’s quarry was the young man whose arm he held. With a salty curse that would have made his old bo’sun proud, he jerked St. Cyprian away and sent him tumbling to the floor even as he raised the Webley. The pistol crashed once, twice, three times, and the monstrous appendage was jerked back.
A roar shook the crypt. It seemed to emanate from every stone and possessed a raw force that almost buffeted them from their feet. Carnacki dragged St. Cyprian to his feet and propelled him towards the pentacle. They stumbled to a halt as a second shape, more horrifying than the first, bulged out of the darkness and lumbered between them and sanctuary. The humped slopes of what might have been shoulders and the mashed crown of a primordial skull scraped the ceiling of the crypt. Twin hell-lanterns blazed within the soupy morass and a wet, gelid slit split open, expelling a rush of foul and noisome air.
Carnacki risked a quick look back and saw the first shape gathering itself, as if to lunge. They were like great fog banks, their hazy movements possessed of a malign intelligence. “What—what are they?” St. Cyprian hissed.
At the sound of his voice, the shapes swelled and another roar rung out, nearly deafening Carnacki. He raised his Webley and fired, and the thing surged back. Grabbing the back of St. Cyprian’s coat, he shoved the young man forward. “Get to the pentacle,” he said, fighting to keep his voice calm. “We’ll be safe within the lines.”
“I think you have a funny idea of safety,” St. Cyprian said, but he did as Carnacki said.
Carnacki followed more slowly, trying to keep both of the shapes in sight. They followed slowly, though whether they were more put off by his pistol, or the presence of the pentacle, he couldn’t say. When they were inside the pentacle, he faced the younger man. “Now, while we’ve got a moment’s peace, care to tell me why you came here?” he said, cracking open his Webley to reload it.
“Why aren’t they attacking?” St. Cyprian said. He leaned down. “Is it the colours, then? Is that what does it?”