by Gafford, Sam
“Partly, yes,” Carnacki said, casting a wary eye towards their spectral antagonists. The monstrous shapes paced in the depths of the crypt, circling the pentacle like gigantic tigers. They had gained no more solidity in the minutes since their manifestation, but he could feel the hatred rolling off of them. They gave off a very real psychic miasma, and the air had gone quite damp and cold. After a few moments, however, he noticed something strange—the entities seemed reluctant to draw too close to the xiphos, where it still lay on the stone floor. They shied away from it, like beasts from a hunter’s torch. “That sword of yours,” Carnacki said—“where did it come from?”
“I told you, family heirloom,” St. Cyprian said. The young man swallowed audibly as one of the things drew too close for comfort. “Passed down through umpteen generations, from the founding whatsit . . .”
“Brutus of Troy,” Carnacki said, clicking the Webley back into place.
St. Cyprian looked at him. “That’s just a bally legend. It’s a bit of fun, what?”
“Tell them that,” Carnacki said, gesturing to the malign shapes that crowded around them. “You mentioned being down here earlier—several weeks ago, perhaps? Why?”
St. Cyprian looked away. A vast face, yards across, swirled into being and the tubes of the pentacle flared, the filaments humming like wasps under glass. The face was grotesque in its proportions, and its jaws opened impossibly wide to display a ragged palisade of gravestone teeth that champed idiotically at them. Voices washed over them, and St. Cyprian visibly wilted. Carnacki steadied him gently. “Easy,” he murmured. “We’re safe for now. What happened several weeks ago?”
“I—I came down to explore, you know, for a lark, that sort of thing. They say Guildhall was once the site of Brutus’ palace,” he said in a subdued tone. “I brought the sword—I don’t know why. I thought it seemed appropriate. Something startled me. I—I cut myself, spilled a bit of port.” He raised a hand. For the first time, Carnacki saw it was bandaged. “The whole place went barmy. I could . . . hear things, see them, and then it was all snuffed like a candle flame.” He rubbed his head, as if it pained him.
“What did you hear?”
“Greek chappies,” St. Cyprian said. “I went to the Continent for a bit, learned the lingo, ate some brioche, saw Byron’s grave, that sort of rot. I know Greek when I hear it. Only . . . it wasn’t any dialect I recognised. It was similar, but . . .” He trailed off.
“What else?” Carnacki said. The generator was making a rattling noise. The filaments were vibrating at speed. He looked up and saw the outline of giant hands pressing down towards them, and repressed a shudder. The things were strong; how long had they been down here, he wondered? How long had their essences battened in the dark, awaiting some signal to come roaring back into the light in grandiose monstrosity?
St. Cyprian clutched at his head. “I saw vague shapes, massive things waging war,” he said hoarsely. As he spoke, the things seemed to grow angrier and dust sifted down from above and cracks appeared in the ceiling and walls. The shapes roared silently and struck out at the crypt. The bandage on St. Cyprian’s hand had turned from white to pink to red. Carnacki raised two fingers and cut two of the Signs of Raaaee into the filmy air, though he knew it wouldn’t do much good. Not if his growing suspicions were correct.
It only took a little nudge, with the right kind of brain. Certain men resonated with the spirit world like a tuning fork, their blood and thought acting as meat and drink to the Outer Monstrosities. Bains had been that way, as had Aster and the American, Wilcox. Carnacki himself had something of that sensitivity. St. Cyprian appeared to have it as well. His eyes had become unfocused and feverish. Sweat coated his skin in a greasy film, and a thin trickle of red crept from beneath the bandage on his hand.
The hairs on the back of Carnacki’s neck stiffened as he watched the drop of blood fall towards the floor. He looked up, suddenly aware that the spectral giants had ceased their assault upon the protective envelope of the pentacle and were now merely . . . watching.
A tiny spatter of red painted the stone. One by one, each of the glowing tubes burst, the filaments crisping. St. Cyprian was jerked from his feet by a foggy paw, and he screamed in fear and pain. Carnacki cursed and levelled the Webley. After the dull silence of the pentacle, the roar of the Webley stung his ears. He fired again and again, and the shots tore wispy canyons in the formless shapes that tugged and tore at St. Cyprian like two dogs fighting over a toy.
The shots distracted the entities, as they had before, and St. Cyprian fell heavily to the floor, his clothing torn to rags and his frame streamed with blood, though his flesh was unmarked. Carnacki charged towards him, hoping to get the young man out of the crypt as quickly as possible. If he could remove St. Cyprian from the point of manifestation, it might be enough to snuff it, at least for the evening, like removing oxygen from a flame.
“Come on up!” Carnacki shouted, as he hauled St. Cyprian to his feet. “Up, damn you!”
His skin prickled with gooseflesh. He felt the thing rise up over him like a wave of pure, savage hunger, and he turned—too slow, some small part of his mind chattered—the Webley bobbing up, the hammer snapping down, the cylinder clicking tauntingly. And then, metal scraped on stone and Carnacki was shoved aside as St. Cyprian rose to his feet, the xiphos slicing through the colossal paw that had been ready to close about them. The scream that followed squeezed Carnacki’s eardrums painfully. St. Cyprian hacked and chopped at the coiling substance of the entities as they screamed and howled. Something in the sword—something about it—repulsed them. They hadn’t expected resistance, and he could feel the hold they had on the world, tenuous as it was, slipping. But a wounded animal is all the more dangerous. The hideous faces lurched and bulled forward, jaws agape, hell-lantern orbs blazing as they lunged for their tormentor.
Carnacki ripped the Monas Glyph from his coat and thrust it forward, spitting the words of the Incantation of Raaaee. The sigil quivered in his grip and he felt the protective shadow of the unknown forces of the Outer Circle gather and flow through the loop of the sigil, carried by his words, and strike the entities, driving them back in a boiling, writhing mass of shapes and sounds. He shouted the incantation again and again until his voice grew hoarse and his throat became raw, and St. Cyprian moved beside him, the xiphos extended before him. Together they moved forward, step by step, pushing the entities back. The things lashed at them, but weakly, with barely more force than a spring breeze. The screams shrank to shouts, and then to whines and finally whimpers.
Just as Carnacki thought his voice would give out, the last wisp of ghostly effluvium retreated into the stones from which it had seeped, and the only the echoes of thwarted howls remained to mark their visit. He lowered his trembling, aching arm and slid the still-warm sigil back into his coat with a sense of relief. His throat was scraped raw; he felt wrung out and squeezed dry of vitality. It took something from him to employ the Glyph. He coughed and glanced at St. Cyprian, who had collapsed back against a cracked column, and sank down to his haunches. The young man was breathing heavily, and the sword clattered from his grip.
“Where—where did they go?”
“Back into the past, where they came from,” Carnacki croaked. “Your blood, something in it, called them up out of the darkness, and now we have driven them back, at least for now.”
“For now,” St. Cyprian said, looking up, his eyes wide with horror.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Carnacki said. He pulled his pocket-watch from his coat and flipped it open. “Today, I mean,” he amended. “There are steps that can be taken to see that those things stay in the darkness where they belong, now that I know what I’m dealing with.”
“What were they?”
“Surely you guessed that, an educated fellow like you?” Carnacki said, glancing at the young man. “When Brutus built his palace here, he chained the last two giants of Briton to the pillars of his hall, so that all might bear witness to the
might of New Troy. Gog and Magog is what we call them, though I wager they had different names once upon a time.”
“But—but that’s only a story,” St. Cyprian said, looking down at the sword. “It’s a myth, a fable.”
“Yes, it is. But cities are made of myths and fables. They creep in when no one’s looking, and grow strong. London belonged to Romans and Britons and Trojans, and before them, giants. Whether there were actually any giants at all doesn’t matter; the people thought they existed, and that is enough.” He walked over to the young man and extended a hand. “Speaking of stories, I would very much like to hear about that sword of yours, Mr. St. Cyprian. I’m something of an historian, you see—professional interest, you understand.”
“You don’t happen to have such a thing as a good brandy, do you? I talk better with a bit of liquid encouragement,” St. Cyprian said, taking his hand. He allowed Carnacki to pull him to his feet.
“I think I can oblige you on that score. Come to dinner tonight: you’ll find an eager audience, and brandy enough to wash the cold of this crypt out of you.” Carnacki clapped the young man on the shoulder and jerked his head towards the stairs.
“Come on, St. Cyprian . . . out we go.”
A Gaslight Horror
P. V. Ross
The early evening was quite a dark and foggy one as I traversed the busy Charing Cross Road to a certain bookshop with the intent of purchasing a rare set of volumes titled ‘The Makepeace Library of Traction Engineering’ for my young nephew’s birthday.
I had arranged for the proprietor to reserve these volumes for me in advance, and upon entering the bookshop, which seemed empty of custom, I made my request to the shopkeeper. Nodding in acknowledgement, the shopkeeper hurried away to fetch and prepare my books in the usual brown paper wrap and thin hemp rope.
While waiting for these books to be prepared, I took in the quiet feel of the shop and began to browse. At the very moment that the steady ticks of an ornamental grandfather clock broke into a chime, there was a tapping on my shoulder.
Startled, I turned around, only to be greeted by my old friend Carnacki, who informed me (with much amusement) that he had noticed my arrival from a hidden niche that housed the rare antiquities of the shop.
After the usual pleasantries had been exchanged, Carnacki advised me not to be late for dinner this Thursday and, with a quiet nod of farewell, left the shop and disappeared into the evening fog.
I had not seen Carnacki for a while and looked forward to our customary dinner with the greatest of enthusiasm. Therefore, in my eagerness, I arrived at Cheyne Walk slightly earlier than expected. With good humour, Carnacki announced that I “was the first,” then invited me in and supplied me with a very fine sherry.
Situated by a warming fire, Carnacki and I engaged in small talk as the other guests arrived one by one, quite ready to dine.
Dinner, as always, was a splendid affair. Afterwards we retired to our customary positions, well fortified with brandy, and began to smoke. We were all eagerly awaiting Carnacki to regale us with his latest adventure.
“Gentlemen, it seems that I am among other things a marriage counsellor of sorts,” he began.
“Four weeks ago to this day, I was up quite early with the intention of making necessary modifications to new equipment (which I had ordered from Peaks’ Catalogue of Miscellany) when I was interrupted by a hurried rapping on my front door. On opening the door I was greeted by a smartly dressed but haggard young man in a desperate way.
“‘Mr. Carnacki?’ the young man enquired. I nodded by way of confirmation.
“‘Please, Mr. Carnacki, you must help me before nightfall.’
“Seeing that the young man was extremely distressed, I invited him in and brought him through into the scullery, where a freshly drawn pot of coffee was made available. He sat by the stove, bent over with his head in his hands. I firmly placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. He looked up and received my offer of coffee with trembling hands.
“‘Young man, collect yourself and tell me what troubles you so,’ I said.
“‘It seems that my wife, Imogene, and I are haunted,’ he began. ‘My name is Samuel Parkinson and I am a clerk with a small but successful import-export concern situated at St. Anne’s wharf, north of the river. That is where I met my wife, Imogene. We were engaged for two years until we married three weeks ago.
“‘After our wedding, and forsaking our honeymoon, we moved immediately into a property that I had managed to secure within the grounds of Victoria Park. The property itself is a charming old hunting lodge, recently renovated and located slightly out of the way within the Park itself.
“‘A day after our wedding, I noticed a slight change in Imogene’s mood. She seemed bothered in some way and, after a week, she could not rest during the night and took to sleeping during the day. I asked her what the matter could be that troubled her so. Her reply was small talk, but my constant enquiries soon bought her to tears.
“‘Then three nights ago it began.
“The young man nervously began looking around, wringing his hands desperately. I placed my hand on his shoulder and supplied him with some more coffee.
“‘Listen, lad, unburden yourself of your troubles. Do not be afraid of ridicule. I am here to help if I can.’
“‘Well, it happened like this. Three evenings ago, I had just joined Imogene in the front parlour. She was drawing the curtains for the evening when she stopped and stared out of the window at some activity by the street lamp outside. I joined her at the window and asked her what she had seen. She said nothing and just continued to stare out towards the street lamp.
“‘Looking out, I could make out an occasional glimpse in the lamplight of some swirling gaseous shapes. At first I put it down to some fault with the gas supply within the lamp, but as time went by these shapes began to assume form of a most monstrous type.
“‘I have never felt such horror in my life before when Imogene said, “Sam, they have come for us.”
“‘Although weak with fear, something spurred me into action. I ran through the lodge and turned on all the lights and secured all the windows.’
“‘You have electric lights?’ I enquired.
“‘Yes, they were thrown in as a bonus during the lodge’s renovations.’
“‘Forgive my interruption; please go on.’
“‘Well, these phantoms continually tried to access the lodge during the night, forever swirling around the property, trying all points of entry, only to be repelled each time. But every time they were foiled, their ghastly howls filled the lodge, sending my poor Imogene into a state of near madness. All night we spent huddled together in the parlour waiting for daybreak. That was when our nightly horror ended.’
“‘How did you come to know of me?’ I asked.
“‘After the second night of our ordeal I went to see our local priest. Luckily, he knows about your work within the supernatural through Lady Goldsmith, who, I have been told, had a peculiar and horrible disturbance at Thorpe Hall.’
“‘I see. Is there anything else which you can tell me regarding your plight?’
“‘Well, sir, it seems that there are two of these apparitions which flank the lodge in opposite directions. The haunting itself starts a short while after the lamp outside has been lit. Other than that there is nothing that I can think of.’
“I spent the rest of the morning questioning the young man as to his problem. After that I sent him home to sleep with the promise that I would look in at the lodge before nightfall.
“I arrived at the lodge late in the afternoon, equipped with various ‘tools of the trade’ including the electric pentacle upon which I had managed to effect some modifications.
“The enthusiastic welcome from the young Mr. Parkinson and his beautiful wife as was one of desperate relief.
“After I had been shown to my room, young Parkinson gave me a tour of the lodge and of the outside of the property. I especially observed the
location of the street lamp, which was no less than three feet from the front gate. It was placed in a grassy patch that overlooked a densely wooded area of the park.
“I briefly discussed my intended preparations for the night ahead, after which Parkinson went to join his wife. I was left alone with a ladder to study the street lamp.
“I found nothing odd about the lamp, apart from the self-igniting gas outlet, that could possibly act as a conduit from the outer realms. Satisfied, I decided to explore the area of ground around the lamp itself.
“A few minutes of carefully tilling the clumps of grass around the base of the lamp had passed when I discovered a small, partly buried object. It was a silver locket of the most unusual design.
“Careful not to disturb the locket’s resting place or to touch the locket itself, I made a rough sketch of it, noting in pencil some of its unique aspects. Then I carefully replaced the clump of earth that concealed it and went back to the lodge to join Mr. and Mrs Parkinson.
“After a splendid high tea,which I thought would admirably fortify us for the night ahead, Parkinson and his wife delightedly decided to show me their wedding photos.
“Briefly forgetting their previous ordeals, Parkinson’s wife, Imogene, stated: ‘Mr. Carnacki, you are our first guest since we moved to this lodge, and you are most welcome.’
“I thanked Mrs. Parkinson for her hospitality, and we all sat in the parlour admiring the charming photographs of their big day when I spied something quite curious in one of the pictures.
“It was a picture of Imogene with her bridesmaid.
“The bridesmaid was a tall and gaunt woman, but beautiful none the less, with long, luxuriant black hair draped around her neck. She appeared to be wearing the very same locket of unusual design that I had discovered by the base of the lamp outside the lodge.
“‘Tell me, if you will, who is this equally beautiful lady that stands with you on your great day?’ I enquired.