CARNACKI: The New Adventures

by Gafford, Sam

  “After supper, I met Jenkins in the lounge. We were joined by F. S.”

  “F. S.?” Curiosity had beset poor Mills.

  “Yes,” Carnacki replied with no impatience in his voice. “The man had travelled from Alaska a fortnight before me and tarried in Seattle until I arrived. I had assumed, upon meeting him, that he would accompany us to Alaska, but that was not to be. He had merely wished to speak to me privately. Understand, Mills, it was upon his discovery that the entire endeavour in Alaska began. He, being bestowed with that most unfortunate of labels of the nouveau riche, was eager to put this unpleasantness behind himself and his backers. ‘Understand, Carnacki,’ he impressed upon me, ‘the survival of everything I have built depends upon your getting to the bottom of this problem.’ I regarded the man carefully. He was tall, thin, and, in this instance, nervous. The way he held his cigarette, the way he clasped his glass of whiskey as he pulled it from the table beside his chair, all bespoke a man who had something more to say about the subject. Keen to remember we were in the presence of one of his employees, Mr. Jenkins, I chose my next question carefully in order to provide him with the opportunity to refuse to answer gracefully.

  “And did he?” Mills was nearly out of his chair in anticipation. His hands closed against the arms of the chair. “Did he refuse?”

  Never had I witnessed my business partner so enrapt.

  “He did not refuse me, but drained his glass and stood to take his leave. I had asked if he had any other information about the incident. F. S. tossed a careless nod at Jenkins, who did not look at us, and told me to question the only witness to the events, and to then enquire after him in the morning. Therefore, I turned my attention to Jenkins. While the man had witnessed something, such was his terror of the thing that he could not fully articulate what he had seen. He insisted on seeing a shadow, first on the train that left Cordova, and then outside the train as it crossed the Copper River. I questioned him further. The light in those northern climes at this time of year is such that shadows are everywhere. Darkness falls so early and so completely, that merely the appearance of shadows along the route of a fast- or even slow-moving train is hardly worth mentioning. Now, what became queer is that he insisted that shadow is the only word to describe what he had seen. There was more to this apparition . . . a coalescence of sorts . . . a phantom . . . close by the windows . . . that crawled across the exterior of the railcars . . . whose breath condensed against the glass . . . whose icy hands crackled against the wood . . . clawed the shrieking iron wheels and . . .”

  Carnacki hesitated, his gaze upon Mills, who had drawn back, pale and terrified, into the depths of the chair.

  The man was barely breathing.

  “Are you quite all right?” Carnacki enquired kindly.

  “Wha—?” Mills faltered. He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, yes,” he muttered. I noticed it was an unsteady hand that reached for his snifter. “Quite all right.”

  “Impressions,” Carnacki continued, “were all I could glean from the man; no more. I thanked Jenkins for his information and included all he had told me in my notes. Upon retiring to my room, I pondered what he had said and ruminated about what had been left unsaid. Welsh, you know. It is no national fault that made the man untrusting, but untrusting he was. He was evasive, also, when I enquired after the makeup of the workforce at the Company. ‘We hail from everywhere, sir,’ he told me. Indeed, F. S. had also intimated that their employees were a wild mix of all nationalities and languages. There are Swedes and Danes, Americans and English. There are Poles and Chinese, Russians and Norwegians; a diverse mix, and this fact was not lost upon me, gentlemen. Each brought with him his own culture, his own superstitions, his own ghosts. It is not for nothing that men flee to the wildest places in order to put pick to earth and crush a living from the rock. Truly, there is more to every story. And come the morning, I vowed, I would discover all.

  “It was over coffee in his suite that F. S. finally divulged what I had merely surmised. Bits of the story hearkened back to 1898, when the man first touched toe to the Great Land. Gold, my friends; F. S. had originally found himself cast upon the shores of Alaska in search of gold. Whilst others endured the hardships of the rush to the Yukon, F. S. and his compatriots set their sights further west. They pushed into the interior by means of the Copper River. They were befriended by Native inhabitants, and, through exhaustive conversations, F. S. managed to glean information not about gold, but about another ore greatly in demand. They guided his company further in to a place of indescribable beauty, and on the side of a mountain F. S. beheld what he described to backers in New York City as being a green field. No grassy-grown field, but a field of stone—of copper. But no discovery such as this comes without a price.”

  “Price?” I hazarded.

  “It was during their return to the Copper River that the party suffered loss. It was late spring, and the climate’s natural freeze-thaw had loosened the so-called scree—sharp rocks that littered the sides of the mountains. As the group was traversing a particularly difficult pass, they were caught in a sudden rock slide. I daresay, I can imagine that moment of terror when he watched three of his companions standing no further than I stand from you here, crushed beneath boulders that tumbled down without warning. The man’s demeanour changed as he spoke of how the Natives accompanying him cried out that this was the work of some malevolent manifestation.

  “‘Superstition,’ he said. ‘I believed they were attempting to frighten me with talk of demons and shadows of death.’

  “I admit to being intrigued. There was no mention of this horror in his original report to investors in 1898, but many hardships of exploration go unreported where mere commerce is the motivating force. He went on to describe the legends of the green field. ‘Cursed,’ he continued. The word itself unnerved him, and he rose and began to pace agitatedly before the room’s massive hearth. ‘The deaths of my associates were no mere coincidence. I had ignored the warnings to my peril.’ This Shadow of Death, this loosened dark, supernatural creature that has begun to sate itself on the blood first of his fellow explorers and later of his employees, he believes, will stop at nothing until it drags him into the Pit!”

  Mills drew an audible breath.

  “‘Jenkins has it right,’ F. S. insisted. ‘A shadow that is not a shadow, a darkness that is, in itself, corporeal, began its pursuit in 1898, and I am its quarry.’

  “Now I must confess, gentlemen, his words and demeanour took me aback completely. Here is a man who had faced months of privation in the Alaskan wilderness, who witnessed the sudden and violent deaths of his companions, but who, coming from nothing, gained fame, support, and backing from the richest men in the United States of America. Yet it is this man who, now, despite his brave bearing, stood helpless against a malevolence that seeks to consume him. He oversaw the development of the syndicate’s holdings. He sent for his wife last fall to join him after constructing a mansion to rival the finest domiciles in New York City. Have I mentioned that the entire town is completely wired for electric light and heated as if the scattered paths were city streets? The town even boasts a school, a baseball field, and a recreation hall! It is a thoroughly modern community with thoroughly modern conveniences in the midst of the Alaskan wilderness. A marvel, gentlemen! He tarried there until the deaths at midsummer. The swift brutality unnerved him. What unnerved him further was the fact that not only did his wife not join him in Alaska, but she had not, in nearly a year, acknowledged the receipt of his initial request. F. S. informed me that, after our interview was complete and Mr. Jenkins and I were set aboard the Steamer City of Light bound for Cordova, he had leave from his board of directors to visit his wife in New York City.

  “I will admit, Alaska cast her spell, and I return to you, gentlemen, a changed man. The light, the sea air, the mountains rising, forever green and capped with white . . .”

  Carnacki had become suddenly poetic in his description of the place,
and I had no doubt its beauty had affected him deeply. I chanced a glance at Mills, who appeared to share Carnacki’s vision. Thomas sighed and cast me an apologetic smile.

  “But I digress. We arrived in Cordova. What a hardscrabble place set hard against the sea! Boardwalks and brothels, bars and con men; gold is almighty, and woe betide any who fall afoul of the more nefarious creatures that inhabit the town! A focal point, however, is the train station. After an ill-spent night of wakeful wariness, I was happy to board the allotted Pullman tethered to the black beast that boasted CR/NW upon its flank!”

  Mills’ brow furrowed. “CR/NW?”

  Carnacki chuckled. “Copper River/Northwestern Railway, my good Mills,” he replied. “Although Jenkins, once he was sunk deep in his cups aboard City of Light, conceded that her tenders call her ‘Can’t Run/Never Will.’”

  Mills let out an appreciative guffaw and reached again for his snifter.

  “It was there Jenkins left me. He serves the beast as her stoker. As I retired to the Pullman, I was keenly aware of the rail men’s eyes upon me. The conductor and the stewards treated me deferentially enough, but there was something queer about the lot of them. I observed the glances that followed poor Jenkins back to his post. I can only imagine the talk amongst the men as the great beast began to make steam. The Pullman into which I was ushered was the twin of the one I had enjoyed on my journey across the United States. I tell you, it was as if I had come in to find a dear friend magically transported and waiting for me! The carriage steward—Thorveldt was his name—was precise and attentive. I would not be making this journey alone, however. Two men who exuded some importance sat in deep conversation near the middle of the Pullman. At the back, I could discern a finely dressed woman holding a child of nearly two, asleep, both of whom were mostly obscured by the high-backed chairs that enfolded them.

  “With a jerk, a halt, and a bit of spin against the slick rails, our Pullman lurched as if to life and the last leg of our journey began. I kept a keen eye out for the shadows of which Jenkins spoke. I thought it odd that a stoker would take notice of such a thing—as those men are more likely to be distracted by the heaviness and intensity of their work. Thorveldt smiled benignly at me and offered me a coffee. I should mention the time.”

  “Time?” Mills echoed.

  Carnacki had turned back toward the hearth. His hand rested against the carved soapstone mantel, his dark eyes devouring the firelight that continued to crackle, now feebly.

  “Your fire is dying,” he said unexpectedly. I watched him move towards the neat stack of wood beside the fireplace. He bent to retrieve a log.

  “Surely your man can address that,” Mills admonished me.

  Wordlessly, Carnacki straightened and cast the log into the fire. It caught quickly against the coals and began to smoulder.

  “Thomas,” I began.

  “We are all stokers in the end,” he muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?” Mills’ voice took on an air of blustering outrage.

  I rose to diffuse the situation. I crossed to Carnacki and moved past him. He watched, his eyes shining unnaturally, as I took his empty brandy snifter from the mantel and turned back to the bar. Without a word, I unstopped the decanter and splashed more of the amber liquid into it. I realised the trembling of my hand as I reset the stopper and picked up the glass. “You’re drifting, Thomas,” I said, willing strength and steadiness into my voice as I pressed the brandy at him.

  Carnacki’s lip twisted gently. “Apologies,” he offered. He swirled the brandy and took a sip. “I was merely reminded of a poem F. S. mentioned. It was written about the Gold Rush and concerned a man who froze to death. Before he died, he wrung a vow from the man accompanying him to dispose of his body properly . . .”

  Carnacki’s voice trailed away wistfully. He sighed:

  There are strange things done 'neath the midnight sun

  By the men who moil for gold.

  The arctic trails have their secret tales

  That would make your blood run cold.

  The northern lights have seen queer sights

  But the queerest they ever did see,

  Was that night on the marge of Lake LeBarge

  When I cremated Sam McGee.

  A roll of thunder rumbled through the ensuing silence. Carnacki took another sip of brandy. He twitched as if shaking off some worrisome thing and smiled.

  “Robert Service.” He nodded. “That is the poet’s name. F. S. is quite fond of him.”

  “Ghastly,” Mills muttered as he reached for his glass. He was disappointed when it came up empty, but I quickly filled it for him.

  “Continue, Thomas,” I urged him. Carnacki hesitated. “The engine was making steam and your Pullman lurched, dragging you into the interior,” I said helpfully. He cast me the warmest of his smiles before I turned and resumed my seat. He continued to hesitate. I set my glass upon the table and waved a careless hand at him.

  “Do continue, sir!” Mills blustered.

  “It was near to eleven in the morning before the engine made sufficient steam to convey us north. Winter had settled deep and the snow lay thick about. I marvelled at the engineering feat of constructing and maintaining a rail line through that wilderness. I continued to make notes, to listen, albeit clandestinely, to the conversation of the two men who continued to deny my very existence. The carriage rattled and swayed along the line, and I noticed that all the shades in the Pullman had been drawn. There was nothing for it! Jenkins had sworn the shadows had clung to the train and crawled along it on the outside. Alarmed that I had already missed the opportunity, I rose and threw open several shades. The weak sunlight spilled through the windows, warmless and heatless, scarcely brighter than the lamps. Thorveldt, when he returned, was thoroughly startled by this; a curious reaction, but when I questioned him about it, he merely stated that the men who travelled the line preferred the shades drawn rather than face down the stark desolation that would become their future home. While he said this, he glanced surreptitiously at the men, who took no notice and continued their conversation.

  “I paced the Pullman, moving from window to window, like a man obsessed. Beyond the windows, the light was still brightish, for it was merely two o’clock in the afternoon. Suffice it to say, there was no sight of Jenkins’ shadows or any phantom.

  “The motion of the carriage and the fact that the two gentlemen had dozed off and were snoring soundly caused me finally to succumb. As I slipped into sleep, I began to think that my journey to Alaska was all for naught.

  “I am a notoriously heavy sleeper on trains. Bah! With the rocking and swaying, the constant the-thumping of wheels against rail, I cannot help but sleep. But, in so doing, I missed the twilight of the day, and all was blackness as I roused myself. Terrible luck, chaps! If a shadow were, indeed, clawing at the CR/NW, it was not enough of a terror to wake me from my slumber. Cross as I was, my mind turned to less-than-supernatural explanations for what was befalling the syndicate. Jenkins was a stoker and a Welshman, given to bouts of both exhaustion and imagination, F. S. himself, while frightened, had ridden in this very Pullman. And the latest, brutal deaths? I had perused the examiner’s reports: one man had died when he slipped and tumbled from a trestle, and another had died of burns sustained from the boiler. Neither death was inconsistent with accidents that occur on railroads. And this talk of shadows? Perhaps it was something as simple as a malfunction of the car’s ventilation. It is not unknown that, at times, carbon dioxide can build up inside the cars—especially in colder weather—and the resulting oxygen deprivation can lead to hallucinations. Were these shadows merely manifestations wrought from ineffective exhaust fans?

  “My reverie was dispelled and reality washed over me as the train suddenly slowed. Thorveldt appeared again at my side and felt that he should inform me that we were passing through the narrows at Chitina. From there, we would be descending to the Copper River. ‘We are nearly one hundred and thirty-two miles in, sir,’ Thorveldt
said. I remember thanking him and enquiring as to the state of the line. He assured me the line was stable across the Copper River Bridge, but that, once on the other side, the train would begin to climb again, and going would be slow. True to his word, the train slowed and began its descent towards the ice-jammed river. Her whistle called, and it echoed weirdly off the bluffs and cliffs that rose from the river and wound out across the frosty night. A more romantic man would have believed a wolf somewhere answered that call forlornly.

  “The wheels slipped and slid against the frost-slickened track as the train began to climb away from the river. I will tell you, the creaking was horrific, and I was reminded of Jenkins’ testimony, of the claws scraping glass. The more I experienced the sounds and sensations of this train, the more I discounted that I was dealing with anything supernatural. So convinced was I that I began, mentally, to draft a letter to the syndicate. It would allay their fears and recommend that they avoid the costly errors that adherence to a superstition entailed. The angle of the carriage shifted as the grade steepened. In my mind’s eye, I watched the stokers shovel darkness into the fire, to feed it. The slip of wheels, the sacrifice of the darkness, the sweat of the stokers hard at it, the meniscus shifting in the glass gauge as pressure built, in that darkness . . .”

  Carnacki’s eyes had shifted out of focus; his breathing had changed. A chance glance to my left confirmed that Mills shared this change of attitude and atmosphere. Before I could speak, Thomas drew a shattering breath and words tumbled from him:

  “I heard him before he reached the door! There was a horrible beating of feet, and I marvelled how the man had been able to clear the tender in such cold to stumble in to the coaches! ‘Carnacki!’ Jenkins fairly wailed my name as he flung open the Pullman’s door. His eyes were wild and, had I not known his voice, I would scarcely have recognised this coal-blacked man who staggered into the carriage. The two men took no notice of the intrusion, but I was on my feet. ‘Jenkins!’ said I. ‘Whatever has happened?’ The stoker’s mouth slackened, and it was then I noticed the blood. One hand faltered against the gash that had laid open his guts, his other hand, bloodied, rose, pointing to the window. He drew what I realised was his last. We have arrived . . .