Necroscope®

by Brian Lumley

  There was a slight pause before the other snapped: “English? I don’t care if you’re an Arab! I’ll tell you what you are: you’re a nuisance! Now what is this, eh? What’s it all about? I’m quite unused to this sort of thing.”

  “I’m a Necroscope,” Harry explained as best he could. “I can talk to the dead.”

  “Dead? Talk to the dead? Hmm! I considered that, yes, and long ago came to the conclusion that I was. So obviously you can. Well, it comes to us all—death, I mean. Indeed it has its advantages. Privacy, for one—or so I thought until now! A Necroscope, you say? A new science?”

  Harry had to smile. “I suppose you could call it that. Except I seem to be its one practitioner. Spiritualists aren’t quite the same thing.”

  “I’ll say they’re not! Fraudulent bunch at best. Well then, how can I help you, Harry Keogh? I mean, I suppose you’ve a reason for disturbing me? A good reason, that is?”

  “The best in the world,” said Harry. “The fact is I’m tracking down a fiend, a murderer. I know who he is but I don’t know how to bring him to justice. All I have is a clue as to how I might set about it, and that’s where you come in.”

  “Tracking down a murderer? A talent like yours and you use it to track down murderers? Boy, you should be out talking to Euclid, Aristotle, Pythagoras! No, cancel that last. You’d get nothing from him. Him and his damned secretive Pythagorean Brotherhood! It’s a wonder he even passed on his Theorem! Anyway, what is this clue of yours?”

  Harry showed him a mental projection of the Möbius strip. “It’s this,” he said. “It’s what ties the futures of my quarry and myself together.”

  Now the other was interested. “Topology in the time dimension? That leads to all sorts of interesting questions. Are you talking about your probable futures or your actual futures? Have you spoken to Gauss? He’s the one for probability—and topology, for that matter. Gauss was a master when I was a mere student—albeit a brilliant student!”

  “Actual,” said Harry. “Our actual futures.”

  “But that is to presuppose that you know something of the future in the first place. And is precognition another talent of yours, Harry?” (A little sarcasm.)

  “Not mine, no, but I do have friends who occasionally catch glimpses of the future, just as surely as I—”

  “Twaddle!” Möbius cut him off. “Zöllnerists all!”

  “—talk to the dead.” Harry finished it anyway.

  The other was silent for a moment or two. Then: “I’m probably a fool … but I think I believe you. At least I believe you believe, and that you have been misled. But for the life of me I can’t see how my believing in you will help you in your quest.”

  “Neither can I,” said Harry dejectedly. “Except … what about the Möbius strip? I mean, it’s all I have to go on. Can’t you at least explain it to me? After all, who would know more about it than you? You invented it!”

  “No,” (a mental shake of the head,) “they merely stamped my name on it. Invented it? Ridiculous! I noticed it, that’s all. As for explaining it: once there was a time when that would be the very simplest thing. Now, however—”

  Harry waited.

  “What year is this?”

  The abrupt change of subject bewildered Harry. “Nineteen seventy-seven,” he answered.

  “Really?” (Astonishment.) “As long as that? Well, well! And so you see for yourself, Harry, that I’ve been lying here for more than a hundred years. But do you think I’ve been idle? Not a bit of it! Numbers, my boy, the ultimate answer to all the riddles of the universe. Space and its curvature and qualities and properties—properties still largely unimagined, I imagine, in the world of the living. Except I don’t have to imagine, for I know! But explain it? Are you a mathematician, Harry?”

  “I know a little.”

  “Astronomy?”

  Reluctantly, Harry shook his head.

  “What is your understanding of science—of SCIENCE, that is. Your understanding of the physical, the material, and the conjectural universe?”

  Again Harry shook his head.

  “Can you understand any of … this—” and a stream of symbols and equations and calculi flashed up on the screen of Harry’s mind, each item in its turn more complex than the last. Some of it he recognized from talks with James Gordon Hannant, some he knew through intuition, but most of it was completely alien.

  “It’s all … pretty difficult,” he finally said.

  “Hmm!” (The slow nod of a phantom head.) “But on the other hand … you do have intuition. Yes, and I believe it’s strong in you! I suppose I could always teach you, Harry.”

  “Teach me? Mathematics? Something you worked on all your life and for a hundred years since that life ended? Now who’s talking twaddle? It would take me at least as long as it has taken you! Incidentally, what’s a Zöllnerist?”

  “J. K. F. Zöllner was a mathematician and astronomer—God help us!—who outlived me. He was also a crank and a spiritualist. To him numbers were ‘magickal’! Did I call you a Zöllnerist? Unpardonable! You must forgive me. Actually, he wasn’t far wrong. His topology was wrong, that’s all. He tried to impose the unphysical—or mental universe—on the physical one. And that doesn’t work. Space-time is a constant, fixed and immutable as pi.”

  “That doesn’t leave much room for metaphysics,” said Harry, certain by now that he’d come to the wrong place.

  “No room at all,” Möbius agreed.

  “Telepathy?”

  “Twaddle!”

  “What’s this, then? What am I doing right now?”

  Möbius was a little taken aback. But then: “Necroscopy, or so I’m given to believe.”

  “That’s picking nits,” said Harry. “What about clairvoyancy, or farsightedness; the ability to view events at a great distance through the medium of the mind alone?”

  “In the physical world, impossible. You would perpetuate Zöllner’s errors.”

  “But I know these things can be done,” Harry contradicted. “I know where there are people who do them. Not all the time, never easily or with any great accuracy, but occasionally. It is a new science, and it requires intuition.”

  After another pause Möbius said, “Again I’m tempted to believe you. What point would there be in your lying to me? Man’s knowledge—of all things—increases all the time. And after all, I can do it! But then, I’m not of the physical world. Not any longer.…”

  Harry’s head whirled. “You can do it? Are you telling me that you can scry out distant events?”

  “I see them, yes,” said Möbius, “but not through any crystal ball. Nor are they strictly distant. Distance is relative. I go there. I go where the events I wish to watch are scheduled to occur.”

  “But … where do you go? How?”

  “‘How’ is the difficult bit,” said Möbius. “Where is far easier. Harry, in life I wasn’t only a mathematician but also an astronomer. After I died, naturally I was restricted to maths. But astronomy was in me; it was part of me; it would not let me be. And everything comes to those who wait. As time passed I began to feel the stars shining down on me, through the day as well as the night. I became aware of their weight—their mass, if you like—their great distance, the distances between them. Soon I knew far more about them than ever I had known in life, and then I determined to go and see them for myself. When you came to me I was calculating the magnitude of a nova soon to occur in Andromeda, and I shall be there to see it happen! Why not? I am unbodied. The laws of the physical universe no longer apply.”

  “But you’ve just denied the metaphysical,” Harry protested. “And now you’re saying you can teleport to the stars!”

  “Teleportation? No, for nothing physical is moved. As I keep telling you, Harry, I am not a physical thing. There may well be a so-called ‘metaphysical’ universe, but neither the real nor the unreal may impose itself upon the other.”

  “Or so you believed until you met me!” said Harry, his strange eyes op
ening wider, his voice full of a new awe. For suddenly a bright star was shining in Harry’s mind, but shining brighter than any nova in the mind of Möbius.

  “What? What’s that?”

  “Are you saying,” Harry became relentless, “that there is no meeting point between the physical and the metaphysical? Is that your argument?”

  “Exactly!”

  “And yet I am physical, and you are purely mental—and we have met!”

  He sensed the other’s gape. “Astonishing! It seems I’ve overlooked the obvious.”

  Harry pressed his advantage: “You use the strip, don’t you, to go out amongst the stars?”

  “The strip? I use a variant of it, yes, but—”

  “And you called me a Zöllnerist?”

  For a moment Möbius was speechless. Then: “It seems my arguments … no longer apply!”

  “You do teleport!” said Harry. “You teleport pure mind. You’re a scryer. That’s your talent, sir! In a way it always was. Even in life you could see things that others were blind to. The strip is a perfect example. Well, scrying in itself would be a marvellous weapon, but I want to take it a step farther. I want to impose—I mean rigidly impose—the physical me on the metaphysical universe.”

  “Please, Harry, not so fast!” Möbius protested. “I need to—”

  “Sir, you offered to teach me,” Harry couldn’t be restrained. “Well, I accept. But only teach me what’s absolutely necessary. Let my instinct, my intuition do the rest. My mind’s a blackboard, and you’ve got the chalk right there in your hand. So go ahead and teach me.…

  “Teach me how to ride your Möbius strip!”

  * * *

  It was night again and Dragosani had climbed back into the cruciform hills. Across his back he carried a second ewe, this one stunned with a large stone. The day had been a busy one, but its proceeds must surely show a profit; Max Batu had had the chance to display yet again the morbid power of his evil eye, this time to one Ladislau Giresci; eventually the old man would be found in his lonely house, “victim of a heart attack,” of course.

  But Max’s work had not stopped there, for only an hour or so ago Dragosani had sent the Mongolian out upon another crucial mission; which meant that the necromancer was now alone—or to all intents and purposes alone—as he approached the tomb of the vampire and sent his words and thoughts before him to penetrate the cold gloom beneath dark and stirless trees.

  “Thibor, are you sleeping? I’m here as directed. The stars are bright and the night chill, and the moon is creeping on the hills. This is the hour, Thibor—for both of us.”

  And after a moment: Ahhhh!… Dragosaaaniiii? Sleeping? I suppose I was. But I have slept a grand sleep, Dragosani. The sleep of the undead. And I dreamed a grand dream—of conquest and of empire! And for once my hard bed was soft as the breasts of a lover, and these old, old bones were not weighed down but buoyant as the step of a lad when he meets his lass. A grand dream, aye, but … alas, only a dream for all that.

  Dragosani sensed … despondency? Alarmed for his plan, he asked, “Is anything wrong?”

  On the contrary. All goes well, my son—except I fear it may take a little longer than I thought. I took strength from your offering of yestereve, indeed I did!—and I fancy I’ve even put on a little flesh. But still the ground is hard and these old sinews of mine stiff from the salts of the earth.…

  And then, more eagerly: But did you remember, Dragosani, and bring me another small tribute? Not too small, I hope? Something, perhaps to compare with my last repast?

  For answer the necromancer came to a halt on the rim of the circle, tossed down from his shoulder to the ground at his feet the inert mass of the ewe in a grunting heap. “I didn’t forget,” he said. “But come on, old dragon, tell me what you want. Why will it take longer than you thought?” Dragosani’s disappointment was real; his plan depended upon raising the vampire up tonight.

  Have you no understanding, Dragosani? came Thibor’s answer. Among the men who followed me when I was a warrior, many were so injured in battle that they were carried to their beds. Some would recover. But after months of lying still, often they were wasted and full of aches and torments. Picture me, then, after five hundred years! But … we shall see what we shall see. Even as we talk I grow more eager to be risen up—and so perhaps, after a little more refreshment—?

  Dragosani wryly nodded his understanding, drew out a small glinting sickle of honed brightness from its sheath in his pocket, and stooped towards the ewe.

  Hold! said the vampire. As you surmise, Dragosani, this may well be the hour—for both of us. An hour of great moment! For both of us. For my own part, I think we should treat it with the respect it warrants.

  The necromancer frowned, cocked his head on one side. “How do you mean?”

  So far, my son, I think you would agree that I have not stood on ceremony. For all that I have had my food hurled at me, as if I were some rooting pig, I have not complained. But I would have you know, Dragosani, that I too have supped at table. Indeed, I’ve dined in the courts of princes!—aye, and will again, with you perhaps seated upon my right hand. May I not, therefore, expect treatment more nearly gracious? Or must I always remember you as a man who poured my food over me like slops into a pigsty?

  “A bit late for niceties, isn’t it, Thibor?” Dragosani wondered what the vampire was up to. “What exactly do you want?”

  Thibor was quick to note his apprehension. What? And do you still distrust me? Well, and I suppose you have your reasons. Survival was mine. But come, have we not agreed that when I’m up and about, then I’ll drive out the seed of my own flesh from your body? And in that moment, will you not be entirely in my hands? It seems a foolish thing, Dragosani, that you would put your faith in me walking abroad but not in my grave! Surely if I were so inclined, I’d be capable of more harm to you up than down? Also, if it were my plan to harm you, who then would be my guide in this new world I’m about to enter? You shall instruct me, Dragosani, and I you.

  “You still haven’t said what you want.”

  The vampire sighed. Dragosani, I am forced to admit a small personal flaw. I have in the past accused you of a certain vanity, yet now I tell you that I, too, am vain. Aye, and I would celebrate my rebirth in a manner more fitting. Therefore, bring unto me the ewe, my son, and lay it down before me. This one last time, let it be by way of a genuine tribute—even as a ritual sacrifice to one who is mighty—and not merely swill and roughage for the fattening of swine. Let me eat as from a platter, Dragosani, and not out of a trough!

  “Old bastard!” thought Dragosani, while continuing to keep his thoughts secret. So he was to be the vampire’s serf, was he? Just another poor gipsy dolt to be cuffed about and follow at heel like a whining dog? “Ah, but I’ve news for you, my old, my too old friend!” and Dragosani hugged his secret thoughts tightly to himself. “Enjoy this, Thibor Ferenczy, for it’s the very last time a man will fetch and carry for the likes of you!” And out loud he said:

  “You want me to bring you the beast, as if it were an offering?”

  Is it too much to ask?

  The necromancer shrugged. Right now, nothing was too much to ask. He would be doing a little “asking” himself, shortly. He put away his razor-edged knife and took up the sheep. He carried it to the centre of the circle, crouched down and placed it where last night’s offering had lain. Then again he took out his sickle blade.

  Until now the glade had been quiet, still as the tomb it was, but now Dragosani sensed a gathering. It was as if muscles were suddenly bunched, the silent creep of a cat’s paws as it closes on a mouse, the forming of saliva on a chameleon’s tongue before it strikes. Quickly, thrilling with horror of the unknown—even a monster such as Dragosani, filled with horror—he drew back the stunned beast’s head and made its throat taut. And—

  No need for that, my son, said Thibor Ferenczy.

  Dragosani would have leapt away, for in that selfsame moment he knew—but knew to
o late—that the Thing in the ground had had its fill of piglets and sheep! Not one eighth of an inch had he straightened from his crouch before that phallic tentacle burst from the ground beneath him, shearing through his clothing like a knife and up, into him. And how he would have leapt then, to be free of it, even if the tearing should kill him; he would have leapt—but he couldn’t. Growing barbs within him, the pseudopod stretched itself through all the lower conduits of his body and filled him, and drew him down like a fish yanked from water on a hook!

  Dragosani’s feet flew out from beneath him as he was slammed down against the dark and seething earth; and after that there was no longer room even for the thought of flight. For that was when the pain, the torment, the ultimate agony commenced.…

  His bowels were melting, his entrails were on fire, he was seated upright on a fountain of acid! And through all the incredible pain Thibor Ferenczy howled his triumph and taunted Dragosani with the truth—the real truth—the one final question whose answer had eluded the necromancer through all these years:

  Why did they hate me, my son? My own kith and kin, as it were? Why do all vampires hate other vampires? Why, the answer to that is the very simplest thing! The blood is the life, Dragosani! Oh, the blood of swine will suffice if there’s nought better to sup, and the blood of fowls and sheep. Better far, however, the blood of men, as you’ll very soon be obliged to discover for yourself. But over and above all other vessels, the true nectar of life may only be sipped from the veins of another vampire!

  Dragosani burned in a double hell; he felt torn apart inside; his parasite twin within clove to him in its agony as Thibor’s nightmare appendage fastened upon it and leeched its essence. And yet that terrible tentacle did no real harm, no damage. Protoplasmic, it moulded itself to organs without crushing them, penetrated without puncturing. Even its barbs caused no injury, for they were fashioned to hold without tearing. The agony lay in its being there, in its contact with raw nerves and muscles and organs, in its advance through all the tracts of Dragosani’s raped physical body. It could not hurt more if some insane doctor had dripped an acid solution into an open vein—but it would not kill. It could kill, certainly, but not now, not this time.