Dark Tales From the Secret War

by John Houlihan

  “Footsteps drew close. I was confident in my camouflage, though now less so in my own competence. Six pairs of booted feet marched by. I waited, alert, hardly daring to breathe.

  “The footsteps stopped and I heard muttered voices. I risked a glance and swore — the patrol had paused by the stream. The men were fishing out cigarettes and talking quietly amongst themselves. For just a moment I saw them not as a Nazi patrol, but as the ordinary young men they were, and I felt terribly sad for the country of my birth. Still, I would kill them if I had to.

  “It was then, to my horror, that I noticed the glint of sunlight on metal. My knife! I had left it by the stream. If the soldiers spotted it…

  “Sure enough, the nearest of the patrol pointed and shouted “da drüben!” He scrambled down the river bank to grab it. There was nothing remarkable or incriminating about the blade, but finding something like that this close to the enemy camp might raise suspicion. The squad huddled together and I sank back into hiding. Seconds passed, turning into long, agonising minutes.

  “I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the group separated out and began searching the area — one of them heading my way. I had but seconds to decide what to do. I chose to hold my ground and stick to my hiding place.

  “It was a tense few minutes. My opponent drew close — so close I could smell his stale sweat. He poked about in the greenery, but seemed more interested in the cigarette that still hung limp between his lips. I primed myself, ready for action, but he passed by. Eventually the soldiers regrouped and moved on, taking my knife with them. I was far more cautious after that.”

  * * *

  “I reached the base before dawn the next day and circled the perimeter, peering through the dark, watching for patrols. All was curiously silent and even the guard towers were unlit. That was troubling. I sat back in the shadows and waited.

  “After some time, I decided that I needed to make my move. Having located what seemed to be the safest entry point, I cut a discreet hole in the first of the ranks of fences that ringed the complex.

  “I expected that, as with the camp at Mittelwerk, most of the actual work would be carried out underground. I would need to locate the entrance. I could see the shadowy bulk of a few small buildings and made my way towards them.

  “It was a drab, desolate place. As the sun cast its first rays over the dank, dirty scrubland, I felt a shiver of disquiet. We have been brutalised by war, Mrs Snaith. There was no beauty or grace here — just the industry of death. And the silence was eerie. There should have been armed patrols; guard dogs. But there was nothing. It appeared to be entirely deserted. I knew then that something was very wrong.

  “The base was not large — just six buildings in total — the largest of which was a concrete dome, half submerged into the earth. I approached it cautiously, scampering between whatever patches of cover I could find, unwilling to accept that it could really be this easy. I navigated the perimeter of the building, quickly finding the doorway. It was, unsurprisingly, locked.

  “It was then that I heard it. A whistling sound, high and shrill. I froze up momentarily — surprised and alarmed. My first instinct was to look for cover. But then I heard a second, similar call, this time coming from my left, as if in answer. The sun was up by now, but I couldn’t see anything. I sunk into the shadows and waited to see what would happen next.

  “Nothing did. After ten minutes, I decided that it was safe to continue my exploration, staying as close to cover as possible. After a few moments, I found what I was looking for: the entrance to the mine.

  “This, no doubt, was where the real work took place. I dreaded to think what terrible things the poor souls who laboured down here endured every day. Two vast iron gates stood ajar at the entrance and I was struck again by the lack of guards. I soon discovered why…

  “There were bodies — too many to count. The majority were in dirty rags — Jews, Slavs and cripples from Buchenwald, no doubt, but there were uniformed guards amongst them too. Whatever had killed them, it had done so indiscriminately. They lay scattered throughout the mine. Although the bodies were in a state of decay, I could see that many of them had suffered the most terrible wounds. Others appeared almost untouched. In some ways they were the worst — I could still recognise their expressions. I almost vomited at the stench. It was almost unbearable, Mrs Snaith, but I forced myself to press on.

  “Deeper into the mine I went, switching on my torch only when I was absolutely certain that there was no one around. I cast the beam about, hoping to discover exactly what was being manufactured in this pit. I knew the answers must be here somewhere.

  “Five minutes later, I found them.

  “There was a large room with a long conveyor belt stretching into the darkness. On it lay an array of components. Some I recognised as rocket parts, others were a mystery to me. I made my notes and took photographs. The click and flash of my camera was unsettling in the deathly quiet. In another room I found plans and papers. I studied them in the torchlight. They showed designs for a rocket, but one I didn’t recognise, much larger than a V-2. One word stood out on them: “Fracht”. Cargo. I gathered up all the paperwork I could find and stowed it away.

  “Again, there were bodies. Men lay scattered throughout the mine, discarded like rags. I have a strong stomach, Mrs Snaith and an unflinching attitude to death. Sang froid, I believe the French call it, but even I found this a sickening waste of life.

  “It was then that I heard the noise again — that strange whistling. It echoed down the corridors of the mine and I felt my blood freeze. It had a quality unlike anything I have ever heard before or since. And it was getting closer…

  “I switched off my flashlight and shrunk down behind the conveyor belt, straining to see in the darkness. At first there was nothing — but then, at last, I saw it!

  “It moved through the darkness, shapeless and vast. I felt something pass above me and I looked up to see its enormous black body, oily and sinuous. It whistled again and I caught a glimpse of its terrible maw. The sound was piercingly loud. I wanted to look away, but I dared not.

  “Almost as soon as it had appeared, it vanished, disappearing into the depths of the mine. I wasted no time. Getting to my feet, I ran back the way I had come, stumbling over the fallen men but not caring. At that moment I would have done anything just to be away from that thing.

  “I emerged into the light of the early morning and collapsed sobbing in the rough grass. I don’t remember precisely when I began to cry — it is not something that I am accustomed to doing — but clearly my nerve had broken. I lay there a while, probably only seconds, but it felt like minutes. I was almost physically unable to move. Eventually, however, I came to my senses. The old resolve kicked back in and I dragged my sorry carcass into cover while I considered my next move.

  “I was at the very edge of the camp when I heard the dreadful noise again. I looked up in fear — and there it was, drifting aimlessly, lazily over the dome — a black wound against the blue sky. I started to run and it saw me. It swept down towards me and I felt something strike me with the force of a hurricane. I was lifted off my feet into the air and just as quickly dashed against the earth. I lost consciousness then, for how long I don’t know.”

  THE SCRIVEN STREET HORROR

  “But you survived…”

  Carstairs nodded. “Yes. When I awoke, I was alone. I don’t know why it spared my life — a sheer fluke I must assume. Whatever the case, I was badly injured. I dragged myself away from the site and made my way back towards civilization. It is, quite frankly, a miracle that I made it.”

  “And so you returned to England?”

  “I did, sustaining further injury along the way.” He tapped his leg. “Bullet wound. I was not so cautious on my way back to Jena. I knew that I had to return as quickly as possible. And I fared better than he did.”

  Cordelia sat back and steepled her fingers — before realising with a shudder that this was one of Lockwood’
s traits. Sitting forward again, she flicked through the pages of her notebook. “That word you used, “fracht”, the cargo…”

  “Yes,” Carstairs said, cutting her off. I believe it can only refer to one thing — whatever those creatures were.”

  “The Nazis were planning to deploy these creatures over here,” Cordelia mused. “But whatever they are, they broke loose and slaughtered them all.”

  “More fool them.”

  “Yes,” said Cordelia. “But it does leave us with a problem. There was an attack this morning. Something that sounds a lot like your monster.”

  “In London? Then God help us all. I wish you the very best of luck, Mrs Snaith, but I will be remaining here!”

  Cordelia nodded. “That’s alright, Mr Carstairs. You’ve done your bit. Now it is time for me to do mine…”

  * * *

  “Very interesting,” Lockwood mused through steepled hands.

  The pair were sat in Lockwood’s cramped office in Section M’s North London headquarters — one of several facilities hidden throughout the city.

  Cordelia had hurried back from Carstairs’ estate, eager to see what Lockwood had dredged up from Section M’s vast library of occult books — and keen to share her own findings.

  “And?”

  “And what?” He smirked. “You don’t expect me to know the details of all the arcane mysteries the Nazis have been meddling with, do you? There are quite a lot of them.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Lockwood,” she snapped. “Of course I do. That is why we keep you, is it not?”

  A pause. Lockwood’s smile dropped and — just for a second — she caught a glimmer of… what? Anger? Surprise?

  “Please remember that I am your superior, Mrs Snaith,” he said quietly. He looked away. “As it happens, I do have a few ideas…”

  He gestured towards an enormous stack of ancient, yellowing tomes precariously piled on a chair. “While you were being entertained by the heroic Mr Carstairs — or is it Hirsch? – I put together a shortlist of books to research. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

  Her heart sank. “Oh well, forewarned is forearmed and all that, I suppose.” She stood up. “Fancy a cuppa before we get down to it?”

  * * *

  The first rocket struck at 6.23am. Over the river, Helen thought, anxiously. There were bound to be more soon, and closer. Shuddering, she hurried along behind Arthur as they made their way to the shelter. They were late, but hopefully Mr O’Neill would make an exception for them. If not, it would be a long and frightening night in the cold.

  It didn’t help that Arthur was in an almighty stink. He’d barely said a word to her all day, not since he’d found out what she’d done with their food coupons. It was very frustrating trying to talk with him when he was like this. He was striding ahead now, while she struggled to keep up. She was about to say something, when he suddenly stopped.

  “Did you see that, Hel?”

  “See what?”

  He paused, then shook his head in irritation. “Could have sworn I saw something moving. Something big, right in front of me.”

  “Probably just a cat. Whole city’s riddled with the bloody fleabags. Drown the lot of them, I say!”

  Arthur looked at her exasperatedly. “Come on you daft bat, let’s get a move on.” Helen was relieved. At least he was talking to her again.

  Something swept down fast above them then and Helen shrieked with fright.

  “See!” Arthur snapped, triumphantly. “I told you! Come on, it’s nothing. Just a tarpaulin.” Smiling, rather more kindly now, he extended her hand and helped her to her feet. She was just straightening up when Arthur yanked her arm hard. She started to protest, but his hand slipped from her grip and she watched in horror as her husband was lifted up into the black night sky, kicking and yelling until he disappeared from view.

  “Arthur!”

  Her husband didn’t respond. Helen stood, frozen in shock, unsure of what to do next, unable to process what had just happened. A sudden pattering of what sounded like rain shook her out of her stasis. It was followed by a loud, wet thump. She looked down to see her husband’s head staring up at her, his eyes open, wide with fright.

  She ran, screaming and slipping on the wet stones, unable to make sense of what had just happened. The shelter. It was only a couple of streets away. She had to get to the shelter. Mr O’Neill would know what to do. She’d be safe at the shelter.

  She almost made it.

  * * *

  Cordelia woke around five, with a start. She sat up, her neck stiff and aching. She yawned and stretched — then yelped with fright. Lockwood was standing a few feet away staring straight at her, a book open in one hand.

  “You scared the living daylights out of me, Lockwood!”

  He gave her a thin-lipped smile. “You dozed off around two o’clock. I thought I’d be better off leaving you to it.”

  “You made a wise choice.” She rubbed her eyes, tiredly. “Any joy?”

  He put his book down, fished for a piece of paper that lay on a nearby table and passed it over to her. “As it happens, yes.”

  It was a sketchy, impressionistic pencil drawing of what looked like a vast amorphous slug with eyes-dotted seemingly randomly across its body. It had a circular maw filled with teeth and wispy tentacles budded from its mid section. Cordelia shuddered. She’d seen unearthly horrors before, but the shock never quite wore off.

  “My artistic skills are not what they once were.” Lockwood lifted his right hand and wiggled it. Cordelia winced, remembering the night he had sustained that injury. Several months before, the pair had been chasing down Morton Jones — a cultist who had invoked and become possessed by an entity that claimed to be Mictlantecuhtli, the Aztec god of the dead. He had stalked and killed his victims in the London Underground. Section M eventually caught him, but not before Jones had bitten off two of Lockwood’s fingers.

  “You’ve identified it, then?”

  “Indeed. There were a few likely suspects, but Carstairs’ experience narrows it down to just the one species.”

  “And?”

  “And I believe that we are dealing with an ancient being from beyond the stars,” Lockwood said, raising his arms grandly. “Extra-terrestrials, Mrs Snaith. They’re referred to in some of the texts as the ‘polypous race’ and they originally came to Earth, ooh… hundreds of millions of years ago at the very least.”

  “Well it matches Carstairs’ description,” Cordelia mused, squinting at the drawing. “And it looks similar to the witness descriptions. Do we have anything else to go on?”

  “Carstairs talked about a whistling. And, do you remember, one of the witnesses at the crash site mentioned an eerie sound? No, I believe that the Nazis managed to contain at least one of these creatures and that is what we’re dealing with.”

  He rifled through his books, pulling out another slim tome, its cover inscribed with various arcane glyphs.

  “There have been sporadic sightings during the last four centuries. One cropped up in Ashanti back in 1855. That didn’t go too well. The most recent encounter was in Scotland in 1923. You would still have been in that dreadful northern school, no doubt. A rather foolish magus by the name of Timothy Vaughan located a site of mystical energy and summoned one of these creatures.”

  “What happened?”

  “To Vaughan? He died in agony, rather unsurprisingly, but one of his protégés survived — a man called Dallen. And he gave us some rather useful information. Their little ritual took place in a subterranean cavern. The rites took days to perform, so the cult had rigged up an electrical lighting system. It was damaged when the polyp got loose. This Dallen claims that an electrical charge struck the creature, causing it to flee.”

  “And… what? You plan to zap it with light bulbs?” Cordelia raised an eyebrow.

  “With an electrical charge!” Lockwood bellowed.

  “Do you have a plan, Lockwood?” Cordelia asked, tiredly. “A decent one?”r />
  “I do,” he replied. “But we’re going to need a lot of luck. I’m preparing a binding spell.”

  “You know where it is then?”

  Lockwood looked suddenly guilty. “No… not as such.”

  It wasn’t even breakfast time and Cordelia was already exasperated with her colleague’s evasiveness. This must be some kind of a record, she thought to herself. “Then how are we going to find it?”

  “It will undoubtedly kill again,” he replied. “All we have to do is wait — and follow the trail of bodies.”

  * * *

  As it happened, they didn’t have to wait very long at all. At around ten o’clock, Lockwood received a telephone call. Cordelia could tell from his sudden mad grin that the creature had struck again. It was frankly disturbing how excited he got when dealing with the unholy and terrifying. He scribbled a note down furiously and passed it to her. She struggled to read his handwriting, but eventually made out four words:

  Six dead. Scriven Street.

  “It’s staying close to the crash site.” Lockwood mused after, pouring two cups of tea. “It’s like an animal protecting its den.”

  “Then we need to evacuate the area.”

  Lockwood winced. “No. It’s a hunter. If we take away its prey then it will move on and look for more elsewhere.”

  “For god’s sake, Lockwood! We can’t just leave it to eat half of the East End.”

  “We’re risking lives, but how many more will die if we lose track of it in the city?”

  “There has to be another way.”

  “Not if we’re going to move quickly,” he said, shaking his head. “This needs to be dealt with tonight.”

  She had to admit, he had a point, awful though it was. London was a sprawling metropolis, teeming with life. It was very easy to get lost in. They knew roughly where the creature was now. If they waited for it to move on, who knew how many more would die?