The Express Diaries

by Nick Marsh

  ‘Up this way,’ Uncle said, and began to trudge up the track ahead.

  ‘Now just a moment, Uncle!’ I called out. He turned around, his left leg jiggling with impatience. ‘I think we’ve got a right to know what’s up there! Can’t you tell us that at least? Don’t you trust us?’

  ‘Violet--’ Uncle Neville began, and then suddenly howled in pain and pressed both his hands to his bandaged eye socket.

  ‘What is it, Neville?’ Auntie Betty cried as he toppled forwards. Grace supported him as he staggered and almost fell. From the expression on his face it looked like he was being clawed to death from the inside out.

  ‘Neville!’ Auntie repeated, clearly alarmed. Uncle was silent for a few moments but continued to grimace. After a while we realised he was muttering ‘Oh, God, no, no,’ under his breath.

  ‘Neville,’ Auntie said a third time, in her sternest voice. Suddenly, he relaxed, and stood up straight.

  ‘It’s over,’ he said, turning again to the path. ‘We’re too late. You’ll see. You’ll see.’

  He began to limp up the path, and we followed, anxious and tense. After a few minutes we approached a low cave surrounded by jagged rocks.

  ‘In here,’ he said. ‘You’ll need the torches.’

  The tunnel was unlike the cold, damp caverns of Postumia. It was filled with a strange, humid heat, and the smell of something like sulphur was thick in the air. The floor was pitted, and covered with jagged rocks. We were grateful for the torches.

  Uncle Neville hurried down the tunnel as if he had travelled it many times before. It was mostly straight, and it became wider the further we travelled. After ten minutes or so, we saw that it opened out into a great chamber. Water bubbled and boiled in the darkness ahead of us, and the sulphurous fumes began to mingle with something else – the stench of rot and decay.

  The chamber we entered... here, I must pause, dear diary. Writing of it brings images of what we saw in there to mind, and they are not images that I wish to dwell upon. I will describe it as best I can, but please forgive me if I skip over some details.

  The cavern was large, filled with echoes and shadows, like some dark, underground cathedral. As we entered, Grace gasped and Auntie Betty placed a handkerchief over her nose. The floor was littered with bodies; dozens and dozens of bodies. They lay scattered like nine-pins, some wearing tatters of black suits, others with scraps of red robes. Fresh blood cooled and clotted on the cave floor, and shone bright red in the torchlight.

  Uncle Neville stood amidst the carnage, looking closely at something below him. Milos approached, examining the bodies as he did so.

  ‘Strange,’ he said, his accented voice echoing around the cavern. ‘They are not all fresh.’

  He glanced up quizzically at Auntie, who walked over to him. Grace and I stayed where we were.

  ‘You see here,’ he continued, as Auntie approached. ‘This one. The body is fresh, but the arm... the arm is almost completely rotted away. And this leg, here...’

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ Grace said to me. We shivered in the darkness, even though the cavern was warm.

  ‘They can use other body parts,’ Uncle said, almost sadly. ‘They can take them, and attach them to themselves. I don’t know how.’

  We all looked over to him. He was kneeling by another corpse, blood leaking from its slashed throat.

  ‘How... how can you know that, Colonel?’ Milos asked him, shining his torch onto the face of the dead man. With a start I recognised the man who had attacked Uncle Neville on the train a few days ago.

  ‘Because this,’ he said, gesturing to the man’s right eye socket, ‘is mine.’

  The torch illuminated a gloopy, gelatinous mass within the man’s head. I looked away as Uncle reached down with his handkerchief and scooped the contents out with a horrid plop.

  Grace gulped twice, and then brought up her breakfast.

  ‘These people,’ Uncle Neville said, straightening, ‘are members of the cult, the Brothers of the Skin.’

  ‘Were,’ said Milos, darkly.

  ‘Yes,’ Uncle said, looking around. ‘I saw it happen. I... felt it happen. Can’t explain how, but I’ve been seeing out of this chap’s eye... my eye... since he took it. Don’t know why he did. Perhaps he had something wrong with his.’ He glanced back down at the splayed figure. ‘Don’t suppose I’ll be getting any more visions now.’

  ‘So... if you saw it,’ Auntie said, ‘what did happen to them?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’ Uncle asked.

  ‘The creature,’ I said. ‘The thing we saw in the caves at Postumia. It was here. It was here just now!’

  Uncle nodded once more. Suddenly standing amongst the bodies seemed preferable to the darkness. I helped Grace forwards.

  ‘The man who attacked you... he was after your head at first, remember, Uncle,’ I said, trying not to look down. ‘Why do you think he wanted that? He couldn’t replace his whole head, so why--?’

  ‘I think perhaps,’ Milos said, shining his torch deeper into the vast cavern, ‘it was for that.’

  The beam of light illuminated a fifteen-foot tall roughly pyramid-shaped heap, with a flattened top. It had a queer, lumpy quality, and it took me several moments to understand that this was because it was constructed of severed heads.

  ‘Don’t look, Grace,’ I whispered, wishing that I hadn’t myself.

  At the bottom, the pyramid was mostly skulls – there must have been hundreds, perhaps thousands of them. Towards the top, though, the heads were fresher, and I felt sure that right at the top we would find the head of the unfortunate man from the University of Sofia.

  ‘You had a lucky escape, Colonel,’ Milos said, as he approached the grisly pile.

  ‘Milos,’ Uncle Neville said, ‘Be careful. We don’t know where that thing--’

  ‘There’s something at the top,’ Milos said. He shone his light up to it but we couldn’t quite make it out – something flattened.

  ‘You’re not going to--’ I began but Milos had already begun scrambling his way up the bloody structure. He slipped once, sending a pair of heads bouncing and rolling down to the floor, but soon enough he had scaled it, and stooped down beneath the roof of the cavern to peer at the top.

  ‘What is it?’ Auntie Betty asked.

  ‘Some kind of shrine, or altar,’ Milos called back. ‘There’s a velvet cushion here. Something was on it, but not anymore.’

  ‘The head of the Simulacrum,’ I said, and Auntie Betty nodded. ‘So, the creature has it now.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ Milos said. ‘Above here, in the roof. A crack. I can’t see any light, but I feel wind through it. It must lead outside.’

  ‘Then,’ Uncle said, ‘that’s where the creature has gone. We’ve failed. It has the head.’

  ‘In that case,’ Grace asked, hoarsely, ‘can we get out of here, please?’

  There seemed little point in remaining in Sofia. We had no way of tracking the strange creature that has been following us, and no way of dealing with it even if we found it (although Milos assures us he has procured some weaponry that can deal with ‘anything’). So, this afternoon, we boarded the Orient Express once more, en route to Constantinople. We don’t have the complete statue, but perhaps we have enough of it to destroy it anyway. Whatever Grace and I feel about the mission, we know the cult and the creature are very real. We can feel the corrupt power that leaks from the thing even though it is not complete. The consequences of it falling into the hands of either party – well, I don’t want to imagine.

  I wish that we had never embarked on this terrible task, but I think that now, having seen what the cult is capable of, I understand the necessity of it. We must see it through to the end. You do understand, don’t you, Walter?

  The danger, of course, is the creature. Not only does it have the head, it knows where all the other pieces are – because it helped us acquire them. We are having a discussion at dinner about what we can do, if anything, if
it decides it is time to relieve us of those pieces.

  I only pray that we can make it to Constantinople and get rid of the wretched thing before that happens.

  Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Wednesday, 18th November, 1925

  Did all of it happen only yesterday? Sofia seems like such a long time ago. So many terrible things have happened since, that the few hours they happened in seem inadequate to contain their horror.

  Nevertheless, the story must be told. Someone must know what happened to us.

  We left Sofia with a heavy burden within our hearts – we had failed to find the head, and so we had failed to complete the statue. The only possibility left to us was to attempt to destroy the thing in Constantinople regardless.

  Upon boarding, Milos suggested that, given our current circumstances, leaving the trunk in the fourgon unguarded (by any of us, at least) was unwise. We agreed, and so we persuaded the Wagons-Lits staff to allow us to manoeuvre our bulky trunk into Neville and Milos’s cabin. Once there, Milos sat on it, and pronounced that he would not move (except for obvious necessary and short breaks) until we arrived in Constantinople the following noon.

  The rest of us retired to our own compartments to rest, and consider our next move. I wondered about contacting the duke again – his candle method was most effective – but I decided that it had reached the stage where I simply must discuss it with the rest of the party. I am the bedrock, the cornerstone of our little group, and if they lost their trust in me... well, it wouldn’t bear thinking about. I made up my mind to discuss things over dinner, despite the duke’s warnings that they would not understand. Given the gravity of our situation, I felt that they would have to see sense.

  Grace, Neville, Violet and I sat down to dinner for the second sitting, around eight o’clock, whilst Milos remained guarding the trunk, taking a meal in his compartment. I asked him how he planned to protect it, and he smiled and patted the bulky metal gun he had brought with him across the Bulgarian border.

  ‘It will be safe, Mrs Sunderland,’ he said, reassuringly, though I wondered if even the ‘machine pistol[46]’, as he called it, would be any use against the forces that were gathering against us.

  In the restaurant car, the meal was, as ever, second to none, but I’m afraid the details of it rather passed us by. None of us possessed much of an appetite that evening and no one was in the mood to talk - except for Violet, who kept complaining that she felt warm, and gazing out of the window, although outside it was dark as a tomb. After a long, awkward silence, I felt that it was time to speak about our predicament.

  ‘I think we should talk,’ I said, after a long drink of wine, ‘about what we are going to do. About the creature.’

  Grace glanced nervously around, as if mentioning it would summon it to our table. Neville only nodded, wearily.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘But what is there to say?’

  ‘It’s been helping us get the pieces, hasn’t it? Right from the start?’

  ‘It’s very hot in here,’ Violet murmured, watching the dark landscape speed past through the window.

  Neville ignored the interruption. ‘Yes. Yes, I think so.’

  ‘And now it has taken the head itself. How long before it decides to take the rest from us?’

  ‘We don’t know for sure,’ Neville said, ‘that it plans to do so.’

  ‘We don’t know anything about it!’ Grace said. ‘We don’t even know what it is!’

  The moment had come.

  ‘Well,’ I said, clearing my throat. ‘I think I may be able to help with that.’

  ‘You know something about it?’ Neville asked, surprised.

  ‘No, no I don’t. But I... I am able to get in touch with someone who might. Someone powerful.’

  ‘Who?’ Grace and Neville asked, together. I cleared my throat.

  ‘It’s... it’s so hot in here!’ Violet said, suddenly standing, ‘I need some air!’

  She flicked the latches of the window beside her and pulled it open.

  ‘Violet!’ I said, but it was already too late. Immediately the window was open, a long, twisted, scabrous arm reached into the restaurant car, and picked Violet up. Her scream was lost in the roar of the engine as she was pulled through the open window. We all stared in shock through the glass, and saw her kicking and struggling against the terrible creature we had encountered in Postumia. The awful thing was clinging to the train with its long spidery legs, and holding Violet aloft with one arm. Its deep-set eyes, which seemed to glow dully red in the darkness, stared back at our own dispassionately as it lifted its other arm and... opened her.

  It was a sight I will take with me to my grave. What on earth am I going to tell Walter? Violet’s screams turned into a shriek, and then faded away to nothing. The creature tossed her to one side like a broken doll, and scuttled up the side of the train, on to the roof, disappearing from view.

  ‘Mon Dieu! Monsieur! Mesdames! What has happened here?’

  We looked at the waiter, still trying to comprehend the enormity of the last few moments.

  ‘She... she’s gone,’ I said, stupidly. ‘Violet’s gone.’

  Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Wednesday, 18th November, 1925

  Later

  The chef de train stopped the Express for us, as his counterpart on the last train had when we approached Sofia, and this time a determined search in the dark was successful. Violet... what was left of Violet... was recovered from the track. After explaining the situation to Milos, who remained guarding the trunk in his compartment, Neville examined the remains as they were carried back on board. He advised Grace and me not to look. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him looking quite so pale.

  Violet. Even writing it, I cannot believe it. She is gone, so quickly. Without warning. I was there to protect her – I promised Walter that I would look after her - and I couldn’t do a thing to stop that creature.

  But I must continue, there is so much more to tell.

  The waiter suggested that Violet had been pulled out of the train by a freak gust of wind after she opened the window. A far-fetched story, but none of us saw any point in arguing, and agreed that this was most likely the case. During the commotion and fuss – a situation we are becoming sadly familiar with on board the train – Doctor Hagge, the Danish physician who had looked after Neville, approached us to see if everything was all right. Clearly, he could tell, it wasn’t.

  ‘They asked me,’ he said, his deep voice quiet, and his grey-blue eyes sad, ‘to look upon the body. The girl.’

  I nodded, too numb for more tears.

  ‘They tell me she was blown out? Is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Neville said. ‘We... we think that is what happened.’

  The doctor looked down at his polished black cane, clearly uncomfortable, and seemed to be wrestling with some thought that he wished to express.

  ‘What’s troubling you, Doctor?’ I said. ‘There’s not anything you can say to us that will upset us more than we already are.’

  The doctor nodded, and looked up. ‘The injuries, on your friend. They were more than one might expect from such an accident.’

  Neville nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, gravely.

  The doctor looked surprised. ‘You are aware of this?’

  ‘Yes,’ Neville repeated.

  The doctor looked at me, and I nodded too. ‘We are in a spot of bother, Doctor,’ I said.

  ‘You are in trouble?’ The doctor straightened, a true man of honour. ‘Then, I will help.’

  ‘That’s really not necessary, Doctor,’ Neville began, but I interrupted him.

  ‘Should we really be turning help away at this point, Neville?’ I asked.

  Neville sighed. ‘I am not afraid,’ the doctor said.

  ‘Hmph,’ Neville said, raising an eyebrow and looking the tall doctor up and down. ‘Perhaps you should be. The... thing that did this, it is very dangerous. We can’t expect any help from the train staff, because they wouldn’t believe us.
I am surprised that you do, Doctor.’

  ‘I have seen the body of your friend,’ Hagge replied, and the two men looked at each other levelly.

  ‘Quite right,’ Neville said after a moment. ‘Well, there’s no point sitting around here. We need to get back to the compartment, to Milos.’

  ‘Milos,’ Grace whispered. ‘I had forgotten! We’ve left him alone!’ The name seemed to shake her from the trance she had been in since the train had stopped.

  ‘Chap can look after himself,’ Neville said. ‘But you’re right, it seems unwise to leave any of us alone at the moment.’

  As we spoke, the chef de train approached. His eyes were filled with pity for us, and he politely cleared his throat.

  ‘Messieurs, Mesdames, I am so sorry for your time of grief. Such a thing has never been known before on our train.’

  He clasped his hands before him like a pious priest in supplication. ‘We have done all we can. The train... the train must continue now.’

  ‘That’s fine, that’s fine,’ Neville said.

  ‘Thank you for all your help,’ I said, sincerely. ‘Here, I would like you to have...’ I began to reach into my purse but the small man wagged his finger and shook his head.

  ‘Non, non, non,’ he said. ‘I will not accept. You have been through enough. If you need anything, anything at all, the porters will provide for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said again.

  The chef de train paused for a moment, trying to think how to broach a delicate matter. ‘There will be some... paperwork, when we arrive in Constantinople.’