The Express Diaries

by Nick Marsh

  So, all in all I was greatly relieved when the train from Dover finally arrived at Waterloo Station. It should have been wonderful to be back – but it didn’t feel as if we were home. Not yet. Nevertheless, finding a car to take us to Makryat’s shop was easily accomplished, and within half an hour we stood outside a tatty old building in the back streets of Islington. A newly painted red and gold sign above the shop front proclaimed :

  ‘Mysteries of the Orient: Curiosity Shop – occult peculiarities and strange artefacts within’

  This, in retrospect, turned out to be an extremely accurate statement. The blinds were drawn and in the mid-morning sun the place appeared deserted.

  ‘Perhaps we beat him to it, Mrs Sunderland?’ Grace said, hopefully, as we cautiously approached. Milos tried the door, to find it locked, but a locked door has never given me a great deal of trouble. A few moments later, I was tucking my hairpin back in place, as the door swung open. Silently as we could, we crept into the darkened shop.

  The main room was crowded with occult paraphernalia – crystal balls, Tarot decks, skulls with mounted candles, Ouija boards, and hundreds of strange-shaped amulets, and the air was filled with the scent of dried spices, herbs, and incense. Milos held up his hand as we walked further, and we stopped and listened. Grace had been wrong. From above us, we could hear the faint creak of floorboards, and a low, deep-throated chanting. Makryat was already here. Our final mission seemed to be over before it had even begun.

  ‘We still have a chance,’ Milos whispered. ‘We can surprise him.’

  He gestured to the open door behind the counter, and the dark, narrow staircase behind it. Grace and I nodded. Milos looked quickly around the room, and picked up a large knobbly wooden cudgel, which had been leaning up against a small greenish dragon-like statue. He held his fingers up to his lips, and we began to creep towards the back of the shop. I armed myself with a short, curved dagger that looked as if it might bend after a couple of quick thrusts, and Grace picked up a small paper knife from the counter that looked as if it might not even manage one. Milos began to creep slowly and quietly up the stairs, and we followed as stealthily as we could. We emerged in a small, shabby corridor that opened up into a room on our right. Milos pressed himself against the wall and peered around the corner into the room beyond. After a second or two of staring, he turned and gestured to us to join him.

  The room beyond was almost completely empty – bare floorboards, plaster wall, no pictures or furniture. A small, flimsy door stood closed opposite us. Our foe stood in the centre of the room. His back was to us, and his arms were raised. He had obviously stolen some poor fool’s skin again, as he was no longer the bloody, warped horror that we had last seen, but we were in no doubt who it was. A large circle of some white powdery substance - hastily constructed, judging by the irregular shape and the uneven spread – lay on the floorboards in front of him. Behind and to either side of the circle, a pair of braziers burned with a deep orange flame. The room was swelteringly hot. Makryat had not reacted at all, and seemed - so far - completely oblivious to our presence.

  I looked questioningly at Milos. He held his finger to his lips again, then slowly leaned around the corner, and began to creep forward, raising the club as he did so. Grace and I stood still, horrified, not wanting to watch, not wanting to turn away. Within a matter of moments Milos stood behind Makryat. Could it really be so simple?

  It seemed so at first. Without a sound, Milos swung the club down hard. It connected with the back of Makryat’s neck with a horrible crunch, and our enemy dropped to the ground like a stone with a cry of surprise. Milos raised his club once more as Makryat, still conscious, rolled onto his back and looked dazedly up at his attacker. Before Makryat could react, Milos brought his weapon down again – and then stopped. He stood, half-crouching, arms held in mid-swing, the end of the club inches from Makryat’s head.

  Makryat began to laugh.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Grace whispered in horror. ‘Why isn’t Milos--?’

  ‘You can come out now, I think, ladies,’ Makryat said, as he eased himself out from underneath Milos’s club, and rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘You are here also, yes?’

  Grace stepped out of the corridor, and into the room. I wanted to ask her what in God’s name she thought she was doing, but I didn’t. Instead, I followed her. My legs moved, unbidden, and together we marched like soldiers, standing on either side of Milos, who straightened up and dropped the club. It thudded onto the floorboards as Makryat stood before us.

  The skin he had stolen was that of a thin young man with a fashionable moustache, and he was dressed in an expensive suit. I tried to lash out with the curved knife, but my arms would not move. Makryat smiled.

  ‘My friends,’ he said. ‘Somehow, I thought I might see you again.’ He reached his arm out to mine, and plucked the knife from my hands. ‘My power is growing, you know,’ he said, looking into my eyes. Unable to turn away, unable to even blink, I stared back at him. ‘And there is more than one reason I wanted to return to my shop.’

  He rubbed the back of his neck, wincing. ‘There are other rituals, you know,’ he said, turning his gaze to Grace now. ‘When you are wearing the Simulacrum, there are many things you can do.’

  He reached over and took Grace’s knife from her unresponsive fingers. ‘For instance, I discovered a ritual that gives you power over any that have been touched by the Simulacrum.’

  He tucked the letter opener into the pocket of his suit, and then began to slide one finger along the dull blade of the curved knife. He smiled. ‘But by now, of course, you know that. I’m so glad I decided to start with that one. You are persistent. I will credit you with that, if nothing else.’

  He glanced back at the circle behind him. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘There isn’t much time left, is there? I should continue.’ He half-turned, then stopped, and looked with a smile at Milos. ‘That was a rather nasty blow you gave me,’ he said, a wicked smile crossing his lips. ‘It might even have worked. The Simulacrum, although it protected me, is perhaps making me overconfident.’

  He looked down at the knife in his hands. A cold feeling started in the pit of my stomach and spread up to my throat. Makryat raised the knife to Milos’s chest.

  ‘And I thought we were friends,’ he said. He looked into Milos’s immobile eyes. A scream rattled in my throat, desperate to be free. I tried to move, straining against my invisible bonds until I thought my heart would burst, but I was powerless. We all were.

  Makryat grimaced as he pushed the dull blade deep. Dark red blood oozed out from the wound and Milos let out a short, pained gasp. Makryat grunted with effort as he slowly slid the blade into Milos’s heart. The blood flowed thickly and I desperately wanted to look away. My heart hammered in horror and shame, and I knew that Grace was being forced to watch too.

  Milos dropped onto his back, gasped once, and then breathed no more. The hilt of the dagger still protruded obscenely from his chest.

  ‘Now then,’ Makryat said, his hands soaked with the blood of our friend. ‘Where was I?’

  We remained trapped in our bodies as Makryat returned to the ritual. The minutes dragged like hours, stuck fast with the body of our dear, valiant friend beside us. I would have traded my soul for the use of my arms at that point, and would have joyfully throttled the life out of the hateful man stood before us. But the spell never slipped, not for a second, and we stood, still as statues, as the ritual was completed.

  Gradually, I became aware of a change that crept over the room. It was a feeling that was hard to describe – the air felt heavier, denser, and it was harder to breathe. The light from the braziers dimmed, and the walls looked paler. It seemed as if the very colour was draining from the room.

  ‘He comes,’ Makryat was murmuring to himself, almost in surprise. ‘He comes!’ He stepped to one side as a loud crack came from the centre of the uneven circle. An overpowering stench filled the room, like a freshly opened grave; it made me think of
the thing in the graveyard in Constantinople, or the vats in the Shunned Mosque, but a hundredfold worse. Abruptly, something appeared in the circle. It was tall, like a man, but its outline was blurry, and indistinct. Horrible yellowed eyes gazed out malevolently from a red, gore-covered face. The thing had no skin, and as it shifted position I could see the muscles all over its body contracting and extending. It made my eyes water just looking at it. It seemed more solid than the room around it, as if it extended deeper into reality than we did, as if it had crammed more dimensions into its existence than our paltry three. The sight of it made me want to run screaming in terror, and the more I looked at it, the more my consciousness wanted to escape into merciful oblivion. A vortex of glowing orange clouds and smoke surrounded the hideous apparition. A feeling of immense power hit me like a wave, and I realised what a small and pathetic thing mankind was before such a creature. The sheer terror of its presence made me feel jealous of poor, dead Milos, who never had to encounter such a thing.

  The creature turned its head, slowly and deliberately, to Makryat. His eyes were wide with joy and fear, and his hands trembled as he spoke.

  ‘You came!’ he said, disbelieving. ‘The Skinless One! You came!’

  The thing in the circle watched him, contemptuously. It did not react. Makryat cleared his throat, collecting his thoughts.

  ‘I... I wear the Simulacrum!’ he cried, his voice sounding weak and brittle next to the dreadful majesty of the creature. ‘I am... I am your master now. You will obey!’

  I wanted to laugh, and I wanted to cry. Did this foolish little man really think he could command such a thing as stood before us?

  The thing looked down at the circle that surrounded it. It seemed insane to think that a little ring of powder could hold the immensity of power the Skinless One contained. Whether the protective circle actually worked, or the thing merely chose to remain within, I will never know, but it made no move to step across; it remained motionless, and merely gazed with those hateful, unblinking eyes at Makryat. Makryat seemed unsure of what to do next, and simply stood, stupidly gazing at the Skinless One. It must have taken him all his willpower not to drop to his knees and worship it, as I had a strong urge to do.

  The sound of glass shattering in the room beyond startled Makryat into motion. He turned to the door as a dark, spidery shape burst through it, howling like a demon. In a second this new horror had dropped Makryat to the floor, towering over him with dreadful, knife-like claws.

  Fenalik. The Comte had returned to finally, and forever, reclaim his prize.

  ‘No! In the name of God, no!’ Makryat cried, a surprising choice of deity in such a situation. Fenalik seemed oblivious to the rest of the room, even to the dreadful dark thing in the circle, which gazed impassively at this new turn of events. Fenalik raked his razor claws down Makryat’s face and chest, slicing off huge strips of flesh, exposing the dark shape of the Simulacrum wrapped around Makryat’s own skeleton. A single, pained syllable emerged from Fenalik’s tortured throat.

  ‘Mmmmminnne!’ he cried, raising his claws once more. And then he stopped, and slowly straightened up, to stand immobile above the fallen Makryat. For a second, I was confused, but then realisation dawned.

  Fenalik had been touched by the statue as well.

  Muttering in pain, holding a bloody hand to his face to prevent it from falling off, Makryat staggered to his feet. Half-bowing to the thing in the circle as he did so, Makryat turned to the immobile, twisted creature in front of him.

  ‘The Skinless One is displeased, it seems,’ he said, almost unintelligible through ragged lips. ‘A sacrifice, I think. One such as you would be a great prize.’

  Fenalik’s red and sunken eyes gazed out of his warped skull with a hatred unmatched even by the Skinless One. He slowly walked towards one of the braziers. Makryat took a step back, in front of me. What was left of his face was contorted with effort.

  ‘Now,’ Makryat grunted. ‘Burn!’

  Fenalik, never taking those hateful eyes from Makryat, plunged both his arms deep into the brazier. Within seconds his arms were on fire. Within half a minute, the fire had spread up to his chest, his face, and his body, so that he stood, arms still outstretched, eyes still blazing with fury, a flaming pillar of flesh. Even for a creature as terrible as Fenalik, it was an awful end. I raised my hands to my face and shut my eyes to blot out the terrible sight.

  And then I realised what I had done.

  I could move. Perhaps it was the pain, perhaps it was the effort of controlling one as powerful as Fenalik against his will, but Makryat’s spell had finally slipped. I was free.

  I had only seconds to act. As soon as Makryat realised, he would re-exert his will, and all would be lost. It seemed that there was only one course of action left. As Makryat gazed in horrified fascination at the fiery death of Fenalik, I crouched behind him and pushed him as hard as I could into the powder circle. Into the Skinless One.

  Makryat didn’t even have time to cry out. The dreadful thing in the circle opened its arms and embraced him, as if Makryat were a long-lost lover. Then it began to squeeze. As it did so, an enormous, sanity-blasting noise filled the room. It seems wrong to describe that mind-drilling sound as a voice, but it carried words within it nevertheless.

  THE USURPER IS UNWORTHY.

  Makryat’s limbs began to pop and crack, one by one, as the Skinless One crushed him to its own body.

  IT IS SUNDERED. THE GIFT OF SKIN IS REVOKED.

  Makryat’s body was by now nothing more than a shattered, bloody, gelatinous goo. The hideous, otherworldly thing looked deep into my eyes one last time. I felt its mind crawling within mine, and I dropped to my knees. Beside me, Grace did the same. Then, suddenly, it was gone, and the bloody remains of Makryat with it. Reality rushed back into the room like a train into a station. As I gazed at the empty space I saw that the protective circle had turned black, and in places the powder had fused together as if from immense heat, but I had no time to examine it further, as I was suddenly aware of a new danger. The fire had spread from the flaming corpse of Fenalik to the floor and wall around him – the Comte’s body was now invisible through the raging flames. Beside me, Grace knelt stupefied, staring at the empty circle.

  ‘Grace!’ I cried. ‘Grace, we must leave!’

  She turned to look at me, without a hint of comprehension on her face. Her mind had become unhinged at the loss of her love, and the terrible power of the Skinless One. I dragged her down the stairs, out of the door of that cursed shop, and back into the blessed sanity of the London streets.

  Notes from Mrs Betty Sunderland on her diaries, (written sometime in February 1926).

  And so our adventure drew to a close. ‘Adventure’ – what an inappropriate word for the events that befell us. It seems strange that Grace and I survived, when so many others gave their lives for such a thing. The corruption of our flesh from the Simulacrum faded with its destruction. Was it all worth it? Would any of it even have happened had I not agreed to this insane trip? Reading through my diaries – can it only have been a few months since it all started? – I can hardly remember the person that I was.

  Grace recovers slowly – as much as anyone can recover from such an experience - and her despair has been tempered somewhat by news from her doctor. We shall ensure that the child knows what a brave and noble man its father was.

  For myself, I am finding it hard to sleep. The malevolent face of that dark god haunts me. He has touched me. He was inside my mind. Can anyone truly continue in this world, knowing the horrors that lurk behind the thin veil of reality?

  I have considered suicide, but dismissed it. I must look after Grace now. I would like to see my friends again, but... but I do not think, even if I took that last step, that I would. God seems a comfortable fiction now. The Skinless One is the true reality.

  Nevertheless, we were victorious. I will never forget those that we lost along the way, nor the sacrifices that were made so that Grace and I might live. The
re is still joy and pleasure to be found in the world, and it is our duty to find it whenever we can, and to protect others, perhaps, from the darkness that hides behind normality.

  Epilogue – Editor’s note

  So concludes the strange and tragic story of the Sedefkar Simulacrum, and the lives that it touched. It has been a difficult and intriguing story to document, and although the truth of it cannot be verified, our current global situation lends the ring of truth to Mrs Sunderland’s closing words.

  For myself, the documentary evidence is enough to convince me that something very peculiar occurred in the winter of nineteen twenty-five, something that perhaps laid the foundations for the disaster that has befallen us all.

  The diary of Betty Sunderland does not end there. She remained in her shop in London, caring for Grace (who spent seven months in a sanatorium recovering from her bout of ‘hysteria’). Eventually, her fate became bound up with another of the Goodenough family, Bertie, Neville’s grandson, leading to her eventual mysterious disappearance somewhere in Tibet in 1932 – but that, perhaps, is a story for another time.

  Recent tests upon the corpse recovered from Makryat’s shop have confirmed that it is actually the body of Margrave Milos Valinchek, long thought lost. As for Fenalik – no body has ever been uncovered.

  In January 1926, French officials discovered three corpses near the Orient Express tracks. The first was confirmed as Pierre Laurent, a Wagons-Lits guard who had disappeared two months earlier, although the body had been ‘horribly mutilated’. The second corpse was that of an obese, terribly scarred man, battered as if he had fallen a great distance, at the bottom of a dry river valley in southern Burgundy. It was never identified. The third body, discovered several miles north, bemused the officials – it was a charred and rotted corpse. No one could even begin to understand what it was doing by the side of the track. Eventually, it was reported that the man must have died in a snow drift, which had subsequently melted, although this failed to explain the obvious burn injuries. The fact that there had been no snow in the area for over a month was glossed over.