“For there was a stirring in the air. The foul smell somehow managed to intensify, to the point where my men and I were almost sick. There also appeared a feeling in the air almost electrical in nature. The air was moving, stirring as it had not stirred in long, abandoned centuries. I was unable to understand what was happening, and I have no way at all to explain what happened next, or words sufficient to convey the events.
“Somehow, it was as if there were a connection between where we stood and some other, eldritch place. I had the feeling that vast centuries were somehow being spun aside, that space and time as we know them to be abruptly were seized and shaken as a dog shakes a toy. Everything that we knew as logical and scientific and possible was wrenched through 180 degrees, and the impossible, the unthinkable, the unknowable was happening.
“As a man of science, I have no means of explaining what then occurred–I can merely state that it did happen, no matter how impossible it may sound. In the space before us, a shape materialized. One moment, the space was empty, and the next it was occupied by this entity, the likes of which I have never seen before–and which I devoutly hope I shall never see again!
“It was large, though I cannot say exactly its size–taller and broader than a man, at least 12 feet high. Like a man, it stood upright, but that was all the resemblance it had to anything upon this world. I knew, instinctively, that nothing like this beast could have evolved upon our wholesome planet. And the stench from it was so strong and sickening that it almost crippled all of us, Suydam included.
“Its head was like the body of a squid–large, unblinking eyes, and tentacles that fringed a gaping maw, extremities that writhed constantly. Below that terrifying head was a body, but one I scarcely saw. I have the impression of limbs and claws, but I can attest to nothing. For those great eyes bore into us, and I knew the malice that the creature held for us and our kind. I knew that, if loosed upon our world, it would stamp with certainty the demise of humanity. Such creatures as this and we ourselves cannot co-exist. Even Suydam, whose incantations must have called this creature from some abyss, was stunned by the awfulness of this sight.
“One of my men fired his weapon at the monstrosity. I know the harpoon hit and sank into whatever flesh that monster had, for there came a scream of inhuman rage and pain. The creature lashed out, catching my man and crushing the life from him. Then, in a moment of horror that I cannot forget, no matter how I try, it drew him into that great mouth, and began to devour the fresh corpse.
“I knew it intended the same fate for all of us. Like fabled Polyphemus, this creature thrived on the flesh of human beings. But the poor man’s efforts had shown that, though a harpoon might cause the monstrosity pain, it could not halt it. My actions were those of instinct and not rational thought. I fired my own harpoon–not at Cthulhu, for this was surely the sleeper awakened–but at Suydam, whose infernal tampering with the laws of Nature had raised this leviathan. The bolt proved far more effective on the man than on the monster. With a gasp of shock, Suydam fell to the floor, dead.
“Cthulhu, having finished its grisly feast, sprang upon this fresh corpse, raising it to that terrible mouth. I had taken out the dynamite I carried, and removed it from the waterproof covering. Striking a lucifer, I ignited the sticks, and then threw them into that all-devouring maw. Hurriedly, I shook my remaining companion, who had been struck silent and still by the horrors we were witnessing. Together, we stumbled toward the exit doors. Behind us, the dynamite exploded, and there was a fresh, titanic scream from Cthulhu. I chanced a backward glance, and saw that the explosion appeared to have taken the head off the creature–but if it had, whence came that chilling scream? The mountainous body didn’t fall, however, and its several limbs were writhing, claws opening and closing.
“We fled as swiftly as we could, returning to the entrance chamber where we had stashed our breathing apparatus and helmets. We sealed the inner door behind us, and then worked at opening the outer ones. At that moment, we heard the sound of many limbs beating on the inner doors. They would not open, of course, as long as the outer ones stood ajar, but as we moved as swiftly as we could out of the buildings, I saw that the solid metal was starting to buckle under the rain of so strong and ferocious blows. It was only a matter of time before Cthulhu battered down the doors and came after us.
“As you know from experience, Professor, it is impossible to move swiftly under the water. It seemed to take us forever to bridge the distance between that foul city and the safety of my craft. Somehow, though, we did. It was only later that the reason for our escape occurred to me–when Cthulhu broke down those inner doors, water would have poured into the temple, and even a being as strong as it could not fight against the power of the sea. Cthulhu must have been washed backward by the pressure of the inflowing water, allowing us those moments we needed to effect our escape.
“Back in the comforting walls of the Nautilus, I was delighted to discover that my engineers had managed to repair the craft sufficiently for us to power up and begin to move. I had no time for explanations–nor could I find the words to explain my actions. Instead, I merely turned my craft toward the forgotten city and called upon all the power of her turbines.
“We crashed into that great dome with the prow of the Nautilus. It was designed to penetrate wood and steel, and those stones could not withstand the blow. The entire vessel rang with the sound of the encounter, and then we were past. I had the searchlights turned to our rear, and, as we watched, the dome collapsed, tearing down most of the superstructure with it. It seemed to fall in slow motion, of course, as the dome fell apart, and then inward. My frantic eyes searched for any sign that Cthulhu might have made its escape before the collapse, but I could see nothing of the monstrosity. I could only pray that it had been buried beneath those monumental inhuman blocks, and that the building I had taken for a mausoleum truly was such now.
“We managed to limp home in the damaged Nautilus, which was repaired. But the one man and I had memories that could not be erased. The sight of that creature, Professor, is one I shall never forget, no matter how hard I might wish it to be otherwise. And there is one more thing that still troubles me. That one line in Suydam’s writing that had made some sort of sense:
“In his house at R’lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.
“Perhaps we did somehow kill that creature. Dynamite and the fall of masonry would have killed any entity that this world has ever spawned. But is it enough to slay the being that we saw? Or is Cthulhu still waiting and dreaming again?”
If Eugène Sue, Paul Féval, Alexandre Dumas and others were the literary fathers of our Shadowmen, Louis Feuillade (1873-1925) was certainly the man who visually defined them. The great writer-director was responsible for the images of the black-clad Fantômas, the cloaked avenger Judex and the alluring femme fatala Irma Vep, paramour of the Vampires gang, played by actress Musidora, whose rubenesque figure gliding over the Paris rooftops made such a memorable image. Steve Roman, who makes his first appearance in Tales of the Shadowmen, succumbs to Irma Vep’s poisonous charms with a moody, Berlin-based tale of the darkest noir where two, vastly different creatures of the night meet…
Steven A. Roman: Night’s Children
Paris, 1915
It wasn’t the finest painting Irma had ever seen–not in her opinion, anyway–but one look at the title on the little bronze plaque beneath its frame and it became obvious why this particular work had attracted the interest of the criminal mastermind she served. And why she had been sent to Berlin to steal it for him.
Vampire was one of Norwegian artist Edvard Munch’s lesser-known paintings, but then that could be said about most of the man’s work; although his paintings were critically acclaimed, especially among the elite of Paris, to the public at large, he was simply the artist responsible for the haunting imagery of The Scream. In fact, most casual patrons of the arts might have found it difficult to believe that the man whose grotesquely distorted figure work and disturbing cr
imson sunset had made The Scream so well known was the same one who had created the more subdued piece at which she now gazed.
Set against a black background, Vampire depicted a dark-haired man and a redheaded woman in what Irma could only think of as a sad embrace. The woman appeared to be seated, with the man kneeling beside her; it was difficult to tell if this was true, given the image only showed them from the waist up. His left arm was wrapped around her waist, his head tucked against her bosom, his features hidden in shadow. The woman’s right arm rested on his left, while her left hand caressed his right shoulder. Her nose and mouth nuzzled the back of his neck as her crimson locks lay draped across his head and down his back; Irma imagined she could almost hear the words of comfort being spoken to the man as the woman held him tightly.
There was a sense of great loss to the image, of overwhelming sadness, and perhaps that was what made Irma dislike it so. It reminded her of events, of people, in her old life she thought she had finally forgotten.
Still, personal tastes–and demons–aside, she knew it was exactly the sort of prize one would expect to see hanging in the private collection of the leader of a criminal organization known as the Vampires–especially when that leader called himself “The Great Vampire.” He had to have it, he had confessed to her one night, and, he admitted, there was no better thief in his organization to effect its procurement than the alluring, raven-haired Irma Vep.
Well, it was always comforting to have one’s talents appreciated. Better yet to be handsomely rewarded for her efforts, as the Great Vampire had promised should she return home successful in her quest–not that there could be any other outcome. For a member of the Vampires, disappointing their leader was tantamount to a death sentence, and there was no place on Earth in which to hide that the Great Vampire could not find if you tried to run. Failure was simply not an option.
Irma, however, was unconcerned about incurring her master’s wrath. Her mission was a simple one, the details of which she had worked out during her first visit to the museum five days ago. Once freed from the confines of its gold-leafed mahogany frame, she knew the canvas would be easy enough to spirit away before she left for Paris in the morning. All she needed was a means by which to gain access to it after the exhibition had closed for the night...
“Absolutely stunning,” said a male voice beside her.
Irma tensed, then placed a hand to her mouth, as though to hide a gasp at being startled; in reality, she was concealing the deep frown pulling at the corners of her lips. She didn’t care for interruptions when she was finalizing a plan, even when the interloper was Wilhelm Schmidt, the handsome, blonde-haired curator of the museum. Oh, yes, she knew who he was, though they had yet to officially meet, but that was only because she had caught him surreptitiously watching her each time she strolled through the museum, eyeing her from behind pillars, peeking at her from around sculptures, then quickly scurrying away whenever she turned to confront him. After three days of such intense scrutiny, she had grown fearful that some German police officer had learned of her connection to the Vampires and surmised that her visits to the Munch exhibition–titled Frieze of Life: A Poem About Life, Love and Death–were a method of gathering intelligence on the museum’s security procedures. Unable to stand the suspense any longer, she finally asked one of the guards if he knew the man’s identity, and breathed a sigh of relief when she learned her fears had been unfounded.
After that, she had taken to ignoring her newfound shadow. For a woman who had acquired a sizable number of silent, bashful admirers from London to Istanbul over the years, adding one more to the list meant little to her. Still, she had to admit that most of them weren’t as pleasing to the eye as Herr Schmidt. In his early thirties, standing a few inches above six feet tall, he possessed a strong, clean-shaven jaw and the brightest blue eyes Irma had ever seen. She thought it a pity that a man of such good looks should waste his life as a lowly museum official.
A museum official, she suddenly realized, who must possess a set of keys to every door in the place...
“You are referring to the painting, I take it?” she asked, turning to face him with a sly smile.
Schmidt looked confused for a moment by her question; then his eyes widened as he realized what she was really asking. His cheeks reddened from embarrassment. “Oh, yes, yes, of course,” he replied quickly. “The painting–it is a stunning piece of work, is it not?”
“I suppose,” she replied with a tiny shrug of her shoulders. “I’m still trying to see where the vampire is supposed to be.” She leaned forward, as though giving the painted background a closer inspection. From the corner of her eye, she stole a quick glance at his left hand. No wedding band on the third finger, she observed.
Single, then, as she had suspected. All the better.
“Why, it’s the woman, of course,” he explained, gesturing at the redheaded subject. “She is obviously stealing the life from the poor fellow.”
“Is that so?” Irma commented archly. She turned to face him. “I only see a woman giving comfort to a man in great torment.” She studied it again for a moment. “Perhaps the piece says more about the artist’s attitude towards the female species than any symbolism presented by his subject.” She flashed a wry smile. “Perhaps it says something about you as well.”
Schmidt smiled. “I certainly hope not, Frau ...?”
“Fraulein,” she corrected.
“Ah,” he said pleasantly, his interest clearly aroused. “Actually, Vampire was not Herr Munch’s title for the work,” he confided. “That was bestowed upon it by Stanislaw Przybyszewski, a Polish friend of his. It was originally called Love and Pain.”
“I see. Then I take back what I said earlier. The problems with the female species apparently lie with the friend and not the artist. That pleases me.” Irma glanced back at the canvas, and nodded in appreciation. “Herr Munch’s is a more fitting title, I think–for is not life itself a mixture of both love and pain?”
Schmidt nodded agreeably. “Indeed. You’re quite perceptive, Fraulein.”
She smiled demurely, and gently placed a hand on his forearm. “For your information, mein freund, I am an extremely perceptive woman–about a great many things.”
Schmidt swallowed hard. “Of that, Fraulein, I have no doubt.” His gaze locked with hers for a moment or two, then he shook his head as though to clear it. “Forgive me, Fraulein, we have not been properly introduced.” He bowed gallantly. “I am Wilhelm Schmidt, curator of the museum. And you are...?”
“Irma,” she replied, extending her hand so that he could bend forward to lightly kiss the back of it. “Irma Vep.”
His lips lightly brushed her knuckles a split second before his right eyebrow did a slow, intrigued crawl upward. He rose and glanced from the exquisite creature standing before him to the one in the painting, then back. “Irma Vep. Is that not an anagram for–”
“Vampire,” she interjected with a soft laugh. “Yes. My mother possessed an extraordinary sense of humor.”
“And extraordinary beauty as well, I would imagine,” Schmidt offered, “if her offspring is any true indication.”
“Take care, mein herr,” Irma warned playfully, “else you may find your heart stolen away by a real-life vampire.”
“A real-life one, but still a magnificent work of art in her own right.”
“Such flattery, Wilhelm.” She batted her eyelashes and sighed melodramatically. “Perhaps if I am not careful, I may find my own heart lost to some handsome museum curator.”
“One could only hope,” he replied.
Irma grinned. What easy prey was man, she thought. So easily baited, so easily trapped.
“Tell me, Wilhelm,” she continued, stepping just a bit closer, ”do you spend all your time in this stuffy museum, or are you allowed to go out and enjoy yourself once in awhile?”
“It is not a stuffy museum,” he said, a slight edge creeping into his voice.
Irma stepped back, laughing softl
y. “Such a serious curator you are, Wilhelm! Please, I meant no offense.” She smiled. “But you have not answered my question.”
“Enjoy myself in what way?” he asked. “Could you be more specific?”
“Certainly,” she replied. “Have you been to the cabaret of late?”
“The cabaret? Well, not in many months. Why should that–” His eyes widened. “Of course! You are Irma Vep, the famous French singer!” He lightly rapped the side of his head with his knuckles, as though punishing himself for not knowing her identity. “Please accept my apology, Fraulein Vep–”
“Please, call me Irma.”
He grinned. “Irma. I should have recognized your name. I saw one of your performances while I was in Paris last year. You were very good.”
She pouted playfully. “And yet I failed to make a lasting impression upon you, my curator.”
“No, no, no,” Schmidt insisted. “It is my fault entirely. I was there on business, to negotiate with your Société Nationale des Beaux-Arts for an exhibition of their members’ finest works, to be shown here in Berlin, and my thoughts were elsewhere that night.”
“Well, perhaps I can do something that will ensure you remember me,” she purred. “When you come to see me tonight.”
He started. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, his voice rising slightly.
Irma laughed. “I am ending a one-week singing engagement at the Metropol Theater this evening. You will come to see me, won’t you? It will be my final appearance in your lovely city for some time; I’m returning to Paris tomorrow.” Accompanied by a new addition to the Great Vampire’s gallery, she thought.
Tales of the Shadowmen 4: Lords of Terror Page 26