CARNACKI: The New Adventures (17 page)

“It happened suddenly. One of the men rose from his seat. Before my eyes, he began to change: he grew la
rger, darker, more menacing, and I watched dumbfounded as his body twisted unnaturally. His hands elongated and he whitened, hoarfrost crackling across his back. He dragged himself, weaving, to the back of the carriage where the woman sat. In my dazed state, I could not fathom what was happening. My heart nearly burst from my chest as the door burst open and Thorveldt appeared. The man had the same unnatural look about him. A sudden wail froze the blood in my veins, and I turned. The creature, for it was clearly more creature than human, had the woman by the arm and was pulling her forward. I swear to you, gentlemen, they passed me without a word, but the woman’s eyes were mad with terror as she clutched the child to her. It flung the two of them into Thorveldt, who caught them in a tangle of twisted limbs and claws, nodded coldly, and dragged them from the carriage.

“I struggled to my feet and, unthinkin
g, rounded on the hulking demon. My hands faltered as I grabbed at it. To this day, dear fellow, I cannot describe the deadened darkness that lit about its eyes. It hesitated for only a moment before it stepped towards me. God help me, it passed right through me as a vapour and chilled my guts at its passing! The breath flew out of me. What was this? What was I seeing? What did this mean? I rounded on the carriage windows and realised that one shade remained drawn. I stumbled towards it and threw it open. Such a sight out there in the snow encased beside the rail! My heart twisted painfully. The child, blue and frozen, deadened against the snow bank, like some grisly sculpture carved by a fiend. My wits hung by a thread. I cried ‘Murder!’ But no one came. The train was completely empty!

“Occam’s razor had no edge
: it left me with nothing useful. The lamps flickered dangerously, and the peril of my situation hurled back to me. Alone in desolation, I would surely die here. The carriage began to cool, and the cold sweat of terror that saturated my body only served to quicken the effect. Beyond the window the darkness thickened, and I—witless fool!—finally understood the Welshman’s shadows. They crawled across the Pullman, thick tendrils testing every gap, desperate for entry. The cold would have no chance to claim me. I drew a breath. The woman!

“At the very thou
ght of her, the darkness howled. I stumbled to where she had sat clutching the child. A clue! Anything! What did it mean?

“‘
Truth, Carnacki!’
The hollowed voice fairly raised gooseflesh across me. I spun, my gaze meeting the black-void pits that had been Jenkins’ eyes. His hands twisted, his mouth widened, and he shrieked, clawing the carpet, trailing blood and viscera, scrabbling towards me.
‘Truth!’

“The darkness snarled and smo
uldered beyond the windows. My time was short. I dropped to my knees, my hands groping desperately at the ornate chair. I was searching for something, but what? I stuffed my fingers between the seat cushion and the back of the chair. My fingers brushed paper and I dug furiously.

“Jenkins was upon me! His claws tore at my clothing and he howled his admonition. The wooden carriage creaked against th
e pressure of the force without. My fingers closed upon it. I howled in pain and terror as Jenkins’ claws closed against my wrist. The voids of his eyes met mine and his mouth widened into a sharp-toothed grimace. My gaze snapped to the envelope in my hand. His grip loosened and he swayed, faltering backwards against the carpet. I forgot all time. And place. My hands trembled as I opened it. And I understood . . .”

“Understood what?” Mills’ voice was more of a command than a question.

“How F. S.’s Shadow of Death would not come for him,” Carnacki replied quietly.

“What was in the envelope?” demanded Mills.

Carnacki took the saddest of sips of the brandy.

“Letters.” He sighed and turned back toward
s the hearth. “The first, unsent, contained such things as are written from a lonely and disappointed wife to her itinerant and deceiving husband. But the second, from F. S. himself, had sealed their fate.”

Mills’ eyes grew wide. “What is this? Murder?”

“Of the most evil sort, my dear fellow. I saw it all. The universe replayed the scene for my understanding. Vengeful spirits of the lost expedition exacted their lethal revenge while binding to them the later-murdered rail men. In the letter to his beloved, F. S. confessed his guilt. Guides among the Natives that deadly morning had warned him about the instability of the trail. Eager to capitalise on the discovery, F. S. ignored the warnings to the peril of three of his companions. With no remains to recover and no bodies to bury, he abandoned the dead to the White Silence. His omission of their contribution doomed their heirs to penurious obscurity. The maligned dead crewed the train, murdering the rail men, seizing their souls, until only the stoker lived and breathed among them. Who would have thought that one who tends the fires would be so observant? In darkness they waited. After the slaughter of F. S.’s wife and child, poor Jenkins, crying murder, raced into the Pullman. Thorveldt, realising his error, quickly dispatched him. I came to understand that I had never met the living Mr. William Jenkins. I had merely met the memory of the man preserved to bring me north to lay the matter to rest.”

Carnacki hesitated in the silence of my study.

“All is shadow,” he whispered finally, “and through these we make our way.”

“Then Thorveldt?” Mills asked as he cast me a glance.

“His was the first blood drawn.”

“F.
S. returned to New York and found his wife gone.”

“Devastated he was,” agreed Carnacki with a nod, “believing she had left him. Shattered he became when the coffin bearing the body of his child arrived in
New York.”

“And the woman?” Mills asked.

“Condemned to the same White Silence. Thrown from the Kuskulana Bridge to the river more than three hundred feet below.”

The clock upon my mant
el chimed the hour, the notes breaking the spell of Carnacki’s words that hung heavy in my study.

No one spoke.

1.

T
he call went out from Number 472 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. As so often before, Thomas Carnacki had summoned the four of us, Arkright, Jessup, Taylor, and myself, to join him for dinner and conversation on the morrow. Carnacki was a sleuth of a peculiar sort, taking cases brought him by individuals who found themselves in peculiar plights, those involving, or seeming to involve, intrusions of the Unknown into their hitherto mundane lives. Either that, or he was the biggest liar and tale-spinner in history, for the four of us served as his audience as he regaled us with the reports of his latest adventures. None of us had ever assisted him in these arcane endeavours, though we had more than once volunteered on the rare occasions he had shared his plans in advance, but he would have none of it. Whether this was because he doubted our competence and felt we should only make his task more difficult, or because he treasured our companionship, as we did his, and did not care to risk the safety of our bodies and souls, I cannot say.

No
sooner had I received Carnacki’s customary postcard, this one featuring a depiction of a rusty iron maiden device on display in the British Museum, than I cancelled one previous appointment and rescheduled another. I would take considerable trouble not to miss one of our sporadic sessions, and so I did. Nor did I care to be tardy, and I made certain to arrive on time. Arkright had preceded me there. When I saw him, I feigned irritation at being beaten to the finish line, for the four of us had made it a bit of a game to be the first present. The other two appeared only moments later, together at the door.

We stood as Carnacki entered the room, silently wa
ving us into the dining room. As usual, the fare was sumptuous, and I wondered if Carnacki’s talents included the culinary, for I never saw any cook or other servants. The chat was pleasant, yet not without a note of impatience and of superficiality, as we were all eager for the “main event” and knew all else counted as but preliminaries. The conversation to follow, though always one-sided, would be the real feast, and we left the table still hungry.

Entering the parlour, each man headed for his accu
stomed chair and its ample contours, long since comfortably moulded by its familiar posterior. Carnacki held court from his own wing-backed, leather throne. He began his tale, which I will relate here, omitting the occasional ellipses that would mark his periodic attentions to his pipe. You see, he talked at such length and with such speed that he did not take frequent enough puffs for the thing to stay lit.

“This was one of my charity cases. I mention the d
etail because it is a rather important feature of my story. I had received a second-hand request from the Reverend Sidney Lampton, a divinity instructor at Brichester. He could not contact me directly, nor compensate me for my desired services, because of a recent series of setbacks, no, tragedies that had befallen him. I first thought his sad tale, as related to me by a mutual acquaintance, to have expanded exponentially by way of embellishment, as these things tend to do, but direct conversation with the stricken theology professor corrected my scepticism. Indeed, the version I had heard initially was modest by comparison, probably understated in the hope that I should not dismiss it as some sort of hoax.

“I made to shake hands with the Reverend Doctor Lampton, only to notice at once that he was too infirm to take my hand in response. The portly, grey-headed man was nearly paralysed with infirmity. His arms were mostly numb, both legs broken, his head bandaged on one side, eyes blackened, with anaemically pale and u
lcerated skin. My attention was momentarily distracted by the entrance into the hospital room of a black-frocked clergyman who introduced himself as Father William Ailes, whom I took to be a friend and colleague of the Reverend Lampton, though neither offered to explain their connexion. And then Lampton’s rasping voice haltingly commenced his story.

“He was savo
uring the leisure of a well-deserved break between terms when hell broke loose onto him. You may judge for yourselves which of the calamities should be counted the worst. I should say the first, for the report reached him that all his numerous children, seven sons and three daughters, had perished in a single moment. The old man was a widower, and his many offspring thus meant even more to him than they might have otherwise. They had spread out all over our island kingdom and had now assembled together in a nearby lodge which had hosted their family events for many years. The goal was to share their father’s holiday, since, everyone growing older, they should likely have few more chances for such reunions. You will have heard the reports of the recent earth tremor in these parts. Mostly it did but negligible damage, but somehow it
struck the lodge so severely as to cause the collapse of the roof, killing everyone inside. It appeared to be the most freakish of accidents. And the news of it was enough to send the Reverend Lampton into a near-coma.

“Hearing of the disaster, our Father Ailes made it his business to visit his old friend and to offer what comfort he could in the circumstances. I am told that few suffe
ring parishioners ask their pastors to account for the justice of God in allowing them to be stricken by adversity. Most simply want a listening ear and a waterproof shoulder. But Reverend Lampton felt little need for either. As a theology teacher, he had no patience for childish conceptions of the Almighty and so did not think God owed him special protection. His beliefs over the years had run more towards Deism and its impassive Creator. He believed in neither miracles nor the smitings of divine wrath. His grief he sought to deal with stoically, enduring his terrible pain as long as he must, as it would be a dishonour to those whom he had lost should he seek to hasten through the slough of despond for the sake of his own comfort.

“But things got worse. His stately home became the second and last structure in the area to collapse, though this time there was no recorded tremor. The Reverend Lampton, to whom I shall henceforth refer simply as ‘Dr. Lampton’ in order to spare myself a few superfluous sy
llables, counted himself fortunate to have been walking in his garden when the house fell with no evident cause.

“At once, from nowhere,
came a band of felons who rooted through the rubble and made away with whatever they could of Dr. Lampton’s still-undamaged possessions. And then the poor man naturally suspected that these vultures must have planted explosives and waited for their chance to descend. This struck him, of course, as a very peculiar manner of crime, since it must ruin much or most of the desired plunder. And indeed, subsequent police investigation disclosed no sign of any explosive agent amid the destruction.

“Naturally, the bereaved fellow, now doubly shocked and befuddled, had to seek temporary quarters els
ewhere. He was able to seek refuge with the closest of the families of his slain children, though this he did not prefer, since their deep grief at their mutual loss merely compounded his own. As he fell asleep one night, he felt catapulted into the most terrible of nightmares: it seemed to him that the oldest of his grandchildren entered his room wielding a knife and screaming like a banshee. But, though certainly a nightmare, it was no dream! He struggled as best he could with his assailant but could not fend off his plunging, flailing knife. Thanks to the darkness and the frenzied state of his grandson, the blows went wide of their mark, wounding him, but not fatally. Dr. Lampton was drenched in his own blood and beginning to lose consciousness, and his last sight was that of the young madman’s final knife-stab, this one aimed accurately—at his own heart.

“By now the door frame, then the room, were filled with wide-eyed family members. Dr. Lampton’s daug
hter-in-law had the presence of mind, or at least the automatic instincts, to tear herself away from the grisly scene and call for help. With the aid of the closest neighbours, the family soon transferred the wounded Lampton to the nearest hospital, this being made the more difficult by the sudden arrival of policemen alerted to the shocking death of the would-be murderer. If all this were not enough, the wretched Lampton developed a strange and painful skin disease as soon as he was admitted. His doctors confessed themselves baffled at both the nature and the genesis of his affliction. Of course, it was in his hospital room that I called upon the man and learned the facts as I have just now related them to you.

“Through the terrible recital, I once or twice caught on the face of the concerned Father Ailes a hint of a queer mixture of irritation and satisfaction, though nothing said by the tormented Lampton could have prompted either reaction. But I had right then no opportunity to think fu
rther about the matter. I would later, though.

“Dr. Lampton’s recital had tired him out consider
ably, and he drifted off into sleep. It was a mercy. Father Ailes and I left him and seated ourselves in the visitors’ lounge down the hall. The priest spoke first.

“‘
Mr. ah, Carnacki, is it? Sidney’s bodily sufferings are great, but the doctors give me to think that he is set on the path to recovery. Still, I worry . . .’

“‘“
Go and sin no more, lest something worse befall thee,” is that it?’

“‘
Why, yes! I suppose so. May I ask what you make of Sidney’s misfortunes, horrible as they are?’

“‘
That, Father Ailes, is just what I have come to find out. I take it you have some thoughts on the matter?’

“‘
As a matter of fact, I do, if you would care to hear them.’

“But I would have to wait for that revelation, though not for long, for at just this point a nurse approached with word that poor Lampton had already awakened and wanted us to return. Naturally, we did.

“The exhausted Lampton was now propped up against a barricade of pillows and seeming remarkably alert. The nap, however brief, had plainly refreshed him. Father Ailes saw this, too, and it was clear he had been waiting for a chance to say his piece on some urgent matter and decided to wait no longer.

“‘
Sidney, you know how terrible I feel for you, and what I now say I know may strike you as harsh, but I intend nothing but to impart bracing good advice. It is my sincerest hope to indicate a course by which you may avoid further . . . incident.’

“‘
That is advice I shall consider seriously, my friend. Say on.’

“As I listened to the priest, I felt more as if I were hearing a sermon than a word of encouragement or counsel. And in no time at all, he had reached full steam.

“‘Sidney, I know that you have embraced the rationalistic teaching of the Deists, and that you exclude the hand of Providence from the scene of earthly affairs. Your opinions and teaching are well known. But surely you must see there can be no haphazard coincidence in the tribulations you have lately suffered. Can you not accept these trials as God’s attempts to prove to you not only his involvement in human affairs but, more particularly, his individual attention to your own affairs? Count these blows as the chastening rod of a loving Father who seeks but to guide you like a shepherd back to the truth! For, if you do not, I fear you must expect more, and more severe, chastisements from the throne of heaven.’

“I expected that Dr. Lampton’s countenance would redden with outrage at the priest’s presumption, and I hoped that it would, since the rush of blood might flush out his unwholesome pallor. On the other hand, I knew not but that the strain might prove too taxing for a man in his fragile condition. But I need not have worried, for I could see a hint of amusement trying to overtake his tired face. He spoke without a hint of vexation.

“‘But don’t you see, William, this is the very comfort of my position. When tragedy strikes, I need not augment my anxieties with the superstitious fear that some angry Jehovah has aimed a thunderbolt of wrath at me. The concrete happenings are quite worrisome enough. I shall soldier on, or so I hope, in the confidence that I may increase in virtue as a result of these rigours through which I am passing.’

“‘“
Superstitious”? Have a care! You had already verged upon blasphemy by your Deism, but now I fear you are stumbling over the line!’

“‘
Calm down, William! As St. Paul said, “I know of nothing against myself.” As far as I can tell, my old heart is pure. If God, as you view him, aims his vengeance at the wicked and not at the righteous, I cannot honestly say I deserve what has happened to me. And for me to be so confused that I know not the difference between sin and innocence must imply that there is no ready way to distinguish them, and all morality, such as you and I both cherish, falls to the ground. A deity such as you imagine must instead be described as a plaguing devil. And I should think it the true blasphemy to level such a charge.’

“I listened to all this with the keenest interest. I think you gentlemen know that my own convictions run closer to those of the much-afflicted Lampton. I do not scoff at what past ages have perforce understood as the miraculous and the supernatural. I know that the occult sciences are true sciences, and the wise man may learn the secret workings of hidden Forces that are, in their own way, just as ‘natural’ as those of our everyday exi
stence. Thus, once one becomes aware of them, it is seen to be more ‘rationalistic’ to believe in them than to reject them. Only in this way may we learn to deal successfully with them and not to be at their mercy. I recognised that the doughty Father
Ailes was offering much the same logic, though on different assumptions. If Sidney Lampton was refusing to countenance certain supramundane realities, he should be defenceless if they should come back to bite him. And so I suggested once a pause in the conversation presented itself.