by G. L. Gick
Sir Henry and his son sat, looking from one to the other of us in confusion and irritation.
The Sâr regarded them solemnly, fingers steepled to his chin. “I’m aware you’re both quite exhausted, gentlemen, as are we all. So I will endeavor to keep this as short as possible. You are, of course, perfectly aware of what happened to my old friend the Duc d’Origny at your estate last night. What you may not know is that this Beast was also here, where it slew Mrs. Althea Rutherford and one of the Spiritualists she was hosting.”
“So it’s true?” Alexander asked “They really did call up the spirit of the Werewolf Grange?”
“Nonsense,” snapped Sir Henry. “It was just some creature this man bought to disrupt the conference. I know it!”
The Sâr paid him no mind. “Oh, they certainly called up something during the séance, there’s no doubt about that. But if my theory is correct—and they are never wrong—it was by no means a ghost.”
Now it was my turn to be surprised. “What? Then what was it?”
The Sâr frowned at me, disapproving of my interruption. He turned back to his unwelcome guests. “May I ask you a question, Mr. Alexander? During your time in India, you frequented many places, did you not? That is, places where an Englishman of your standing would rather not be seen if he wanted to keep his reputation. I do not mean brothels and the like. I instead refer to other associations—such as those with certain Russian agents. And temples of certain cults the British authorities consider most dangerous. Please, please; calm yourself. Your past is no secret to those who frequent India. I’ve heard of your exploits, as has Lord John himself. Ah, but you were a reckless youth back then, weren’t you? Always looking for amusement. You even made the acquaintances of several native women, or so I’ve heard.” He glanced toward Kritchna, who was looking at the Westenras as a cobra does his prey.
Alexander Westenra glared. “Are you accusing me of treason, sir?”
“I am not. For we both know that your father was always there to pull you out before you fell into things too deeply; don‘t we? There is nothing so pure as a father’s love, is there? Still… you may have heard of a few things when you were associating with the darker magicians and occult masters you enjoyed so much. Such as, for instance, the term tulpa. Have you?”
“Say again?”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Westenra. Surely you’ve heard of the tulpa. It’s a very special thing in occult circles.”
“No.”
“No? Truly? Then allow me to enlighten you.
“A tulpa is something very difficult to create. Very. Indeed, only the most learned or powerful of yogis even try. But if you succeed…then, you have created yourself a very powerful weapon. Very powerful, indeed. If, in fact, you can control it. That’s quite hard. For, you see, the tulpa is a being created from the mind itself.”
“What?” I was incredulous. “Now this is going too far!”
“Quiet, Dickson.” Lord John said quietly. “The Sâr is right. I’ve seen such things before.”
“Too true,” the Sâr replied. “In the Black Temple of Mongolia. But to resume: the tulpa is neither a ghost nor a natural spirit. It is pseudo-life: an animated creature, often in the form of a natural beast or person, created from ectoplasm by the imagination of the yogi. As I said, only a few people can create them. And far fewer can control them for any length of time. You see, they are intensely angry creatures—angry for they know that you are real and ultimately they are not. And they hate it. Hate it to the core of their pseudo-existence. Ideally, one should have experienced years of study and meditation before even attempting to create a tulpa—but it can be done by less trained psychics. Not very well… but it can be done.”
By now Alexander was looking bored. “All right; yes, perhaps I recall hearing the word a time or two before. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Just this. The Werewolf who killed Mrs. Rutherford and my friend last night was no ghost. It was a tulpa.”
Sir Henry took the cigar out of his mouth. “For God’s sake—” but the Sâr continued.
“I first began to suspect when my Star-Stone didn’t draw any curse out of poor Miss Rutherford here—yes, gentlemen, she was the ‘werewolf,’ but by no means of her own accord. When we found her in the road, surrounded by ectoplasm, I knew we weren’t dealing with a true lycanthrope. The ‘Werewolf’ was in actuality a psychic shell surrounding the girl, not a physical transformation in and of itself. One that temporarily controlled her, but yet not strong enough to last permanently.
“No, Miss Christina was simply an instrument in someone else’s hands.”
“Then, who?” Kritchna asked.
“Ah.” The Sar smiled. “Based on my previous experiences with tulpas, I immediately realized that it could not have been a very experienced psychic that formed it. Otherwise, the Werewolf would have existed and acted as its own form. But, no—whoever created it obviously needed some sort of base to form the ectoplasm around; an already-existing ‘skeleton,’ as it were, so the Beast could move and walk and do what its creator wanted it to.”
The audience sat spellbound by the Doctor’s words. So intent, in fact, that even Roxton had turned his attention away from his surroundings, leaning forward to catch every word. So he did not notice as I did when the drawing room door slowly and silently began to creak open.
“Look out!”
To his credit, Roxton was instantly alert and turning, bringing up his rifle to face whomever it may be, but the door burst open and the cold barrel of a pistol pointed directly toward his heart.
“Hold up there, Lord John, if you please,” Peter Westenra said mildly. “Now, kindly lower the rifle to the floor... That’s it. Thank you. Now, please, move over there with the others. Everyone else, kindly stand with your hands in the air. That means you as well, Doctor.”
“Ah,” the Sâr said calmly. “I must admit I wasn’t expecting you to follow your elders, young man. Careless of me.”
“So it was.” He gestured with the pistol. “All of you, in one group, over there. But please do not think of rushing me, for I would hate to have to shoot one of the ladies. And I shall, if you try anything.”
All of us, Appleby included, obeyed. Sir Henry heaved in relief. Even Alexander was impressed.
“Thank God, Peter!” he ejaculated. “Finally you ended up doing something right! Here, kick that rifle toward me, and we can—”
“Alexander,” Peter stated calmly, pointing the pistol straight at him, “shut up.” And he sent a bullet through his brother’s head.
Christina screamed. Alexander Westenra, blood streaming from the hole in his forehead, teetered a moment, as if unable to quite process what was happening. Then he fell over, spreading crimson upon the carpet.
“Son!” cried Sir Henry and made to go to the body, but the pistol had swerved to cover him while its holder never took his eye off us.
“Get over there with the rest of them, Father. Now!”
“Peter Westenra, what the Hell are you—”
“Do it!!!” screamed Peter, finger tightening on the trigger. The look on his face was the antithesis of the sallow, sad expression I had known before. After a moment, unable to tear his eyes from the body on the floor, Sir Henry obeyed.
“I have to admit you surprised me on this one, young man,” the Sâr said. “I honestly did believe it was your brother.”
Peter smiled, bitterly. “The more fool you, then. Isn’t it always the one who seems the meekest? To tell the truth, I’m the one who’s surprised Dickson didn‘t figure it out—you’re supposed to be the great detective, after all, aren‘t you> Ah, well—the truth never matches up to the fiction.”
“Son!” Sir Henry cried, “What are you doing? “
“Oh, it’s ‘son,’ now, Father? At long, long last? Please. You never paid any attention to me before, why start now? After all, I’ve only ever been an embarrassment to you. Because I was sickly and weak, and never came up to your standard
s of manliness. Kindness and compassion were always detriments to you.” The pistol held steadily at us. “Well, congratulations! Years ago you finally burned all the compassion right out of me. Oh, I hid it well. I decided to. That way, you left me alone. And you never stopped to consider what I might really be getting into while in India.”
“Of course,” I said. “When Alexander took you around, trying to make a ‘man’ out of you. You must have met fakirs among the rest of the riff-raff he made you associate with. They taught you about tulpas.”
“Oh, more than that. Much more. The problem was; I didn’t have the innate talent to utilize any of it. None of us Westenras do. So, obviously, I needed to find someone who did possess such talent. And, lo and behold, she came to me. Would you like to meet her?” He dared a quick look toward the door. “Come on in, darling.”
From the doorway, there was the sound of light footsteps, and a woman walked in. No one was surprised to see Rosemary Underwood, also holding a pistol. But we were when she reached up and yanked the drab brown wig off, revealing a long mass of luxurious dark hair and rubbed her cheeks with her hand, brushing away the greasepaint that gave her a Caucasian appearance. Beneath that makeup, her skin was a light brown, smooth with young womanhood, and as a false nose came off, the green eyes took a more lustrous tone. The classical features of a most beautiful Indian maid appeared before us. And Kritchna, eyes boggling, cried:
“Ashanti! Ashanti!”
“Hello, brother,” the former Miss Underwood said, pointing her pistol at him.
It was impossible, I thought. Darshan’s sister! Still alive!
“By the gods, Ashanti! We thought you were dead! Mother was heart-broken! I searched and searched, but—” He seemed to become aware there was a weapon in her hand. “What are you doing?”
The girl almost seemed sad. “What I must, Darshan. For you, I’m sorry, I truly am. But I’m not sorry he’s gone...”—she gestured to the body on the floor—“or that he’s going to go.” She motioned to Sir Henry. “Or about the rest of these.”
Slowly a light was beginning to dawn in my mind. “That’s why you ran away as Rosemary Underwood! You weren’t afraid the Sâr would recognize you—you were afraid Darshan would!” Tight-lipped, the girl nodded.
“For God’s sake, why?” her brother asked.
She looked pointedly toward him. “Two reasons. First, revenge. You know what that bastard did to me. It wasn’t enough he seduced me; he had to throw me out when I got pregnant. And he felt nothing when I lost the child. But then—then I met Peter.” She smiled at her companion. “Unlike everyone else, he treated me kindly. He gave me money when I needed it. And we fell in love.”
“But—but that’s impossible!” Sir Henry interposed. “Peter, you’re—”
“No, Father. I’m not. You assumed I was. Because I wouldn’t sleep with the whores you and Alexander brought, even while you were married to Mother. It simply became easier to let you believe it. Even when you tried to marry me off to poor, foolish Christina here. Yes, my dear, I regret to say I had another lover while we were ‘courting.’ She had something I wanted; I had something she wanted. Love was just an added bonus to our relationship.”
A cold smile crossed Ashanti’s beautiful lips. “Which brings me to my second reason. You know how Father denied us our birthright, Darshan—the powers that were supposed to be ours. You didn’t care. But I did. I wanted to learn. And Father wasn’t going to let me. But then Peter came up with the perfect solution.”
“Might I guess?” asked the Sâr. “Young Westenra wanted revenge on his family for years of neglect. You wanted revenge on the same. So you made a deal. Peter would arrange for you to meet other fakirs who would teach you the use of your psychic abilities. In return, when the time was right, you would use those abilities to kill his hated family. He must have paid to send you here alongside him, where you set yourself up as Spiritualist Rosemary Underwood. When news of the conference arose, the two of you saw your perfect opportunity.”
“Not quite,” Peter said. “That was the séance. Destroying the conference was just a bit of opportunistic coincidence. Our original plan was to simply kill Alexander and let Father destroy himself mourning—but why not remove Father’s reputation and career while we were at it? The legend of the Rutherford Werewolf was too perfect not to use. Of course, Ashanti had never tried to form a tulpa before. It needed testing. So two nights before the conference, we tried to summon one up as a test.”
“The footsteps on the roof,” I said. “The thing that killed Colleen.”
“Yes. Killing the cat wasn‘t intentional, by the by, if it salves your feelings. She simply got in the way. But we found that, despite her power, Ashanti still didn’t have the expertise to create a tulpa out of whole cloth. The first fell apart very quickly. As you found out, Dickson.”
“The goo I discovered.”
“Yes. The remains of our first tulpa melting away.”
“Still, we needed a solution, and quickly,” Ashanti continued. “So we came up with the idea—we couldn’t create a full tulpa, but we could create the shell of one. And if we put it over a living being—”
“You could temporarily control that being through your personified rage at the Westenras,” the Sâr finished. “The person—Christina—would have no conscious control over her actions. The tulpa’s rage would be her driving force. A rage bent right toward the Westenras.”
“But my mother—!” screamed Christina.
“Ah, yes. Poor Althea. We underestimated the bloodlust of the tulpa shell. But then, according to legend, the werewolf always kills first what it most loves.” Peter shrugged. “But then, we all knew she‘d been yearning to join her husband for ages, didn‘t we?”
Roxton cursed them, deeply and bitterly.
During this time, Sir Henry was sinking further and further to the floor, mopping his brow, unable to comprehend everything he was hearing. “This is not possible…”
“Oh, believe it, Father. Trust me; it’s the last thing you ever will believe.”
“So I suppose you intend to kill us all now?” The Sar raised an eyebrow. “I wonder how you intend to do so—if you shoot us, of course, the Police will certainly look to the only surviving Westenra.”
“Naturally,” Peter said, lowering the pistol. “But we don’t need bullets to kill you.” He smiled; a long, wide thing that seemed to split his face in two. As he did, for some reason Ashanti had closed her eyes. My first instinct was to charge them, but I knew they could fire within a second’s notice.
“We’ll bury the body of Alexander where no one will ever find it,” Peter was continuing, and, somehow, he seemed to be becoming larger as he spoke. The hair on his arms was thickening, and a peculiar shimmering filled the air about him. His nose and lips seemed to be extending, pushing themselves out into one snout-like appendage. But no—it wasn’t. Something from the air itself was surrounding the man, shaping itself like clay about the form of Peter Westenra, taking on fleshly color and solidity, then rippling as a thick mass of fur ran over it. The voice became deeper and harsher, the words more difficult to enunciate or understand. “But, you—what remains of you will be found.” The hands seemed to extend out, fingers merging into a thick thumb and two digits. Claws appeared on the ends of them. “They’ll never be able to put any of you back together, of course.” The body slouched over as the knees of his legs seemingly reversed themselves, bending in the back like the hind legs of a dog. “And don’t think your precious prayers or magic stones will work this time—they didn’t work the first!”
Peter Westenra, now covered in the form of a Werewolf, threw back his head and howled.
Ashanti laughed and stepped aside, gazing admiringly at her handiwork. Unable to reach his rifle, Roxton placed himself before the women and poised himself. He knew he had no chance against this monster, but he was prepared to defend his niece till his last breath. The rest of us, consciously or not, did the same. Save Sir Henry, who,
terrified, shrank back, making little noises, making insane whimperings and a terrible smell emitting from between his legs.
Grinning and gurgling its terrible laugh, the Beast slowly rotated its neck across us, trying to decide whom it should kill first. Moving to the side, Ashanti’s foot brushed against the outer rods of the Electric Pentacle. It made a dull clinking sound as she did, and the Beast, attention suddenly pricked, turned to see what had caused it. The red eyes fell upon the girl, who was stepping away from the contraption with a frown. As its gaze fell upon her, a stray thought flowed hysterically through my mind.
The werewolf always kills first what it most loves.
That must have been the reason. Whatever true feeling Peter Westenra may have had for Ashanti Kritchna, whatever humanity hadn’t been dried up by years of being raised by Sir Henry, had been buried under the rage of the tulpa.
Ashanti clearly hadn’t expected it. She looked up, surprised as the Beast turned fully toward her. “Peter?” Then she screamed as it leaped toward her.
“Kritchna! Dickson!” the Doctor yelled and all three of us dashed forward.
Roxton lunged for his rifle on the floor. Our only thoughts were to get this monster away from the girl and into the borders of the Pentacle. But it was too late for Ashanti. The great claws had reached out and ripped the flesh from her face, and she joined Alexander on the floor, dead instantly.
Kritchna roared and shoved the Beast forward. Startled, it tottered backward, stepping over the metal rods until it was in the center of the Pentacle.
“Appleby! Pray!” cried the Sâr and he began to dash about the Pentacle’s edges, chanting in a loud voice. From various pockets, he brought forth Star-Stones, dropping them in what seemed to be random places (but weren’t) and never pausing for a breath.
The tulpa paused, snarled, tried to step out of the Pentacle—but couldn’t. Something seemed to be keeping it inside. It drew back, glaring at us evilly with its little red eyes
The Sâr paused long enough to cry, “Peter! Let it go! Let the tulpa dissolve! Otherwise, it will burn!”
