by G. L. Gick
He only got a howl in response and the Beast threw itself at the edge again and again. But it still failed to step beyond.
“Appleby! Keep praying!”
The butler did. As did the Sâr, continuing his monologue. And now the Beast was stepping back, wincing, just like I had seen in the garden of Westenra House. But now something new was happening.
All over the tulpa’s body, arms and legs and face, the fur and skin were bubbling
Tiny bursts of ectoplasm, like miniature geysers, were erupting from all parts of its torso and up and down its limbs, expending themselves in obscene, squishy pop-pop-pop noises that made me think of great boils somehow lancing themselves.
It turned to face us, painfully. It tottered uneasily on the bent, twisted appendages that served it for legs, as the true, human limbs of Peter Westenra beneath trembled uncontrollably. The look of pain on the monster’s face was horrific. I could only guess what was happening to the man beneath. Peter Westenra was now controlled by the rage and hatred of his own creation, and lunged again and again at us. But for some reason it could not go beyond the last rod of the Electric Pentacle.
Behind me, I could hear Appleby increase the determination of his prayers; I could see before me the creature flinch with every word. For his part, the Sâr was practically dancing about the Pentacle, dropping Star-Stones and chanting his deep, unintelligible syllables. I sensed Gianetti and Christina clutching each other; I heard Lord John bravely but fumblingly load more bullets. But the tulpa would not relent.
It advanced, menacingly, but was forced to stop at the edge of the Pentacle. Placing its hand-paw against the air, it seemed to push against it, like an invisible wall was holding it back. The bubbling was continuing, and the top half of the Beast’s head had almost melted away. I could see the beginnings of Peter’s forehead show from beneath the ectoplasm. It was smoking—turning red and blistered as the power of the Pentacle and the incantations worked upon it, the fur on his arms peeling away to show black and burned human flesh, white bone beginning to show beneath the skin.
The fair hair had been burned away, leaving scorched scalp. Our nostrils were assailed with the stench of cooking meat. I myself could only stand there, watching in helpless fascination as everything I’d never believed in stood there and melted like it was made of hot treacle.
Craning its percolating neck, the tulpa’s eyes bored on the figure of the Doctor. It breathed heavily, as if gathering up its strength for one last attack. The latter had stopped both his dancing and chanting now, gazing evenly but with pity at the snarling Beast in the Pentacle. “It’s over, Westenra. Surrender. You’ll die if you do not. And I have no wish for that.”
The creature that had been Peter Westenra snarled. And then, it leaped at the edge of the Pentacle with all its remaining might, shoving against the invisible “wall.”
For a moment, I almost imagined the air bending outward like a bubble beneath its power. Then the bubble burst and the tulpa was outside the Pentacle. It seized the Sâr and knocked him to the carpet.
The werewolf form had almost entirely melted away by now, leaving a charred, burning, but still-alive Peter Westenra behind. But whatever humanity he had, if he indeed had ever truly had any, had been burned away as well. Only the beast remained. Teeth gleamed between the charcoal-black lips, reaching down for the Sâr’s unprotected neck…
Instinctively, I lunged for the Beast. I heard something explode and then nothing but red pain was before my eyes as something tore into my side. Lord John had reacted automatically as well, shooting toward the Beast. But I had gotten in the way. I fell as the bullets tore into my hip.
All I repeat of what happened next, I cannot state with certainty absolutely happened. With a ball in my side and a ripped rag from Darshan’s sleeve to staunch the blood, everything swam before my eyes as if from some opium dream. I was only vaguely aware that Kritchna was pulling me across the floor away from the fray. Lord John, his gun empty, yet pressed to the attack, slamming into the monster with the rifle butt as a club. Given the briefest of respites, the Sâr tried to reach out for a star-stone. But Peter stepped upon his hand. In one arm, with the strength of a madman, he held back Roxton, pushing the rifle away with the other. Then, with a heave he sent the aristocrat to the ground. Before he could rise, Westenra threw himself upon the Sâr, pushing back the Doctor’s head to bare the tender flesh of the throat.
Peter threw back his head and howled.
Then screamed.
For he had forgotten the others.
On either side, two Star-Stones were suddenly and firmly pressed into his cheeks. Smoke poured from the indentations. But Darshan Kritchna and Christina Rutherford stood firm, shoving the stones further into his flesh; pressing harder and harder into its scorching folds.
Free, the Sâr began his chanting again—as did Appleby, who was now going through the only thing he could recall in his panic, the 23rd Psalm: “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want..” I could hear the voice of Gianetti call out, a Latin prayer I could not immediately identify. And, lastly, despite my pain, I heard another voice ring out again and again, and could not believe it was my own:
“When the impossible has been eliminated, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth…When the impossible has been eliminated, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth—”
Peter Westenra, black and bleeding, trembled.
“Get back!” There was the click of a gun being primed, and then explosion. What remained of Peter’s head went up in a ball of crimson fluid. The body twitched just one last, brief moment and became still.
Lord John staggered back, dropping his rifle.
There was only the sound of Sir Henry, sobbing in the background.
Somehow, in the midst of it all, I managed to roll over onto my back. I stared up at the beautiful face of Miss Gianetti, now hovering concernedly over me.
“You know, I was going to call in my mentor to see what he could make of all this,” I said weakly. “But now, I believe I shall refrain.”
“You’re a very lucky young man, Dickson,” the Sâr said as he finally finished wrapping the bandages around my waist. “You were in just the right position for the bullets to miss any organs. I wouldn’t try anything strenuous for some time, but you should recover.” He smiled broadly. “Certainly you shouldn’t go hunting any more werewolves.”
“Werewolves,” I sighed, shaking my head wearily. “Tulpas. The occult.”
“Even now you still do not believe, do you, Dickson? Not really.”
I was quiet for a long time. Then: “It goes against everything I was ever taught, by my mentor or otherwise. Even now, I have to wonder if it could not have been some form of mass hypnosis, something we saw because we were supposed to see it.”
The Doctor turned on the sink to wash his hands. “I cannot make you believe, Dickson,” he said. “Only point you in the direction. If you choose to feel there’s a rational explanation for all that has happened, I’m certain you’ll come up with one. Until then, make your own decision.” He tossed the towel aside. “Or perhaps you could try Appleby’s way, and simply have a little faith.”
The door opened and Lord John strolled in. “Well, I just got off the telephone with the Government. M’s sending a contingent to wrap things up. You know M, don’t you, Dickson?”
“We’ve met,” I smiled.
“Well, he’s asked that we all remain until his men get here. Wretched debriefings. God knows how they’ll square all this with France, being as one of their most influential diplomats is dead, but they‘ll have to. He also said he’ll take care of things with your employer, Dickson.”
“Oh. Delightful.” I could just see that. As well as the red ears I would get when I returned.
“By the way, I poured through Roger’s old journals. Found a picture of the original ‘werewolf.’ Look.” He held up a book, opening to a certain page. On it was a rough drawing; that of a spotted, sloped cre
ature vaguely likes a dog, but much bigger and ratty. “A spotted hyena, just as we suspected. I’ve seen hundreds of them in Africa. Your theory must have been correct, Doctor—probably an exotic beast that originally escaped from some gipsy camp or other. There was never a real Werewolf of Rutherford Grange after all.”
“Excellent,” the Sâr declared as he picked up his omnipresent carpetbag. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to give our regards to M. Miss Annunciata and I are leaving for Paris immediately.”
“But—you can’t go now! Not when M wants to speak with you!”
“Certainly I can. I despise debriefings. I’m sure you’ll do fine without us.” He paused at the door, turned back, and smiled. “Besides, knowing you, Dickson—you’ll come up with some rational explanation for our departure.”
Thus ended the Adventure of the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange. A cover story was set up about a huge and feral dog on the loose, killing people, but most seemed to accept it. It was better than the truth. Only a few more things remain to be said
Two days later, the funeral for Althea Rutherford was held. Sir Henry Westenra did not attend. He was a broken man: deprived of one son, betrayed by another, forever lost to both; his career was in ruins and no amount of favors owed could help him now. Eight months later, the town Constable found him with a broken neck and eyes rolled back to his forehead—he had taken a rope and hung himself from the very bridge his ancestor had hung three innocent people almost 300 years earlier. I wish I could say I felt sorry for him.
I presume the family of the Duc d’Origny had their own ceremony, but I was not privy to that. If the Sâr Dubnotal attended, I am not aware of it.
And, although I had sworn never to do so, almost a year to the day later I found myself in Wolfsbridge again, when I served as best man to a young Indian named Darshan Kritchna as Lord John Roxton gave Christina Rutherford away to be his wife. As I understand, most of her neighbors were more perturbed about Christina marrying out of her race than the fact her mother had been horribly killed, but I personally was delighted. The two had suffered much, and, in looking for comfort, found each other.
Darshan never told me what he did with his sister’s body, and I did not ask. The vengeance he had wasted years trying to gain had been ripped from him and it was painful for him to face it. In the end, they decided to return to India, where I understand Roxton used his contacts to gain obtain Darshan a comfortable position with the Government. Christina settled down to a contented motherhood. Over the years I have since lost contact with the two, but if they should ever happen to read this manuscript, I would have them know I continue to wish them both the best.
Appleby left Service, even at his age, to finally fulfill his dream of becoming a minister. As you might have heard, eventually he gained quite a reputation for himself as a lecturer—against the ilk of Spiritualism and the occult. Once, several years later, I had occasion to meet him unexpectedly on a London street and inquire about his new-found calling. In reply, it was clear he still respected the memory of the Sâr but told me, “A fake séance raised a tulpa, Mr. Dickson. Have you any idea what an actual one might call up?”
I had no answer to that.
As for myself, I returned to my apprenticeship with Mr. Blake, where my ears were promptly blistered for not calling him in immediately. Then he listened in fascination while I told him what happened. I returned to school and eventually did realize my dream of opening my own agency—although it took the Great War and much Intelligence work to finally work a callow youth into a mature, fully reasoning adult. You may have read some exaggerated versions of my adventures in the popular magazines.
Yet to this day, I still don’t know what to think about the “Werewolf of Rutherford Grange.” So, for the most part, I simply ignore the memory. A mind so powerful it can call entities into being right out of the aether? A mixture of science and the supernatural to call up the ghosts of the dead? It still goes against everything I have ever held sacred being perfectly aware all the while, of course, of the unique irony in a Skeptic holding anything at all to be “sacred.”).
What’s that, you say? And whatever happened to Gianetti and the Sâr Dubnotal?
In truth, I am glad I am unable to tell you. For I fully intend never to have a second encounter with them, as long as I can help it!
Beware the Beasts
Planet Soror, the Future
It really was a lovely afternoon for tea. The brief summer shower had passed, filling the air with the pleasant tang of wet earth and grass. In the garden behind Jinn’s villa, songbirds twittered from tree to tree, while a red squirrel, looking for nuts, paused inquisitively upon a branch to gaze down at the strange party, then dash back into the leaves, tail twitching furiously.
“Another cup, perhaps?” Jinn asked his honored guest.
Doctor Omega leaned back in his chair and abstained, contentment practically pouring out of him.
“Oh, heavens, certainly not. I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“More jam, Tiziraou?”
Phyllis, Jinn’s lovely wife, proffered a dish to the little creature sitting next to her.
“Thank you, please,” the tiny, macroencephalic Martian chirped in its high-pitched voice, pushing its plate forward, perhaps more eagerly than necessary. Unable to chew most solid foods, the small alien was often forced to make do with more liquified sustenance. As a result, he had become practically addicted to the melange of sweet jams and jellies his planet had never produced, but that were so easily obtainable in far-off Normandy.
The Doctor tut-tutted, but otherwise said nothing. After nearly dying in his heroic attempt to help save this world, he figured that Tiziraou was entitled to a bit of gluttony.
At the edge of the pond, a swan-like creature dipped its long, elegant neck deep into the water, looking for food. Along all sides of the villa, Phyllis’ beloved flowers were in full bloom, attracting the pleasant buzzing of honeybees.
“I still don’t know how to thank you, Doctor,” Jinn stated. “If not for you and Tiziraou, Soror would have ceased to exist, in the blink of an eye. How could we possibly repay you? We owe you everything.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say ‘everything,’ my boy.” The Doctor casually waved off the compliment, but his face was a blazing display of self-satisfaction. “I’m hardly responsible. Indeed, we wouldn’t even have known of the whole affair if we hadn’t encountered that lost spaceman during our travels, would we, Tiziraou? Too bad he refuses to leave my Cosmos to join us, but I’m not going to force him.”
Steepling his fingers together, he gazed into the sky and harrumphed. “The mere effrontery of it all. This Q creature... Deciding he doesn’t like the way a planet is shaping up, so he takes it upon himself to create a variant, to change things to see if he likes it better another way... Still, we certainly placed a spanner into his works, didn’t we, hmm? Perhaps he’ll think twice next time before playing with the timelines again.”
“I certainly hope so, Doctor,” said Jinn.
“You know what you have to do now, hmm?” said Doctor Omega, looking at them sternly.
Phyllis put in quietly. “I still cannot get over the notion...”
“I know what you’re going to say, my dear. But you have no choice.”
“Do we?” Jinn’s voice was raised in protest, but he refused to raise his eyes to meet the Doctor’s. “What can we do? We’re merely two people. Yet you ask us to alter hundreds of years of hatred and...”
“Entire worlds have turned on the actions of just one person, Jinn. Believe me. I know. And it has to begin somewhere.”
“But—but you don’t understand!” Phyllis cried. “From our very childhood, we are taught to hate and fear the beasts. Of all creatures, only they hunt and kill for the sheer pleasure of it; only they slaughter for the sake of slaughter. Even their own kind, they kill. The beasts are monsters, Doctor. How can you ask us to put all that aside?”
“Because you must, child. Because for all the j
ust, equitable society you have tried to create here on Soror, it still amounts to nothing if even one sentient creature cannot participate in it. You say the beasts are monsters? You’re right; they are. I know that better than anyone. They’re killers. Murderers. But they are also so much more.” Once again, he glanced to the sky, as if gathering his thoughts. “I have seen the destinies of countless races throughout this universe, my friends. I have seen entire civilizations born, grow and die, either slowly or quickly, all too often by their own hands. But rarely have I seen one with so much potential, so much ability to turn their ways to either good or evil. It would be a crime against the universe if you did not allow them that chance.” Pushing his cup aside, he leaned forward expectantly. “And remember, to them, you are the beasts. You are the ones who hunt them without cause; who seem to hate them for the mere sake of hating them.”
Doctor Omega pointed a finger up to the alien sun above. “Finally, also remember that your planet originally had no existence. You’re a slice of time brought into existence by Q. Your civilization, for all its greatness and wonder, exists only because of a whim. Once his experiment was done, he would have destroyed you, if we hadn’t happened along... You say you owe me? Then repay me by letting the beasts into your society. It can be done. If you want to.”
Slowly, Jinn and Phyllis looked at each other. Then, slowly, they bowed their heads in acceptance.
“Good,” said the Doctor, smiling. “I knew you’d agree. As I said, you are a just society. You, too, deserve to be part of the universe. And I’m certain you’ll make it.”
Reaching into his frock coat, he pulled a large gold watch. “Time we got back to the Cosmos, eh, Tiziraou? We’ve still got to get that astronaut back to his own time and space. Come along!”
He stood, then wagged one finger warningly. “If you ever doubt the rightness of letting the beasts into your society,” he said, “think on how they treat your own people on their world.”
