Fighters of Fear

by Mike Ashley

  “I beg your pardon,” said the young man in a low voice.

  “I beg yours for my impatience,” said the Tracer pleasantly. “This deciphering always did affect my nerves and shorten my temper. And, no doubt, it is quite as hard on you. Shall we go on, Mr. Burke?”

  “If you please, Mr. Keen.”

  So the Tracer laid his pencil point on the next symbol

  “That is the symbol for night,” he said; “and that

  is the water symbol again, as you know; and that

  is the ideograph, meaning a ship. The five reversed crescents

  record the number of days voyage; the sign

  means a house, and is also the letter H in the Egyptian alphabet.

  “Under it, again, we have a repetition of the first symbol meaning I, and a repetition of the second symbol, meaning ‘Meris, the King.’ Then, below that cartouch, comes a new symbol,

  which is the feminine personal pronoun, sentus, meaning ‘she’; and the first column is completed with the symbol for the ancient Egyptian verb, nehes, ‘to awake,’

  “And now we take the second column, which begins with the jackal ideograph expressing slyness or cleverness. Under it is the hieroglyph meaning ‘to run away,’ ‘to escape.’ And under that, Mr. Burke, is one of the rarest of all Egyptian symbols; a symbol seldom seen on stone or papyrus,

  except in rare references to the mysteries of Isis. The meaning of it, so long in dispute, has finally been practically determined through a new discovery in the cuneiform inscriptions. It is the symbol of two hands holding two closed eyes; and it signifies power.”

  “You mean that those ancients understood hypnotism?” asked Burke, astonished.

  “Evidently their priests did; evidently hypnotism was understood and employed in certain mysteries. And there is the symbol of it; and under it the hieroglyphs

  meaning ‘a day and a night,’ with the symbol

  as usual present to signify force or strength employed. Under that, again, is a human figure stretched upon a typical Egyptian couch. And now, Mr. Burke, note carefully three modifying signs: first, that it is a couch or bed on which the figure is stretched, not the funeral couch, not the embalming slab; second, there is no mummy mask covering the face, and no mummy case covering the body; third, that under the recumbent figure is pictured an open mouth, not a closed one.

  “All these modify the ideograph, apparently representing death. But the sleep symbol is not present. Therefore it is a sound inference that all this simply confirms the symbol of hypnotism.”

  Burke, intensely absorbed, stared steadily at the scroll.

  “Now,” continued Mr. Keen, “we note the symbol of force again, always present; and, continuing horizontally, a cartouch quite empty except for the midday sun. That is simply translated; the midday sun illuminates nothing. Meris, deposed, is king only in name; and the sun no longer shines on him as ‘Ruler of Upper and Lower Egypt.’ Under that despairing symbol, ‘King of Nothing,’ we have

  the phonetics which spell sha, the word for garden. And, just beyond this, horizontally, the modifying ideograph meaning ‘a water garden’;

  a design of lotus and tree alternating on a terrace. Under that is the symbol for the word ‘aneb,’

  a ‘wall.’ Beyond that, horizontally, is the symbol for ‘house.’ It should be placed under the wall symbol, but the Egyptians were very apt to fill up spaces instead of continuing their vertical columns. Now, beneath, we find the imperative command

  ‘arise!’ And the Egyptian personal pronoun ‘entuten,’

  which means ‘you’ or ‘thou.’

  “Under that is the symbol

  which means ‘priest,’ or, literally, ‘priest man.’ Then comes the imperative ‘awake to life!’

  After that, our first symbol again, meaning ‘I,’ followed horizontally by the symbol

  signifying ‘to go.’

  “Then comes a very important drawing—you see?—the picture of a man with a jackal’s head, not a dog’s head. It is not accompanied by the phonetic in a cartouch, as it should be. Probably the writer was in desperate haste at the end. But, nevertheless, it is easy to translate that symbol of the man with a jackal’s head. It is a picture of the Egyptian god, Anubis, who was supposed to linger at the side of the dying to conduct their souls. Anubis, the jackal-headed, is the courier, the personal escort of departing souls. And this is he.

  “And now the screed ends with the cry ‘Pray for me!’

  the last symbol on this strange scroll—this missive written by a deposed, wounded, and dying king to an unnamed priest. Here is the literal translation in columns:

  “And this is what that letter, thousands of years old, means in this language of ours, hundreds of years young: ‘I, Meris the King, seized little Samaris, a harpist and a dancing girl, eighteen years of age, belonging to the King of Upper and Lower Egypt, and carried her away at night on shipboard—a voyage of five days—to my house. I, Meris the King, lest she lie awake watching cunningly for a chance to escape, hypnotized her (or had her hypnotized) so that she lay like one dead or asleep, but breathing, and I, King no longer of Upper and Lower Egypt, took her and placed her in my house under the wall of the water garden. Arise! therefore, O thou priest; (go) and awaken her to life. I am dying (I go with Anubis!). Pray for me!’”

  FOR A FULL MINUTE THE TWO MEN SAT THERE WITHOUT MOVING OR speaking. Then the Tracer laid aside his pencil.

  “To sum up,” he said, opening the palm of his left hand and placing the forefinger of his right across it, “the excavation made by the falling pillar raised in triumph above the water garden of the deposed king, Meris, by his rival, was the subterranean house of Meris. The prostrate figure which crumbled to powder at your touch may have been the very priest to whom this letter or papyrus was written. Perhaps the bearer of the scroll was a traitor and stabbed the priest as he was reading the missive. Who can tell how that priest died? He either died or betrayed his trust, for he never aroused the little Samaris from her suspended animation. And the water garden fell into ruins and she slept; and the Ruler of Upper and Lower Egypt raised his columns, lotus crowned, above the ruins; and she slept on. Then—you came.”

  Burke stared like one stupefied.

  “I do not know,” said the Tracer gravely, “what balm there may be in a suspension of sensation, perhaps of vitality, to protect the human body from corruption after death. I do not know how soon suspended animation or the state of hypnotic coma, undisturbed, changes into death—whether it comes gradually, imperceptibly freeing the soul; whether the soul hides there, asleep, until suddenly the flame of vitality is extinguished. I do not know how long she lay there with life in her.”

  He leaned back and touched an electric bell, then, turning to Burke:

  “Speaking of pistol range,” he said, “unstrap those weapons and pass them over, if you please.”

  And the young man obeyed as in a trance.

  “Thank you. There are four men coming into this room. You will keep your seat, if you please, Mr. Burke.”

  After a moment the door opened noiselessly. Two men handcuffed together entered the room; two men, hands in their pockets, sauntered carelessly behind the prisoners and leaned back against the closed door.

  “That short, red-haired, lame man with the cast in his eye—do you recognize him?” asked the Tracer quietly.

  Burke, grasping the arms of his chair, had started to rise, fury fairly blazing from his eyes; but, at the sound of the Tracer’s calm, even voice, he sank back into his chair.

  “That is Joram Smiles? You recognize him?” continued Mr. Keen.

  Burke nodded.

  “Exactly—alias Limpy, alias Red Jo, alias Big Stick Joram, alias Pinky; swindler, international confidence man, fence, burglar, gambler; convicted in 1887, and sent to Sing Sing for forgery; convicted in 1898, and sent to Auburn for swindling; arrested by my men on board the S. S. Scythian Queen, at the cabled request of John T. Burke, Esquire, and held to explain t
he nature of his luggage, which consisted of the contents of an Egyptian vault or underground ruin, declared at the customhouse as a mummy, and passed as such.”

  The quiet, monotonous voice of the Tracer halted, then, as he glanced at the second prisoner, grew harder:

  “Emanuel Gandon, general international criminal, with over half a hundred aliases, arrested in company with Smiles and held until Mr. Burke’s arrival.”

  Turning to Burke, the Tracer continued: “Fortunately, the Scythian Queen broke down off Brindisi. It gave us time to act on your cable; we found these men aboard when she was signaled off the Hook. I went out with the pilot myself, Mr. Burke.”

  Smiles shot a wicked look at Burke; Gandon scowled at the floor.

  “Now,” said the Tracer pleasantly, meeting the venomous glare of Smiles, “I’ll get you that warrant you have been demanding to have exhibited to you. Here it is—charging you and your amiable friend Gandon with breaking into and robbing the Metropolitan Museum of ancient Egyptian gold ornaments, in March, 1903, and taking them to France, where they were sold to collectors. It seems that you found the business good enough to go prowling about Egypt on a hunt for something to sell here. A great mistake, my friends—a very great mistake, because, after the Museum has finished with you, the Egyptian Government desires to extradite you. And I rather suspect you’ll have to go.”

  He nodded to the two quiet men leaning against the door.

  “Come, Joram,” said one of them pleasantly.

  But Smiles turned furiously on the Tracer. “You lie, you old gray rat!” he cried. “That ain’t no mummy; that’s a plain dead girl! And there ain’t no extrydition for body snatchin’, so I guess them blacks at Cairo won’t get us, after all!”

  “Perhaps,” said the Tracer, looking at Burke, who had risen, pale and astounded. “Sit down, Mr. Burke! There is no need to question these men; no need to demand what they robbed you of. For,” he added slowly, “what they took from the garden grotto of Saïs, and from you, I have under my own protection.”

  The Tracer rose, locked the door through which the prisoners and their escorts had departed; then, turning gravely on Burke, he continued:

  “That panel, there, is a door. There is a room beyond—a room facing to the south, bright with sunshine, flowers, soft rugs, and draperies of the East. She is there—like a child asleep!”

  Burke reeled, steadying himself against the wall; the Tracer stared at space, speaking very slowly:

  “Such death I have never before heard of. From the moment she came under my protection I have dared to doubt—many things. And an hour ago you brought me a papyrus scroll confirming my doubts. I doubt still—Heaven knows what! Who can say how long the flame of life may flicker within suspended animation? A week? A month? A year? Longer than that? Yes; the Hindoos have proved it. How long? The span of a normal life? Or longer? Can the life flame burn indefinitely when the functions are absolutely suspended—generation after generation, century after century?”

  Burke, ghastly white, straightened up, quivering in every limb; the Tracer, as pale as he, laid his hand on the secret panel.

  “If—if you dare say it—the phrase is this: ‘O Ket Samaris, Nehes!’—’O Little Samaris, awake!’”

  “I—dare. In Heaven’s name, open that door!”

  Then, averting his head, the Tracer of Lost Persons swung open the panel.

  A flood of sunshine flashed on Burke’s face; he entered; and the paneled door closed behind him without a sound.

  Minute after minute passed; the Tracer stood as though turned to stone, gray head bent.

  Then he heard Burke’s voice ring out unsteadily:

  “O Ket Samaris—Samaris! O Ket Samaris—Nehes!”

  And again: “Samaris! Samaris! O beloved, awake!”

  And once more: “Nehes! O Samaris!”

  Silence, broken by a strange, sweet, drowsy plaint—like a child awakened at midnight by a dazzling light.

  “Samaris!”

  Then, through the stillness, a little laugh, and a softly tremulous voice:

  “Ari un āhā, O Entuk sen!”

  THOMAS CARNACKI IN

  THE WHISTLING ROOM

  WILLIAM HOPE HODGSON

  In 1908 the publisher Eveleigh Nash had considerable success with Algernon Blackwood’s collection, John Silence, Physician Extraordinary which introduced the occult detective to a wide audience. Reviewers proclaimed Silence “the occult Sherlock Holmes.” Blackwood had originally written the stories as a series of occult studies, and it was at the publisher’s request that they were brought together as the investigations of one experienced specialist. Nash was keen to publish a second volume but Blackwood’s thoughts were “elsewhere and otherwise,” as he liked to term it, and so Nash cast around for another writer. He latched on to William Hope Hodgson (1877–1918) a former merchant seaman and keep-fit specialist who had turned to writing fiction in 1904. He had already published three novels, The Boats of the ‘Glen Carrig’ (1907), The House on the Borderland (1908), and The Ghost Pirates (1909), all of which had more critical than financial success, but his reputation was growing through his many short supernatural stories, most with nautical settings. What would prove to be his best known and most reprinted story, “The Voice in the Night,” had already been published in the United States in 1907 and now found a British publication in Nash’s new Nash’s Magazine for January 1910. At the same time Hodgson had started his series of stories featuring Carnacki, the Ghost-Finder in The Idler magazine. The Idler was in financial difficulties, and ceased publication in March 1911. It ran only five of the Carnacki series, a sixth, “The Thing Invisible” appearing in The New Magazine in January 1912. Nash saw the potential in the series and published these six stories as Carnacki, the Ghost-Finder in March 1913.

  Carnacki (we are not told his first name in the stories and it only surfaced when Hodgson copyrighted the stories in the United States) is a modern psychic sleuth using his Electric Pentacle but also such ancient texts as the Sigsand Manuscript, the Saaamaaa Ritual, and Harzam’s Monograph. There is little doubt that after the early years of the occult specialist, with Carnacki we enter the realms of the sensationalist.

  Hodgson had completed three further Carnacki stories but these were not published until after his death—he was killed in the Great War—and were eventually assembled in a new edition of Carnacki, the Ghost-Finder in 1947. Since then others have continued to chronicle his adventures including A. F. Kidd and Rick Kennett in No. 472 Cheyne Walk (2002), William Meikle in Carnacki: Heaven and Hell (2011) and The Edinburgh Townhouse (2017), and two anthologies edited by Sam Gafford, Carnacki: The New Adventures (2013) and Carnacki: The Lost Cases (2016).

  CARNACKI SHOOK A FRIENDLY FIST AT ME AS I ENTERED, LATE. THEN he opened the door into the dining room, and ushered the four of us—Jessop, Arkright, Taylor and myself—in to dinner.

  We dined well, as usual, and, equally as usual, Carnacki was pretty silent during the meal. At the end, we took our wine and cigars to our usual positions, and Carnacki—having got himself comfortable in his big chair—began without any preliminary:—

  “I have just got back from Ireland, again,” he said. “And I thought you chaps would be interested to hear my news. Besides, I fancy I shall see the thing clearer, after I have told it all out straight. I must tell you this, though, at the beginning—up to the present moment, I have been utterly and completely ‘stumped.’ I have tumbled upon one of the most peculiar cases of ‘haunting’—or devilment of some sort—that I have come against. Now listen.

  “I have been spending the last few weeks at Iastrae Castle, about twenty miles northeast of Galway. I got a letter about a month ago from a Mr. Sid K. Tassoc, who it seemed had bought the place lately, and moved in, only to find that he had bought a very peculiar piece of property.

  “When I got there, he met me at the station, driving a jaunting car, and drove me up to the castle, which, by the way, he called a ‘house shanty.’ I found that he
was ‘pigging it’ there with his boy brother and another American, who seemed to be half-servant and half-companion. It seems that all the servants had left the place, in a body, as you might say, and now they were managing among themselves, assisted by some day-help.

  “The three of them got together a scratch feed, and Tassoc told me all about the trouble whilst we were at table. It is most extraordinary, and different from anything that I have had to do with; though that Buzzing Case was very queer, too.

  “Tassoc began right in the middle of his story. ‘We’ve got a room in this shanty,’ he said, ‘which has got a most infernal whistling in it; sort of haunting it. The thing starts any time; you never know when, and it goes on until it frightens you. All the servants have gone, as you know. It’s not ordinary whistling, and it isn’t the wind. Wait till you hear it.’

  “‘We’re all carrying guns,’ said the boy; and slapped his coat pocket.

  “‘As bad as that?’ I said; and the older boy nodded. ‘It may be soft,’ he replied; ‘but wait till you’ve heard it. Sometimes I think it’s some infernal thing, and the next moment, I’m just as sure that someone’s playing a trick on me.’

  “‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What is to be gained?’

  “‘You mean,’ he said, ‘that people usually have some good reason for playing tricks as elaborate as this. Well, I’ll tell you. There’s a lady in this province, by the name of Miss Donnehue, who’s going to be my wife, this day two months. She’s more beautiful than they make them, and so far as I can see, I’ve just stuck my head into an Irish hornet’s nest. There’s about a score of hot young Irishmen been courting her these two years gone, and now that I’m come along and cut them out, they feel raw against me. Do you begin to understand the possibilities?’