Voices, words, hammered into him, body and soul—he tried to shut his mind’s eye, but ethereal fingers gripped the lids and forced it open, forced him to see. Not just the brief flashes of the moments before, but a deluge of dying screams and dark thoughts. Shreds of things that were not quite ghosts swarmed him, seeking the warmth of his life even as something impossibly massive heaved itself into motion in the dark. Hundreds of blank, dead faces glared up at him, and hands groped at him and a thunderous moan smashed at his ears. Hundreds of blind, long rotted eyes fixed unerringly on him as a hundreds of mouths moved, and more words washed over like a sudden downpour.
Howling darkness enveloped him. He was drawn down into mad coils and passed hand to hand into the darkness, back and forth. Teeth fastened on him, worrying and tearing before he was jerked away and sent tumbling into more mouths and hands and feet, as if he were hurtling down a tunnel made of madmen.
Hunger struck him like a palpable, physical force. The most basic of human need, burnt to hideous purity by centuries of interment. It was malevolence unbound, unshaped by human intelligence or emotion beyond one simple mad need.
St. Cyprian thrashed and clawed, trying to free himself. And all the while, something spoke to him, whispering in the voices of all of the dead, begging and pleading with him, even as it tore at his flesh. And in those voices he finally caught what it wanted, and he knew that he could not give it what it craved.
Suddenly there was light, and not just light, but also color and the smell of burning meat. St. Cyprian screamed and fell to his hands and knees on the platform. Mr. Punch was screaming as well, thrashing and squirming like a cat with its paw caught in a mousetrap.
With a wail, it rose into the air, its tatterdemalion shroud splitting and flapping to reveal things that might have been wings or legs or something that was neither. It shrieked again, mad eyes glaring about blindly. The tubes of the electric pentacle hummed and crackled, and Mr. Punch twisted in on itself, like smoke escaping a crack in reverse. It reached towards St. Cyprian, snarling and whining, and then it was gone.
Gallowglass and the others ran towards him. St. Cyprian sat up shakily, still feeling dead fingers tangled in his hair and champing teeth sinking into his flesh, his breath coming in sharp gasps. He lurched upright, and Gallowglass grabbed him to steady him.
“We-we need to seal this place,” he rasped, looking around. “Use Incantation of Raaaee, Dhol Chant, keep it-keep it sealed away. It’s hungry, you see. It’s been sealed away for centuries. It was born hungry and it will stay that way.” His eyes closed and his hands worked mindlessly, weaving intricate shapes. “Always hungry,” he said softly.
“What is it?” Gallowglass asked quietly.
“A Saiitii manifestation,” he croaked. “It’s a malignancy, a spiritual cancer, grown in the dark, hidden like a tumour, until it was freed.” He grew still. “Certain places grow such things. Places of horror or despair, where the negative energies steep and assume spontaneous malevolence. Carnacki…Carnacki encountered one once, in that business with the Whistling Room. It almost did for him. It…” he trailed off. He looked at the platform and he saw again the squirming pale shapes in the darkness, like maggots in a gangrenous wound. “A plague pit, perhaps. They dumped them down there, and maybe some of them weren’t quite dead and in the dark and the quiet they became something else. Not ghosts, but something infinitely worse.” He grunted, shuddering, remembering the touch of flaccid hands and the whining voices, strained by horror and madness.
“What the devil was it looking for?” Gallowglass said, casting a worried glance at the ground. “What did it want?”
“It wanted what any sick, suffering soul wants…something that we cannot dare give it, for what afflicts has progressed too far,” St. Cyprian said. He looked at them, his eyes haunted by the voices that he could still hear, that he would hear for a long, long time. The sound of lost souls, trapped forever in dark, quiet places.
“It wanted our help,” he said.
Josh Reynolds is a freelance writer of moderate skill and exceptional confidence. He has written a bit, and some of it was even published. For money. By real people. His work has appeared in anthologies such as Miskatonic Press’ Horror for the Holidays, and in periodicals such as Innsmouth Magazine and Lovecraft eZine. Feel free to stop by his blog, www.joshuareynolds.wordpress.com and, if you’re interested in reading more of Charles St. Cyprian and Ebe Gallowglass’ adventures, be sure to check out www.royaloccultist.wordpress.com.
The Demon and the Manuscript
Marc Sorondo
Aedan walked through Heathrow Airport carrying a black duffle bag. He wore black pants and a black shirt, black boots on his feet.
He moved at a pace that was steady but unhurried. Excited tourists rushed past him, eager to get to London. Business travelers in wrinkled suits carrying briefcases and garment bags moved past, faces grim, circles beneath their eyes.
Then he saw the wall of men in dark uniforms, navy blue jackets and black caps, all holding white, rectangular signs with names printed on them in glossy black ink.
For an instant, Aedan pictured her standing there, hair a loose mess of brown waves, holding the sign with Halloway written on it at an odd angle…
That image of her felt like a kick to the stomach, one that was unexpected and knocked the wind out of him.
He scanned the signs and found one with Halloway on it, this time held by a man with a graying mustache and wire-rimmed glasses.
Aedan nodded as he approached.
“Good morning, Mister Halloway,” the man said. “Like some help with your bag?”
“No, thanks,” Aedan said.
The driver nodded. “Alright, then. Name’s David. I’ll be taking you to see Mister Mason.”
David was a hired driver rather than an Ecumenical, so Aedan was fairly quiet as he sat in the back seat with his bag beside him. The car headed away from London.
There were several Ecumenical Houses all over the world. A few of the larger contained academies to educate and train the next generations of Ecumenicals, but most were smaller and operated as a home base for active hunters and offices for administrators. The London House, as it was known, was one of the smaller houses, consisting of administrative offices, an armory, a small shooting range and a smaller medical wing.
Though called the London House, it was actually situated well outside the city, beyond its closest suburbs, on the fringe of rural England.
It was a rule followed by all of the Ecumenical Houses. They were, when designed at least, outside the city for which they were named. The New York House, the largest house in the world and headquarters of the entire organization, was actually in New Jersey. The Madrid House, Berlin House, Moscow House…all outside those famous cities. They attracted much less attention that way.
“How long will you be staying, Mister Halloway?” David asked.
“Not sure yet. I’m here to work on a project. Might take a while,” Aedan said.
“Project?” David’s eyes flicked up to look at Aedan in the rearview mirror for an instant. “Mister Mason mentioned that you were here on vacation.”
Aedan smiled. “Depends on your idea of vacation,” he said. “I’ve got research to conduct…” Aedan leaned forward and, his voice lowered conspiratorially, said, “Don’t mention it to anyone, but I’m writing a book.”
David grinned and glanced at Aedan in the mirror again.
Aedan wondered if David smiled at the idea of a tourist there to write a book or because he felt in on a secret.
“What’s the book about?”
“Medieval weaponry,” Aedan said. “It’s always been an interest of mine.”
David nodded.
Aedan let the conversation die. He stared out the window and tried to focus. He’d found that impossible since Rome. She filled his every quiet moment. He couldn’t escape the musical sound of her voice, the rosemary mint scent of her hair…
He tried not to think of
her. He needed to focus.
There was a demon loose in London.
David rolled up a long driveway that led to what had once been the grandiose manor of a wealthy aristocratic British family. From outside it appeared stately, proper in a very English sort of way.
Aedan knew that inside it was filled with people whose entire lives were dedicated to violence.
David stopped the car at the end of the drive.
Aedan got out before the door could be opened for him.
“I hope you enjoy your stay, Mister Halloway…and good luck with the book.” David smiled and the expression brought up the corners of his mustache just a bit.
“Thanks,” Aedan said. He turned for the door.
It had a bronze knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Aedan pressed the doorbell and examined the lion’s opened mouth. It made him think of a werewolf, that mouth full of teeth with such prominent canines.
There was a buzz just before the loud click of a heavy deadbolt disengaging. The door opened slowly.
A man in a black suit stood there. “Mister Halloway,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Alec Mason. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Aedan, please,” he said as he shook Mason’s hand. He guessed that Mason was in his mid-thirties, around his own age.
Mason had a slight build and a receding hairline with a pronounced widow’s peak. He stepped out of the way and motioned for Aedan to enter.
Aedan stepped inside. He pushed the door and it locked automatically when it was shut.
“I hope you had a pleasant flight,” Mason said.
“I did,” Aedan said. “How are the injured hunters?”
“Healing,” Mason said. “Lucky to be alive.” He shook his head. “Joshua, the worse of the two, we thought we’d lost. The demon thrashed him so viciously…he did not wake for days.”
Aedan nodded. “Why would this demon come back? Why return to the same city?”
“There’s something you must understand about Springheeled Jack,” Mason said. He led Aedan into an office: walls lined with bookshelves, wooden desk, dark green leather chair on either side of it. He walked around the desk and motioned for Aedan to have a seat.
“As far as demons go, he’s certainly not the strongest…but he’s unique; he craves attention, and whereas most of the things we deal with slink around in the dark, preying on us in secret…not him. He strikes just after nightfall, when the streets are still full of people. He harms and terrifies but rarely kills. He enjoys the fame and seeks to inflate his own legend, attacking out of vanity rather than hunger. I can only guess that he’s returned to London because, for some reason, he is ready to be seen again.”
“Weaknesses?” Aedan asked.
Mason pointed with his index and middle fingers spread, one aimed at each of his own eyes. “They were, when he last prowled London, described as glowing orbs, fiery as hot coals, bright as the infernal flames of Hell. The hunter that finally did him in, though we now know it was a temporary physical death, did so by destroying both of his eyes. There may be other weaknesses, but we have yet to discern them.”
Aedan nodded.
Mason cringed. “I know that you’ve requested to work on this alone, and I am prepared to go along with that request—but I implore you to reconsider. Our resources are yours to command…”
“Mister Mason, I understand your concern, especially with two hunters already down because of this thing…” Aedan struggled to find the right words, but failed and only shook his head. “I need to take care of this alone.”
Mason sighed. “Very well.” He lifted a small, hard briefcase from behind his desk. “I’ve prepared a set of easily concealable weapons. Mr. Black has informed me of your preferences. We usually try to avoid firearms in London, but after Joshua and George…well, there are a couple in there along with the other implements.”
Aedan nodded, knowing he wouldn’t use them.
“He keeps the attacks isolated to a single area,” Mason continued. “They’ve all been located in the Chelsea area this time. We’ve arranged for a room for you. Very nice hotel just near Sloane Square.”
Aedan nodded.
“Springheeled Jack is strange, Aedan. He’s tricky…troublesome. Maybe even for someone like you.”
“I’ll be careful,” Aedan said.
Mason sighed again. “Are you absolutely certain? It could be so helpful for you to work with one of the local hunters on this…”
Aedan shook his head.
Mason handed Aedan a business card. “Very well. Contact me at any time—for any reason.”
“I mean no disrespect to you or your hunters,” Aedan said. “I just need to work this job alone.”
“Understood,” Mason said. “I had not taken it as a sign of disrespect, but I appreciate your reassurance just the same.”
Aedan checked into his hotel. The architecture of his room was strange. The door led to a sitting room, with a flight of steps to the right that led down to the bedroom and bathroom. He took his duffle bag and the briefcase down and laid both on the bed. He opened the briefcase. It contained two brass knuckles, two switchblades, and a small pouch holding four throwing stars, as well as two silencer equipped pistols and six clips of ammunition.
He thought of Rome, pictured her wielding two silenced pistols, the bullets whispering as she fired, her smile somehow at home amidst the chaos.
Aedan closed the briefcase.
He felt restless and looked out the window. It was early afternoon. He had plenty of time. Taking running shoes from his duffle bag, he dressed to go out for a run.
He walked for a while, warming up stiff muscles, and headed up King’s Road for a few blocks before turning off and meandering towards Hyde Park.
As he neared the park, he started jogging. Once he crossed over from the residential streets to the green space, he sped up. He ran deeper into the park until he neared the blue gash that was the Serpentine and Aedan turned and ran alongside the water.
He wondered at the idea of a demon that sought the spotlight. That kind of craving made Springheeled Jack one of a kind.
The Ecumenicals and their evil opponents had always waged war in secret, preferring the dark for their battles, leaving no trace behind. Monsters feared human knowledge; if everyone knew about them, then everyone would work towards exterminating them. All of mankind could unite against such a common enemy.
Equally, and in what many would feel to be counterintuitive, the Ecumenicals protected the secret of their existence as well. Humanity flourished under the illusion that man had mastery over the planet and his fate. People thrived when they felt safe. It was the belief of the Ecumenicals, reinforced by much experience, that many people could not handle the truth. Even those who could were unable to live normal lives with that knowledge. Knowing that monsters exist, all other concerns became secondary. Even those who couldn’t hunt spent their lives helping those who could, teaching, healing, building weapons, and making arrangements.
If all mankind united against a common evil of that magnitude, then mankind’s other concerns would fall to the background. There would be no more searching for cures for cancer, no more striving to unlock the secrets of the universe. All of humanity would stagnate in a way.
Aedan had resisted that idea as a young man. He’d thought it demonstrated a lack of faith in people, an elitist attitude. Then Father Stephen had pointed out that no one ever actually left the Ecumenicals. That although people were allowed to leave the organization, not one in Stephen’s knowledge had ever done so. He theorized that knowing what evils existed—existed in a literal, physical way—prevented people from assimilating into the real world, that a person could not worry about bills and taxes and all the other regular concerns of life when they knew that there was a chance they’d be food for some evil creature, that they too could be damned to live forever as a monster. He’d explained to Aedan that knowledge was a dangerous thing, a thing that taints the person who possesse
s it.
Aedan followed the curve of the water, running alongside the narrow end and up the other bank. He liked the park, the calm blue of the lake beside him. He decided he’d do laps around the Serpentine until he was too exhausted to run anymore. He’d run for as long as that took, and he’d think about secrecy, speculate about how exactly he’d keep the secret when hunting a demon that operated in the evening crowds.
Aedan stopped at the desk when he reached his hotel and took a copy of each of the newspapers they kept there. Each one, he saw as he headed for the elevator, bore front-page headlines exclaiming Another Attack and The Fiend Grows Bolder…
Aedan scanned the articles, all containing the same basic information. Springheeled Jack had returned and stalked the streets of Chelsea. The victims, mostly young women, were left terrified but otherwise unharmed. However, two men that had tried to intervene had been beaten severely and burned. The police had been ineffective in stopping him and new attacks were reported virtually every night.
One article quoted a psychological profiler that suggested that it was a case of a very intelligent man conducting copycat crimes using devices of his own design. Another suggested that some sort of youth gang initiation ritual was to blame.
Aedan thought again about secrecy and smiled at the ridiculous lengths to which people would go to as they strove to avoid the obvious.
He reached his room and dropped all of the newspapers into the garbage. He needed a shower and then he needed food, wanting to eat early so that he could be ready before sunset.
Tonight, he hunted.
Aedan walked the twilight streets of London with brass knuckles and a switchblade in each pocket and a small pouch of throwing stars hidden beneath his shirt.
Use Enough Gun (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 3) Page 28
