The Chaos of Chung-Fu

by Edmund Glasby

  “Freddy’s not a person. It’s a…a specimen, an exhibit, one of those rare, inexplicable finds that my great-grandfather brought back from India. A stuffed monkey-thing.”

  A terrible, irrational thought began to develop in Thorndyke’s mind. For some uncanny reason he—no doubt as a result of his nightmare—had this strange feeling that the horror in the display cabinet was in some way linked to the Colonel Stanthorpe’s murder. In what way, he didn’t know: after all, it was nothing more than a long-dead, deformed monkey, tinkered about with by some warped taxidermist. And yet there remained that little kernel of nagging suspicion.

  “I see,” said Carson. “Well—”

  “Have you checked to see if it’s still there?” Thorndyke asked David.

  “Come now. Surely if robbery had been the main incentive, a thief would have gone for something far more valuable?” David replied. “I mean, there are genuine treasures contained in the museum. Some of the items of jewellery are worth hundreds if not thousands of pounds. And they would be far easier to carry. I can’t see anyone wanting to steal that tatty old piece of junk. Except perhaps one of those experts who try to prove the existence of strange creatures, such as the Yeti.”

  “A cryptozoologist,” commented Carson.

  “Yes,” David nodded.

  “Can we just check?”

  “I don’t see what harm it’ll do. We can skirt the main museum and go in through the stairs at the back. Follow me.” David led the way to the house and into the ground floor museum, the smaller one with the densely-gathered glass cabinets.

  It came as little surprise to Thorndyke when they found that the glass cabinet in question had been smashed to pieces, reduced to a mass of scattered shards, its ghastly occupant missing.

  “What’s this?” queried Carson, bending down to pick up the slender brass spike that lay amidst the glass. It was the thing that had been pierced into the hideous, two-headed abomination that had been named ‘Freddy’.

  * * * * * * *

  It was some two weeks later that Thorndyke got the telephone call from David Stanthorpe asking him to meet him at the house. He had only seen him once during that time—when he had attended the colonel’s funeral—and had largely and intentionally kept a low profile, permitting the bereaved time to grieve and become accustomed to his solitude in the mansion.

  Thorndyke had done some research of his own, finding out that both of the younger Stanthorpe’s parents had been killed in an air crash and that he had no siblings. Hence, his devotion to his crippled grandfather. And now even he was gone, brutally slain by a member of a dark fraternity long thought defunct—or so Detective Inspector Carson believed.

  Upon arrival at the house, Thorndyke was warmly greeted by David, who welcomed him inside, guiding him into the study where a roaring fire blazed in the wide hearth.

  “Would you care for a drink? Wine? Whisky?”

  “Whisky.” Thorndyke sat back in his seat, looking about him at the crammed bookshelves and the various stuffed animal heads: tiger, moose, gorilla, and sundry other creatures of which he was unsure. One looked like the head of a zebra, but it could have been that of an okapi or something similar. At least these looked like real creatures, the kind of things one could see in a zoo, unlike ‘Freddy’.

  David returned, a glass of whisky in hand. “There.” He sat down and reached for a rather tattered leather book that lay on the table before him.

  “How have you been?” Thorndyke asked.

  “Not too bad. I do miss my grandfather not being around, but I guess I’ve got no option but to persevere. It’s what he would’ve wanted. Stiff upper lip and all that.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but has there been any developments in the police investigation? I told them all that I could remember about the day of the exhibition. I’m sorry I was unable to give a better descriptions of the other people I saw down in the room that day.”

  “Carson’s been able to interview Lord and Lady Morris, the couple who were there, but they’ve been unable to trace those two Indian men.”

  “Do you think they may have something to do with this?” Thorndyke took a sip from his glass. It was strong stuff.

  “It’s possible. Carson took details, but alas, he’s been unable to make much progress. To tell you the truth, I think he and his team are floundering in the dark. I’ve no doubt he’s a very intelligent man, but I think he’s a bit out of his depth here. It’s my belief, call it a theory if you like, that those men came specifically for ‘Freddy’, and that my grandfather heard their break-in and came downstairs to investigate. Anyway, the reason I asked you to come out here is because of what I found in this.” David opened the book he held to a marked page. “It’s written by my great-grandfather, and some of it doesn’t make for easy listening.”

  Thorndyke sat back as the other began reading a strange and enthralling handwritten account about the time when his distant relative had been in India serving in the British Army. He told of his ancestor’s missions to eradicate the Thuggee operatives, and of how he and his men tracked one such gang back to their hidden temple stronghold in the Samdari Valley. The Thugs had been terrorising the inhabitants of a local village, murdering the villagers in the night, and causing no end of mischief, assuming different guises, appearing to be friendly merchants, honest travellers, and the like before revealing their true, murderous nature. Apparently this had been the standard Thuggee practice. Anyhow, once Colonel Henry Stanthorpe and his men entered the ancient temple, there was carnage as they opened fire and gunned down many of the cultists. The surviving members of the Dark Brotherhood of merciless killers withdrew from this onslaught, retreating deeper into the bowels of the temple.

  “Fascinating stuff, but—”

  “Wait, it gets better.” David continued, reading from the battered book. He related how his great-grandfather’s men fought their way out of a Thug ambush before they came to a truly horrendous place filled with dead and imprisoned villagers. They had then entered an inner sanctum wherein the most diabolical and murderous rites were performed before a large graven image of their infernal, four-armed goddess, Kali. It was in this hellish chamber, filled with stomach-wrenching horror and the stench of the dead and the dying, that the brave colonel was to come face-to-face with dozens of Thuggee cultists. Much blood was spilled. Fighting their way through, shooting many dead, they targeted the leader. With a desperate cry to the Death Mother, knowing he was doomed, the high priest of the Thuggee cult threw down a curse on the British defilers, sacrificing himself by plunging a knife deep into his own heart.

  “Good Lord!” Thorndyke was intrigued, but unsure as to where any of this fitted in with tracking down the old man’s murderer or murderers.

  The remainder of the account told how Colonel Stanthorpe gave the order not to take prisoners, such was the barbarity of the crimes levelled at the Thuggee members. All were executed, not that many surrendered, preferring to die in the name of their cruel, bloodthirsty deity. Later that evening, after the army man had returned to his garrison headquarters, he was beset by evil visions and he came down with a terrible fever. The doctor could do nothing, and it was as a last resort that he sought out the grateful village elder and shaman who informed him that he was cursed.

  “This is where it gets weird, and although I’ve no reason to dispute anything that my great-grandfather records it gets, well, judge for yourself.” David went on, telling of how Colonel Stanthorpe became feverish, delirious, unable to discern reality, his own words telling of his sorry state clearly written at a date not contemporaneous with his suffering. He became filled with the terrible desire to eat human flesh. The village elder said that an evil spirit, a demon, a rakshasa, had stolen his soul, and that the only way he could regain it was by killing the demon. And so, arming the colonel with a crossbow and a brass bolt inscribed with tiny sigils, the elder performed a ritual, exorcising the demon, drawing it out of its host. The description of that event and what
happened next was perhaps intentionally vague; in addition, many of the pages were missing, half-burnt and yellowed with age, making further reading difficult. It appeared however that the demon had been expelled from Colonel Stanthorpe, whereupon he had shot it even as it had turned to flee.

  “Freddy?!”

  “Freddy.” David nodded. “As trophies go, I’d say that’s got to be the ultimate. A demon. I’ve done some research on these things, these rakshasas. They were malign entities that lived on human flesh. They were shape-changers and magicians, masters of lies, trickery, deceit, and illusion. Their favourite tactic was to assume the appearance of someone known to their chosen victim; a friend or accomplice. Then, when they’d gained their trust, they’d strike at the most opportune moment.”

  “That can’t be right. Surely, that’s not what that thing is. It can’t be. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “None of this makes sense.”

  “Yes, but, come on—a demon?”

  “Well, whatever it is, someone was prepared to kill in order to get it.” David opened a drawer in the desk and removed the thin, brass bolt. “Could be that they thought they could restore it to life by removing this. In which case, if they have brought it back, this is the only weapon that will destroy it once more. I’ve already bought a crossbow that I got specifically made in order to shoot it. I’ve been practicing, improving my accuracy, should the need ever arise.”

  Thorndyke looked at the other, incredulity all over his face. “You don’t believe this, do you?”

  “I no longer know what to believe. Perhaps my great-grandfather was merely delirious and dreamt up the whole thing. However, if this account is true, then it could be that there’s an evil cult out there, an evil cult that is now in possession of a demon.”

  * * * * * * *

  It was the trail of murder and the spate of disappearances that finally led the police to the massive abandoned RAF hangars deep within the Surrey countryside, some thirty miles from David Stanthorpe’s mansion. Having got the tipoff from his editor that something significant was going down, something that might be related to the murder of Colonel James Mortimer Stanthorpe, Thorndyke had swung round to pick up David before making his way there.

  The reporter had never been to this part of England before, and the details he had been given had been vague at best. Luck was obviously smiling on the pair of them, however, for they quickly found the place, the immediate wooded surroundings cordoned off and manned by policemen, some of whom were armed.

  Detective Inspector Carson noticed them immediately. He strode over. “Well, I wasn’t expecting you two. The situation’s a bit delicate. Seems that there are some thirty people in there. All foreigners.”

  “Thugs?” asked David.

  “I think so, but don’t let on to any of the others. Far as they’re concerned, it’s just a mad gathering of illegal immigrants who’ve decided to hole themselves up in some of these old hangars. Last thing anyone else needs to know right know is that we may be dealing with a suicidal cult of death-worshippers. Wouldn’t exactly boost morale, if you get what I’m saying.”

  “Of course,” Thorndyke agreed. “We understand.”

  “We’ve been carrying out surveillance on them for a day or two now. We were fortunate to track them down, for they’re sneaky customers who know how to cover their tracks. We think they may have been responsible for over twenty, maybe as many as thirty killings, in the surrounding area.”

  “So what’s your plan?” asked David.

  “Well they know we’re here, so they’re just lying low for the moment. We’re doing the same. As you can no doubt imagine, it’s a tricky situation. One that could blow up into something really nasty. We’ve got an interpreter at hand. As soon as I give the order, we’ll march on in there and apprehend the whole bloody lot. If they don’t come quietly, then they’ll be sorry.”

  Knowingly, Carson patted his inside coat pocket.

  “David thinks they may have a—” Thorndyke had forgotten the name so he looked to his companion.

  “A rakshasa,” finished David. “I think they’re possibly harbouring a rakshasa. I think that’s what Freddy was.”

  “A rakshasa? Now let me think,” Carson mused this one over as he lit a cigarette and placed it between his lips. He had prepared himself for a hundred possible scenarios but not this. It was ludicrous, bordering on the insane. “You’re talking about a monster out of myth and folklore, right? What the hell gave you that idea? I know these Thuggee fanatics are real, but they’re just deluded crazies. The idea that there’s some kind of monster behind this is utter stupidity!”

  “Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Whatever the case, I’ve come prepared for it,” David replied.

  “I want you two to stay well out of this. You hear me? This is police work, first and foremost. If things turn nasty, then leave it up to me and my men. We’ve got these beggars surrounded and the last thing I need is for you two to mess things up thinking you’re going in there. You stay well back, behind the line. At all times!”

  “That’s alright by me, Inspector.” Thorndyke smiled. The last thing he wanted was to play the hero and go in there and take on a small army of homicidal maniacs unarmed. More so if David was right and they had something demonical with them, although this was something he couldn’t bring himself to believe. Yes, there were no doubt some very dangerous and wicked men holed up in there, but the rational, logical part of his brain clung to the belief that that was all. Hell, that was enough, wasn’t it? Why complicate and exacerbate what was already a highly volatile situation by bringing in the unholy and the supernatural?

  A young Indian-looking man walked over, a loud-hailer in one hand. “Should I try again?”

  Carson nodded and blew cigarette smoke from his nostrils. “Once more. Tell them to surrender and come out with their hands up. Failure to comply will result in a siege. Tell them we’re all armed and that we have the necessary authorisation to shoot to kill. Tell them that resistance is futile and that they have nowhere to go.”

  The interpreter headed off. Words were shouted in an Indian dialect, words that made no sense whatsoever to Thorndyke.

  Twenty minutes passed and there had been no reply.

  Several armed policemen milled around, expectantly. Thorndyke saw another policeman concealed in the bushes, staring through a pair of binoculars at the large, grey, warehouse-type building some three hundred yards away.

  Carson checked his watch. He knew that this siege could not go on indefinitely, and that sooner, rather than later, he was going to receive the orders from his superiors to launch an attack. This was unlike anything he had ever experienced before, yet he felt a tremor of exhilaration course through him at the prospect of leading his men into battle—for that’s what it would undoubtedly be like, similar in many ways to frontline warfare, with the notable difference that he hoped that these cultists weren’t armed with guns. It was a chance he had to take. For if they were, then this had the potential of turning into a true bloodbath.

  And so commenced the waiting game.

  * * * * * * *

  “Do you think it’s wise waiting this long?” asked David. “It’s already getting dark. In another half hour or so it’ll be completely dark.”

  “I think that’s when Carson plans to launch his raid on the hangars.”

  Thorndyke was getting uncomfortable, having sat in the car for several hours, his back muscles cramping somewhat. But he was feeling more than physically uncomfortable. His mind was a turmoil of dark thoughts, cogitating unwelcomingly over a multitude of unpleasant scenarios. And then there was the ‘Freddy’ thing again. Just what the hell was that? And was it, as David certainly believed, even now lurking nearby? He dreaded the prospect of seeing that thing animate, sentient. It was only the thought of the scoop he might achieve by covering this story that kept him from leaving.

  “I can’t help but think that waiting till dusk is a bad idea. But I suppose he knows best. This i
s the kind of thing he trains for, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Personally, I don’t think they rehearse for this kind of thing at Hendon. But you never know.” Thorndyke was about to step outside, to stretch his legs, when he heard a gunshot. He almost jumped out of his skin. “What the hell?”

  “Who’s firing?” asked David, nervously.

  Two more shots rang out.

  Now that his initial surprise had gone, Thorndyke felt certain that the loud bangs had come from the other side of the hangars. Was the siege underway? Then there were shouts and cries from the policemen to his front and sides, and more gunshots in the distance. Far off he heard police dogs barking. He walked forward a few yards.

  And then, without warning, a shadow loomed up behind him and fastened a garrotte around his neck, pulling it tight, cutting off his air supply, crushing his larynx. Frantic, he struggled, fingers clawing at his own throat. It was no good. The cord bit deeper and his eyes were streaming. He was forced to his knees. This was the end, his mind screamed at him. He was going to be asphyxiated. His world darkened.

  And then David was there, grappling the would-be assassin, pummelling him to the ground, making him release his stranglehold on Thorndyke. All three of them collapsed. Shouting for help, David smacked in several hard punches.

  Gasping for breath, Thorndyke crawled away from the melee. Through pain-wracked eyes, he saw Carson rush over, gun in hand. There was a single shot, and then David clambered to his feet.

  “These devils are on the attack!” Carson shouted. “They’ve obviously crept out under the cover of darkness and now they’re on the offensive. If I were you, I’d get in your car and get the hell away from this place. There’s no telling where they’ll pop up next. I’ve called for reinforcements, but God knows when they’ll get here.”

  More sporadic gunshots rang out.

  Voices called out in the twilight.

  And then Carson was firing at a shadow that had sneaked around the side of the car. With a cry, the ‘shadow’ slumped to the ground.