The Chaos of Chung-Fu

by Edmund Glasby

  Thorndyke rubbed his badly-bruised neck. He looked like someone who had just survived a hanging. Tears streamed from his eyes.

  “I’m telling you to get out of here. Get in your car and go. Now! While there’s still time.” Carson peered all around, ready and more than willing to shoot at anything hostile that might emerge from the gathering darkness. He had to restrain his impulse when one of his officers came over at a sprint, his face flushed with fear and exertion.

  “Sir, we’ve lost some good men over on the far side. That said, we’ve regrouped over by the copse of trees and awaiting your commands.”

  “Right. It’s time to go in. We’ll give these murdering dogs what for. Make sure every man carries his torch and that their guns are at the ready. Tell them to shoot to kill. We can’t—”

  “Where’s David?” Thorndyke asked, his voice tinged with concern.

  “What?” Carson turned.

  Thorndyke rushed over to the car and looked inside before turning to the detective. “He’s gone. He’s taken his crossbow. That can only mean that he’s gone after that thing he was on about. I think he’s headed for the hangar.”

  “The bloody fool!” Carson cursed savagely. “That’s all we need. All right, we’ve got to go after him.” He looked at the reporter. “Change of plan. Maybe you’d better come with us in case we need to talk any sense into him. I figure he’ll trust you more than he will me. Come on!”

  Thorndyke wasn’t ready for this one bit, but he didn’t know what the alternative, short of abandoning the young deluded man, was. Without their intervention, their combined strength, David would certainly be killed—his sole reward for his recklessness and his rashness would be an early death, followed perhaps by being offered as a sacrifice, as had his grandfather, to a demonic goddess.

  Crouching low, using whatever cover there was, Thorndyke went in pursuit of Carson and the police officer, heading for the closest hangar. From every direction came the sound of gunshots, cries, and screams. There was no denying it—the place was now a battlefield, the death toll on each side slowly mounting. For what the Thuggee devotees lacked in firepower, they made up for in stealth and subterfuge, cunning and tenacity of spirit; their creed, their very ideology, based on the tenet, the belief, that killing was their sacred duty, their divinely allocated task. For them, murder was a way of life, a laudable pursuit.

  Still, faith was to prove useless against a .38 special round bullet or a hefty thwack on the skull from a police truncheon, and the cultists soon found themselves on the losing side. More so when the vans filled with police in full riot gear appeared on the scene.

  Thorndyke overheard some of Carson’s conversation over his police radio, informing him that the situation was now, thankfully, by and large under control.

  All that remained was finding David.

  Carson edged to the perimeter of the huge hangar. From behind cover, he glanced inside before signalling the others over. “Do you still think he’s here?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Thorndyke. “But surely we’d have seen him if he’d doubled back?”

  They all sneaked inside, ready for anything, or so they thought. The hangar had been transformed from a huge area for housing aircraft into a ghoulish temple dedicated to Kali. To that end, the Thugs had erected a large, rather crude-looking, and terrible idol of their four-armed deity. Around the statue’s neck had been draped a necklace of severed human heads! There was worse to come; dead, decaying bodies secured to the walls, dismembered limbs and heads in urns, rotting corpses heaped in one corner. The stench was unbearable.

  “Heaven’s above,” muttered Thorndyke, gulping at the monstrous, gruesome sights before his eyes.

  There was nobody here though. Nobody living, at least. They were just about to head out, thankful to be leaving this blood-drenched slaughter house when, to their relief, David staggered into the vast doorway, his crossbow in hand. He looked tired and weary. Blood smeared the left side of his face.

  “I—I got it,” he stammered, crumpling to his knees.

  Thorndyke and Carson rushed over, helping the young man up.

  “Steady, man. Steady,” said Carson, helping David to his feet. Supporting him, he and the reporter carried him back to the car, where many policemen were milling around, some nursing their own injuries.

  Three ambulances were waiting on standby, and after leaving David in the capable hands of the crew from one, Thorndyke went and sat in his car. He would have nightmares for many days, if not weeks, possibly months to come after what he had seen. The sights in that hangar, that modified temple, had been horrendous, and no matter how he tried he just couldn’t blight them from memory. Somehow, he managed to switch his thoughts to David, wondering just what he had seen. To even contemplate that that horror had assumed some semblance of life— He shuddered and then jumped when there came a tap on the car window.

  It was David.

  “The docs say I’m okay to go home. They say I’ve probably pulled some muscles in my right leg, and this scratch down my face shouldn’t be anything permanent.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Right now I just want to get home. Rest and try and forget all I’ve seen.”

  “Well, I too have seen enough. I’m going to have to write a piece for my paper regarding this. Though I doubt whether anyone’ll believe a word of it.” Thorndyke started up the car engine as David got in and sat in the back seat. Had he been paying closer attention he might have noticed the evil grin and the violet glint in his passenger’s eyes.

  For the thing in the back seat wasn’t David—it was ‘Freddy’!

  HOUR OF THE WITCH

  It was a question of which of them, if any, would still be there by daybreak.

  John McQueen sat at his desk, idly going through the mail that had gathered over the last few days. He had been away from work suffering from a heavy cold, but now that he was back and feeling much better, he thought it was high time that he started to make some money. For the past twelve years he had hired out his services as a private investigator, and although he had never had any significant cases, his profession had earned him a steady income.

  Most of his mail was humdrum: enquiries regarding whether or not he was available to assist in locating missing dogs, discovering the whereabouts of stolen property, and even one letter from a suspicious wife seeking help in tracking down an errant and undoubtedly unfaithful husband. He was just about to consult his logbook of old unresolved cases when the office door opened and Mark Forsyth, his assistant, entered with a dark-haired woman, slim and pale with dark eyes and an oval-shaped face. She looked to be in her mid-forties.

  “Mrs. Eleanor Campbell,” announced Forsyth, ushering the woman inside.

  Somewhat surprised, McQueen got to his feet. “Good morning. Please, take a seat.” He could see that the woman was nervous, her eyes never still, taking everything in.

  “Mrs. Campbell has got quite an interesting proposition.” Forsyth drew up a chair, sat down, and took a notebook and pen from his pocket.

  “Well, Mrs. Campbell,” said McQueen, “if you’ll tell me what your problem is, I’ll see whether or not I can help.” Once she had sat down, he too took his seat.

  “Just over a year ago my husband, Cameron, disappeared.” Mrs. Campbell removed a handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at her eyes before returning it. “He was an investigator like yourself, with the exception being that he delved into the supernatural. A paranormal investigator is what he liked to be known as.”

  “Professor Cameron Campbell?” inquired McQueen, trying to remember some of the details of the disappearance of the renowned parapsychologist that had made the headlines. “I recall reading something about that in the newspapers. Didn’t something happen to him on one of his investigations?”

  “Not just Cameron, but his entire team of researchers from Glasgow University. Five of them in total.” Mrs. Campbell shook her head, clearly trying to come to terms with just whatever it
was that had happened. “They’d carried out investigations at alleged haunted sites all over Britain, hoping to discover evidence to prove the existence of the supernatural. Cameron had been the team leader, an expert in the field of parapsychology, the one who did all of the research in tracking down places of psychic interest. If only he hadn’t found out about that awful house on Jura.”

  More details of the case were slowly filtering back into McQueen’s mind. “Yes, I’m remembering more about it now,” he said. “It was quite big news. All of them just disappeared, didn’t they? The police carried out an intensive investigation both of the house and the surrounding area, but no one was ever found. Without doubt, a very mysterious case.” He gulped as a little shiver of uncertainty went through him. “You’ve obviously come to me to ask whether or not I’d be willing to carry out my own investigations regarding their disappearance, yes?”

  She nodded. “I was informed that you had some experience in such cases.”

  “Not recently,” said McQueen. “In fact, these days I’m something of a sceptic when it comes to the supernatural. I guess you could say I’ve seen too much but experienced too little. However, I must say I am rather intrigued by this, and have been ever since reading about it. Clearly, something happened out there at that godforsaken place, something that resulted in the disappearance of five people. Just what…well, clearly there was something that the police were unable to discover.” He scratched at the day’s growth of stubble on his chin.

  “So you will help me? You’ll take the case?”

  McQueen took out a packet of cigarettes from a drawer, lit one and took a drag. “What do you say, Forsyth?” he asked, looking at his assistant. “Sounds interesting, doesn’t it?”

  “Certainly does,” replied Forsyth. “Although I don’t really see what new light we’ll be able to shed on this. I guess the first thing we should do is head out to this house and see if there’s any evidence to be found, anything which the initial investigation may have overlooked. If we turn up nothing, then perhaps we might get some valuable insights into the minds of those who vanished by tracking down any friends and relatives.”

  “Maybe a look at the initial police report might help as well,” added McQueen.

  “Yes,” agreed Forsyth. “Although you know as well as I that ever since that new Chief Inspector took over, getting our hands on such documentation has proved increasingly difficult.”

  McQueen nodded in agreement. “Yes, that may prove tricky.” He stubbed out the remains of his cigarette in an ashtray. “But first, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband, if I may, Mrs. Campbell. I guess the most important question is; do you yourself have any notion regarding just what may have happened to him and his team?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’m as baffled as everyone else. There was absolutely no reason for Cameron to go missing. And as for the others, well, I’ve been in correspondence with some of the relatives and they’re just as confused as I am. The last year has been sheer torture for me not knowing what’s happened. Sometimes I can cope with it, but—” She broke down into a sobbing fit, reaching for her handkerchief once more. After a few moments, she looked up, her eyes tearful. “Please, I need your help in this. I’ve come to expect the worst, but it’s the not knowing—that’s what’s really painful.”

  McQueen and Forsyth exchanged concerned yet uncertain glances. Was it something they could handle? McQueen seemed to think so, although he doubted whether their investigations would reveal anything of merit.

  “I’m imploring you,” pleaded Mrs. Campbell. “Please help me find my husband. I don’t know who else to turn to. The police are no longer interested. I’ll pay you whether you find anything or not. I’m certain there will be something that the police have overlooked. Some small clue which may reveal what happened to them out there.”

  “Very well, Mrs. Campbell,” said McQueen. “I will take this case on, although I can’t make any promises regarding the outcome. I’ll also add that it is a little outside my usual field of experience. However, I will give it my full, undivided attention. Now, how soon do you want me to start?”

  “As soon as possible. The sooner the better.” A bright intensity shone in Mrs. Campbell’s pale face, now that she had told her tale and had secured the private investigator’s service. It was almost as if she was a different woman from the one who had entered the office a few minutes earlier. “I plan to travel to Jura myself within the week. I trust that’s not too much short notice for you?”

  It was certainly short notice, but McQueen had the suspicion that this case could well be a significant one. If he were to discover the true explanation behind the disappearance of Cameron Campbell, then he would be made for life. An opportunity like this did not come knocking every day, that was for certain. “Very well, I’ll see to it,” he said, reaching for another cigarette. He lit up and inhaled the smoke, drawing it deep into his lungs. “In the meantime, I’ll see what I can find out about this house. What was the name of it again?”

  “It has no name. Only a reputation. You see I’ve done my own research, and from what I can gather it’s not really even a house. More of a ruin. A crofter’s cottage, which has now been reduced to little more than four walls and a shattered roof.” Mrs. Campbell reached into a coat pocket and removed a small photograph that she handed over. “As you can see, there’s not much of it still standing. It was once the property of a Mr. Tam McSweeney and his wife, Aggie. My husband’s reasoning for it being haunted was based on some research he’d done which had suggested that the previous owner, an old crofter, had been killed by his wife sometime during the last century. She was reputed to have been a practitioner of the Black Arts, a witch.”

  Looking at the photograph, nothing immediately suggested itself to McQueen. It was, after all, little more than a tumbledown farmhouse. The white walls were barely standing and the roof was sagging, just a jumble of criss-crossing timbers in places. Two small square windows and a dark doorway completed the unimposing structure. And yet, the more he looked at it, the more a strange sense of unease filtered into his mind. For a long time, he sat there, unable to think clearly, unable to wrench his eyes away. Whether due to some strange quirk of the lighting, shadows seemed to crouch around the deserted building where shadows ought not to be, and he felt mild nausea arising from the pit of his stomach as he continued to stare at the image. This he immediately put down to an association of facts; nothing more than an acknowledgement that something inexplicable had happened to five people there. It was this alone, he reasoned, that caused his unease.

  “Not much to look at, is it?” said Mrs. Campbell.

  “No, I guess not.” McQueen handed the photograph to Forsyth, who looked at it with measured interest. “So, Mrs. Campbell, I’ve told you that I am willing to take on this case. It will necessitate quite some organisation, but I’m pretty confident about being able to join you at the weekend. Just to let you know, I always work with my assistant; in fact, some would say he’s the brains of the outfit.”

  “And you’re the brawn?”

  McQueen smiled. “Hardly. So don’t go expecting any gumshoe-like behaviour from me. I don’t drink cheap whisky, and as you can see, I don’t operate from a sleazy backstreet office, nor do I carry a gun. Unfortunately, the law in this country forbids me from using one, not that I foresee the need for one, for if I see anything ghost-like I’ll be first out of the door.”

  * * * * * * *

  Four days later on the ferry crossing from the mainland to Port Askaig on Islay, McQueen stood next to Forsyth looking out across the churning grey water as the Paps of Jura, the name given for the three island mountains, loomed before them. It was cold, slightly foggy, and very damp. And for those who had lived all of their lives as city-dwellers, it was an imposing, foreboding, and not particularly welcoming sight. It was no longer hard to imagine that something utterly inexplicable could have happened out here. It seemed as though they were going back in time, back t
o a remote past long-shrouded in myth and legend.

  Having talked with the few passengers on board, most of whom were inhabitants of Islay, the closest island, they discovered that there were probably fewer than fifty islanders on Jura, and that they would have to cross on the Feolin Ferry to reach their destination, where it was planned they would rendezvous with Mrs. Campbell.

  “Quite an impressive sight, wouldn’t you agree?” commented McQueen. “Though just why anyone in their right mind would want to live out here beats me.”

  “I daresay you get used to it after a while. The solitude, the cold, the rain. In summer, one of the men downstairs was telling me, the midges here are diabolical. They’re like mosquitoes. The sooner we’re away from here, the better. I don’t like it one bit.”

  “Well, although we didn’t manage to get a look at the police report, if we can find something of significance regarding the disappearance of Cameron Campbell and his team, we’ll be famous. Think of that while you’re having to put up with the hardships. Besides, I think our investigations will only take a day or two at most. We’ve got sufficient camping gear to stay in that place in reasonable comfort, and then we’ll be back in Glasgow. And like Mrs. Campbell said, we get paid whether or not we find anything. So it’s a win-win situation for us.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve ever considered the possibility that there just may be something behind all of this? You know, something weird.”

  McQueen lit a cigarette, cupping it in his hand to shield it from the strong wind that was blowing. He eyed the other strangely. “You mean, do I believe that Cameron and his associates fell foul of something supernatural?” He shook his head fiercely and took a drag from his cigarette. “No, of course not. I don’t buy that as an explanation. Something undoubtedly did happen, but I’m certain it didn’t have anything to do with ghosts or demons. Five people cooped up together in a deserted building in the middle of nowhere—all it takes is for one of them to go mad. Kills everyone in their sleep, one by one, disposes the bodies somewhere they’ll never be found and then makes good their escape. Or, maybe, two of them working together. That’d be easier. Now clearly, I don’t know just why they would do something as despicable as that, but people being people, it’s not out of the scope of possibility as an explanation. To me, it sounds far more feasible than bringing in the supernatural.”