by Alan K Baker
Blackwood and Sophia looked towards the rear of the carriage. The other carriages were of course no longer there, having been decoupled from the motor coach and transferred to other trains. Through the connecting door at the rear end, they could see the wall of the maintenance shop.
‘There it is again!’ said Goodman-Brown. ‘Closer now… a little closer. Alfie is listening in the silence… the signal is still on red. He has no choice but to wait here.’
‘Do you know what’s making the sounds… what’s moving through the connecting doors?’ asked Blackwood.
Goodman-Brown shook his head. ‘It doesn’t work like that, Mr Blackwood. I am in physical contact with this carriage only – not the others. This is where the contact analysis must be performed; this is where my psychic awareness resides.’
‘I understand. Take your time, sir.’
Goodman-Brown smiled. ‘I have no choice. I must wait, as Alfie waited, to see what comes through those doors.’ He winced. ‘Another one… Alfie is looking back along the train from his driver’s cab… but he can’t see anything. Another! Click-clack! Closer still. Whatever it is… it’s moving along the train.’ The psychometrist shook his head. ‘Poor Alfie. He’s afraid now. He’s calling out, asking who’s there. I can feel his fear… growing… growing! It’s in the carriage directly behind this one. The door is opening…’
Blackwood, Sophia and Goodman-Brown were all looking at the connecting door at the rear of the carriage.
‘The door is opening,’ Goodman-Brown repeated, his voice suddenly strained, as if he were finding it difficult to breath. ‘Something is coming through. Oh God… oh God!’
‘What is it Walter?’ Sophia cried, her gaze still fixed upon the door.
‘It’s in the carriage!’ he hissed. ‘I can see it! Oh, dear God. It’s like nothing…’ His voice trailed off, so that the only sound in the carriage was his ragged breathing.
And then Walter Goodman-Brown screamed, just as Alfie Morgan had done. He screamed until there was no breath left in his lungs, and then he inhaled and screamed again, and again.
Blackwood lunged forward, grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him out of the seat.
‘Thomas, we have to get him out of here, now!’ said Sophia.
‘Understood. Give me a hand.’
With Goodman-Brown between them, they staggered back to the doors at the centre of the carriage and hurried down the steps to the shop floor. The psychometrist was virtually insensate now, his body a dead weight. Blackwood and Sophia laid him down upon the concrete.
‘Walter,’ said Sophia, bending over and examining his contorted face. ‘Walter, can you hear me?’
Some of the workmen who had been alerted by Goodman-Brown’s screams hurried over. ‘What’s goin’ on?’ demanded one. ‘What the bleedin’ hell do you people fink you’re playin’ at?’
‘Go and fetch Mr Sullivan,’ said Blackwood.
‘Hold on,’ the man said. ‘Who the bleedin’ hell are you lot, anyway?’
‘Shut up and do as you’re told!’ thundered Blackwood, standing up to face the rapidly growing group. Withdrawing his identification from his coat pocket, he added, ‘We are Crown investigators, and you will follow my orders or pass the night behind bars.’
Startled, the workmen glanced at each other, and one of them hurried off towards the offices.
He returned less than a minute later, accompanied by Derek Sullivan, who looked down at Goodman-Brown. ‘Good God! What’s happened to the fellow?’
‘We need to take him to a place of peace and quietness immediately,’ said Sophia.
‘There’s… there’s a couch in my office,’ Sullivan replied.
‘Good,’ said Blackwood. ‘Give me a hand to get him up; there’s a good chap.’
Together, they carried Goodman-Brown across the shop floor and up the stairs into the section of the building containing the administration offices. Sophia followed them to Sullivan’s office and closed the door behind them, while Blackwood and Sullivan carefully placed the psychometrist on the couch. Deeply shaken and muttering to himself, the depot manager went across to a small cabinet and withdrew a bottle of whiskey and a glass. ‘Will this be of benefit, do you think?’
‘Yes, bring it over,’ Sophia replied, crouching down beside Goodman-Brown and undoing his shirt collar.
Sullivan poured a measure of whiskey and handed it to Sophia. Goodman-Brown appeared to be regaining his senses a little, and Sophia put the glass gently to his lips. He grimaced as he swallowed. ‘I’m all right,’ he whispered. ‘I’m all right.’
‘What the devil happened in there?’ demanded Sullivan.
Blackwood held up a hand, ordering him to silence. ‘What was it, Goodman-Brown?’ he asked quietly. ‘Can you tell us what it was?’
‘It was… like nothing I’ve ever seen before,’ the psychometrist replied, taking the glass from Sophia and downing the rest of the whiskey. ‘It wasn’t a ghost – nothing so mundane! It was alive, I’m quite sure of that: a living, conscious thing, possessed of awareness and purpose.’
‘What purpose?’ asked Blackwood.
‘I’m not sure… its thought processes were… utterly non-human…’
‘And its appearance?’
Goodman-Brown laughed harshly. ‘The only reason I am still sane, Mr Blackwood, is that I was not actually present when it appeared – unlike poor Mr Morgan. It was most assuredly not of this world! It was something fantastically, hideously alien.’
‘But what did it look like, Goodman-Brown?’ Blackwood persisted.
The psychometrist shook his head. ‘You may have difficulty believing this, Mr Blackwood, but I can’t describe it. Its shape… will not fit into my memory, just as it did not fit completely into my awareness while I was looking at it. It was simply too other. I don’t know how else to explain it.’
‘Forgive me, sir,’ rejoined Blackwood, ‘but your use of the word “explain” is far from justified.’
‘Believe me, I’m all too well aware of that, and I offer my apologies…’
‘We won’t hear a word of it, Walter,’ said Sophia gently. ‘You did your best, and we are most grateful.’
‘There was one thing…’ Goodman-Brown continued hesitantly.
‘Yes?’ said Blackwood. ‘Go on; any impression you can recall will be of use, I’m sure.’
‘Well… there was something about the thing… a part of it which gave the impression of not being alien.’
Blackwood and Sophia glanced at each other, while Sullivan looked at all three of them and shook his head, wondering what kind of lunatics he had allowed into his depot.
‘I had the impression of tendrils of some kind…’
‘Tendrils?’ said Blackwood.
‘Or perhaps filaments is a better word. Very fine filaments… like wires, almost. I think it used them to open the connecting doors between the carriages, but I don’t think they were actually a part of it.’
‘Most intriguing,’ murmured Blackwood. ‘Did you gain any impression as to why it attacked Alfie Morgan?’
‘It didn’t attack him,’ Goodman-Brown replied. ‘It was merely observing him, perhaps out of curiosity… or perhaps for some other reason I cannot fathom. At any rate, it didn’t touch him – although its mere presence was sufficient to completely undermine his sanity!’
‘So, where does this leave us?’ wondered Sophia.
‘It leaves us with more questions than answers, I’m afraid,’ Blackwood replied with a faint, rueful smile. ‘And a rather fine mess in our laps. Mr Goodman-Brown’s experience proves that there’s something far stranger than mere ghosts abroad on the Underground. Something that is definitely not of this world.’
Goodman-Brown shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Blackwood, but it’s even worse than that. The thing I saw, the thing which drove Alfie Morgan insane… not only is it foreign to this world, I believe that it is foreign to our very universe!’
PART TWO
Mys
teries of the Worm
CHAPTER ONE:
A Conversation with Mr Shanahan
Blackwood and Sophia offered to take Walter Goodman-Brown home to recuperate from his dreadful experience on the train. He declined, however, saying that he had already recovered sufficiently, and would appreciate it if they could take him back to the SPR headquarters, where he intended to write a full report of the morning’s events.
‘I must say I admire your fortitude, sir,’ said Blackwood, as the hansom entered Marloes Road in Kensington and came to a halt outside Number 49.
‘Thank you,’ the psychometrist replied. ‘In fact, it’s imperative that I record my impressions of the contact analysis without delay. I’m sure it will make a most interesting and valuable piece for the SPR Journal – in addition, I hope, to aiding with your investigation.’
‘You may have no doubt of that.’
‘Perhaps you and I could retire to my office, Thomas,’ said Sophia. ‘I believe we need to discuss these developments further.’
‘Of course,’ Blackwood replied as he stepped down from the cab and offered his hand to Sophia.
The headquarters of the Society for Psychical Research were housed in a large, elegant but rather nondescript Georgian building with four stories and a whitewashed facade. Once inside, Goodman-Brown took his leave of Blackwood and Sophia, who climbed the stairs to Sophia’s office, which was located on the first floor.
This was the first time Blackwood had visited his colleague’s professional domain, and he was both amused and delighted at the feminine touches which had been applied to the room’s otherwise drably academic mien. There were large vases filled with flowers set on tables before the two tall sash windows, and several photographs upon those sections of the walls which were not obscured by heavily-stacked bookcases and file cabinets. He noted that the photographs were mainly of family gatherings, which were taken on a beautifully tended lawn in front of a large manor house.
There was another photograph on Sophia’s desk. It was of a handsome, distinguished-looking man in an immaculate evening suit. His expression was rather stern at first glance, but there was a sparkle in his eyes which hinted at great humour. He reminded Blackwood of a young Thomas Carlyle.
‘My father,’ said Sophia, who had noted Blackwood’s interest in the photograph.
‘He was a fine-looking gentleman.’
‘Indeed,’ Sophia said, very quietly.
She had told Blackwood, not long after their first meeting, of the strange and terrible fate suffered by Lord Percival Harrington during a hunting trip in the wilds of Canada. Sophia, then a girl of eighteen, had been with her father when he had been snatched from their camp by the mysterious and lethal entity known as the Wendigo and carried off into the sky, never to be seen again. His loss had nearly destroyed both her and her mother, and it had left Sophia with a burning desire to investigate and understand the supernatural in all its forms and manifestations.
Sophia offered Blackwood a chair and took her own seat at her desk. ‘Well, Thomas,’ she sighed. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think that Mr Goodman-Brown was very lucky to leave that carriage with his mind intact. It’s quite obvious that we are not dealing here with some run-of-the-mill phantom or discarnate spirit – at least, not in this particular instance.’
‘What are we dealing with? A demon? Something unspeakable from the world’s remote and unfathomed history?’
‘I’m not sure. Goodman-Brown seemed to be quite certain that the thing was alien – not of Earth at all, and not even of this universe. And it strikes me that it does not seem to be corporeal, either – at least, not in any understandable sense.’
‘It could be connected with Carcosa in some way,’ Sophia suggested.
‘Quite possibly.’ Blackwood hesitated before continuing, ‘I think it might be a good idea to get a fresh perspective on this.’
‘What do you mean?’
The Special Investigator smiled and said in a loud voice, ‘Mr Shanahan! Are you there?’
A few moments later, there was a puff of lilac smoke in the air directly above Sophia’s desk, and a tiny man appeared before them. He was about an inch tall and dressed in clothes which might have been fashionable a hundred or so years before. A pair of iridescent dragonfly wings sprouted from between his shoulders; his hair was an untidy, sandy-hued mop, and his green eyes were like tiny, glittering jewels.
‘Here, sir!’ said the little man. ‘How are you and her Ladyship today?’
‘Well, thank you.’
‘And your injuries… they’re almost completely healed, I’m glad to observe.’
‘You’re very kind to say so,’ said Blackwood, unable to keep a tone of reverence from his voice, for well he knew that the image of the tiny faerie before them was merely a disguise, and that Shanahan was, in fact, none other than Oberon himself, King of the Faeries. Blackwood had first met him when Shanahan was masquerading as the Helper from his cogitator, and had only later learned of his race’s interest in protecting Earth from the attentions of its dying sister-world, Venus.
In truth, Blackwood felt extremely awkward at the need to maintain this pretence. He and Sophia had seen Shanahan as he really was: tall, powerful and terrifying in his beauty and magnificence, and he fought against the urge to bow down before the little man. Oberon was well aware of this, and found it both amusing and slightly tiresome, and so he preferred to maintain the appearance and persona of an amiable and not-very-important little faerie when visiting his human friends.
‘And what can I do for you, sir?’ Shanahan enquired.
‘Lady Sophia and I are at present engaged upon a rather peculiar case…’
‘The disturbances on the Underground Railway,’ said Shanahan.
‘Quite so. Are you aware of the background?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘Well… I was wondering whether you could shed any light upon it.’
‘Ah,’ said Shanahan, shaking his tiny head sadly. ‘I wish I could, sir, believe me I do. But I can’t.’
‘May we ask why, Mr Shanahan?’ said Sophia.
‘For the reason I spoke of not long ago, your Ladyship. We of the Faerie Realm are limited in our actions by our Covenant with the universe, which we made in ages long past, when we decided to leave the Earth and allow Humankind to assume stewardship of the planet. We must keep our interventions in human affairs to a minimum, and then only in small ways. Besides which, there are certain pressing matters in the deep Æther which require my attention, and I cannot linger here for long, much as I would like to.’
‘Really?’ said Blackwood. Playing a sudden hunch, he added, ‘These matters wouldn’t have anything to do with a planet named Carcosa, would they?’
‘Carcosa?’ Shanahan repeated with a chuckle, and flew several tight little circles in the air. ‘And what would you know of Carcosa, Mr Blackwood? Humans will not reach that world for many hundreds of years – and not with Æther zeppelins either, I might add!’
‘I’m afraid I know very little,’ said Blackwood, with a shrug. ‘It’s just that two nights ago, a driver on the Underground was driven insane by something he saw down there. And when Lady Sophia and I went to see him, he kept repeating the word “Carcosa”.’
‘And how do you even know what Carcosa is?’ asked Shanahan. ‘Where have you heard of it?’
‘I read of it in a work written by an occultist named Dr Simon Castaigne.’
‘Indeed! Now Dr Castaigne is a fascinating gentleman. Very well versed in all manner of esoteric subjects.’
‘Including, apparently, the forms of life and intelligence on distant planets,’ said Sophia.
‘Oh yes, your Ladyship!’ exclaimed Shanahan, flitting over and alighting on the desktop in front of her.
She leaned forward and smiled at him. ‘Do you know how he does it?’
‘Does what, ma’am?’
‘How he is able to send his mind into the Æther, to visit other worlds.�
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‘Just between us three and the walls,’ he said in a loud, theatrical whisper, ‘he has chemical assistance.’
‘What kind of assistance?’ asked Blackwood.
‘A powerful narcotic, known as Taduki.’
‘I’ve never heard of it.’
‘There are very few who have, and fewer still who are able to use it safely, for it has a profound effect on the human nervous system and allows the consciousness to depart from the body and roam about at will.’
‘So Carcosa does exist, and it really is inhabited?’ said Sophia.
‘Oh, indubitably,’ replied Shanahan, with an odd smile which she found difficult to interpret.
‘Are you absolutely sure you can’t tell us anything more… please?’ she said.
‘Would that I could,’ the faerie sighed. ‘But unfortunately, this is one of those occasions when I must be extremely careful what I say. I’m sure you understand.’
Sophia smiled. ‘Yes, Mr Shanahan, we understand entirely.’
Shanahan regarded her in silence for a moment and then said, ‘There is one item of information I can provide to you.’
Both she and Blackwood leaned forward. ‘Yes?’
‘I believe that Dr Castaigne will be arriving in London tomorrow. He is giving a lecture to the Society of Spiritualistic Freemasons in Mayfair; the subject is the plurality of life on other worlds.’
‘I know,’ said Blackwood. ‘In fact, I received an invitation to attend in yesterday’s post.’
Shanahan turned to him. ‘Good for you, sir! Dr Castaigne’s lectures are very few and far between, and I believe it’s considered quite an honour to be invited to one.’
Blackwood smiled. ‘I wasn’t going to go, but the events of the last few hours have most certainly changed my mind.’
