by Alan K Baker
When the force finally released her, Sophia found herself in a gigantic circular chamber, whose domed ceiling was barely discernible in the watery murk. Strange shapes, like the ones she had half glimpsed in the lake’s open waters, flitted amongst the titanic columns which marched around the perimeter of the room. Upon each of the columns, which must have been at least a hundred feet tall, was carved the Yellow Sign:
Each symbol glowed dully with a slow, rhythmic pulsation, casting a diseased yellow light into the chamber and upon the thing which squatted at its centre.
At first sight, it appeared to be an enormous mountain of rags, of the same filthy yellow hue as the light emanating from the symbols. The rags fluttered and undulated obscenely in the currents caused by the movement of the nameless things which swam between the columns, and at once Sophia knew that this livid, putrescent mound was alive.
Where flap the tatters of the King…
No, Sophia thought. Oh, no, no, no!
As if in response to her wild, unspoken denial, the fluttering of the rags increased, and the vast mound began to heave and sway. The nameless swimming things fled the chamber, and the water became still, but the heaving and fluttering of the rags continued, growing yet more fevered.
Sophia tried to back away, but the invisible force that had brought her here seized her again and held her fast.
And then the great mass of fluttering rags parted like an infected wound, and when she saw what lay within, Sophia began to scream.
The shadows lengthen
In Carcosa…
CHAPTER SEVEN:
A Séance
‘Dr Castaigne,’ said Cuthbert Fforbes-Maclellan, ‘may I introduce Mr Thomas Blackwood, Special Investigator for Her Majesty’s Bureau of Clandestine Affairs.’
‘A pleasure, sir,’ said Castaigne, shaking Blackwood’s hand.
The occultist’s talk had ended. The lodge’s Apprentices had removed the high-backed chairs from the drawing room and were now circulating amongst the guests with trays of drinks and canapés.
‘Although,’ Castaigne continued, ‘I had the impression from your question that you are more than a little sceptical of my claims.’
‘Not at all, my dear chap,’ Blackwood replied. ‘Quite the contrary.’ He lowered his voice as he added, ‘In fact, I’m very glad I accepted the invitation to attend this evening. There is something I’d like to discuss with you, something of extreme importance, which bears markedly upon your current concerns.’
‘Really?’ said Castaigne.
‘Really?’ echoed Fforbes-Maclellan.
Blackwood glanced around the crowded room. ‘Gentlemen, I would prefer the three of us to discuss this in private.’
‘My office,’ said Fforbes-Maclellan instantly. ‘Follow me.’
The rest of the guests stared at them with bemusement as they left the drawing room. The Worshipful Master led them along a corridor and into his small but immaculately (and somewhat arcanely) furnished office. Blackwood ignored the complexities of the Masonic decor as he and Castaigne took a couple of armchairs.
‘How about a brandy and soda to kick things off?’ said Fforbes-Maclellan.
‘Capital,’ Castaigne replied, and Blackwood also nodded. ‘Well, Mr Blackwood,’ he said when they had their drinks. ‘What is it you wish to discuss?’
‘The King in Yellow,’ the Special Investigator replied. ‘You are probably aware that there have been a number of disturbances reported on the London Underground recently – disturbances of a supernatural nature.’
Castaigne nodded. ‘I read something of it in the Times this morning. Most curious, I must say… but I’m not sure what it has to do with me.’
Blackwood leaned forward suddenly, placing his brandy untouched on a small table beside his chair. ‘My dear sir, it has everything to do with you, if what you have said about the events on Carcosa is true.’
Castaigne took a long swallow of his brandy and soda, and said, ‘Go on.’
‘For some weeks now, drivers and maintenance crews on the Underground system have been complaining of strange things happening. Ghosts, for the most part. It seems that the spirits of those who have met tragic and untimely ends, and which linger on the network, have been stirred into unusually high levels of activity. And then, three nights ago, a train driver named Alfie Morgan encountered something which completely unhinged his mind. I went to see him at Bethlem Hospital with a colleague of mine, and during our visit he uttered the word “Carcosa” several times…’
At this, Castaigne jerked forward in his seat. ‘You don’t say!’
‘Then, two days later, my colleague and I engaged a psychometrist from the Society for Psychical Research to examine Morgan’s train. The poor man very nearly suffered the same fate as Morgan: his mind was all but shattered by the psychic impressions he received – impressions, he said, of an utterly alien being which is roaming the Underground.’
‘By Jove!’ said Fforbes-Maclellan, and drained his glass in a single gulp.
Castaigne was silent for some moments. ‘I take it that you haven’t encountered this entity yourself.’
Blackwood shook his head. ‘No, but I have heard it while I was on the network with a Scotland Temple detective, who is also investigating these events. The creature – whatever it was – attacked the members of a search party out looking for a man who recently vanished. We… heard their screams, and also the sounds the thing made.’ Blackwood hesitated before continuing, ‘I must confess that I prevented the detective from going to their aid.’
Castaigne leaned forward and placed a hand on Blackwood’s arm. ‘Rest assured, sir, that you made the right decision. There was nothing you could have done, and had you given chase, you and your colleague would most certainly have perished.’
Blackwood sighed. ‘Thank you, but I have to say that it was a most difficult decision.’
‘I understand entirely.’
Blackwood turned haunted eyes on the occultist. ‘Have you any idea what the thing was?’
‘My guess is that it was a Servitor of the King in Yellow, mindless yet immensely powerful and dangerous. I suspected that at least one existed on Earth, but I had no idea that it was here in England, beneath the metropolis. I thank you, sir, for bringing this to my attention. This is further proof that the King in Yellow plans to leave Carcosa and take up residence on Earth…’
‘With the help of Charles Exeter,’ said Blackwood.
‘Precisely.’
‘But why would Exeter give aid to such a monstrous being? Surely he must know what it would mean for our world – especially if he has obtained a copy of the Carcosa Fragments.’
‘I suspect that he is not doing so entirely voluntarily,’ Castaigne replied with a sad shake of his head. ‘One of the things Edward Kelley learned during his scrying experiments was that the entity is capable of contacting other beings in their dreams, and influencing their thoughts and actions. This must be what has happened to Charles Exeter.’
‘And how is he going to carry out the entity’s wishes? You said in your talk that you know the how and why of it.’
‘I do. But tell me: have you read the Carcosa Fragments, Mr Blackwood?’
Fforbes-Maclellan gave a small start, as if Castaigne had uttered a profanity.
‘No, I have not. I’ve never come across a copy… I suppose there is a limit even to the Bureau’s resources.’
Castaigne gave a grim smile. ‘Indeed. I take it, however, that you have heard of the ancient tribe known as the Catuvellauni.’
Blackwood frowned, at a loss as to where the conversation was going. ‘Yes I have. They lived in the South East of England before the Roman conquest.’
‘Quite so. According to the Carcosa Fragments, the Catuvellauni were visited by a man who came from the sky, and who arrived in the far south of their territory, near their border with the neighbouring tribe of the Regnenses. But that man was not really a man: he was an avatar of the King in Yellow, a kind of th
ought-form, similar to the tulpas of Tibet, which was capable of interacting with its environment. The avatar brought with it an object, which it showed to Tasciovanus, ruler of the Catuvellauni. This object, the avatar said, would bring good fortune and victory in battle to Tasciovanus’s people, as long as it remained buried in an underground shrine which the avatar would instruct the Catuvellauni on how to build.
‘Tasciovanus agreed; the shrine was constructed, the object buried, and the Catuvellauni subsequently enjoyed a period of great expansion. But the avatar had lied: there was no connection whatsoever between the object and the fortunes of Tasciovanus’s people; the increase in their power was merely a coincidence, and was reversed with the arrival of the Romans.’
‘Astonishing,’ said Fforbes-Maclellan. ‘But why is there no record of this in our histories of the British Isles?’
‘The avatar swore Tasciovanus to secrecy on pain of death for the entire tribe, and so obvious was the being’s power that the king agreed. In fact, once the underground chamber had been completed, the twenty-three men who had constructed it were sacrificed, so that they would never be able to tell of what they had seen and done.’
‘And what, exactly, was the object which the avatar brought to Earth?’ asked Blackwood.
‘Edward Kelley uses a curious word to denote it,’ Castaigne replied. ‘He calls it the “Anti-Prism”.’
‘What the deuce is that supposed to mean?’ wondered Fforbes-Maclellan.
Castaigne drained his glass. ‘It is, essentially, a piece of technology – but a technology that is utterly beyond human understanding, based partly on a profound knowledge of physics and partly on an unknown form of extra-dimensional Magick.’
‘What is its function?’ asked Blackwood.
The occultist hesitated before answering, ‘Nothing less than the opening of a gateway between worlds…’
‘A gateway?’
‘A means of travelling rapidly between different locations in the universe – in this case, between Carcosa and Earth.’
‘Presumably, this… device… is not active right now,’ said Blackwood.
‘Indeed not.’
‘Exeter needs to activate it before the gateway can be opened and the King in Yellow can come to Earth.’
‘Precisely.’
‘And how will he do that?’
‘By channelling prodigious amounts of psychic energy into the Anti-Prism,’ Castaigne replied. ‘The King in Yellow must have known that human civilisation would develop and grow, and that great cities would arise across the landscape, filled with thousands of people. And, of course, people die, oftentimes violently and in great anguish, and become trapped in the twilight world between this life and the next. It is that energy, the energy of trapped souls, which is used to power the Anti-Prism.’
‘Great God,’ said Fforbes-Maclellan. ‘What a fiendish device!’
Blackwood recalled what Anne Naylor had told him and de Chardin in the maintenance tunnel that afternoon, about the ‘monster’ which was haunting the Underground, gathering the souls of those who had died in the area, including the ones who had been killed by ‘the big disease in the olden days’.
He told Castaigne and Fforbes-Maclellan what the little ghost had said. ‘It’s obvious,’ he added, ‘that she was talking about the Plague. Thousands upon thousands of victims, all having died in horrible circumstances, their souls trapped between this world and the next – a vast reservoir of psychic energy.’
‘Good Lord, man, you’ve got it!’ cried Castaigne. ‘The Servitor of the King in Yellow has been gathering the souls of the anguished dead, preparing to discharge them into the Anti-Prism, thus powering the device and allowing it to open the gate between worlds.’
‘It goes without saying that we must stop that from happening,’ observed Blackwood. ‘But the question is how?’ He thought of Sophia and the interview she should have conducted with Charles Exeter that afternoon, and he wished that he had had a chance to speak with her before now. It was clear that the first thing to do was to bring Exeter in for questioning, but when Blackwood mentioned that, Castaigne shook his head.
‘I’m afraid that wouldn’t do any good, Mr Blackwood.’
‘Why the devil not?’
‘Because if the King in Yellow is influencing Exeter’s actions, you won’t be able to get anything useful out of him.’
‘Dash it all!’ Blackwood muttered.
‘There is another way of getting hold of some information,’ ventured Fforbes-Maclellan.
Blackwood glanced at him. ‘And what is that?’
‘You’re forgetting that Madame Henrietta von Schellenberg, the finest spiritualistic medium in the country, if not the world, is one of our guests this evening,’ the Worshipful Master replied. ‘We don’t have to ask Charles Exeter exactly what he’s doing and where he’s doing it; we can ask the spirits of those who have had first-hand experience of it.’
Blackwood regarded his host in silence for a moment. ‘You’re suggesting that we hold a séance?’
‘Yes, Mr Blackwood, that’s precisely what I’m suggesting.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Fforbes-Maclellan, ‘if I may have your attention…’
The guests, who were still assembled in the drawing room, their conversation having turned to the possible reason why their host had disappeared along with the guest of honour and the Special Investigator, turned towards the doorway where the Worshipful Master was standing.
‘I beg your forgiveness for this unexpected change to the evening’s proceedings, but we find ourselves confronted with the urgent need to conduct an impromptu séance for reasons of national security. Madame Henrietta, would you please come with me?’
A tall woman of statuesque build and aristocratic bearing glided across the room, the iridescent silk of her crimson evening gown making a subtle and delicious swishing sound which cut through the silence.
‘I am at your service, Worshipful Master,’ she said in a voice which was perhaps just a shade too deep for a woman, but which nevertheless succeeded in expressing all the power and mystery of her sex and the greater mystery of her vocation.
Fforbes-Maclellan gave a slight bow. ‘I am much obliged to you, Madame. If you will follow me to the Séance Room…’
Before leaving the drawing room, he turned to the other guests. ‘My apologies once again, ladies and gentlemen. We shall return to you presently. This shouldn’t take longer than half an hour or so.’
Fforbes-Maclellan and Madame Henrietta von Schellenberg went to the Séance Room, where Blackwood and Castaigne were already waiting. After hasty introductions, they all seated themselves around a circular table covered with a rich burgundy baize.
‘May I enquire as to the purpose of this séance, Worshipful Master?’ said Madame Henrietta.
‘Mr Blackwood,’ said Fforbes-Maclellan. ‘If you’d be so kind.’
Blackwood, who was sitting between the medium and the Worshipful Master, nodded. ‘We need to contact at least one spirit from the London Underground. We require certain information, which only they are able to provide – information which may well prevent a terrible catastrophe. Can you help us, Madame?’
‘I will certainly try, sir,’ Madame Henrietta replied. ‘Have you ever taken part in a séance before?’
‘I have,’ Blackwood said.
She placed her hands palm-upwards on the surface of the table. ‘Then we all know what to do.’
The four of them joined hands in silence. Madame Henrietta von Schellenberg closed her eyes and began to demonstrate why she had become famous in London society and beyond. She bowed her head, and by the subdued light in the room, Blackwood could see the blood drain gradually from her face. Her features became utterly still, as if she were in a deep sleep. This was the self-induced trance which would allow her mind to reach out into the netherworld beyond material life, and to speak to the beings who dwelt there.
‘I wish to speak with one who lingers beneath the
city,’ she intoned in a voice which was even deeper than normal. Blackwood felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the strangeness of it: there was something deeply unnatural in the timbre – no, he corrected himself: something supernatural. There were many mediums plying their trade throughout Great Britain, and most of them were charlatans with little or no ability to apprehend the world beyond. Madame Henrietta, however, was not one of them: she was the genuine article.
Blackwood felt the temperature in the Séance Room drop by several degrees as the gaslights began to flicker upon the walls.
‘Will no one speak with us?’ said Madame Henrietta. ‘We beseech you to help us… Who of you will come forward? There is something we desperately need to discuss with you – something of very great importance.’
Madame Henrietta lifted her head and looked at Blackwood. ‘I sense fear, terrible fear. They are most reluctant to speak.’
‘Anne,’ said Blackwood.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Anne Naylor, the Screaming Spectre.’
Madame Henrietta winced at the crude appellation.
‘You are aware of her history,’ he persisted.
‘I am.’
‘Call for her. She may come.’
Madame Henrietta nodded. ‘I am speaking to the one called Anne Naylor, to the poor child who was taken from the world long before her time. Hear me Anne… and come to us!’
After some moments had passed in silence and stillness, the flickering of the gaslights increased, as if a strong breeze were blowing through the room, although none of the sitters felt the slightest stirring in the air…
