“The poetic muse,” he told me, “does not inhabit every human breast. To inspire it into a mechanical host such as this is a new step for science.”
“It certainly is impressive.” I felt myself being caught up in his enthusiasm for his invention.
“Well,” he suddenly hunched forward towards me, his voice dropping conspiratorially, “if you find this impressive, you will be amazed at the next step I intend to take.”
“Really?” I couldn’t help but wonder what he intended.
“Indeed. This is but a mere trifle. You must visit my house in Kent and come see a true marvel!”
I told him I would be delighted to do so. Glasby had me intrigued. He gave me the date, a few days hence, and the address, and I agreed to attend.
“It will be a great day in history,” he promised, “and only a select few will witness it. You will not regret it!”
***
A few days later, I made the train journey down to Kent. It turned out that Glasby’s house was out in the middle of nowhere, but he had kindly hired a carriage to meet me, obviating the need for me to make my own arrangements to reach it. It was located in the bleak area of marshland that Dickens had written about and I found the landscape strangely dispiriting. The house itself, squat and plain, was no more pleasant to my eyes. As the summer sun set, what little beauty existed in the scene vanished.
The coachman appeared keen to be away from the house; he seemed to find it just as unsettling as I did, more so.
I had no need to ring the bell, for the door opened as I climbed the steps. An unpleasantly blank-faced man in a butler’s uniform, tall and cadaveric, stood there, looking as if he had stepped straight from the pages of some lurid gothic tale. I could imagine Glasby hiring him for just such an effect; it was exactly the way in which his peculiar mind worked.
“Mr Hallorann, you are expected,” he intoned, sepulchrally, “please come inside.”
Where the exterior of the building was plain, the interior was the exact opposite, gaudy and gothic in the extreme. Glasby seemingly sought to proclaim his unwavering belief in the afterlife with an overabundance of skulls, perhaps believing that an aesthetic might make it so, for he often talked of the power of metaphor and symbol to shape the world. I also noticed more examples of his swastika-like symbol placed, discreetly, here and there, as if stamping his ownership upon his home.
“Ah, James, here you are!” Glasby exclaimed cordially as I entered the drawing room where he and his other guests awaited me. With the late start time, I had dined before leaving as no meal was provided, although there was a tray of savories on the table beside the port and brandy. I wondered whether there was an actual practical reason for the timing of this gathering or if it was just another example of Glasby’s theatrical tendencies.
The gathering consisted of six others besides him and I.
“May I introduce Edgar and Sylvia Atheling,” he said, gesturing at a seated couple a little younger than myself. I recognized the name of the poet who had scandalized polite society last year with his odes to unnatural, necrophiliac lusts. His wife certainly looked suitably wan and gaunt to be married to a man who could pen such obscenities.
“Randolph St. Leger, you know,” he continued and we exchanged a nod, “and these,” he indicated two pale young beauties in unfashionable yellow summer dresses, “are my daughters, Camilla and Cassilda.”
I greeted them politely, despite never having heard any mention of a wife nor children for Glasby. I was not sure which of the girls was which, they were almost identical to my eyes.
The last figure was an extraordinary fellow dressed in a long orange Chinese-style tunic with an Indian turban upon his head and a large blue jewel on his brow. His eyes were obscured by rose-tinted spectacles. That his skin was quite pale and his features European made me doubt his appearance was anything more than an affectation.
“And, this, of course, is the famous medium, Bayrolles.”
I had heard of the man, despite never having seen him before; indeed, I am sure everyone in the SPR had, for his séances were legendary. His appearance belied the status his name had accrued in recent years. To me, he looked like a fraud, yet I could imagine his outrageous costume might be intended to reassure his clients who would expect someone exotic.
He did not speak, just nodded. His presence made me wonder just what Glasby had in mind.
“Have a drink, you must be thirsty after your journey.”
“Oh, just a quick snifter,” I replied, “clear the dust.”
The butler poured me a glass of gin-and-tonic and I knocked it back, and looked at Glasby.
“Right, if you would follow me…”
The butler disappeared off somewhere and Glasby led us through to the library and bade us be seated. There was something, the height of a man but square-angled, under a dustsheet in the center of the room. It had to be another machine.
“This is it,” Glasby announced, theatrically, an odd look in his unpleasant eyes. “Here is the promised Messiah, the host body of the Living God.”
With a flourish, he swept the dustsheet aside to reveal a cabinet-type construction not dissimilar to his poetry machine. It was clearly electrical in nature, light bulbs surmounted its top between two metal spikes. On the front of it were dials, a grille and Glasby’s symbol prominently displayed, bright yellow upon the black wood.
“Tonight,” he continued, “you will partake in the incarnation of the spirit of the King Whom Emperors Serve into this physical body of wood, metal and glass. Bayrolles shall act as the midwife.”
I realized that the man must be mad and was attempting to recreate the lunacy of the Mechanical Messiah that had gripped the American Spiritualists earlier in the century, that failed act of foolishness and self-deception. Or, maybe Govan had been right and the whole thing was part of some silly hoax to gain attention. I was tempted to leave, but had a peculiar fascination to see what would unfold this night.
The two girls, their faces curiously blank, like a pair of masks, stood to either side of the machine, holding tall, flickering candles, the light from which scattered shadows across their pallid features, making them seem almost monstrous. The Athelings sat immediately in front of the machine, either side of the medium, gazing with rapt, almost adoring expressions. Glasby was in front and slightly to one side of the machine, turning dials. Randolph and I sat together, a little apart from the others, faintly amused by the scene and equally disturbed.
Bayrolles began the ritual, his eyes rolling back and his head lolling as he began to moan.
“I see the reaching towers,” he cried, “that stand before the moon. I see the ruins as old as time. Here is the One whom you serve! The Last King is come to his new body and abode!”
At those words, Glasby threw a switch and there was a sudden discordant hum from the machine. The pair of glass bulbs atop the cabinet lit up, gauges twitched and a spark jumped from one spike to the other. There was a palpable energy or tension in the air.
That was all. Nothing more seemed to happen. The light in the bulbs faded and the gauges fell still. It was distinctly unimpressive. Randolph let out a strangled half-laugh/half-snort, then quailed before Glasby’s glare, who was clearly taking the whole thing seriously. I wondered how he would react to such a dismal failure.
Except, that it wasn’t.
Bayrolles was still in his trance and, suddenly, gasped and tumbled from his chair with a shriek that made us all jump with a start aside from the immobile girls. As he fell to the floor, the bulbs lit up again, brightly an arc of electricity ran between the spikes, and the machine let out a brief high-pitched whine that forced me to cover my ears.
“My Master! My Master!” Glasby cried with a tortured ecstasy. Turning to us, he announced: “Now shall the Last King rule this world! The promised Messiah shall judge the unworthy and scour the Earth! All shall tremble before the King In Yellow in his incarnated glory!”
With a shock, I realized that he wa
s calling out the name attributed to that vile Anarchist volume that had lately done the rounds, inspiring disgust in all right-thinking folk and panicked suppression by the authorities. Rumor claimed that it incited all kinds of vile and immoral acts and the overthrow of order and reason; some even said it was so awful as to cause the sensitive and weak-minded to lose all inhibitions, even go insane. Clearly Glasby had read that blasphemous work and had his already tenuous hold on reality undermined by it. If that book was half as bad as it was painted by popular opinion, he would be a dangerous maniac under its influence.
“And, now, you shall all be judged.”
The Athelings, apparently as crazy as he was, stepped forward and laid their hands on the machine. The lights atop it glowed brighter and Glasby was clearly satisfied, nodding at them with a smile.
“You,” he pointed at Randolph. I noticed that Bayrolles had slipped towards the back of the room, clearly keen to leave. I wondered what his exact role in the greater scheme of things was, willing participant or stooge.
Randolph was unwilling and the Athelings had to drag him up to the machine, holding his hand onto it. The lights dimmed and, from their feral grins, I knew this was a bad sign.
From a drawer in his writing desk, Glasby fetched a large, slightly-curved blade and stepped towards Randolph. I knew I had to do something.
The only potential weapon I could see to hand was a silver candlestick in the corner of the room, fully three feet tall. Lunging for it and raising it in two hands, I gave a wild swing and struck Edgar Atheling in the back of his head, sending him crumpling to the floor with an unpleasantly wet sound. Randolph was able to pull away from Sylvia, who turned and lunged at me with an incoherent shriek; without thinking, I hefted the candlestick again and caught her a glancing blow that broke her arm and she sank down beside her husband, caressing his bloody head with her still-functioning arm, sobbing.
Glasby continued his advance, knife in hand. Strangely, his two daughters remained immobile where they stood, clutching their candles. The entire scene was utterly bizarre and I felt as if I should become insane.
“James!” Randolph clutched my arm, interposing me as a shield between him and our host. “The man is a madman! I’ve read that play’s first act, banal but strange, but did not dare the second.”
Whatever else he wished to say was cut off by his finding his back against shelves.
“James, I don’t want to die—save me and I’ll make it worth your while!” Clearly he had sensed that I was willing to abandon him, hoping that Glasby would focus on him, allowing me time to escape. His offer was a tempting one; I didn’t move.
Our crazed host was now standing before us. Neither of us moved for what seemed an eternity, then he lunged. Automatically, I swung my club, although I was finding it difficult to raise the heavy candlestick. By a stroke of luck, I struck his wrist and, although not much of a blow, made him drop his weapon.
“Dare you challenge the will of the Living God?!” he screeched, his features contorting hideously at the thought of such blasphemy against his delusion.
“Glasby, this is madness! That box of tricks of yours is naught but cogs and wheels and wires. It is no more a god than an abacus could ever be. Think, man! It is nothing more than a light show.”
That seemed to make him pause, or maybe it was the pain in his wrist, which he held and rubbed distractedly. At the very least, I had him at bay, which was better than nothing. Now, we had to get out of there.
“Step back, Glasby, we have to go.”
He didn’t move.
“Damn you, Glasby—move!”
The machine began to make another sound, a sort of low drone. Horribly, it sounded almost as if it were a voice attempting to form words. Glasby tilted his head as if trying to make sense of the sounds. I felt Randolph’s grip on my arm tighten.
“Yes… yes…” nodded Glasby, fixing me with a wild gaze. I knew the attack was coming, but was too slow, my arm too strained to fend it off. I had barely lifted the candlestick before he was on me, knocking it from my hand. Randolph grunted as I was slammed back into him, then I was on the floor with Glasby attempting to throttle me, pinning me to the floor with his weight.
Suddenly, the side of his head seemed to explode in a red mist, his eyes rolled up into his skull and he tumbled off me onto the floor. Randolph entered my field of vision with a manic look on his face and the bloodied candlestick in his hands. He lowered it to the floor with one hand and, reaching out his free hand, he pulled me to my feet.
“We have to leave,” I told him, but he shook his head.
“No. We must destroy the machine.”
The droning sounds clearly were getting to him; they were getting to me. The sound resembled ‘It is a…’ and a garbled remainder. In our state of panic, to imagine more would have been all too easy.
At his words, I had glanced over to the machine; the two girls were still just standing there, impassive, unconcerned that their father had been brained right before them. Even more than the machine, that frightened me.
“We have to leave,” I repeated. I desperately wanted to get out of there.
He shook his head and advanced on the machine, past the still body of Atheling and his sobbing wife. Of the medium, there was no sign. It was then, as he drew near, that the two girls finally moved, stepping forward to interpose themselves between him and his target, moving with a strangely mechanical gait.
Randolph had clearly suffered all he could take and snapped.
With a mighty swing, he smashed the candlestick into the face of one of the girls – again. I’m not sure which was which. I admit that a scream escaped my lips at that moment, for it seemed as if he had torn half the girl’s face away with that terrible blow. In a sense, he had, but it was not blood and bone that was revealed when that porcelain-pale skin was ripped away, but shiny metal where bone should have been and little turning wheels and twitching armatures where one would have expected muscle.
Randolph barely seemed to pause at this revelation, but swung his weapon again and again, raining down blows upon it like a man possessed. The girl’s, thing’s, twin continued to stand impassive beside it as he battered it. Clearly, only the machine mattered.
‘It is terrible thing…’ the drone seemed to be saying.
The candle dropped from the hand of the battered manikin that had once appeared as a girl, landing on the carpet. The yellow dress went up like a roaring bonfire. The misshapen metal jaw moved soundlessly, and it sagged, but did nothing to resist the flames engulfing it.
“No!” Glasby’s voice gurgled thickly from a throat fouled with blood as he attempted to rise from the floor.
‘It is a terrible thing…’
“Do not defile the Messiah!” Glasby was crawling on his hands and knees towards Randolph.
The flames caught the other girl-thing’s dress and she began to blaze, too, still immobile. It was a horrific sight, but my practical mind overrode my fear as I realized that the books and furniture were certain to catch light at any moment; if we didn’t leave now, we never would.
Ignoring Glasby, I dashed over to Randolph who was attempting to smash the machine but was being beaten back by the flames. Grabbing his shoulder, I pulled him away.
“We have to go!”
He dropped the candlestick and let me pull him away.
“Let the fire have it,” I told him, seeing the concerned look on his face. That seemed to bring him back to his senses and he quickly headed for the door.
I followed him, but, suddenly, something took hold of my leg. Looking down, I saw that Glasby had reached me and taken ahold of my ankle. I tried to pull away, but his grasp was too strong.
I called out to Randolph for help, but he was gone and either didn’t hear me or didn’t care. I had a vision of myself being burnt to death in that rapidly blazing library. Already, the smoke was growing thick and I was starting to feel a little lightheaded.
‘It is a terrible thing to fall�
�’ the droning voice was unaffected by the smoke and flames. If anything, it grew stronger as I felt myself growing weaker. Still, I could not break free from Glasby’s grasp.
“Damn you, Glasby! Let me go!”
A pathetic shriek was his reply as the spreading flames reached him and his clothes began to burn. Pain made him loosen his grip and I pulled away.
“My god, no!” Whether it was a plea to his master or a sudden recognition of his predicament, I had neither knowledge nor interest; I merely desired to be gone from there.
My last impression of that room as I fled into the hallway, before escaping from the house, was of two metallic skeletons standing guard before the angular silhouette of the bizarre god-machine, which continued to drone his mantra as I went.
The cadaveric figure of the butler—whom I, suddenly, had a horrible suspicion was no more a man than Glasby’s daughters had been girls—was the only servant to be seen fighting the flames. Whether Glasby kept no others or they had opted to flee, I had no way of knowing, nor did I care; I hoped the inferno would consume the house and its vile contents.
Randolph was already running off down the track and I followed him as quickly as I could. There was still no sign of the medium, Bayrolles, but I suspected he was long gone. Behind me, a keening wail announced that Sylvia Atheling had remained trapped in the library beside the body of her husband. It sickened me a little that Randolph and I had caused the deaths of three people. I just hoped that the flames had destroyed Glasby’s hideous creation. Although I did not like to admit it to myself, I understood as Randolph had, that the machine was more than just the sum of its mechanical parts, that it was an intrusion from some world beyond our own, a world alien and dangerous.
I could only pray, as I staggered away into the night, that the nightmare was over.
Unfathomable
By Christine Morgan
Low clouds hung dark in a darker sky, the damp wind promising rain. The sea stretched calm, smooth as slate.
Steampunk Cthulhu: Mythos Terror in the Age of Steam Page 16
