Chambers looked up with the others. Sure enough, the word to the right of the insect god no longer referred to the inevitability of death.
“What does ‘Memento Moreby’ mean?” he asked.
“‘Remember Moreby,’” Dr. Cruttenden breathed. “Of course. I should have guessed that. Stupid of me, very stupid indeed.”
“What is ‘Moreby’?” Ronnie had finally regained her voice, but it still sounded weak and thready.
“You shouldn’t be asking ‘What,’ my dear, but rather ‘Who.’ Thomas Moreby was . . . something of an enigma.”
“I’m guessing from the way you’re saying it that he was a bad kind of enigma?” Karen still had the recorder on, but her grip on it wasn’t as sure as it had been and the machine had slipped a little. Despite the chill in the building, Chambers could see traces of sweat on the black plastic casing.
“The very worst kind,” Dr. Cruttenden replied. “You remember I told you he built this church?”
Chambers nodded. “And that it was destroyed by fire.”
“In 1850, yes, but the undercroft—the place we’ve been using for our kitchen—is still the same, and the crypt also.” Dr. Cruttenden seemed to be considering whether or not she should continue. “He was a strange man, a very strange man. He believed that the body lived on after death, and that it could be made to rise again if exposed to something he called ‘pure humors.’”
Karen had regained her grip on her recorder, and now she was holding the machine so close to the historian that it was almost in Dr. Cruttenden’s face. “‘Pure humors?’” she asked. “What does that mean?”
Dr. Cruttenden shrugged. “Who knows? I don’t think he was taken terribly seriously, except by a few who became part of the Well of Seven—sort of like his disciples, if you will. They’re all buried at St. Pancras Old Church.”
“Along with Moreby?” Chambers hoped so.
“Oh, no.” Dr. Cruttenden’s face was grave. “He was committed for a while to Bedlam, raving about how he had seen the Other Side, and that the newly revived dead would inherit the Earth because they had purer souls. Upon his death, the exact date of which is not exactly clear, he left instructions to be interred here.”
“Here?” Karen spoke loudly, presumably to ensure the tape picked it up.
Dr. Cruttenden nodded. “Somewhere in the crypt beneath us. There was another odd thing.” The others waited for her to continue. “No one knew how old he was when he died. As I mentioned before, if records are to be believed, he must have been over a hundred years old, and yet apparently he looked little more than forty.”
No one spoke for a moment. The atmosphere suddenly seemed to have gotten even colder. Karen shivered, and when she switched off her tape recorder the click echoed around the church’s empty walls. Everyone’s breath steamed in the lamplight. Chambers was sure it couldn’t be seen before.
There was a crash from behind them. They all turned to see a chunk of plaster had fallen away from the portion of wall beneath the bottom of the painting and shattered on the stone floor.
The plaster had revealed something.
The symbols probably formed a word, but it was written in a language with which Chambers was unfamiliar. Daubed in red streaks against the pale Portland stone beneath, its purpose could be nothing other than to describe the creature painted above, or perhaps even to name it.
ANAPX
“What does it mean?” Chambers guessed Dr. Cruttenden knew. “It doesn’t actually say Anapx . . . does it?”
“It’s classical Greek.” Even Dr. Cruttenden was starting to sound nervous now. “In our language it would be pronounced ‘Anarch.’”
“You mean as in anarchy?
“It can mean that, but it depends on the situation. Here I very much suspect it to mean ‘Without Beginning,’ as in something that is eternal.”
“Something that’s existed since the beginning of time?”
“Perhaps. A more literal translation would mean ‘That Which Exists Outside of Time,’ which of course makes little sense. It is interesting, though.”
“Why?” Chambers could sense she was holding something back. “What else does it mean?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just that Thomas Moreby was rumored to practice black magic of a sort, and that he had a familiar.”
“Like a cat?”
“No, nothing like a cat at all. But very much like . . .” she pointed a bony finger at the image on the wall.
“A . . . flea?” Chambers spluttered. This was starting to get ridiculous. “Thomas Moreby had a flea for a familiar?”
Dr. Cruttenden shook her head. “It was much larger than the insect you know. Some say it was as big as a dog, sometimes bigger. Moreby was rumored to feed it the blood of children. Some believed that the creature was actually the master, and Moreby the slave, that it was a constant reminder of the true power he served. A power even greater than the Anarch itself, otherwise described as the ‘One Who Watches in Darkness’ in the Liber de Nigra Peregrinatione.”
It was almost too much, but Karen had to know. “The what?” It was the first question she had asked without having her recorder switched on.
Dr. Cruttenden looked more and more uncomfortable as she was pressed to continue. “The Book of the Black Pilgrimage. It’s one of those fabled volumes like Alhazred’s Necronomicon, Ludvig Prinn’s De Vermis Mysteriis, or the Book of Eibon. They all turn up on dealers’ lists from time to time, usually as a joke because the books in question are so rare that all copies are thought to be in the possession of individuals who would never for a moment consider parting with them.
“To be honest with you, I can’t remember much of what it’s meant to be about. I believe, however, it details a journey taken to the fabled city of Chorazin, and of a Black Cathedral wherein dwelt some terrible power.
Moreby’s familiar allegedly came from there.”
“When was this book meant to have been written?” asked Karen.
Dr. Cruttenden seemed thrown. “I . . . I’m not sure. Possibly the sixteen hundreds, possibly earlier. Why?”
“Because you told us that Geoffrey Chaucer went on some mysterious sea voyage, didn’t you?” Chambers could tell Karen was getting excited now, and he wasn’t altogether sure that was a good thing. “And while it may have been three hundred years earlier, isn’t it possible that might be where he went?”
“It’s possible,” Dr. Cruttenden conceded. “But there are a thousand other places he would have been more likely to have gone. What made you mention him?”
“Because he’s the reason we’re all here!” There was no stopping her now. “It was the discovery of that story of his that brought us all together. Surely that can’t all be coincidence?”
“Coincidence or not, we’ve got three men missing, too many strange things happening, and we’re only just starting our first night here.” Chambers had little choice now but to alert the League as to what was occurring here. He had made up his mind and no one was going to stop him. “I think it’s time we called a halt to this whole thing.”
Only Karen looked upset, but even she didn’t move as he strode to the door. His hand hovered over the panic release for a moment as he considered asking the rest of them if they were in agreement. If anyone did have any objections, however, he didn’t much care.
He brought his palm down on the red button.
TWENTY-ONE
Thursday, December 22, 1994. 7:37 P.M.
NOTHING HAPPENED.
He tried again.
The same thing.
“Is it some kind of long distance thing?” Chambers called back to the others. “Does it set off an alarm in one of the vans outside or something?”
“It’s supposed to release the door immediately.” Karen was at his side now. “In case there’s a fire or if anyone’s hurt.”
“Maybe I just didn’t hear it unlocking.” Chambers took hold of the wrought iron door handle, and pulled. Then he pushed. Then he pulled again.<
br />
“You don’t have to push the button a certain number of times or something, do you?” He was already doing so without waiting for her reply.
“Of course not.” Now Karen was looking as worried as he felt. “A single push should release it.”
“Perhaps you’re not pushing it hard enough,” said Ronnie from behind them.
Chambers stood out of the way. “Be my guest.”
All four of them took turns pushing the red release button as hard as they could and then rattling the door handle.
“Did anyone bring in one of those handheld phone things?” Dr. Cruttenden looked at each of them and finished on Karen. “Or a radio?”
“No.” Karen looked as if she was kicking herself for not doing so now. “That was the point, remember? No contact with the outside world. No one could get out, and no one could get in. We wanted to make it virtually impossible for anyone to be able to rig up a hoax.”
“And by doing so you’ve made it actually impossible for us to leave.” Chambers resisted the urge to hammer at the door in frustration, then thought there wouldn’t actually be any harm in it. The others followed his example, all except Dr. Cruttenden. When they started to shout for help, her voice cut through their pleas for assistance.
“It won’t do any good, you know. Do you know how thick those doors are? You’re wasting your breath.”
“Well, what else are we supposed to do?” Ronnie’s words were choked with tears. “We can’t just sit here.”
“All you’re going to do if you beat on those panels is exhaust yourself and injure your hands.”
“Dr. Cruttenden’s right.” Chambers’s fists were already starting to hurt from him battering them against the weathered oak. “Is there any other way out of here?”
The lecturer shook her head. “Not if Miss Shepworth’s team has arranged for the side entrance to be barricaded.” Karen gave a guilty nod at that. “In that case we are truly trapped. At least we won’t starve to death.”
“But something else might get us first.” Ronnie glanced back to the painting of the Anarch, or whatever the hell it was. “Yes . . . something.”
Chambers was doing his best to remain rational as his training as an agent finally kicked in. “Well, before we all give up and consign ourselves to whatever might be living in—or under—this church, I suggest we make a concerted effort to search the entire building, both for another way out and . . .” he suddenly found it difficult to say, now that he was facing up to the reality of it “. . . and for any evidence of Father Traynor, Dr. Chesney, or Paul Hale.”
“They’ve gone, haven’t they?” Ronnie was looking at Dr. Cruttenden. “They’ve gone to be a part of that picture.”
“We don’t know that.” Karen laid a hand on Ronnie’s arm, but the woman pulled away.
“We do! Haven’t you noticed? The picture has changed each time something has happened to one of us. Paul disappeared with Dr. Chesney and that . . . thing appeared on the wall, with all its worshippers or whatever you want to call them.” Ronnie looked around her, trembling now. “They’re still here, you know. All around us. So is that thing. Deep down, deep down below. That’s where they all are. Waiting. Waiting for us to make them seven again. It’s a very powerful number, seven. Powerful in all kinds of religions, all kinds of cults. And since at the end of the day only one religion can be the true one, if it’s that—” she pointed at the picture of the Anarch once more “—then seven’s going to be important to it, isn’t it?”
“That’s enough, Ronnie.” Chambers intended to calm her down but the words came out as a bark.
“No it’s not. We’re trapped in here because we were meant to be here, all of us. You three and your Chaucer documents, Chesney and his parapsychological past, me and Paul winning that competition. We didn’t win anything. There is no chance, no luck. Everything’s been planned. By that thing on the wall, lording it over all of us and waiting, biding its time.”
“Biding its time until what?” Dr. Cruttenden seemed more interested than distressed by Ronnie’s outburst.
That threw her. “I don’t know . . . not yet.”
“If it wants worshippers,” Dr. Cruttenden persisted. “If it wants us, then what for?”
Ronnie looked at the image once more and began to cry. “It wants everything. Us, this land, this world, everything and everyone. And even that won’t be enough. And no one is going to be able to stop it. No one.”
“Perhaps we can,” said Chambers. “If it needs us, we must be important to it, mustn’t we? And if we’re really part of a plan stretching back over six hundred years to when Geoffrey Chaucer, or whatever his real name might be, journeyed to some dark and ancient city and brought something terrible back to this country, then we must be really important.”
“Time has no meaning to it,” said Ronnie. “It’s existed forever.”
“Outside time,” Dr. Cruttenden whispered. “I think she may be right. Time has no meaning for it. Three days or three thousand years are probably the same to it. In that way at least, it’s exactly like an insect, merely waiting until the right moment to take its prey.”
“Will you listen to yourselves?” Karen almost screamed the words. “A flea god? A master plan? Thousands of years old? You’re being ridiculous!”
“All right, Karen,” Chambers couldn’t help but notice she wasn’t recording any more. “Let’s consider the reality of the situation. We are trapped in here and will be for the next three days if we don’t find a way out. Three of us are missing. Three out of seven. I still suggest we mount a search for them, and in case anyone’s worried, we are absolutely not going to be splitting up.
“Since we came in here a number of weird things have happened. Dr. Cruttenden saw an apparition that warned her not to ‘Dig Down Below.’ Ronnie was the first to spot that picture on the wall, a picture that we all agree has changed while we have been in here. Father Traynor disappeared almost as soon as we came in after showing us where we were all to sleep . . .”
“At strategic points around the church, which could also be important,” Dr. Cruttenden interjected.
“Right. Now I agree we should only deal with facts, but the facts are that something is going on here that is outside the bounds of normal scientific rational thinking. It involves that thing on the wall over there—the Anarch, or whatever it likes to call itself. And I think we can all agree that its intentions probably aren’t beneficial toward humanity.”
“It could still be a hoax,” said Karen. “Father Traynor, Dr. Chesney, and Paul could all be in on it. They could be laughing at us right now. That picture could have been painted onto the wall before we got here, in special layers that dissolve over time to make it look as if it was changing.”
“You know that’s not true, Karen.” Chambers resisted the urge to shout. “You were there in Oxford. You witnessed the storm just like Dr. Cruttenden and I did, and you’ve had the dreams just like we have as well. And you know those dreams must be linked to what that thing on the wall wants. An apocalypse of the undead, spreading out from this land to infect the world. And the source, the starting point, will be here.” He stamped his foot to make the point. “In this church.”
“Or under it,” Dr. Cruttenden added.
“Or under it. We have been granted a vision of the future as that thing wants it to be. It’s up to us to make sure that doesn’t happen. And I suggest we start by finding out what’s happened to the others.”
Ronnie was drying her eyes but her voice was still wracked with sobs. “That means going through that trapdoor, doesn’t it?”
It probably did. “We’ll search everywhere else first,” said Chambers. “And remember—stick together. I don’t want this to turn into some bloody horror movie where the straggler at the back of the group gets picked off by monsters hiding behind pillars.”
“That won’t happen. Not if you behave yourselves.”
The voice came from the choir. They all turned to see Father T
raynor standing before the altar.
“Father Traynor, are you all right?” Ronnie was making her way up the aisle toward him before Chambers could stop her. The others followed, but kept a safe distance. They all came to a halt at the altar step.
The priest spoke in a voice not unlike his own, but it was tinged with a metallic burr. “As you can see, I am well, as will all of you be if you listen to His word.”
“Where’s Dr. Chesney?” Karen called out.
“He is here as well.”
As if on cue, the parapsychologist stepped out from behind the priest and stood to his left.
“I have seen below,” Dr. Chesney said, his voice possessing that same tinny abnormality, “and it is a place of wonder.”
“It doesn’t look as if it’s done your left arm any good though, does it?” Dr. Cruttenden was staring at the man’s hand. As Chesney raised it, Chambers could see what she meant. The flesh of his fingers had become discolored, along with the heel of his palm. Both now looked an unhealthy mustard color, but that was not the worst. In places the skin had broken down to reveal darkened muscle beneath. Chambers knew dead tissue when he saw it.
Dr. Chesney’s hand was rotting.
“This?” The parapsychologist barely seemed to notice it. “A gift from Him. You may not fully appreciate its glory now, but that is because your eyes have not yet been opened.”
“That is why we are here,” said Traynor. “We are both His servants and His messengers, and we wish to bring His glory to you.”
“Where’s Paul?”
Chesney lowered his left hand. Thick greenish fluid dripped from it onto the stone floor. “He is still below.”
“He is Most Blessed,” said Father Traynor. “He is One with the Anarch now. You shall join him, and us, in His worship.”
“And if we refuse?”
Traynor glowered at Chambers. “If you do not come to the Anarch, then we will bring you His word.”
“I think I’ll take my chances.”
“You will all come with us.”
“No, we won’t.” Dr. Cruttenden was shaking her head. “I’m not quite sure where you’ve come from, or even who you both are anymore, but we’ll make our own minds up about what we wish to do.”
The Lovecraft Squad Page 20
