I took the scotch gratefully, and drank a long slug of my own.
Churchill walked, almost stumbling, back to his bed and half-sat, half-fell back onto the pillows. He looked tired and wan, but his features were free of pain, and he smiled thinly when he saw my concern.
"I do think I shall live a while longer," he said. And as if to prove it, he leaned over and fetched a cigar and a matchbook from the drawer in his bedside table. He proceeded to light up. He didn't speak again until he was satisfied that he had the log of tobacco leaves well alight. When he eventually looked up at me, he had dark shadows in his eyes, and was all seriousness.
"You saved me, right enough, Carnacki, and I shall not forget that. But nor shall I forget what I saw while sitting there in that dashed circle of yours. Do you know what we did here? Do you see the import of it?"
"We sent something back to where it should always have been," I replied.
"No," Churchill said softly, shaking his head. "I am not sure that we did. I think all that we did was close a door, not lock one. We almost crossed over a threshold that is always there, always within our reach, a path that is all too easily followed by the unwary and the lost.
"Hell is all too real, Carnacki. I saw it. I opened its doors, had a bally good look around and I felt the heat of the eternal fires of torment. That sight will be with me for the rest of my natural life, however long I am granted on this earth."
*
We spoke only of mundane matters as I cleared up my kit and stowed it in the box, and only returned to the subject right at the last minute as I turned to depart. Churchill was still sitting up in bed, puffing on his cigar, but he looked somewhat lost, almost forlorn.
"You must not speak of this matter to anyone," he said. "Is that understood? I need your promise on that."
"What is there to say? It is over," I said. "That door you spoke of is shut."
Again he smiled wanly.
"In one way, yes, you are probably right. But there is another door, up here, or rather, there is a window here that I cannot help but look through," he said. He tapped at his brow, "I can see it, every time I close my eyes, and I do believe it will always be right in here with me, giving me a glimpse of what awaits at the end of things. I thought yon black dog we encountered on one of our previous meetings was the thing that would haunt me in years to come. But I think this might be even worse."
"Out you go," he said to me, and I left him there with his visions of Hell.
About the Author
William Meikle is a Scottish writer, now living in Canada, with over twenty novels published in the genre press and more than 300 short story credits in thirteen countries. He has books available from a variety of publishers including Dark Regions Press, DarkFuse and Dark Renaissance, and his work has appeared in a large number of professional anthologies and magazines. He lives in Newfoundland with whales, bald eagles and icebergs for company. When he's not writing he drinks beer, plays guitar, and dreams of fortune and glory.
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Copyright William Meikle 2017
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Carnacki: The Edinburgh Townhouse and Other Stories Page 21
