This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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For my friend,
Christopher Golden
Thank you to:
Christopher Golden
Mike Mignola
Guillermo del Toro
Margaret Clark
Weston Ochse
Martin Cochran
Shira Kozak
Keith Guin
Marty Meadows
Alda Ward Smith
Atomic Comics in Mesa, Arizona
Prologue
M EMORIES.
There’s something conducive about the darkness and what it does to the files inside an old man’s mind. If daylight had a texture, it would be abra-sive, always filled with stops and starts and the pitfalls of distraction. But darkness? Darkness is different. It’s like…oil, smooth and warm, sliding into the cracks and crevices made by decades of hard living, leveling out the mental paths so that the steps of recollection can be made without stumbling. Add the color red to light the way and a man can find just enough illumination to reveal a thousand things that might or might not have been better left hidden….
The darkroom had always been a comforting place for George Matlin. It was the place to which he retreated when the world and all the strange things in it became too overwhelming, when they had to be put down on photo paper to prove, even to himself, that such things really did exist. Now that he’d gotten on in years, he found himself there more and more often, although he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like he could hide from the things he’d experienced, from all the knowledge packed into his brain’s memory cells. So many of his friends had succumbed to senility or, worse, Alzheimer’s disease; he couldn’t decide if the fact that his mind hadn’t sought refuge in that foggy veil of incapacity was a blessing or a curse.
Before he got started, Matlin spent a little time walking around and touching the well-used things. The majority of what was in here was outdated or overworn. The optical enlargers, the battered porcelain trays, the timers—they were all long past the time when they should have been replaced by…what would one of the young people say? Of course—newer, better, bigger. But again, these things, these old things, like the stills hanging out to dry and awaiting inspection, gave him a sense of contentment and place, showed him that he still belonged in this small, solitary room.
Matlin rubbed the back of his neck, feeling and accepting the extra flesh beneath his fingertips before he reached up and pushed his glasses more firmly against the bridge of his nose. He’d definitely picked up a few pounds since his military days, but then so had most of his comrades. When his deployments as a combat photographer and the daily PT drills had came to a halt, nature had moved quickly in to claim her spaces in his body.
Nearsighted or not, he still caught the small movement out of the corner of his eye—the technician, waiting for him to start, his expression both curious and disbelieving. Matlin had seen that expression a hundred…no, a thousand times during his life. The interesting thing was that it had usually been in the mirror.
“Is he real?” he said to the technician. “Oh yeah—absolutely.” Matlin rubbed the back of his stiff neck again. He might accept it, but he hated being old. “I haven’t talked about it for years, you know?” He glanced at the camera, then smiled as he reached down and hefted a box full of old negatives. “Everyone called me crazy,” he said as he pawed through it, “but I have the negative.”
Matlin glanced up again but the technician had already slipped outside the darkroom. An instant later the red lightbulb above the door winked on, bathing the small room in eerie, scarlet light. Matlin heard the tech’s voice, sounding tinny over the small intercom.
“Get ready. Three, two, one—roll tape.”
Matlin took a deep breath and willed his voice to be strong and steady, no shaking allowed. He refused to sound like a decrepit elderly has-been while he made this recording—it was too important. He closed his eyes briefly and let the images flow back into his mind; when he opened his eyes, his gaze was as bright and clear as his voice.
“It all started back in forty-four. I was a Corps photographer aboard an Allied submarine off the coast of Scotland. It was a classified mission, and I was only twenty-one….”
1
OCTOBER 1944
HOT AND HUMID AND CROWDED, ALL AWASH IN RED—the inside of the submarine was like some sort of devil’s festival on a southern Alabama night at the height of summer. Add a few mosquitoes and the illusion might have been complete…well, except for the clanking of the pipes and the hiss of steam, the constant low sound of metal groaning under untold pounds of water pressure. Matlin had three 35mm cameras hung around his neck, and he would have added another—a good photographer can never have enough equipment—except it would have made the narrow pathways even more impossible to navigate. His cameras were already taking a beating every time someone squeezed by him in the passageway.
As if they’d been reading his mind, a squad of Special Ops soldiers hustled past him as they loaded their weapons, oblivious to the thumps and bumps they layered on the young photographer and certainly paying no attention to his equipment or the seamen who ran the sub and watched them suspiciously as they passed. But Matlin wasn’t complaining as he shrank back, even though a duo of pipes dug painfully into his spine. He’d be a happy man if he could just keep the box of negatives he’d been going through from getting knocked out of his hand.
Matlin pulled the cardboard crate closer to his chest as he saw Sergeant Whitman bringing up the rear. He looked aggravated—well, he always looked that way—and his uniform was soaked in sweat. Matlin wondered whether he’d been working his men or if it was the stress that was making the man heat up; Whitman was a tough-as-nails career military guy who’d already worried himself out of most of his iron gray hair, so it was hard to tell. Matlin had a moment to wonder where the sergeant was going, then he remembered that they had a civilian on board, an English guy who wasn’t much older than Matlin himself but who already had the ear of President Roosevelt. Pretty high profile for a young guy, and it was a sure bet Whitman was headed down to talk to him.
Whitman marched past, jaw jutting out and an unlit cigar clenched tightly between his teeth. Matlin fell into step behind him, still thinking about the Englishman he hadn’t yet met. Already a professor, Trevor Bruttenholm—“Broom” for short—was supposed to be the “paranormal adviser.” To Matlin, who believed in what he could see and always had a camera around to prove it, this wasn’t just incredible, it was unbelievable. Add to it Bruttenholm’s proximity to the president himself, and it was enough to make Matlin think the whole world had gone insane.
Sergeant Whitman continued down the narrow, uncomfortable passageway to a small stateroom, then pushed in the door. Over Whitman’s shoulder, Matlin got his first glimpse of the so-called paranormal adviser, Broom. He looked a bit older than Matlin had
heard, but not by much, and perhaps his appearance was a by-product of the tension they were all under. Maybe twenty-nine, Broom was a tall, gaunt young man with olive-toned skin that looked unhealthy in the poor lighting of the room. With his oxfords, dress slacks, and a shirt topped by a wool vest, Bruttenholm looked out of place on the submarine, among all the men dressed in various military uniforms. Matlin had to grin to himself when he realized the professor was even wearing cuff links. Alone in the room, he was seated at a small table on which he’d placed an ancient-looking set of tarot cards.
“Broom,” snapped Whitman. “Topside—now.”
Without bothering to look at Sergeant Whitman, Broom turned the top two cards faceup.
The Fool.
The Moon.
“The sooner we’re done, the better,” Whitman growled.
Broom nodded and stood, then turned and grabbed an open wooden box whose antique sides were worn smooth. Over Whitman’s shoulder, Matlin got a glimpse of its contents: old books just as worn as the box itself, a dozen different amulets and odd-looking paraphernalia. Bolted from one end to the other was a leather strap that let the man carry it like a carpenter’s box. The professor hefted it over his shoulder, then gave the sergeant a heavy-lidded look. “This is an important mission, Sergeant Whitman. I hope you realize that.”
Whitman only stared back at him, barely concealing his animosity. “Oh, you don’t wanna know what I think. Topside now.”
Changing his mind, Broom slid the big box off his shoulder and rummaged quickly through it until he found a smaller box, along with a couple of specific amulets. He started after Whitman, then paused at the table. With a troubled expression, he reached down and flipped the next card faceup. It flicked against the tabletop with a soft snap.
The Devil.
The north of Scotland in October wasn’t the most pleasant place in the world to be. It was cold, raining like God himself had turned the celestial shower on to Cold and forgotten to shut it down, and the pall of the war hung over everything. The tunnel they were in masked the sound of the rain, but it was chilly and humid in here, oppressive. The few flashlights Whitman’s men had seemed dim and were aimed at the floor to provide only the bare minimum of light, just enough to ensure they didn’t step over some edge and fall into an abyss. The mountain pressed down on them, making the tunnel carved into it seem flimsy, a fool’s pathway through something that could crush them in barely the blink of an eternal eye.
Sergeant Whitman’s face was rigid, his cheekbones edged sharply by the sparse light, his eyes recessed pits of darkness as he motioned to the soldiers to spread out. He would have passed Broom and gone to the front of the group, but the younger man reached out and snagged his arm. His voice was an insistent half-whisper. “Sergeant Whitman? Sergeant Whitman, may I have a word?”
The sergeant tugged his sleeve out of Broom’s grip and looked at him impatiently. “What is it?”
Broom glanced around and saw several of the men watching them. “In private, if you don’t mind.”
The tunnel had widened into a larger room that was apparently a small, ancient chapel, and the professor led Whitman off to the side, out of earshot of anyone else. Whitman had a flashlight but he was keeping it at low power; when Broom pulled something out of one of the deep pockets of his coat, the sergeant had to shine the weak beam on it to see what Broom was offering him.
“Your men,” Broom said urgently. He held up his wooden box, then lifted the lid. His fingers dug around until he could pull out one of the items, and he lifted it so Whitman could see the wooden rosary. “They’ll need these.”
Whitman’s mouth fell open in amazement, then he scowled. “You’re a Catholic?”
Broom swallowed and his gaze flicked around the chapel carved out of the mountainous rock, its ceiling long ago fallen in. Above them the sky boiled with storm clouds, and hanging from the stone walls overhead and slightly to his rear was a larger-than-life carving of Christ. The darkly stained wood was cracked with age and dripping with mold from the humidity, and the image was anything but comforting. “Among other things, yes. But that’s hardly the point.”
Whitman snorted, then brought out an automatic. He shoved a magazine into the stock and loaded the first round, then offered it to Broom. “Here. You’ll need this.”
But the professor shook his head. “I abhor violence.” The sergeant shrugged and turned, shoving the weapon back into a holster at his belt. His firm stride had already taken him six feet away when Broom called after him. “Sergeant Whitman, I hope you don’t think me mad—”
Whitman didn’t pause. “Three days too late for that one…Professor.”
Broom exhaled in defeat, then dared to again look up at the wooden carving of Christ.
It had no eyes.
Cameras and straps tangling around his neck, Matlin struggled with his tripod and a camera bag as he finally caught up with Whitman and his troop. Damn, but it was going to be hard to get any kind of a decent photograph in here. There was next to nothing for light, and no way could he set up one of his shooters and leave it be for the amount of exposure time he’d need to get a semidecent photograph.
Still, this was as exciting as any assignment he’d ever been on, and he was going to try his best. With that in mind, Matlin managed to work his way up to the front by the time the tunnel widened into some kind of room and that Bruttenholm guy—Broom, as they were all calling him—came hustling out of the darkness at one side of it. He made a beeline for Sergeant Whitman, and when the older man turned to meet Broom, it was obvious he was ticked off. If the word making the rounds on the sub were true, Whitman would have just as soon thrown Broom overboard as looked at him.
“You’re wasting our time,” he growled out in a low voice, thrusting his big-jawed face forward until it was only an inch from Broom’s. “There’s nothing on this island but sheep and rocks.”
But Broom didn’t back down. “Ruins,” he pointed out quietly as he scanned the area around them, “not rocks. The remains of Trondham Abbey. Built on an intersection of Ley Lines, the boundaries between our world and the other—”
“What a load of crap,” Whitman interrupted. “Hell, a week ago, I hadn’t even heard the word parabnormal—”
“Paranormal,” corrected Broom, but the sergeant had already turned away, as if he were ready to instruct his men to leave. “But you read the transmission.”
Whitman stopped and spun back, glowering at the younger man. “Half transmission. Nonsense—German ghost stories.”
Broom regarded the man solemnly. “I have seen ghosts, Sergeant.”
“Oh, I’ll bet you have,” Whitman sneered at him.
While he’d wisely stayed out of it, Matlin hadn’t missed a word of the two men’s argument. The soldiers had slowed, sensing their sergeant might tell them to turn back; Matlin had ended up in the lead and now, just about to crest a small slope, he set his tripod down with a grunt of relief. He glanced over his shoulder at Whitman and Broom, then stretched forward, trying to see over the rise and if it were worth it to go any farther. The first thing he saw were the lights. Then he gasped.
Thirty feet below was an impressive Romanesque ruin. Strands of work lights were spread around a cavernous space, illuminating tall, heavy archways and crumbling statues. Dozens of Nazi soldiers scurried around the space, making it look like an ant farm encircled by thick stone walls.
Matlin heard Sergeant Whitman’s sharp intake of breath as he and Broom clambered up next to him and peered over the rise. When he glanced sideways, he saw one corner of Broom’s mouth turn up, but Matlin wasn’t sure if the professor was smiling or showing how displeased he was at the display of manpower and equipment below. When Broom spoke, his tone was bland, but his words had an unmistakable bite.
“They must be here for the sheep.”
All the flashlights had been extinguished, and now the few people who were authorized to talk were careful to do so only in hoarse whispers. Broom huddled betwee
n Sergeant Whitman and that photographer, Matlin; he hoped to God their heads didn’t show over the edge of their hiding place, that some razor-sighted Nazi didn’t happen to glance their way and see something—a glint of light off a metal fastener, the shine of a rifle barrel where the blackening had worn away—that would cause the whole operation to come crashing down on their heads.
German soldiers still rushed back and forth below, but the thing that interested Whitman the most was a little farther to the back, in an area off to itself. In that spot, about a dozen soldiers worked swiftly to assemble some kind of a large, steel machine. Overseeing it all and barking orders every few seconds was a spindly Nazi dressed in black leather. Although everyone else seemed to be dressed normally, this man’s face was covered by something that looked like a modified gas mask. That was a puzzle all to itself, because there didn’t appear to be any reason for something like that.
Whitman nudged Broom a little too hard, sending the point of his elbow painfully into the muscle of the professor’s upper left arm. “The freak in the gas mask?”
Broom pulled away and massaged the spot with his right hand, his eyes squeezed against the viewfinder of his binoculars. He had a good bead on the men scrambling around below, and…yes, there he was. He’d been afraid of that. “Karl Ruprecht Kroenen, one of the Reich’s top scientists. Head of the Thule Occult Society.” Broom grimaced and passed the binoculars back to Whitman. “If he’s here, this is worse than I thought.”
Whitman jammed the binoculars against his eyes hard enough to leave impressions in his skin. After a few seconds, he lowered them and turned to the radio man on his left. “Air and sea backup. What’s closest?”
The guy cranked a transmitter to life, then mumbled quietly into it. A few seconds later, he got a response. “Londonderry, sir. Forty minutes away.”
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