“Oh, dear, it looks as if the Great Ankoma has contacted the wrong spirit,” Doyle remarked, disillusioned.
Wells and Jane nodded, also disappointed, though still glancing about warily.
“No, no,” Murray hastened to explain. “Miss Mournful is the private nickname I used for Emma.”
He contemplated the message on the slate with a puzzled expression. He could have sworn he saw the medium up to some trick, probably exchanging slates under the table, but that wouldn’t explain the creaking door or the footsteps pacing round them. Above all, it didn’t alter the fact that no one knew the nickname he had used with Emma in private. No one but her.
“Then . . . good God, he’s contacted Emma!” Wells exclaimed, overcome with emotion.
“Yes, dear George! We did it!” Doyle bellowed excitedly. Then he turned toward Murray and barked, “Remember what I said to you, Gilmore, about believing in spirits if a loved one speaks to you using words only you and she were aware of?”
Murray looked at Doyle askance and then nodded slowly.
“Go on, Gilmore, the channel is open,” Doyle urged, exalted. “Speak to Emma. Ask her anything you like. For instance, why don’t you ask her if—”
Murray cut Doyle short with a gesture, contemplating him with a mixture of unease and indignation before raising his eyes to the ceiling.
“Emma, my love, are you really there?” he asked tentatively, unable to keep a tone of optimism from creeping into his voice.
“She already told you she’s here, Monty,” Wells remonstrated. “Why not ask her if—”
But before he was able to finish his sentence, Murray gave a start and sat bolt upright in his chair. The others looked at him, bewildered, not understanding what was the matter. For a few moments, Murray remained stiff and pale, a stupefied look on his face as he held his breath.
“Oh, God . . . ,” he howled. “Oh, God . . .”
A few seconds later, still flattened against the back of the chair, he heaved a deep sigh, letting out all the air he had been keeping in, then raised his left hand to his face and gently stroked his own cheek, as though touching it for the first time, his lips breaking into a smile of dizzy joy.
“She caressed me!” he declared, filled with emotion as he clasped Wells’s arm. “It’s all true, George. Emma is here. She caressed me—I felt her fingers touch my cheek!”
“Calm down, Monty,” Wells implored, looking inquiringly at Doyle.
“Calm down! Didn’t you hear what I said? Emma is here!” Murray leapt out of his chair, casting his gaze anxiously around the room, unsure where to look. At last, his eyes alighted on the medium, and he commanded, “I want to see her!”
Alarmed, the Great Ankoma made a little grunt that seemed to express doubt.
“Make her appear, I beg you!” Murray implored, seized by an almost childlike excitement. “I’ll give you anything you want!”
As he was pleading with the medium to make Emma materialize, even if only in the form of a vaporous ectoplasm, Murray could feel the blood throbbing so hard in his temples that he seemed to be on the point of passing out. Or perhaps it wasn’t that, but the fact was that the light in the room, made up of the flames from all the candles and the oil lamp, seemed suddenly to grow dimmer.
“Er . . . I’m afraid that is beyond good old Ankoma’s powers,” Doyle lamented. “But perhaps you could ask Emma if—”
“I don’t want to ask her a damn thing!” Murray roared in desperation. “All I want is to see her!”
He went quiet, gazing into the huge mirror that was in the room. The others also fixed their eyes on the mirror, trying to identify what it was that had silenced Murray. It took them a few seconds, because the glass appeared to reflect faithfully the scene in the dining room. They were all sitting in the same places at the table presided over by the Great Ankoma: on the right of the medium was Doyle, gazing over his shoulder at the mirror in an attempt to fathom its mysteries; on the medium’s left sat Wells and Jane, wearing equally disconcerted expressions. However, it wasn’t Murray who was standing opposite the Great Ankoma. His reflection had been replaced by that of a young woman in black, who, just as the others noticed her, stood up from the table and walked toward them with hesitant steps. They all stared dumbfounded as the sinister image approached the mirror. A moment later, she was close enough for them to make out her face in the candlelight.
“Emma!” exclaimed Murray.
He was so overcome by the discovery that he almost fell over. Quickly regaining his balance, Murray also walked toward the mirror, through which Emma was now peering, as if through a window, her hands resting on the glass. The young woman was studying the world on Murray’s side with a look of surprise, as if she could see Murray as clearly as he saw her.
“Darling, I felt your caress . . . !” he cried as he approached the mirror, distraught.
Emma watched him move toward her while her eyes expressed a frenzied look of horror, confusion, and excitement. As he drew closer, Murray reached out to touch his beloved’s face, to feel once more the softness of her skin, her hair; but when his hand encountered the mirror’s smooth surface, he realized that although she was there in front of him, she remained unreachable. Meanwhile, the others had risen from the table to take a closer look at the miracle that was occurring, and as they stood a few feet behind Murray, they saw themselves reflected on the other side in a silent huddle behind Emma.
“Emma, my love!” Murray cried, running his hands over the mirror’s icy surface, which froze his fingertips with the coldness of dead things.
Once she had absorbed the strange phenomenon, Emma also tried to intertwine her fingers with Murray’s, only to be prevented by the smooth glass. For almost a minute, they both clawed at their side of the mirror, as though desperately trying to scratch through its surface, to tear away the seemingly fine veil separating them, enclosing them in identical prisons. Until Murray finally lost his temper and began to strike the mirror with the heels of his hands. On the far side, Emma, who had a greater capacity for understanding (or perhaps for acceptance), was content to gaze at Murray, whispering “Monty,” her eyes filled with tears. She had tilted her lovely face, moved by the immensity of his love for her, made evident by his desperate pounding on the mirror, increasingly angry yet restrained, for he knew that if he broke the glass he might lose forever the cherished image contained in it. They all understood that the mirror reflected a shared suffering. When Murray finally accepted that he would never be able to tunnel his way into Emma’s arms, he moved back a few inches and gazed at her helplessly, noticing for the first time the air of weariness clouding her beauty: she had huge shadows under her eyes and her skin had lost its glow, as if something had been tormenting her for months, and it had begun to undermine her health. Murray’s fingers trembled as he caressed her lips without being able to touch them. At that moment, through the tears welling up in his eyes, Murray noticed the light in the room grow brighter as the peculiar gloom that seemed to have distorted it for the past few minutes lifted, and then he blinked and found himself touching his own reflection. He stepped back with a mixture of surprise and irritation.
“No, no! Emma, don’t leave! Come back!” Murray gave a loud bellow that gradually subsided as the relentless passing of the seconds threatened to transform Emma’s reflection into a hallucination or a dream, until it was reduced to a pitiful wail.
Grief stricken and exhausted, he pressed his forehead against the mirror and began sobbing louder and louder. Images of the accident, which plagued him day and night, began to flash through his mind once more: his perspiring hands clutching the steering wheel of his shiny new automobile, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to think of how to start his confession; Emma’s smile, at once curious and amused; that sharp bend appearing out of nowhere; the car veering off the road and plunging into the gorge; his attempts to control the machine, which had started to bounce across the ground; the violent jolt that had sent him flying thr
ough the air; the world shattering into a thousand pieces, and Emma’s voice, ever more remote, shouting his name even as the world went dark. And then, he never knew how long after, the slow awakening, the fog of his unconscious revealing snatches of hellish images: people running and shouting, concerned faces staring at him, the heels of his boots making a furrow in the ground as they dragged him away from the scene, and a voice ringing out with infernal clarity amid the din of orders being hurled left and right, the gruff voice of a stranger whose face Murray would never see, echoing in his head above the clatter of the carriage taking him to the hospital, above the questions of those accompanying him, above any other sound. Those words he would never manage to forget, those words that announced the end of everything: “We’ll have to cut through the metal to get the body out.”
“What the devil happened?” he heard Doyle ask behind him.
Wells opened his mouth to reply. He no longer had any doubt that his experience in front of the mirror the fateful day of the excursion hadn’t been the result of an optical illusion. While the others had been busy looking at Emma and Murray, Wells had taken the opportunity to study his own reflection, which was also ignoring the lovers and staring straight at him, with an identical expression of terror, but without the scar across his chin. Wells hadn’t a clue what any of it meant, although obviously both phenomena were closely related. But before he could utter a word, he heard Jane say, “Emma was wearing black. As if she were in mourning.”
“That’s true,” Doyle said. “And I had a different suit on. The one I’d be wearing now if I hadn’t spilled coffee down it this morning.”
“And I—” Wells attempted to add.
But Murray didn’t let him. He wheeled round, pointing his finger at the medium.
“Do it again!” he cried. “Bring her back!”
The Great Ankoma recoiled, waving his arms in front of his chest.
“Wait, Gilmore, let me explain,” Doyle said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Murray brushed it away and strode over to the medium.
“Makoma, or whatever your name is, make her come back, or I swear I’ll strangle you with my bare hands!”
“I can’t!” The Great Ankoma protested in perfect English, looking imploringly at Doyle.
Doyle tried once more to restrain Murray, this time gripping his arm hard.
“Listen to me, Gilmore: none of what happened here tonight has anything to do with Ankoma.”
“It’s true, Monty,” Wells admitted, placing himself between Murray and the medium. “I’m afraid Ankoma has no special powers.”
“It’s true, Mr. Gilmore,” the alleged medium said apologetically, trying to regain his composure. “I know exactly who my parents are, I speak perfect English, as you can see, and I’ve never been in a Bakongo village making bowls levitate, simply because I don’t have the power to lift objects . . . It seems my only talent, in Mr. Doyle’s worthy opinion, is my handwriting, which is more beautiful and more legible than his. At least, that is what he tells me whenever he asks me to write a few lines for him. And if I may say so, I don’t think I deserve to be strangled for it.”
“You say you can’t lift objects. So how do you explain that?” Murray declared, pointing to the slate, which had risen off the table and was now floating in midair.
They gazed at the hovering object, openmouthed. They had scarcely recovered from their shock when the chalk also took to the air, moving toward the slate to write something on it. Having done so, it landed on the table again, like a strange insect, and then the slate drifted over to them, pausing in front of Murray. On it he was able to read the words “Would you like me to caress you once more, my love?”
“Oh, Emma,” Murray gasped, gazing with infinite tenderness at the space above the slate where the face of his beloved should have been. “Of course, my love, I need to feel your hands . . .”
The message was swiftly erased from the slate, which returned to the table, where the chalk wrote a fresh message on it. Then it floated back over to Murray.
“I think killing you all would be much more fun,” Murray read aloud.
At that moment, the slate suddenly fell on the ground, as if whoever was holding it had hurled it to the floor with contempt, and a man’s bloodcurdling laughter rent the air. Everyone exchanged alarmed looks.
“What the devil . . . ?” Murray exclaimed. Realizing this was not Emma’s spirit, he instinctively wiped his cheek with his jacket sleeve, a look of indignant disgust on his face. Then, addressing the place where the slate had fallen, he roared, “Who are you, you son of a bitch?”
The laughter grew louder and more deranged.
“Let me, Gilmore. I have more experience with spirits,” said Doyle, pushing Murray aside and addressing an indeterminate spot in the dining room. “Who are you, you son of a bitch?”
A sharp voice cut the air like a scalpel.
“Shall I tell you who I am, Mr. Doyle? I am the purest form of evil! The most heinous villain you could ever imagine! But I assure you, your horror at my crimes, if you knew them, would be lost in your admiration at my skill.”
Doyle looked puzzled while those familiar words fluttered around in his head.
“It is easy to write about evil,” the voice went on, “but less amusing to confront it when it steps out of one of your stories, isn’t that so, Mr. Doyle?”
“Steps out of one of my stories? What the devil do you mean?” Then it struck him why the words were familiar: they were almost the very ones he had written in “The Final Problem.” “Oh, good grief . . . but that can’t be . . . Are you . . . Moriarty?”
“Oh, no . . . ,” the voice replied with a malevolent chuckle, “although my name does begin with M. Perhaps George would like to try his luck.”
Wells raised his eyebrows when he heard the creature utter his name. The voice fell silent for a few moments, and when it spoke again, Wells sensed it was in front of him and even thought he caught a whiff of its sour breath.
“Go on, George, who am I?”
A pair of invisible fingers tweaked Wells’s nose, causing him to stagger backward, taking with him Jane, who had been clutching him. Then, staring uneasily into the air, he ventured to pose the absurd and terrifying question that had been forming in his mind since the creature first began talking.
“Are you . . . the Invisible Man?”
“That doesn’t begin with ‘M,’ George,” whispered Doyle, who had positioned himself beside Wells.
“No, but ‘Man’ does,” Wells replied weakly.
“What is wrong with you authors? Does your vanity know no bounds?” the voice exclaimed sarcastically. “Moriarty! The Invisible Man! I am simply someone who has come here to take back what belongs to me, what the old lady stole from me. Does that story ring a bell with you, George?”
“And what is it that I am supposed to have that belongs to you?”
“No, no, George. Don’t pretend with me.” The voice had begun to circle round the company so noiselessly that the darkness itself seemed to be speaking. “The book, that’s what I’m after! The Map of Chaos! Give it to me, or I swear you will all die!”
“But I don’t have your book!” Wells protested.
He instantly regretted having raised his voice, for the creature responded with a furious scream.
“You asked for it, George!”
Thereupon there was a din of laughter and footsteps that seemed to come from every direction, as if the spirit were rampaging around the dining room. The candle flames sputtered one after another, mapping out the creature’s erratic path.
“The lovesick millionaire, the charming young lady, the Great Ankoma, the zealous Scotsman . . . Which would you like to see die first, George?”
Doyle broke away from the group.
“Start with me, you fiend—that is, if you are man enough!”
Scarcely had Doyle thrown down his challenge than there was a high-pitched whistle, and they all turned toward where the sound
had emanated from—including Doyle himself, who managed to glimpse a silvery glint before he felt a stabbing pain in his right ear. He cursed, lifting his hand to his head, which felt as if it had suddenly burst into flames, while at his back he heard a dull thud. The group stared horror-struck at the wall directly behind Doyle, where, protruding from the forehead of an elegant gentleman in a ruff, was a sword, its blade still quivering. Doyle staggered back toward the others, suddenly pale as he realized it had been aimed at his head.
The Map of Chaos Page 35
