Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences

by Pip Ballantine

  He redressed his wounds using some of Riches’ sheets, then walked around camp asking about this woman in white, but no one would talk to him. Even Riches’ notes yielded nothing. Flowerdew screwed his eyes shut, pushing his spectacles up as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He only needed them for reading, and with all he had done today, his bridge was raw.

  There was a light knock at the door. “Sir, dinnerz time is almost done. Mr. Bates said to get you before you miss all the bouffe,” Cricket said from the doorway.

  “Thank you, Cricket,” he said as he stood up and closed his books. Stretching, he grabbed his gun belt and headed for the door. “Cricket, have you ever heard any stories of a woman in white or a weeping woman?”

  “La Llorona? I know this story. She killed herself a hundred years ago. My grandpapa tellz me not to walk on riverbank alone at night because of her. She snatchez little children because she drowned her own.”

  “Why did she down her children?”

  “To be with a gentleman who rejects her because of her family,” Cricket said like it was common knowledge.

  “A cautionary tale, Cricket, but not sure it fits the bill, as it were. Whatever she is, she has been attacking men, not children,” Flowerdew replied with disappointment.

  “She takes drunk men too, comes up to them while they are staggering home and asks if she is beautiful.” Flowerdew held his breath, and then heard his confirmation. “When they reply, she pulls away hair to reveal gruesome face. Makes men die. Sometimes they don’t die, they get very, very sick.”

  “We noticed the disappearances seemed to get a lot worse when we got our shipments in,” Bates had said to him. “The men tend to be a little heavy handed with the rum the first few nights.”

  “Oh no, Cricket, we have to go,” Flowerdew said as he secured his belt and gathered up the two lodestone resonators. Dashing out the door with Cricket in tow, he made a break for the mess hall. As he approached, he noticed that for the night, it was pretty quiet. Darting inside, he looked around and saw that the mess hall, with the exception of a few sitting in groups or passed out across tables, was empty. Dinner was already over.

  “Cricket, I need your help. Can you summon up your courage for Her Majesty the Queen and the good men here?”

  Wide-eyed, the boy nodded.

  “Good lad. Come with me down to the river. We will need to wait for La Llorona tonight. Take this.” He handed him one of the lodestone resonators. “This is a communications device. Hold down this button and do not touch anything else. It will take your voice right into mine.” He held up the other lodestone resonator. “If you see anything, let me know. We have to hurry before another person gets killed.”

  Grabbing a pair of lamps from the mess hall, they jetted for the river. Once at the bank, Flowerdew pointed further down the river and said to Cricket, “Remember, push the button and I will come running.” He put a hand on the lad’s shoulder, then lit the flame. “Be brave, lad.”

  “I will, sir.”

  In the still of night, Flowerdew closed his eyes and concentrated, listening to the sounds of the night from his hiding place. Snores drifted in from the camp, bats screeched overhead, fish sloshed in the water, but there was no crying. Opening his eyes, he stepped out in to the moonlight and began to stalk further down the river. Not even the wind seemed brave enough to blow.

  Suddenly, a crack of sound burst from Flowerdew’s pocket. “Sir! Sir, it is here, near Zeke’s cabin!”

  “I am coming. Do not let her see you!” he replied as he dashed up the riverside.

  The glow of the camp just came into view, along with two figures in the distance. One of them was dressed in white.

  “I ain’t got no idea what you saying lady, but you sure look good enough to eat,” came drifting across the night.

  Pumping his legs harder, Flowerdew shouted out to the two figures, “Zeke! Run! She is the one killing people!”

  Zeke slowly turned in his direction, his stance unsteady. “What are you talking about, Flowerpeddles?” he slurred. “This little lady ain’t gonna hurt nobody.”

  Flowerdew could see La Llorona make a motion consistent of pulling back her hair, revealing her face to the inebriated Zeke. The man staggered back as he started screaming in terror. She was on top of him in a blink of an eye, her hands wrapped around his neck. Water started to pour from Zeke’s mouth as his body convulsed in her grasp.

  Pulling the ripcord on the vibro-blade machete, Flowerdew ran for Zeke, watching him turn darker shades of blue while grasping at the hands of La Llonora. He only managed to tear up his own throat, which was getting bloodier and bloodier as his hands passed through hers with each flail. Hearing the blade idle and ready, Flowerdew swung the blade at La Llonora. She released Zeke, darting back away from Flowerdew. Zeke fell to the ground like a sack of bricks, gasping for air as the water spewing out of his mouth vanished. Shattering the night with a wild, primal cry of rage, La Llonora lashed out at Flowerdew in a flurry of strikes. Despite the blade blocking her blows, he found himself pushed further and further back each time. Not wanting a repeat of the previous evening, Flowerdew knocked away one of her swipes, then thrust forward, twisting his weapon to put the blade right in the line of her hand. The machete opened her hand like a clamshell, spraying a thick, black ooze in all directions as she recoiled away.

  Crying, she grasped her hand, her disfigured face—in some odd fashion—softening. “Why? Why are you doing this to me?” she pleaded. “He—he is the one to blame! He left me! He left me after I took away the children. Why does he not love me?” she wailed as she wept through her hands.

  “This man is not the one you love,” Flowerdew said, wielding the machete before him, keeping her at bay. “The man you loved is dead, and has been for a hundred years. You need to stop—”

  His own plea was cut off as La Llonora dashed forward and slashed her fingers across his face. Flowerdew managed to turn his head, though La Llonora’s fingers cut him from brow to jaw on the right side of his face, and filled his skull with a bizarre prickling. Staggering back, Flowerdew tripped over the uneven ground and stumbled backward.

  Catching himself on a cabin, Flowerdew looked up to see La Llonora over Zeke again. “Soon we will be together forever, my love,” she whispered as she straddled his chest and reached for his throat.

  Pushing off the wall, Flowerdew lunged forward, slashing upward with the blade. La Llonora released another blood-curdling scream as her claws flew away from her body, disappearing into the darkness. Howling like the winds of hell, a pair of black stumps where her hands were, she dashed for Flowerdew so quickly he was unable to react.

  The machete was struck from his hand and he felt himself pinned against the cabin behind him. He felt the bloody stumps on either side of his throat, closing like a pair of pincers.

  Water started to fill his mouth.

  Just as he began to reflect on his life, Flowerdew unceremoniously met with the ground. With his ears ringing, Flowerdew gasped for breath, his eyes coming up to a gruesome macabre sight.

  Cricket stood before La Llonora with arms outstretched, begging for her embrace. “Get up sir,” the boy yelled, terror filling his eyes as she walked toward him. “I do not know how long she will be fooled.” He then looked back at La Llonora. “¿Dónde has estado mi madre? Te he echado de menos.”

  The monster lumbered forward, weeping once more.

  Flowerdew picked up the vibro-blade, but paused. How was this having an effect when the “Crackshots” did not? She felt the pain. That much was obvious on account of her screams.

  Just a moment. Screams. Crying during attacks. The vibro-blade. She must have a form responsive to noise.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the lodestone resonator. “Cricket, pull out the communicator and push the button now!” As Cricket pulled out his own resonator, Flowerdew jammed the vibro-blade into the stylus, releasing a high-pitched screech. La Llonora began to whip around to look at Flowerdew, her
face wracking with pain as the two resonators amplified each other over the short distance, the sound reaching higher and higher, louder and louder. La Llonora wailed as her body tore apart from the inside out. She lashed at her own body as if there were insects crawling all over her. Her body shredded before them like paper trapped in a heavy water current, different pieces of her drifting away into the night.

  The two lodestones shattered in a shower of shards and sparks. Stopping the machete, Flowerdew pulled himself to his feet and stumbled over to Cricket. “What were you thinking? You could have got yourself killed!”

  “I figured she kidnaps children because she misses hers. Maybe she would want them back. Felt likez sound tinkin’ at dat time,” replied Cricket.

  “Very astute. Thank you. I do not think she will be bothering us anymore. Let’s check on Zeke.” Turning around, Flowerdew promptly fell to the ground, the last thought flashing in his mind before smacking the ground being, “Oh bloody hell, this is inconvenient.”

  Flowerdew awoke to the smell of hot rum and mud. He could tell he was in Riches’ cabin, but something was different. He was not able to see as much of the room as when he first arrived. He reached up and found his face covered in bandages. After frantically unwrapping the bandages covering his left eye, he breathed a sigh of relief on being able to see out of both eyes. After that little scare, Flowerdew searched the rest of his body. His arm and chest were properly wrapped with clean dressings. On his chest he also found a little charm with a white goat-dog looking thing. Curious about it, he filed away his question about it for later.

  “You are awake,” Cricket chirped. He dashed out of the cabin, returning shortly after with a bowl of stew.

  Zeke had probably been too drunk to remember anything clearly, but Cricket knew the truth.

  “I am glad you are awake we thought wez gunna looze ya,” Cricket said.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Several dayz. We all tought you were a gonnerz.”

  “How did I get back here? Did you carry me?”

  With a loud laugh, Cricket replied, “Oh no, sir! When your clever machines blew up, it woke up the camp. Camp found you passed out next to Zeke, all cut up. They thought he had gotten a little too rough again. They woke up Doc. Got you in bed.”

  “Cricket, what is this thing around my neck?”

  “It is a cadejo. I made it for you to keep the rest of the evil spirits away. I figure it couldn’t hurt to help a little.”

  “Do I need it?” asked Flowerdew.

  Cricket looked very uncomfortable. “I think you might, sir. Take a look in mirror.”

  Flowerdew pulled himself to the edge of his bed, looking at the odd reflection in the mirror. Everywhere La Llonora had cut him, the wounds were surrounded by black skin. Not like frost bite or jungle rot. Something different, as if he had been tattooed with the claw marks.

  After giving Cricket a letter to deliver to a trade ship bound for Brazil, Flowerdew spent the next couple of weeks recovering, reading, and recording interviews. When Riches’ full time replacement showed up several weeks later, Flowerdew was more than ready to go home. He jumped aboard the first ship toward Jamaica, ready to sail away into the night. He was done with this jungle. Once in his cabin, a private cabin, he removed his jacket, vest and shirt, staring at the scars from La Llonora.

  Perhaps he was done with the jungle. The jungle, however, would never be done with him.

  New London Calling

  Peter Woodworth

  New London, CT

  United States of America

  1894

  Bernard stepped off the train and was immediately unimpressed.

  Truth be told, he had been in a state of slowly escalating distemper for the entire voyage to the United States. It had been an unusually rough crossing, or so a fellow at his table had told him during one of the rare instances when Bernard had been able to stagger from his cabin for more than an hour at a time. Even the thought of boarding a vessel for the return voyage made him feel a bit queasy, not to mention increased his irritation at the backwards country that demanded his presence.

  Bernard fancied himself a cosmopolitan sort, fond of travel and comfortable with all manner of strange customs and exotic locales, though he had never travelled further from London than his uncle’s cottage on the Isle of Wight. He did like to think this was just a matter of scheduling, that surely someday the world would catch on to his interest in traveling it, and in the meantime made up for this trifling fact by being as well-read as possible. When Doctor Sound inquired about his eligibility for international assignments, Bernard had positively jumped at the chance, imagining himself carrying out the Ministry’s vital work in Parisian salons or the canals of Venice, possibly even an exotic setting the likes of Bombay.

  He had most decidedly not foreseen being sent across the heaving ocean to wind up in this backwater territory.

  This town of New London, Bernard decided as he looked around the platform, was the cruellest joke so far. Naming this muddy hamlet after the centre of the British Empire seemed a mean-spirited joke gone horribly awry. What about this tiny seaside collection of colonial architecture in any way evoked the majesty of its namesake? It was like naming a harmless terrier “Attila the Hun”—endearing in theory but thoroughly ridiculous in application. A bit of wind whipped across the platform and Bernard closed his coat almost as tightly as his heart, wondering once more what he could possibly have done to deserve this assignment.

  Regardless of the assignment, he refused to compromise in his demeanour or fashion. His suit was charcoal grey with the very faintest suggestion of light blue pinstripes, his bow tie a glossy black, his watch chain the very brightest polished silver. His tailor had assured him it was the very essence of modern style, and Bernard liked to think that he kept abreast of the latest fashions. It never hurt to put one’s best foot forward when making an impression, after all, especially in a place where sophistication often seemed so utterly lacking.

  “Mr Entwhistle! Mr Entwhistle! Is that you?” Bernard started as he saw the young man approaching, an expression of nigh-manic good cheer on his face as he gesticulated frantically to get the older man’s attention. He was short and lean, dressed in a dark suit and matching coachman’s cap, rather inexplicably paired with a bright blue scarf tied around his neck in a jaunty fashion. Between his stature and his evidently boundless energy, he might easily have been mistaken for a boy if not for his thick red moustache, which Bernard reflected had likely been grown at least in part for that reason. The young man stuck out his hand in an aggressively familiar fashion common to many Americans, at least in Bernard’s experience. “So glad you could make it!”

  “Yes, well, a pleasure,” Bernard managed, taking the offered hand and nearly losing his arm at the shoulder as the young man shook it. “And you are…?”

  “Oh! So sorry! Where are my manners?” The young man doffed his cap. “Arthur Kraft. Archivist, New London field office.”

  “Charmed,” Bernard said, anything but. Since arriving in New York he had become increasingly accustomed with Americans and their awkward etiquette. It worsened steadily the further he travelled away from the city. “Bernard Entwhistle. I’ve come from the home office regarding—” He glanced around the platform a touch theatrically, especially considering it seemed he was the only passenger to disembark at this stop, but he was determined to salvage some sense of adventure from this farce if he could. “—the business you wrote about. Is there perhaps somewhere private to which we could retire?”

  “Of course,” Arthur said brightly, replacing his cap and gesturing toward Bernard’s trunk. “May I?” A bit taken aback, Bernard simply nodded, and Arthur took the trunk up with an easy strength that belied his small stature. “It’s only a few blocks to the field office, so I hope you don’t mind if we simply walk?” Arthur gave a little laugh. “A little more time to take in the town, am I right?”

  “What a lovely idea,” Bernard said as a c
arriage splashed past, wheels clattering on the uneven stones, narrowly avoiding showering him with dirty water in the process. He saw Arthur looking back at him a bit quizzically and fixed a smile on his face. It would not do to have an actual Ministry representative be ungracious to what passed for its local operatives, even in this colonial backwater. He smoothed the front of his coat, tugged once at his collar and extended a hand in the direction that Arthur was indicating. “Lead on! There is much to do, after all.”

  “I apologise for the state of the place,” Arthur said as he put the trunk down and fumbled in his pockets a moment before producing a heavy brass key. “I must admit I have been positively frantic in my preparations for your arrival, and I fear it has left the place in quite a state.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Bernard replied.

  Despite the walk being largely uphill—a detail Arthur had neglected to mention, though Bernard’s aching shoulder would not soon forget—the house itself was quite lovely. It was set on a quiet lane of stately houses with small but well-maintained lawns, and even with the chill of the departing winter heavy in the air the street was bright and cheerful in the late afternoon light. The building was a design that seemed quite common to the area, slightly more narrow than most free-standing houses but three stories tall, with a peaked roof that spoke to heavy snowfalls during the year. Bernard was a bit taken aback when he realised that the paint on the house matched Arthur’s scarf almost exactly, but then again, one who works for the Ministry becomes accustomed to certain eccentricities.

  As it happened, Arthur had not been exaggerating at the state of the house —upon crossing the threshold Bernard could see the sitting room was coated in a layer of loose papers, all strewn about like autumn leaves. If there was an organisation to the material, it eluded his inspection, though as his eyes adjusted he could see that many of the papers had handwritten notes scrawled in the margins. Newspaper clippings were liberally dusted atop the mess, along with what appeared to be nautical charts with lines added in heavy, excited strokes. On the whole, though, it was a scene out of a circle of Hell constructed solely for the bedevilment of archivists.