“I walked along the corridor, slowly, trying to intuit what it was that was affecting me so. As I reached the farthest room from the stairwell, I heard a soft voice, little more than a whisper, reciting a passage I did not recognize but which chilled my blood.
“‘Strange is the night where black stars rise,
“‘And strange moons circle through the skies.’
“They were only words, but spoken as they were in a stilted cadence and in a whisper that still managed to echo and ring around me, they gave me pause in my exploration. The voice came again, and I pinpointed a source, a room on my right. I stepped forward and looked though a small eye-level window. A thin, almost skeletal chap sat curled in the far corner, wrapped tight in a stitched canvas jacket, bound such that his arms were hugged close to his chest. He stared upward at the corner of the room as if watching something only he could see. He was still reciting.
“‘Song of my soul, my voice is dead,
“‘Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed.’
“Despite it being full daylight, with sun still streaming in from above through the skylight, it was as if the room beyond the small window lay in dim twilight, with the shadows hanging particularly darkly around the hunched figure in the corner. I must have moved, or made a sound, for the occupant stopped in his recital and looked straight at me. I looked into the flat empty eyes of a mind gone elsewhere. The dark around him seemed to swirl and thicken.
“‘The shadows lengthen in Carcosa,’ he said, looking straight at me.”
c
“Five minutes later I was back downstairs in Doctor Donaldson’s office. He took one look at me and poured a snifter of brandy for both of us. He smiled thinly as he passed me the glass.
“‘It seems you will need little convincing,’ he said.
I took a stiff drink before replying.
“‘The man at the end of the corridor—he is at the heart of the matter?’
“The doctor nodded. ‘So it would seem. His name is Jephson, and he is—or was—an actor of some note before coming to us. He has been here for a month now—as has the nightly disturbances on the top floor. Can you help us?’
“I said yes, although in truth I was as yet unsure as to how to proceed.
“‘Can I talk to the chap?’ I asked.
“Donaldson downed his own brandy in one gulp, like a man well practiced in the procedure.
“‘If you must,’ he replied. ‘You will get little out of him but that doggerel he spouts. And we cannot unbind him, for he is a danger to himself if his hands are freed—he has made several suicide attempts.’
“We reached an agreement that I could interview the man on Tuesday afternoon, and I returned here to Chelsea, hoping that my library might provide me with a starting place in my investigation.
“I was to have little luck. I could find no reference in any of my books to a place called Carcosa. The mention of ‘black stars’ had struck a chord, mirroring as it did some of the descriptions of the outmost realms of the Outer Darkness, but I was still little the wiser by late afternoon. I decided to try a different tack and headed for the West End and The George bar in the Strand.
“I was in search of actors, and, as you know, The George is one of their favorite watering holes. By admitting I was willing to buy ale in exchange for information, it did not take me long to find someone who knew someone who might be able to help me. Sometimes this little dance leads nowhere, but on Monday night I was lucky, and an hour after entering the bar found myself in a quiet corner with a rather voluble Irishman who not only knew Jephson, but had worked with him in the recent past.
“‘It was that damnable play,’ the big man said, wiping ale foam from his whiskers, and off we went on a long involved story that I will not bore you chaps with, for it would take too long in the telling. There are only a few pertinent facts in any case, for the big man was most adept at elaborating his tale, spinning it out in order to receive more ale for his trouble. The facts, as I saw them, were these: Jephson had been commissioned to take a role in a play, and he was the first of the actors to receive the script. The Irishman had got a glimpse of it—a leather-bound volume that was purported to be the only copy and which Jephson was under instruction to keep secret and close to his person. Jephson had read the play—and had almost immediately been driven quite mad. As for the book itself, the Irishman did not know what had become of it—indeed he knew nothing of it beyond the title: The King in Yellow.”
c
“I did not see how this new information would help me, and a further search of my library that night for anything about the play proved fruitless. I was rather disgruntled, and somewhat bemused, when I returned to Southwark on Tuesday for my meeting with Jephson himself.
“You will remember that it was a scorcher of a day, and the ground floor of Bethlem was indeed as hot and muggy as the rest of the city. The top floor, despite the preponderance of windows being bathed in full sunlight, still felt like walking past the door to an icehouse.
“Jephson had been raised from his place in the corner. He sat in a chair in the center of the room, although he was still tightly bound, and he still stared, flat-eyed, at a point in the upper left corner. He muttered continually under his breath, although I could as yet make out no words. A nurse put a chair inside the door for me, refusing to enter and backing away as soon as I thanked her. The door shut behind me with a clang and I was left alone in the room with a madman.
“Only we were not alone—not entirely. Strange shadows crawled and capered in the corners, and once again I felt the tingle at my neck and roiling in my gut that told me there was more here than met the eye.
“Jephson would not look at me, merely kept staring into the corner and mumbling.
“‘I know about the play,’ I said, but if I was hoping to get a reaction, I was to be sorely disappointed. His gaze never wavered from the corner.
“I talked about the Irishman, about the play, about The George, but nothing got a twitch from the chap. It seemed my trip had been for naught. Then I said one more small sentence that changed everything.
“‘Tell me about Carcosa.’
“He turned his head, ever so slowly, and that dead-eyed stare fixed on me. The temperature dropped alarmingly, and it seemed to my eyes that the darkness gathered, swaddling the man in shadows every bit as constricting as the stitched jacket. He recited again, a singsong whisper that had more than a touch of the rhythm and cadence of a chant.
“‘Songs that the Hyades shall sing,
“‘Where flap the tatters of the King,
“‘Must die unheard in dim Carcosa.’
“At the mention of flapping tatters, I heard it for myself—a sound like cloth being taken and slapped about by a wind. It lasted mere seconds before Jephson went back to staring at the corner. The shadows stilled in their dance, and the actor returned to muttering.
“A warmer breeze hit my face, reminding me of the season.
“And that was that, for a while at least. I could get nothing out of him. He was lost, in a far-off place—his Carcosa, at a guess. Wherever it was, it was out of my reach at that moment.
“I knocked loudly on the door and, after a wait that almost had me wondering whether I was to join Jephson in his seclusion, the worried nurse finally let me out. I took the chair down the corridor a way, sat down, lit a smoke and waited to see what nightfall might bring.”
c
“I sat there for several hours. The nurse brought me tea and biscuits around six that did much to improve my mood, and several smokes calmed my nerves, frayed as they had been by the encounter in the room.
“I was still no nearer to discovering the nature of the thing I had come to investigate, but I got a clearer idea of what I was up against just after the sun went down. Darker shadows crept in the long corridors of Bethlem Asylum, only to be dispelled by gas lamps lit by an elderly janitor who scurried away as soon as the job was done.
“Several seconds later Jephs
on started whispering again. As before, the strangeness started with his reciting—I was coming to believe it must be passages from The King in Yellow.
“‘Strange is the night where black stars rise,
“‘And strange moons circle through the skies.’
“I instinctively looked up through the skylight. There were no black stars, no strange moons, although if there had been I might have taken a blue funk and fled there and then.
“The corridor dimmed and darkened despite the gas lamps. It got colder fast, a layer of fine frost running along the hardwood flooring and up the walls. I happened to be looking along the length of the corridor, so spotted what occurred almost immediately.
“Something flowed out through the door of Jephson’s room—I know that is hardly much of a description, but I have no other words for it. It was at eye level and seemed at first little more than thin smoke, but it quickly coalesced, going from gray to yellow and solidifying into an object that spun in a slow circle, hanging in mid air. As I said, it was a deep yellow, almost golden, and was a solid representation of a pictograph or hieroglyph—three curved and distorted arms reaching out from a globular central hub. The symbol was neither Babylonian nor Egyptian—indeed, it did not resemble anything I had ever come across in all my reading in the field.
“The yellow sigil spun in time with Jephson’s recital.
“‘Along the shore the cloud waves break,
“‘The twin suns sink behind the lake,
“‘The shadows lengthen in Carcosa.’
“The spinning sign made its way along the corridor, heading straight for me. As it passed by them, yells, groans and screams came from the previously quiet cells, tortured souls pleaded for mercy, others shouted their joy, and some laughed, too loud, as if they would never stop.
“I heard the noise I had heard before, the sound of cloth being taken and slapped by a wind.
“‘Where flap the tatters of the King.’
“The yellow sign spun faster. The corridor behind it seemed to melt and fade, like wet paint in heavy rain, washing away until I could see through, see beyond.
“And suddenly I was not looking at corridor walls and hardwood floors. I looked out from a high vantage to a moonlit scene—three pale yellow moons floating amid black stars, and a stunted forest along the banks of a black lake that drew the eyes to a castle, huge and decayed, perilously perched on an outcrop of crystal. And although it was far off, a figure clearly stood there on the highest battlement, long black robes flapping in the breeze. It turned toward me, a wrinkled yellow mask with no features.
“The King in Yellow fixed his gaze on me.
“I fled, screaming.”
c
Carnacki paused at this point, which we all knew was a sign to refill our glasses and get fresh smokes lit. No one spoke. Arkwright, as usual, seemed almost bursting to ask a question, but Carnacki looked sterner than his normal ebullient self, and gave Arkwright a stare that would brook no discussion.
“Before I go on, I want to say something about what I have just related. You chaps have heard me expound many times on the Outer Darkness and the entities that dwell there. What I believe I saw was a direct vision of those realms, a place where dream, myth and reality are not separated by rationality as they are here in the inner microcosm. Somehow Jephson’s madness was inextricably linked to that place, and the connection enabled it to draw close, so close that the veil was parted. I could see through—and be seen. I have no doubt that the King in Yellow exists, over there in his high castle—for if we have royalty here on this plane, why not there?”
Once again Arkwright looked ready to ask a question, but Carnacki waved him away and headed for his chair. It was a matter of seconds before we were all settled again, and Carnacki took up the tale immediately where he had left off.
c
“I came to my senses sitting in a chair in a room on the ground floor, with two nurses fussing over me, and feeling like a damned fool, although my nerves were not sufficiently strong to allow me to go back up to that corridor right away.
“You chaps know I am not prone to taking a funk without rather extreme provocation, but I am not afraid to tell you that I was rather severely spooked, and in need of a stiffener. I found Donaldson’s brandy in the desk in his office—the man himself had long since gone home for the evening—and helped myself to a double. After that, and a smoke of my pipe outside in the hospital grounds, I began to feel more like my old self, but even then I knew I would not be able to make myself go back to the top floor—not without the proper defenses.
“I had one of the nurses call for a carriage, and made my way back here, where I picked up my box of tricks and returned in the same carriage, arriving back at the Asylum just before midnight. I paused long enough for another leisurely smoke then carried the box up to the top of the stairs.
“It was time to pit my wits against whatever walked those corridors.”
c
“The top floor was once again quiet and still. Thin moonlight came in from high above, but the flickering gas lamps kept any shadows at a safe distance. I stood there for several minutes in the silence, ready to flee again should an attack come before I was prepared, but it seems I had arrived at a lull in proceedings. I set about readying myself. I drew my circles in chalk on the hardwood floors, knowing that should nothing come of them, I was earning myself a telling-off from the same nurses who had tended to me earlier.
“I need not describe the nature of my defenses—you all know of the ritual circles and the electric pentacle—although Arkwright will be most interested in my newest battery, for it has a greatly increased life, and provides a much steadier power output than any I have tried previously. It was about to be put to its greatest test yet.
“I switched on the pentacle and stepped into the circle. The valves washed the corridor in an aura of rainbow colors, and the faint hum of the battery was the only thing breaking the silence.
“I stood in the center, lit up a smoke, and began my night watch.”
“I did not have long to wait. I got my first intimation that something was happening when the blue valve brightened considerably. At almost the same moment Jephson started in on his recital again, his whispering voice clearly audible even above the hum of the battery.
“‘Along the shore the cloud waves break,
“‘The twin suns sink behind the lake,
“‘The shadows lengthen in Carcosa.’
“Thin yellow smoke came through the door of the man’s room and began to thicken and solidify in the corridor. The temperature dropped markedly and once again frost ran along the floor and walls, although this time I remained warm, almost hot, inside my protective circle.
“The blue valve began to pulse in time with Jephson’s voice, flaring ever brighter as the yellow sign drifted closer.
“‘Strange is the night where black stars rise,
“‘And strange moons circle through the skies,
“‘But stranger still is lost Carcosa.‘
“The occupants of the other cells woke, and once again there was a chorus of screams, laughter and howls of pain and anguish to accompany Jephson’s voice. The blue valve pulsed in sympathy.
“The yellow sign floated ever closer, coming to a halt in the air not three feet away from the edge of my defenses.
“And now I did indeed feel cold—a biting chill that seized at my calves and began to work its way upward. Jephson’s voice grew in strength and volume, echoing along the length of the corridor. The yellow sign flared brighter and spun in time, its glow threatening to overwhelm and consume the glow from the pentacle.
“‘Songs that the Hyades shall sing,
“‘Where flap the tatters of the King,
“‘Must die unheard in dim Carcosa.’
“The corridor behind the sigil melted and swam and I was given another glimpse of the forested landscape beyond. The robed figure still stood on the battlements of the high castle.
&
nbsp; “And once again the King in Yellow turned his masked gaze upon me.
“Despite the protection provided by the pentacle, I felt cold creep into my very spine. Jephson’s whispering seemed to come from somewhere inside my own head, burrowing its way into the dark recesses of my mind.
“‘Song of my soul, my voice is dead,
“‘Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed,
“‘Shall dry and die in lost Carcosa.’
“The yellow sign drifted forward again to touch the edge of my defenses. As if I had suddenly focused a telescope, the robed king seemed to fly forward toward me until he stood there in the corridor, grim and tall in tattered robes, just beyond the sigil. His clothes flapped and fluttered in time with Jephson’s voice. The blue valve flared and pulsed, attempting to combat the yellow, trying to force it away into the darkness.
“The robed figure stepped forward and put his hand on the sigil, pushing it ahead of him, forcing it to clash with the pentacle’s defenses. The corridor lit up like a lightning storm in flashes of blue and yellow. Electricity crackled all around me.
“Jephson’s voice rose to a shout.
“‘Unmask!’
“The figure reached up to the wrinkled covering over his face, at the same instant pushing the sigil forcefully toward me with his other hand.
“The blue valve blazed, flashed and exploded in a bolt of azure lightning. The yellow sign fell apart in a myriad of fragments that glittered and danced, vanishing before they hit the floor. The robed figure reached for me, the yellow mask the last thing to disappear as it faded into wispy smoke. Then it too was gone.
“Jephson screamed, one long despairing cry of agony that cut off sharply.
Carnacki: The Watcher at the Gate Page 14
