Shadows over Baker Street

by John Pelan;Michael Reaves

  “Shhh. There, perhaps the phonograph can record those sounds. Yes, Cowley, you’re not wrong. I can hear screams. Fascinating. You say that people who are deformed in some way inhabit the houses?”

  “Worse than deformed, Professor. I’m a medical man and yet I’ve seen nothing like this. These individuals suffer from some condition that endows them with skin much like that of a fish. They have no eyelids, and possess vast eyes that are perfectly round. They make one nauseated if one looks upon them.”

  “How intriguing.”

  “Professor, we must leave at once.”

  “No. We will not retreat. You have your revolver?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then guard the door, man. I will observe events as they unfold from the carriage.”

  “But—”

  “Do as I order, man.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Now I will continue my observations. Indeed, I see any number of figures emerging from the houses . . . more accurately they slither like seals from the windows; squirming on their bellies across the silt before standing upright. My workmen appear no match for the creatures. The men are being killed and devoured as I watch. And how unusual the gait of these creatures: they move in a queer, swaying way, as if unfamiliar with moving on dry land. The battle is almost over. Now perhaps fifty of the creatures approach the carriage. They make gestures with their limbs—to call them arms would be misleading—there is something tentacular about them. The creatures’ heads are rounded, domelike; their eyes resemble those of a cod. Large and round and black. They do not blink. Yes, this moonlight is bright enough to appreciate more detail than perhaps one would wish. Initially, I thought they would attack, but now they have paused some thirty paces from the carriage. They look at me. Perhaps, by some clairvoyant process, they recognize my identity. Perhaps they know I am a friend and ally?

  Now they move their limbs again. I see it is a priestly gesture . . . and what’s that? I hear voices . . . hissing voices: reminiscent of the exhalation of air from a dolphin’s blowhole. There, perhaps this instrument is sensitive enough to pick up the chorus of voices . . .

  “Fhe’pnglai, Fhe’glinguli, thabaite yibtsill, Iä Yog-Sothoth, Cthulhu . . .”

  An incantation. I recognize it from my translation of the Necronomicon. This indeed is a fabulous sight. Unique. An epoch-making event. This should—tut-tut . . . another interruption.

  “You’re the engineer. Hatherley?”

  “Yes, sir, I came to warn that—”

  “Sit down there, man, and silence please. Can’t you see what I am doing?”

  Ah, to continue . . . now, a brilliant flash of light. The creatures are evoking that alien power. My God, my good God . . . this will be at my disposal, too. Am I, also, to become the destroyer of worlds?

  Ah, but I am quite dazzled by the light. And strange . . . Strange. I don’t hear the sound of the locomotive, but we seem to be in motion . . . there . . . I’ve managed to draw shut the carriage’s window blind, but I am still quite dazzled by that burst of incandescence . . . most peculiar; the train is moving, yet impossibly it feels as if we’re descending. At an incredible rate of speed, too. Those denizens of Burnston must have cast some ineffably exotic and occult influence upon the vehicle.

  “Dr. Cowley.”

  “Yes, Professor?”

  “Don’t sound so frightened, man. With my presence here, you cannot be harmed.”

  “But . . . we’re falling. What have they—”

  “Hush now. Compose yourself.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Now go to the window. Look out without disturbing the blind more than you can help it. Describe what you see outside.”

  “Outside, sir?”

  “Yes, man, and quickly. I’d do it myself, but the flash of light has left me dazzled. There . . . are you at the window yet, Dr. Cowley?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Peep through the gap in the blind as you would spy through a keyhole. On no account open it.”

  “I understand.”

  “Mr. Hatherley, remain in that seat. Do not attempt to look out of the window. On no account touch the blinds.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Excellent. Now, Dr. Cowley, describe exactly what you see.”

  “Professor . . . oh, my dear God, we’re falling . . . We’re falling!”

  “Describe exactly what you witness. The phonograph must record every single word.”

  “We’re falling into what appears to be a pit, yet I can see stars embedded in its walls. Entire constellations of fabulous complexity. Beneath us are strange lights and patterns; geometric shapes. Weird shapes. I find it disturbing to gaze upon them . . . wait . . . I see now. It’s as if the train has drawn up to the very edge of a cliff of enormous height. I’m looking down upon lakes and canals and cities and oceans. We are plunging toward a city that contains a huge purple mountain in its center. The crash will smash us all to pieces.”

  “It won’t, Cowley. We are slowing. We will gently alight in the citadel. Now, describe.”

  “I see fabulous things . . . fabulous . . . but frightening . . . as if these are visions induced by an opiate.”

  “Describe what you see. Delineate. Give me details. Colors. Shapes. Metaphor and simile, if you must.”

  “It is an exotic city, like something from a dream. It is how I imagined the appearance of Byzantium. We pass through rose-colored mist. I see houses stacked terrace on terrace, one above the other, as they march up toward the mountain of purple. Myriads of chimneys expel fragrant smoke that drifts on star winds. I see ships with golden sails on oceans of emerald. I see towers of ivory reaching to the sky, I see dome on dome on dome stretching into infinity. I see bronze bells the size of battleships set into arches. The bells swing back and forth, ringing out fabulous notes that shimmer with an alien resonance across the city. Bell peals that will never change and never decay so long as the cosmos shall retain its cohesion. Through chinks in the window frame I smell the most beautifully exotic traces of incense. Spices, too, from kitchens that were old when the pyramids were new. I hear unearthly music. Magic fluting. Drums beating. I hear singing in the streets. Songs of ineffable beauty. Melodies of numinous power.”

  “That is our reception party, Cowley. We will be honored guests.”

  “We are flying low over the city now. I can see people—millions of people thronging the streets. I sense their jubilation, their adoration of us. This is akin to a family reunion. We are not venturing here, Professor. We are returning!”

  “Indeed we are, Dr. Cowley.”

  “Now the train glides through the air; I see our line of carriages headed by the locomotive still issuing steam; the train has all the supple grace of a snake gliding through water. Beneath us are bazaars, Oriental marketplaces, Casbahs shaded by silken awnings. Turquoise banners ripple in the perfumed breeze of evening. I see geese white as snow in gardens. Leaping fish in fountains. I see millions of people in the exotic robes of Arabia. Fabrics of gold, crimson, scarlet, jade.

  “Now we approach the purple mountain that rises above everything like a god of old. It gleams as if illuminated from within. Oh, I see a transfiguration. No . . . No!”

  “Cowley, continue to relate what you see below us.”

  “But . . . no . . . it’s changing, transforming . . . degrading: the entire city is melting into the most obscene—”

  “Describe. Describe.”

  “Monsters. Those aren’t men down there. They’re creatures with webbed hands, barbel-necked . . . eyes like toads, bulging from the ugliest faces. I know I can have no knowledge of this, but somehow I divine that these beasts are profane. They are man and monster mated into a terrible form . . . please, permit me to close my eyes.”

  “Dr. Cowley. Tell me what lies below.”

  “I see the city as a malignant sore on a body. From it ooze rivers of corruption through which its inhabitants swim up to mock us. I see the mountain grow larger,
swelling. Transforming. Features form upon it . . . mouth . . . eyes, hideous eyes . . . that—oh! I cannot look into those eyes. And it speaks . . . the mountain speaks to me . . . I know the meaning, if I don’t understand the words. It tells me to cease to hope. It describes what I shall become . . . please!”

  Ah, that pitiful sobbing is my assistant, Dr. Cowley. He is quite unmanned. “Stay huddled in the corner if you will, sir. You’ve served your purpose . . .” So that leaves the engineer and me with our wits still intact. For obvious reasons I shall not trouble to look out of the window yet. For I must sheathe myself in protective incantations from the Necronomicon . . . Wait, the book? Where is it?

  “Hatherley. What are you doing with my book? Hand it to me at once.”

  “No, Professor Moriarty. I’ll not hand it back.”

  “My name is not Professor Moriarty. What on earth—”

  “Indeed you are, Moriarty. Professor James Moriarty.”

  “Hatherley. I insist—”

  “Come, come, Moriarty. If I know your true identity, surely you can guess mine? Especially if I remove my spectacles and this irritating India-rubber compound from my cheeks.”

  “Holmes . . . Sherlock Holmes?”

  “One and the same, Professor.”

  “Holmes. Give me the book. If you do not, we will be—”

  “Killed? Surely we await a fate far worse than that. Ask your assistant.”

  “Holmes. You must let me have the book before it is too late.”

  “This book, the Necronomicon? With all its fearsome and blasphemous content? No, this belongs with its true owner.”

  “Holmes? No!”

  “Moriarty, I trust your phonograph etched those sounds upon its cylinder. There’s no mistaking the melody of breaking of glass. Although I daresay it can not record the sound of the book falling down onto a landscape as alien as that one.”

  “You’re a fool, Holmes. Now . . . do you hear that? Hear those screams?”

  “I hear screams of frustration and disappointment. Somehow, Moriarty, I have contrived to upset your plans . . . and the plans of whatever monstrosity slithers across that profane world beneath us . . .”

  “You don’t know what you have done.”

  “No, not exactly. I believe what we have so nearly encountered is beyond human ken. But that, if I’m not mistaken, is the sound of the train’s whistle . . . and now that? That you hear is quite clearly the sound of our carriage wheels running on a more earthly track. Unless, I’m very much mistaken, the train is back on that rather chilly Yorkshire moor.”

  “Holmes. Damn you . . .”

  “And you will gather that the train is running backward—away from Burnston. Ah . . . and don’t trouble yourself about your assistant’s pistol. I shall retrieve that. There . . . I know it’s rude to point at people, especially with firearms, but I think it safer for every one of us if you are prevented from meddling with matters that lie beyond the bounds of human understanding.”

  “You really think you’ve won, Holmes? Is that pure arrogance or unalloyed conceit?”

  “Perhaps you could define the word victory, Professor Moriarty? Then compare that definition to the desired outcome of the players of this singular game of—Moriarty, don’t be a fool!”

  My name is Sherlock Holmes. Today is the third day of November, 1903. The sun is shining over freshly plowed fields as the train steams toward the station at York. With a few moments of my journey remaining before I disembark to make my report to a senior representative of His Majesty’s government, I have decided to speak my own postcript into this ingenious mechanical device, which will then be consigned to a secret Home Office vault. You will have listened to these phonograph cylinders and heard a record of Moriarty’s folly. Ah, and what of Moriarty himself? He chose to exit the train through the broken carriage window; the very same break that resulted when I tossed that damnable book from the train to whatever monstrosity lay below. One could have assumed that the scoundrel would have broken his neck in the fall, but units of the King’s Own Yorkshire Rifles have searched that section of track without success. I can only deduce that Moriarty has managed to slip away once more into that nefarious underworld that conceals him so well. Other units of the regiment are engaged, even as I speak, in eradicating every trace of those part-human horrors that dwelled in the submerged village. Thereafter, the soldiers are instructed to dynamite the seawall and return cursed Burnston to the ocean. And what of Dr. Cowley? All self-hope and peace of mind were forever extinguished in his soul upon looking on those nameless creatures. He took his own life with chloroform. You will appreciate the fact that I did nothing to obstruct his final act.

  My friend Watson, who so admirably records my cases, has not been privy to this one for what are, to your ears, obvious reasons. Therefore, I have not been able to employ his delightfully teasing methods of introducing evidence, or his entertaining manner of recording my discussion of pertinent clues, their meaning, and subsequent deduction. Hence, at best, here is a rather more prosaic bundle of sentences in lieu of a full and frank explanation of the case’s origins. In all truth, this case has been long and arduous and my methods have been somewhat darker than the norm. Moreover, they are not for popular consumption. In short, my former dabbling with cocaine in combination with exotic fungi from the Americas opened the doors of perception far wider than I could have believed possible. These narcotic visions of nameless ones encountered beyond tideless, otherworldly seas set me on the trail of arcane writings. Suffice to say: Moriarty isn’t the only obsessive personality to possess a copy of the Necronomicon . . . moreover, he wasn’t the only one to draw upon its occult power. It was necessary for me to access its recondite properties to return the locomotive from its nightmare destination, and to bring this disturbing case to a satisfactory conclusion.

  Ah, the needle has all but reached the end of the cylinder. Now all that remains is for the owner of the voice you hear now, one Sherlock Holmes, to bid you, dear listener, across whatever gulf of time separates us, a most sincere adieu.

  EPILOGUE BY JOHN H. WATSON, M.D.

  The three gentlemen have left my house with their gramophone and cylinders of wax that document those most singular events. I did as I was asked and identified the voices of Holmes and Moriarty. My three visitors were apparently satisfied, and yet they did not elaborate further on the nature of their mission, or how they will use the information I have given them. Such is the secrecy of wartime. I am alone again with my thoughts and a transcript of the recording. Clearly, if Moriarty had succeeded in harnessing the power that can be accessed via that profane volume, the Necronomicon, then this would elevate him above the title of “Napoleon of Crime”; Moriarty would have become a veritable Satan. He would be capable of destroying any individual or any nation that opposed him. However, my old friend Sherlock Holmes outwitted the man. Moreover, Holmes rid the world of a book that was so potently evil.

  If I cast my mind back more than a dozen years to that time when Moriarty was poised to literally raise hell, I recall a Sherlock Holmes at his most preoccupied and his darkest. Far be it from me to make deductions, but I dare guess that it was this case that troubled him so.

  Now, I confess, those troubles are visited upon me. Perhaps I should have been more candid with my visitors, considering their elevated stations, but some instinct caused me to hold my tongue. It is true that Holmes did telegram me with that single sentence that made my heart leap with excitement: “Watson, the game is afoot!” But only the day after the message arrived he made a telephone call to this very house. The connection was a bad one. The earpiece hissed and stuttered. I couldn’t make my old friend Holmes hear me. And all he could do was to try to fight against the storm of noise by repeating over and over:

  “Watson . . . I have found Moriarty . . . he has the book again . . . he has the Necronomicon!”

  CONTRIBUTORS

  John Pelan is the author of An Antique Vintage and numerous short stories. He is t
he editor of several anthologies, including Darkside: Horror for the Next Millennium, The Last Continent: New Tales of Zothique, The Darker Side, Dark Arts, and with Benjamin Adams, The Children of Cthulhu. With Edward Lee, he is coauthor of Goon, Shifters, Splatterspunk, Family Tradition, and numerous short stories. His novella The Colour out of Darkness is forthcoming. John’s solo stories have appeared in The Urbanite, Gothic.net, Enigmatic Tales, and numerous anthologies; a collection, Darkness, My Old Friend, is in the works, as are at least two novels. As a researcher and historian of the horror genre, John has edited over a dozen single-author collections and novels of classic genre fiction and is currently working on assembling the selected supernatural fiction of Manly Wade Wellman for Night Shade Books. For his own imprints, Midnight House and Darkside Press, he is editing volumes by Fritz Leiber, John Wyndham, Harvey Jacobs, Cleve Cartmill, and several other authors. At various times he’s been a pool hustler, professional darts player, sales trainer, steelworker, bartender, and several other things that you’ll be better off not knowing about. Visit his site at www.darksidepress.com.

  Michael Reaves is an Emmy Award–winning television writer, screenwriter, and novelist. He’s written for Star Trek: The Next Generation, The Twilight Zone, and Sliders, among others. He was a story editor and writer on Batman: The Animated Series, and on the Disney animated series Gargoyles. His screenwriting credits include Batman: Mask of the Phantasm and the HBO movie Full Eclipse. Reaves’s latest books, Hell on Earth and a Star Wars novel (Darth Maul: Shadow Hunter), have been published by Del Rey. Reaves has had short stories published in magazines and anthologies such as The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Heavy Metal, Horrors, and Twilight Zone Magazine, and has written comic books for DC Comics. In addition to winning an Emmy, he has been nominated for a second Emmy, an ASIFA Award, and a Writers Guild Award. His prose fiction has been nominated for the British Fantasy Award and the Prometheus Award. In 1999, he was named Alumnus of the Year by his alma mater, California State University at San Bernardino.