Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Jeff Campbell

  For my part the challenges of gathering information had been much more difficult than I had expected. It was not the doctors I talked to who finally let me in on the family secrets. It was instead a proper and stout matron at the Lourne Sanatorium, who in her time had also served as a midwife to the family, which revealed the scandalous truths.

  All I could discover from the doctors involved in the case, and only after vowing the most extreme discretion, was that Emily Elizabeth Corin was born with an unusual disorder, a skin condition that was, and is, rare in the extreme. The matron was a bit more forthcoming. According to her the disfigurement was a gray and patchy growth not at all unlike common bread mold, save that it grew on the flesh of the sufferer. While it could be treated with a series of painful injections and several salves that Roderick Corin concocted and administered himself, it could not be cured, but merely held at bay.

  She also made it clear that the only other person to ever suffer the strange disorder was none other than Rupert Corin, who contracted the ailment on one of his many expeditions to parts unknown. Rupert, it seemed, took after his Uncle Horatio in that he loved to travel and seek answers to the mysteries of the past.

  There were suppositions aplenty, of course. The disorder was believed to be a side effect of certain unpleasant practices that Rupert had encountered during his travels. There was no proof, however, as the eldest Corin was very deliberately and adamantly steadfast in his refusal to discuss the cause with even his family by all accounts.

  I shared that knowledge with Holmes, of course, who nodded his head with that small victorious smile of his.

  “I believe we might be on to something, Watson.”

  He set a small journal on the table and tapped the leather of the cover with his index finger. “It’s all here, my friend. All the details of the odd disorder and everything that Roderick went through to come up with treatments, first for his brother and then for his daughter.”

  He paused and his eyes looked past my right shoulder. When we first became friends his tendency to lose himself in his thoughts worried me. We had known each other long enough by that point, however, that I understood it was merely him thinking hard and not some sort of mental or emotional distress.

  “Well, get on with it, Holmes. We have people to look for as I recall.” I spoke with only a modicum of annoyance and with a great deal of affection. Nothing I said would make his mind work any differently and I had certainly let him know my opinions on more than one occasion.

  He sighed and then smiled briefly.

  “The situation is really quite a bit more scandalous than I’d have expected, Watson.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, according to Roderick Corin’s notes, the disorder is not contagious under normal circumstances. In fact he went to great lengths and took careful and detailed notes explaining his attempts to reproduce the odd growth in new subjects, simple animal stock, in an effort to more boldly determine a proper solution.” Neither Holmes nor myself was overly fond of the notion of animal experimentation, but both of us considered the need as a necessary evil in the pursuit of proper cures for many ailments. I nodded my understanding and he continued.

  “He had no success. Despite attempts to recreate the identical disorder, first in animals and later, rather shockingly, on a willing human participant, but there was simply no contagion to pass on.”

  “Well then how did young Emily contract the disorder?” But even as I asked, I realized the answer. “Oh, dear.”

  “Just so, Watson. Roderick came to the conclusion that the only possible remaining method of passing on the contagion, a conclusion he could not easily test, was to inherit the condition.” Despite his excitement at having reached the proper conclusion Holmes kept his voice low. It would hardly do to have household servants of the family in question learning what they had no reason to know.

  “Small wonder young Hugh is so careful about his words.”

  Holmes shook his head. “He might suspect, but I’ve little reason to believe that he truly knows what his father uncovered. The entirety of the ledger is written in code. I spent a good deal of the night deciphering the text.”

  “What about the other books?”

  “All of the rest are written in plain English, which is what made me realize this particular volume and the three that precede it were most likely of the greatest importance.”

  “So despite the … unusual circumstances of the situation, the younger Corin brother worked out the regimen of treatments?”

  “Indeed he did. Though he hardly states the matter clearly, as I suspect you can imagine, the doctor believed the treatment not only of his daughter, but of his brother, to be of the utmost importance. To that end he sent his brother out to find the best possible materials to work on a cure rather than merely a treatment. Rupert Corin has, presumably, been back to see his brother and family on numerous occasions, though apparently the affliction he contracted has spread, and until a cure can be found, he can’t very well show himself in public. He has come and gone always in secrecy.”

  “Astounding. Is it known as to what sort of progression the disease has followed?”

  Holmes nodded to me and poured himself another cup of coffee. “Indeed. The growths have spread to cover over sixty percent of his flesh, at least according to his brother.”

  Both of us stayed silent and considered that knowledge.

  “The girl? Emily? Has it spread in similar fashion on the poor child’s flesh?”

  “Quite to the contrary. It seems that while she is afflicted, most of the infected flesh for her is internalized. Though she sometimes suffers from a profusion of the gray matter growing across her lips and tongue it’s seldom that there are any exterior signs of her infection.”

  “I imagine that at least is a comfort to the poor child. At least she can be seen in public and by the rest of the family.”

  “Hardly, Watson.” His voice took on a rather droll cast.

  “How so then?”

  “While her body is mostly unscathed by the disorder, she still suffers.” He opened the book and shifted several pages before he lifted a finger for silence and began to read.

  “‘Emily’s flesh is clean today, but the vile infection has spread to her mind, possibly even to her soul. Rupert claimed before that the odd growths seemed almost to speak to him on some occasions, and I suspect he might well be right.’”

  Holmes flipped ahead through the pages of the journal, his eyes scanning the subjects quickly until he found what he wanted.

  “‘During our examinations over the last few days Emily has taken to making unusual noises. Humming or singing to herself when she thinks I’ve left the room or might not hear her. These sounds are disturbing to me. They bear a cadence, you see. They seem to mimic a proper language, though if so, I’d wager it is no language ever spoken by man.’”

  “Perhaps it’s Roderick that’s mad here.” I shook my head. The very notion of a child speaking unknown languages was preposterous.

  Holmes smiled. “Have you never heard of anyone speaking in Tongues before, Watson?” I waved the notion away and urged him to continue.

  “‘The sounds have caused no end of trouble for me. When Emily is taken by these odd fits and speaks her unsettling language, unusual events tend to follow. At first I dismissed the notion as little more than my imagination, but I can no longer ignore the strange scenarios.

  “‘The first time Emily uttered her odd song, the skies gathered a sudden storm, which is not all that unusual, in London, true, but the winds and hail seemed centered over this very house and the estate to our east. I alone was aware of the convulsions and words that Emily uttered and I alone have made the connection. A storm alone would not have been enough to give me pause, but the hail that fell from the skies was a deep and dark brown. Pollutants, I thought, until they began to melt and I smelled the distinct odor of charnel house blood.’”

  “Good Lord, Holmes!” I looked around quickly
to make sure no one was nearby to hear. The hair on my scalp was tight and I suppressed a shiver.

  “He lists three more events, Watson. The garden his groundkeeper had kept for years wilted and died in a matter of hours after Emily spoke. The vegetables rotted. They decayed far too much for the amount of time they were unseen. The next time she began singing, Emily’s eyes changed. They lost all their color for a moment and then developed a secondary and tertiary set of eyelids, as seen with several reptiles and fish. Simultaneous to this event — which I am inclined to think might have been nothing but a moment of hysteria from her father — the garden and lawn of the estate were disturbed by ‘hundreds of thousands of earthworms, many of unsettling size and activity.’ The last note he makes of her singing states that the odd ‘fungal growth’ that has haunted her since she was born spread across her mouth and flesh for almost twenty hours before it faded to its normal levels.”

  I set down my breakfast. I had lost what little appetite I had.

  Holmes sipped at his coffee though it had grown tepid and I unthinkingly did the same. We needed the strong drink after so many hours without rest.

  “He seemed oddly unworried about these issues, don’t you think, Holmes?”

  “I tend to worry that the family might well be tainted with the Aristocrat’s disease.”

  I nodded. There were too many cases of inbreeding causing any number of disorders and the political marriages of the past still haunted more than one family.

  “Fair enough.” I sighed. “So, what has any of this to do with the abduction of the family, Holmes?”

  “Well, Watson. There’s one more element of the equation that is missing.”

  “How so?”

  “The last note made in the journal, old friend. The last entry states that Rupert was due back soon.”

  “You believe that the man has had something to do with the removal of his own kin?”

  “I believe that if we find Rupert Corin, we’ll find the rest of his family.” Holmes stood up. “We know where they were when they were taken. What we do not know is the name of the vessel that brought Rupert Corin back to London.”

  “There’s nothing in the journals?” I stood as well and reached for my coat. The look on Holmes’ face told me we were going to be traveling.

  “Not a blessed word about how the man was coming back.”

  “Perhaps we should ask young Hugh.”

  As we came to the same conclusion, the opportunity was stolen away from us. We heard the sound of a scuffle, and then the scream of the family maid.

  Holmes bolted from the room and was up the stairs before me, but only by a few paces. The maid, a pleasant enough girl, was stepping into the hallway, her hands clawing at her face as if she might well decide to scratch her own eyes out rather than face again what she’d witnessed with them.

  Holmes was not gentle in pushing past the poor girl. He was far too worried about what might be going on out of our sight to consider her plight. The maid staggered as he shoved past her and I caught her slight form before she could fall.

  Any comments I might have made to Holmes regarding his manners died on my lips. The sight of what stood beyond him was enough to strike a dozen men mute.

  The room we entered was obviously Hugh Corin’s private chambers. The young man’s legs lay sprawled across his bed, but the rest of his body was held by a creature that was almost completely hidden by a layer of tattered cloth, a ruined ship’s sail, perhaps, or another form of canvas. It was impossible to say for certain as everything happened very quickly. Though the — I hesitate to call it a man, though it had something of the shape — was covered by the fabric, there were parts of the form that showed from beneath and those protrusions were covered completely in a thick, wet-seeming film of grey mucus that obscured flesh and fabric alike.

  The creature lifted its face and looked at us with eyes that were no longer human, if ever they had been. I’ve seen many illustrations of the eyes of insects and arachnids alike and the round, black orbs that covered that face, where other features should have been, made me think of nothing so much as a giant spider. There were seven of them as I recall all of different sizes and scattered as randomly as stars.

  The wretch pulled at Hugh Corin’s form and lifted the boy even as Holmes came for him. As it took hold of the boy it rose up to a staggering seven feet in height, the head of the thing just barely avoided scraping the ceiling of the room.

  Holmes took one quick look around the room and promptly fetched up a heavy walking stick that was surely meant more for function than ornament, and brought it down hard across the wretchedly slick forearm holding on to young Corin. Even from ten paces away I heard the crushing sound of bone giving way beneath that blow.

  Young Hugh, who until that moment had been lost in a stupor, let out a soft moan and his eyes fluttered open even as the hooded shape roared at Holmes.

  It dropped the boy at that moment and moved toward my friend with another roar of challenge. The arms that it held out swayed and waved, and I looked at the spot where Holmes had struck the thing and saw yellowed bone protruding from the break. By all rights the hellish beast should have been in agony, possibly even enough pain to incapacitate, and yet it moved forward just the same. Moreover, the heavy canvas cloak that hid most of the form wavered and seethed, shifting in ways that had nothing to do with the obvious motion of arms or legs, but rather with something else slithering and rattling beneath the surface.

  “Uncle Rupert!” The boy cried out and the beast turned quickly to face him, its face revealed for only a moment, to me, but long enough for me to see the remaining features that were so much like Hugh’s, hidden beneath the grey matter that covered its face. Whatever was happening to Rupert Corin was changing him. I shuddered to think that what I was looking at was once human. I had seen my share of lepers in advanced stages of suffering but this? This was surely madness.

  Rupert Corin reached for his nephew a second time and Holmes struck a resounding blow to the back of the man’s skull. The creature staggered forward but quickly caught itself and as I watched and tried to find a weapon of my own — I must confess to a deep and abiding fear of touching the creature with my bare flesh. Having heard that there was no chance of contagion I was still unwilling to test that theory as something dark and wet moved from beneath the tatters covering the body and swatted the legs out from under my friend.

  Holmes was fast and caught himself, but not before Rupert Corin had grabbed his nephew and started out the window through which he had obviously entered the room in the first place.

  We did not waste time with words. Holmes climbed onto the window sill and quickly followed after his client and the thing that had taken him.

  There were no other choices, really, but to follow. By the time I reached the windowsill myself, Holmes was dropping down, his hands holding to the ledge as he tried to find the right moment to drop. The nightmare that was Rupert Corin stalked down the side of the brick wall, the odd shapes that had been hidden beneath his makeshift cloak holding him to the wall like an insect’s legs. I never caught a good glimpse of those odd limbs and truth be told I do not regret that. Whatever they were, they did not belong to anything vaguely human.

  I watched first the two Corins’ reach the ground and then Rupert rose on his hind legs and ran. As soon as they were out of the way Holmes dropped from ledge and landed with relative ease. I followed suit, very nearly spraining my ankle in the process, and limped along after them as best as I was able.

  There was no time to call for aid, so instead we ran, and I was grateful for the coat I’d put on before the maid screamed. The night air was cold and damp. The thing that carried Hugh Corin moved with an impossible gait, covering preposterous distances at a speed that would have shamed a horse. Despite both Holmes and I remaining in fairly athletic shape, we could not keep up.

  Through the deep breaths I took to regain myself I asked, “What was that Holmes?”

  “You hea
rd, Watson. It was Rupert Corin. Whatever insane disease he managed to fall victim to, it’s very obviously getting worse.”

  “That wasn’t human.”

  “Not anymore, my friend. Not anymore.”

  “What did he come back for, Holmes?”

  “For his family, Watson. He came back for his family, and I suspect primarily for his daughter.”

  “No, Holmes. I mean why did he come back to Hugh, a second time?”

  He looked at the ground and shook his head. “I’m not sure yet, but I know how we can find out.”

  “How so?”

  Holmes pointed to the ground. “We thought it was mud before, Watson. The recent rains made that easy enough to confuse and the stench from the wharves didn’t help. But no. Look here.” I did indeed look where he pointed and saw the thick smears of dark grey that had been left in the wake of Rupert Corin’s footprints. “It wasn’t mud, at least not mud alone. That thing, Corin, is leaving parts of himself behind.”

  We found the trail easily and followed it as quickly as we could.

  “There were rumors, you know, that Roderick Corin was injured during his time in the military.” I broached the subject carefully. Though he was hardly a prude and could cast an occasional comment, Holmes and I did not regularly discuss such subjects without first being into a glass of brandy or two. “That is to say, there were doubts he could actually father children.”

  “Yes, I’d heard something of the matter when he came home from India. I thought it was merely gossip, but it’s possible there’s something more to the situation, I suppose.”

  “If it’s true do you suppose that Rupert might be the father of Hugh as well?”

  “It would make sense. One must keep the family name, after all. In some families that would be enough to allow the improper affairs to continue.” In other circumstances he might have questioned my unusual knowledge, but not just then. My Mary was very fond of the tales told by house servants when no one is thought to be listening. Her passing was still close enough that he chose not to make any comments.