Demon

by Shane Peacock

  “I—”

  “I have no time to dawdle. I must make myself presentable. His motorcar will arrive at half past seven sharp. Beasley will have your supper for you. Wish me well! Good night!”

  The door closes but then opens again.

  “I shall tell you all that transpires on the morrow.”

  The door closes once more and she launches into another parlor song, this time a very sprightly version of “Beautiful Dreamer.”

  * * *

  —

  At precisely half past seven, Edgar is in his room when he hears Beasley receiving Lawrence at the door, taking his hat and cane, a pause while the butler ascends the stairs, another pause, then the sound of Annabel descending in her heels, exclamations of admiration from Sir Andrew, the door closing, another pause, the lurch of wheels, the shriek of Annabel Thorne and the horseless carriage beginning its sprint out of Mayfair toward Regent Street.

  * * *

  —

  Alone and unsettled, Edgar climbs the stairs to Alfred Thorne’s laboratory on the top floor. The NO ENTRY sign is still affixed to the door from the days—and nights—when his adoptive father worked up here on his mysterious inventions in weaponry. Inside, the blinds are drawn open, as always, on the huge window that almost fills the room’s ceiling. The stars are sparkling in one part of the black sky and a gentle rain is beginning to fall from the other. Edgar advances toward Alfred’s well-stocked bookshelves, containing all those novels whose presence used to surprise him. He sees Dracula, Frankenstein and The Island of Doctor Moreau. He lingers a little over An Antarctic Mystery by Jules Verne and the terrifying The Beetle, about an Egyptian insect creature that comes to London in murderous pursuit of an Englishman. Such books remind him of his father, his voice reading grim tales. Tonight, however, Edgar is thinking about even darker creations. Terrified by what may be after him and his friends, imagining the worst, he is looking for stories that feature the very devil himself.

  As he slides his finger further along the spines, he soon realizes that gathering up all such tomes is an overwhelming task. Whether known as Satan or Lucifer, as Beelzebub or by a myriad of other names, the devil is everywhere, just as Shakespeare said. Edgar knows it looms in every sacred text, in all kinds of novels, in countless poems.

  The Bible, he thinks, would be a good place to start. He finds himself shaking as he reaches for it, knowing that if the truth is indeed in these pages, it may actually give him a description of their next monster. He hesitates, pulls his hand back, and instead takes up a thick dusty volume of Adam Clarke’s commentary on the holy book, searching for the page that notes the references to the devil in scripture. He finds a long list: the evil one, the serpent, the beast, but mostly Satan. It makes his heart thud. He reaches out again and grips the black Bible, then slumps down in the chair with it behind Alfred Thorne’s desk. He starts to read the part in Genesis where the dark one slithers along on its belly through the Garden of Eden and tempts Eve and then, through her, Adam. Edgar is instantly back there at the beginning of time in that garden. He feels hot, the humidity so thick that it seems like the air is water, and drips of perspiration run down his forehead and into his brow. He hears strange animal sounds, and yet, somehow, here in paradise, a sense of peace slows his heart and his fears subside a little. It does not last long. Soon, he senses that something evil is approaching and a feeling of impending doom comes over him: a slithering and rustling in the leaves. He cannot stand it.

  He escapes by skipping to the New Testament to find the place in Matthew where Satan tempts Jesus in the desert. He hopes he will be able to read it, but here too, he finds himself horrified. The devil is invisible, not a single feature described, as if Satan were not flesh-and-blood but inside Christ’s head! Our Lord confronted by a power that could actually overwhelm Him! Edgar flips further into the good book, hoping to find a creature he and his friends might be able to confront. He finds 1 Peter 5:8, “Your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.” Is that what is after us? he asks himself. A lion…that eats human beings! He moves on to Revelation. Instantly in a dream world, he sees an enormous dragon descending from black skies and a beast with many heads, three numbers carved into its pulsing body! He hears a sound in the lab and looks up to see a human being on the glass ceiling above him! It is soaked by the rain now pelting down and splayed there like a giant spider, dressed in black, his face red, the skull shaved. Edgar cries out and stands up. The thing vanishes. He shoves the Bible back onto the shelf.

  “I’m seeing things again!”

  He knows he must deal with monsters, though, real or imagined, just as his father said. Do not be afraid. Humanity must attack evil, not run from it. He looks back up to the glass and sees his father there, prone on the ceiling the way the evil man was, but smiling at him, dry as an angel in the rain. Edgar smiles. He knows Allen Brim is not there, but he imagines his father as a sort of guardian spirit, his god of books, protecting him here in this laboratory of literature. Edgar shakes his head, steels himself, and glances at the spines on the shelves again, intent on picking out another book that will give him a believable clue, help him know what may be in pursuit. His eyes rest on the two most revered secular texts that feature the devil: The Divine Comedy and Paradise Lost, both briefly discussed in his literature class at the College on the Moors. Surely, there is truth there, if it is anywhere! He selects the first, which is the older of the two, takes a deep breath and reads. He enters its opening section, Inferno. He remembers some of this story—the tale of an anxious writer named Dante, descending into hell, accompanied by a great poet. The memories come back like a nightmare. Instantly, he is inside the book and the poet has him by the hand, guiding him downward, crossing burning rivers, going through circle after circle of horror where sinners are boiled in blood, chased by black angels, pursued by serpents, hanged upside down, their bodies cut open, one holding his severed head in his hands. Down, down he goes into the abyss, all the way to the bottom. There, in a frozen lake, his guide brings him to a hideous giant who stands eternally locked in ice from his waist down. The demon has three heads and enormous black wings! Each mouth is eating a human being, the legs squirming from the lips. SATAN! Edgar shuts the book. He looks up to the ceiling again. No one is on the glass now. Just rain.

  He takes out Paradise Lost. He remembers some of it too, a complex story the professor had simplified for them. Alfred Thorne’s edition is thick and brown, with terrifying illustrations by a man named William Blake. Edgar flips through the text, looking mostly at the pictures. Satan has huge wings here too, but he starts out as good, an angel in fact, then he rebels against God, descends to earth to infest the souls of human beings, turns into a creature and slithers into the Garden of Eden.

  Edgar slams the big book shut. He does not want to enter any more of these stories: to descend into another hell or to become the devil or bear an attack from him. He has had enough. He puts Paradise Lost back and gets to his feet.

  He looks for his father again—up on the glass, in the room, on the shelves. Edgar is alone.

  What is this monster, really, if it exists? he asks himself. What is Satan? A three-headed creature at the bottom of an abyss that is the opposite of heaven? Is he an angel, a fallen one who disagreed with God and opposed him? Edgar gulps as the full force of what that means comes over him. The enemy of God! He takes a step away from the table. Is that really what is after us?

  He shakes his head and says aloud, “This is insanity. Perhaps I should go back to the hospital and seek help from that nerve specialist.”

  He cannot stop thinking of the devil though, no matter how much he tells himself to calm down. He is obsessed with the idea. He starts to pace in the lab, wondering how a demon like this would come after them, what form of the incarnations he has read about would it take were it to pursue him here in London. Would it be one of these horrible creatures in f
lesh and blood or some sort of invisible power? Would it attack them in the streets and tear them limb from limb or invade their minds and destroy them from within? Might it take up residence inside him like a disease? He sits down in an attempt to stop himself from thinking like this. At first, his mind keeps racing and that terrifies him because it seems to be gaining momentum, but after a while, his heartbeat begins to slow and with it, his thoughts. He closes his eyes.

  * * *

  —

  He isn’t sure if he has been asleep when a sound at the door downstairs rouses him. It is Annabel and she is singing even louder than before, something about holding a man from heaven in her arms.

  “Edgar!” she cries from down below. “He has the most gorgeous home in Phillimore Gardens! The largest on the street. I could marry him and I know he could marry me! He had a desperate look in his eyes. That’s when you know you have them!”

  Edgar comes suddenly out of a deep sleep in his bed that night, but the culprit is not the hag or a sound at the door or even a jolt of fear. It is almost as if someone has entered his room and shaken him by the shoulders to bring him to consciousness. He lies very still, imagining that his door is opening and then closing, that footsteps are traveling very softly down the stairs. He is not sure though. Then he feels something moving in his bed. It is down near the bottom, accompanied by a strange rustling sound: his blanket is quivering, as if its flesh is crawling. Something is coming toward him.

  In the dim light, he sees the snake in the covers: gigantic and lurid green.

  Edgar leaps to his feet in his bed. The snake’s huge head is emerging from under the blanket, its forked tongue darting toward him. He steps back to the wall and throws his arms flat against it and the creature pauses. It regards him silently and appears to smile, but the tongue reaches out again and the big serpent makes for him. Edgar jumps to the floor, runs out the door and slams it behind him, crying out for help.

  Instantly, the house is alive.

  “EDGAR?” shouts Annabel from down below.

  “MASTER BRIM!” cries Beasley, who sounds like he is running.

  Seconds later, Thorne House is full of people carrying lanterns and charging up the stairs, quickly surrounding Edgar in the hallway outside his closed door. A male and female servant, known to be sweet on each other, are part of the rescue party, somehow dressed and awake at this hour.

  “What is it, Edgar?” asks Annabel. “You look terrified!”

  “In…in there!” he cries, pointing toward his door.

  “In your bedroom?” asks Annabel.

  “A snake! A giant one! Green and horrible!” He feels ridiculous saying this—his voice sounds like it belongs to someone else again, this time someone who is falling apart.

  “I shall survey the room,” says Beasley.

  “No,” says Edgar, “no, don’t go in there!”

  “I had occasion to meet a good many snakes in India, sir,” says the butler. “One must not be frightened. It does not help, for they sense it. One must do as is required. If I can throw a blanket or sheet over it, then it will likely settle nicely.”

  He opens the door gingerly, inch by inch, and it creaks as he peeks into the dim room, shedding light around it with his lantern. He steps inside and closes the door behind him. There is silence. It goes on for a good two minutes. Edgar is ashamed that he is simply standing there doing nothing and wonders how he could have let the butler go into the room on his own. He reaches for the doorknob, but the door opens and out comes Beasley, holding on to a blank expression.

  “There is nothing in your room, sir. Or at least, no snake.”

  “But that can’t be.”

  “I’m afraid, sir, that it is.”

  Annabel frowns at Edgar. The other servants drop their gazes to the floor.

  “I’ll show you!” says Edgar and rushes into the room, turns on his electric light and regards his bed. Nothing. He opens his closet door and searches inside. Nothing. He gets down on his knees, looks along the floor from one end of the room to the other and sees only the gleaming hardwood planks and his rugs.

  “Well…it was here.”

  “If…if that is the case, ma’am,” says the young female servant to Annabel, “then might it be on the loose in the house!”

  “Nonsense!” says Beasley. He glances in Edgar’s direction. “Nonsense, that is, that it might still be slithering about the house…do not worry yourself, my dear. We have had enough excitement. Let us make our way back to our rooms.”

  As the others depart, Edgar and Annabel remain outside his door.

  “You know, my son, those books by this Freud fellow are translated into English. You can find them in the British Museum Library. He has invented something called psychoanalysis…and you can do it on yourself!” She lets out a laugh, slaps him on the back and makes her way downstairs too. When she reaches the next floor, however, she looks back up at him with a worried expression.

  Though Edgar doesn’t sleep another wink that night, by the time the sun has risen, he has convinced himself that the snake was a figment of his imagination, and that fact scares him almost as much as if it had been real.

  * * *

  —

  There are two messages on Beasley’s little silver plate in the morning and both are for Edgar. He reads them as he and Annabel take a quiet breakfast, during which he several times catches her examining his face.

  The messages are strangely similar.

  Could we meet sometime today? reads the first. Something happened last night. Lucy.

  The second says, I went home last night. Something happened. Come to the Lears’ today if you can. Tiger.

  “Anything of interest?” asks Annabel.

  “Uh, nothing, no, just social notes from friends.” He wants to tell her more, but right now, his adoptive mother does not seem like an ally.

  * * *

  —

  When Edgar arrives at the hospital that day, he finds a note saying that the chairman will be away for the day. Lawrence, however, has left a good deal of work for Edgar to do, mostly involving his carrying signed papers to various locations in the city, among them banks and insurance offices. His shortest trip, however, intrigues him the most—the delivery of a thick, sealed brown envelope to Dr. Berenice, one floor down. The package is not stacked with the other items, but it seems evident that it should go out, so he descends to the alienist’s office, intrigued by who will answer the door and what he might see inside, and immediately notices the blinds drawn down on its door again. As he approaches, he hears voices on the other side, speaking in low tones. He could swear that one of them belongs to Sir Andrew Lawrence.

  “I must stop being ridiculous,” he whispers to himself, “imagining things. I am letting the fears in my mind control my nerves.”

  He knocks.

  The voices stop.

  Suddenly, someone speaks to him, a woman, from right at the other side of the door, though there was no indication that anyone had approached.

  “Yes?”

  “I have something for Dr. Berenice.”

  “Slide it under the door.”

  He jams it partway through and then feels it pulled the rest of the way by a strong hand. The woman does not say another word.

  * * *

  —

  Edgar finishes the rest of the work set out for him, and about three o’clock, an hour before he is scheduled to leave, departs the hospital and almost runs all the way northwest to Kentish Town, making the ninety-minute walk in less than an hour, perspiring in the heat.

  * * *

  —

  The first thing that strikes him when he enters the quiet home is the presence of William Shakespeare sitting in one of the big comfortable chairs in the living room, his feet dangling well above the floor, his big face beet-red with sweat. The others look stone-faced.


  “Why is he here?”

  “Well, Edgar Brim, Broom, Brim! It is indeed a pleasure to see you as well! I just happened to be about the neighborhood and thought I might stop by and see our inestimable acquaintances, when what should I be told but that you were going to make your glorious presence felt as well. I thought I should stay to greet you! And I have been informed of some rather disturbing occurrences in the residences of our friends this past evening.”

  “I thought you didn’t get out much.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Are you sure? Do you have business in the East End, in Whitechapel?”

  “OH! Whitechapel! Such a mess in our multitudinous and meretricious metropolis, such a scandalous and scurrilous section of squalid sprawl!…Never been.”

  “I thought I saw you there, yesterday.”

  “You were mistaken.”

  “And yet, here you are, far from home, at just the right moment to hear whatever news we might have.”

  “Edgar,” says Jonathan, “what are you talking about? The little boob just happened to drop by.”

  “Boob?” says Shakespeare. “You must have me confused with another gentleman. I knew a Boob once, two Boobs, in fact, three, now that I think of it!”

  “I had a visitor last night,” says Tiger.

  “And so did we,” says Lucy.

  “Snakes,” says Jonathan.

  Edgar, in the process of sitting down, straightens up. “I beg your pardon?”

  “We both had snakes as guests,” says Tiger. “One in my bed in Brixton, another in Lucy’s here in Kentish Town. Not very friendly chaps.”