by Peter Oxley
“It is my passion, my life’s work,” said N’yotsu, his face lighting up. “And it is just ‘N’yotsu’.”
“Bit of an odd name,” I said. “Am I right in assuming it is oriental in origin?”
“I hail from the Continent,” he said. “So are you both men of science?”
“No,” I said. “Matters of science and engineering tend to fly somewhere over my head. I am a writer by trade.”
“Oh really? Have you written anything I might have read?”
“Not unless you compose rejections on behalf of publishing houses.” My response was brusque and reflected not only my years of unsuccessful toil but also my irritation at still being in the cold night air. Maxwell smiled to himself, accustomed to my bitter rejoinders on the fickle nature of my chosen career, and we settled into an awkward silence.
After a few minutes, N’yotsu pointed to a blue door at the top of a short flight of steps just ahead of us. The railings to the front of the house were topped with spikes, the sight of which made me shudder at the memory of a place in the American West where wooden spikes of a similar shape had been used to display the heads of unfortunate victims, as a warning to other would-be interlopers. The windows to the house were shuttered closed, with cracks of light through the woodwork the only indications of occupancy.
“This is the place,” he said, mounting the steps.
Maxwell followed him but I hung back. “Are you quite certain?” I asked. The place looked far too opulent for us to impose ourselves upon. I had visions of us being cast back onto the street by an imperious butler or aggrieved nobleman.
“I am positive,” said N’yotsu, taking hold of the doorknocker and banging it firmly, a noise which echoed up and down the street. ‘Here come interlopers,’ I fancied the sound said. ‘They don’t belong here….’
The door opened, and the imperious butler of my fears peered down at us. “Can I help you?” he asked.
My anxious brain screamed at me to turn and run, the situation and the man’s bearing transporting me back to my schooldays and the many brushes with authority which had rarely ended well for me.
N’yotsu, on the other hand, seemed to have no such fears. “My name is N’yotsu. I wish to speak with the owner of this house.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but he will want to speak with me. Tell him I am here to help him with the troubles he is having with his daughter.”
The butler frowned, but did not dismiss us. “Wait here,” he said, closing the door.
I found myself confused by this sudden change in emphasis by N’yotsu, from demons to children. “Daughter?” I asked.
“Yes,” said N’yotsu.
Before I could question him any further, the door opened again, this time revealing a balding man in his late forties. By his style of dress I surmised that he worked in a bank in the City, his suit suggesting a long day at the office only recently ended.
“Franklin tells me you have come about my daughter,” he said. “But I do not recognise you as any of her physicians. Who are you?”
“My name is N’yotsu, and these are two acquaintances of mine: Maxwell and Augustus Potts. We are not physicians, but we are here to help your daughter.”
The man eyed us suspiciously—not unreasonably, given the circumstances. “I don’t much care for gossip-mongers, Mr. N’yotsu.”
“It is just N’yotsu,” corrected our acquaintance.
“Whatever your name is,” said the man. “You will appreciate that I do not care for three strange men turning up unannounced at my house and enquiring after my daughter. You should be aware that my butler is an ex-army man and we have guns in this house.”
This was more than enough for me but not, apparently, for N’yotsu. “Your daughter is in grave danger,” he said. “You have been experiencing some strange phenomena of a spiritual nature over the past few weeks, all of which centre around the girl. You are worried that she is insane. I assure you that she is not, but if you do not let me help her then you will all be in serious trouble.”
“How do you know all of this?” The man had visibly paled during N’yotsu’s speech.
“You must trust me,” was all that N’yotsu would say.
After a few moments of staring at us, the man stepped aside and invited us in.
Chapter 3
The man introduced himself as George Patterson as he led us to the sitting room, where there was seated a mouse of a woman whom he introduced as his wife, Isabella.
Two things immediately struck me about the interior of the house. The first was how immaculately tidy it was. The second was the manifest unease which pervaded it, as though the very fabric of the house was holding its breath, waiting for some imminent calamity. So palpable was this feeling of dread that, within a moment of having stepped through the door, I felt myself becoming more and more on edge, a sense of despair crushing me, eroding any feeling of confidence, happiness, or wellbeing.
“So tell me what you know about our predicament and how you came by that information,” said Mr. Patterson, gesturing for us all to sit, but not offering us any form of refreshment.
N’yotsu sat back in his chair. “Just a few minutes ago I was attacked by a creature; the same creature which I believe is responsible for the issues affecting your daughter.”
“I am curious, sir,” said Mr. Patterson, exchanging a glance with his wife. “What exactly do you believe is affecting our daughter?”
“For some time now she has been distracted, acting differently to her usual self,” said N’yotsu. “She will often appear to be listening to or speaking with unseen companions. Strange things happen around her, such as forms materialising out of thin air and objects moving violently around the room. If you were of a certain persuasion, you might consider her to be possessed by evil spirits… which I fear is what is actually happening.”
Mrs. Patterson stared at him, tears running down her cheeks. “Who have you been speaking to?” she asked.
Dear God, I thought. There is actually some truth to what N’yotsu is saying!
“I cannot say,” said N’yotsu. “But all you need to know is that I can help you.”
“How?” asked Mr. Patterson.
For the first time I saw N’yotsu waver, uncertain. Before he could answer, there was a loud bang from somewhere in the house. Our two hosts exchanged glances.
A few moments later, the door to the sitting room opened and a little girl entered the room. She stared at each of us in turn, pale round eyes in a pale round face showing neither fear nor care at these three strange men in her house. She was wearing a nightdress and clutching a doll whose blonde hair mirrored her own.
“Milly,” said Mr. Patterson with forced jollity. “Come and meet our visitors.”
She stared at us but did not speak or even move from her position by the doorway. Mr. Patterson smiled at us apologetically while his wife simply sat and wrung her hands.
N’yotsu stood and walked over to the girl, squatting down and peering at her. “Interesting,” he muttered. She flinched and took a step backwards, opening her mouth as if to scream.
“Don’t cry,” I found myself saying. “We’re here to help you.”
She looked at me with those dull eyes. I opened my mouth to say more but, before I could do so, there was another bang from upstairs. We jumped in shock, while Milly remained as still as the doll in her hands.
“Your butler is very noisy,” I observed with a nervous grin.
Mr. Patterson exchanged another glance with his wife.
“That wasn’t your butler, was it?” said N’yotsu.
Mr. Patterson cleared his throat, but it was Milly who answered. “They’re my playmates,” she said.
There was something about the reaction of her parents to these words which set my blood running cold.
A moment later, the butler appeared at the door. “Sir?” he said, out of breath. “It is happening again.”
* * *
/> Mrs. Patterson started to weep. Her husband made toward her as if to try and comfort her, then thought better of it and merely shrugged at us.
A draught followed the butler into the room, a cold body of air which gave the impression of being sucked from the darkest pit of Hades.
This coldness seemed to have a life of its own, a malevolence which wrapped each of us in its chill tendrils, sapping our souls and igniting panic in our bellies. This was followed by a symphony of what I at first took to be gunfire but swiftly realised was in fact every door in the house slamming open and shut.
“Strange,” said Maxwell. “Is the door open? Or a window perhaps?”
“No,” said the butler. “I locked up myself.”
“Then what is that, I wonder?” asked Maxwell, pointing at the butler’s feet.
I looked. The cold breeze which had swept through the house had been followed by curling tendrils of mist, wrapping around the doorframe and brushing against the butler’s ankles.
N’yotsu squatted on his haunches to examine the mist. “Aether,” he breathed.
“Pardon me?” said Maxwell, bending down next to him.
N’yotsu pointed at the mist. “This is Aether.”
“Aether? As in the Luminiferous Aether?”
“That is correct.”
Maxwell let out the short, sharp laugh with which he always greeted claims or information that he judged to be preposterous. “I can assure you that that cannot be the case,” he said. “The very concept is discredited, mediaeval bunkum.”
“Discredited?” asked N’yotsu. “By whom?”
“Why, by myself. I squandered years of my life on that illusory concept. In spite of what some may assert, there is no foundation to the idea of the Aether as a medium for the propagation of light, let alone some form of magical glue which binds together the universe. I have done all the calculations and have proven that it does not exist.”
“And yet here it is,” said N’yotsu, gesturing at the mist which crept slowly across the floor, a carpet spreading with ominous intensity. I frowned; if this truly was just common fog having seeped in from the outside, it should surely have started to dissipate the further it reached into the house. This particular mist displayed no signs of doing so. In fact, it seemed to become more concentrated as it spread.
Maxwell marched across the room and started to empty his pack, placing tubes, lenses and glass panes around him.
“Max,” I said with a sinking heart. “What are you doing?”
“I shall settle this argument once and for all,” he said, screwing two tubes together. “I shall prove that this mist has no so-called Aetheric properties with a simple experiment.”
“Is this really the time...?” I asked, tailing off as N’yotsu put a hand on my shoulder.
“Let him,” he said. “This may provide some clues to help unlock the dilemma being faced by this family.” He looked at Mr. Patterson. “We will not be long.”
The Pattersons watched us with the wariness with which one greets an unexpected street performer in the middle of one’s daily commute; a diversion, but not necessarily a welcome one. I flashed them an apologetic smile. For her part, the little girl Milly appeared completely unaffected by all that was taking place, the apathy of youth given an added intensity by the blankness of her stare.
The apparatus was beginning to take some form in Maxwell’s frantic hands, although what that form actually was was a matter for some debate. What he assembled was quite simply a monstrosity of tubes and sheets of glass which could only have been designed by a man with a scientific bent; no-one with an ounce of artistry would ever lay claim to such a creation. It put me in mind of a rather ugly church window, with the panes of glass surrounded, propped up and wrapped up in a graceless profusion of glass tubes, metal valves and rubberised tubing.
Mrs. Patterson beckoned to Milly and quietly asked her to come to her. The girl stared back at her—or rather through her—the coldness of her gaze reflecting the plummeting temperature in the room. Mrs. Patterson conceded defeat after a few seconds of this stalemate, offering us a sheepish grin framed by red cheeks. She muttered something about strong-willed children while her shoulders slumped and her eyes wandered to the floor.
Maxwell’s voice emanated from somewhere behind his creation. “If this truly is some form of Aether,” his face emerged briefly so that he could flash a sceptical glance at N’yotsu. “Then we should see some form of coalescence within this device when I activate it.” He stood and walked round to the front of his bizarre creation. “I should warn you that I have conducted this experiment a number of times and not once achieved a positive result.” With a flourish he opened a valve and stepped back, a satisfied smile on his face as we all peered at the glass pane which fronted up the pile of tubing and lenses.
At first there was nothing, but then...
“What is that?” asked Mr. Patterson.
As I watched, the mist swirled and congealed, forming patterns which I at first took to be purely arbitrary movements. My attention was drawn to the way in which the mist refused to stray beyond the confines of the glass, as though it were awaiting permission to roam free. I assumed that some aspect of the way Maxwell had constructed the device made it behave in this way, although I could not see what was creating this effect.
Shapes started to form in the mist. Whirlpools and eddies, swirling and shimmering, bumping together to form...
I blinked and then looked back at the glass. At first I assumed that I had caught my own reflection but then realised that the angle was all wrong. Before my eyes, the mist congealed to form an image, the outline of a face which stared back at me with dark eyes and an open mouth.
I looked to the others in the room, wondering if this was something which my fevered brain had invented. However, it appeared that it was not.
“Is that... a face?” asked Mr. Patterson.
Maxwell had joined us in staring with mystified intent at the device. “It looks like one,” he said slowly.
N’yotsu muttered: “Fascinating.”
“Look, it’s smiling,” said Mrs. Patterson. “It’s trying to say something. Something like... ‘Will... You... ’”
“Play,” joined in Mr. Patterson. “That was definitely ‘play’.”
“‘Will you play with me’!” said Mrs. Patterson. “Is that right?”
We nodded dumbly.
“It wants someone to play with?” Her voice reflected the confusion which we all shared.
Icy fingers ran up and down my spine. “I am not sure it has friendly intentions,” I said.
Before any of us could say anything further, the glass shattered outward, spraying us all with shards like tiny daggers. I instinctively put my arm over my face and threw myself to the floor, an act which doubtless saved me from serious injury.
I lowered my arm and looked round. “Is everyone all right?” I asked, my voice sounding too loud in the sudden calm. My hand was bleeding from a deep cut just to the side of my palm, but I seemed to have otherwise escaped unscathed.
“Yes,” said Mr. Patterson, accounting for himself and his wife. “A few small cuts, nothing serious.”
Maxwell was already busying himself with his precious invention, so I surmised that any injuries he had suffered had been minor; at the time of the explosion he had been kneeling to the side of the device and so had been spared the brunt of the explosion.
Milly and the butler had been safe in the doorway, well away from the distribution of the glass particles.
N’yotsu, on the other hand, had been squatting directly in front of the glass. I was amazed to note that his face and hands appeared completely unscathed. Perhaps, I reasoned, he had actually turned away at just the right moment. And yet I was certain that he had been in front of the glass; he had been obscuring my view, causing me to crane round him.
I was shocked out of any further contemplations by a chill gust of wind followed by a further symphony of bangs. This time they we
re accompanied by another, more sinister sound.
The sound of children giggling had always had pleasant connotations for me, reminiscent of more innocent times, before my life descended into the emptiness of my adolescence. The noises we were subjected to in that house though were such as to put one’s teeth—no, one’s entire being—on edge. The merriment of the unseen gigglers clearly arose from the misfortune of others. They were laughing at us, and they were doing so because we were hurt and scared. Very, very scared.
I was gripped by an irrational terror, a primal need to be out of that house as soon as possible. I ran out through the sitting room door, elbowing past the butler with no regard for social niceties. As I darted to the front door the hallway narrowed to that of a tunnel in Hell, the walls and furnishings crushing in on me, threatening to bear me down and suffocate me. I grasped the door handle and pulled, but to no avail. The door held fast. “Let me out!” I shouted.
I was joined at the door by the butler, who pushed me aside and busied himself with the locks. Dimly, I was aware of my brother trying to console me, to plead with me to stay. I did not turn to look; I was single-minded in my need to escape.
The butler grunted and then scratched his head.
“Is there a problem?” I asked, fighting to get my breathing under control.
“The door is not locked, and yet…” he turned the door handle and pulled, “it is stuck fast.”
“How odd,” said Mr. Patterson. He pushed us aside and tried. “You are right,” he frowned after trying the door.
There must be another way out, I thought, but before I could put this into action there was another explosion from the sitting room.
Chapter 4
The butler gave the front door one last futile wrench before turning and charging past me. “The rear entrance,” he shouted. “Through the kitchen.” He held open the sitting room door and ushered out Mrs. Patterson and Milly, leading us all into the kitchen. I slammed the door to the hallway behind us, breathing deeply as I watched Mr. Patterson wrestle with the back door.
