by Guy Adams
The ectoplasmic web begins to move slightly, the whole, gelatinous construction swaying with a movement that again puts me in mind of a snake: that slow dance of a cobra’s head as it follows the bell of his charmer’s pipe.
When I speak again it is only in a whisper. “It is aware of me,” I say, “but if I move slowly it shouldn’t strike. At the moment it is fed, it sustains without me, if I become too obvious, however, it may become greedy. Please, the rest of you, don’t agitate it further.”
I slide my feet along the carpet, shuffling slowly forward like an ice skater, determined to make as little overt movement as possible. Soon I am near the connecting door.
“You’re not leaving us?” comes a frail voice from behind me, a woman sat next to her ectoplasm-strewn husband.
“I need to see what’s on the other side of that door,” I reply. “Just stay calm and wait.”
“You are!” she says. “You’re running away!”
She begins to get to her feet and the web moves, a thick tentacle forming that grasps at her hands and feet. She wails as it pulls her out of her seat and towards the roof.
“Carnacki, man!” shouts Watson, ever the heroic type, he cannot watch a woman in peril. “Do something!”
He also rises and, in a moment I realise the control I have over these people will be gone. I run the last couple of feet to the door and yank it open, aware that the web has now turned its attention to me. I see it move in the reflection of the window, I sense its attention on the back of my neck. Any moment now it will reach for me and then we’ll all be doomed.
Beyond the door there is just as I feared: nothing, a great, interminable blackness. Knowing I can hardly retreat I do the only thing I can: I step out of the door.
I grasp the small ladder to the left of me and pull myself up and onto the roof of the carriage. This small part of the train, though now removed from its fellow carriages, still rattles along what it can remember of the track and it takes not inconsiderable skill on my part to retain my balance. I am fortunate in that there is no wind to drag me off, though certainly something is out here with me and, as I stand in the centre of the roof and look up, I can sense its terrible eye gazing down on me. I can’t quite discern its shape, which is not unusual for an incursion of this nature. The creatures that move beyond our reality are bound to none of our physical laws, they have forms and dimensions that are so beyond our frame of reference that the brain struggles to cope. There is a shimmer of colour, like a reflection in the surface of crude oil, a shifting of matter that creaks, swelling to the limit of its mantels and joists. Something sinks down towards me, a long proboscis that glistens like off al.
I begin to recite the opening lines of the Sigsand Manuscript. Without the parchment itself the effect is drastically reduced, though it buys me the time to loosen my bow-tie and undo my collar. I can sense it creeping closer, brushing away the ancient words of power as nothing more than an irritation. I fling my dinner jacket upwards and feel a peppering of dust on my face as it is destroyed by a touch of this infernal creature’s tongue. I palm my cufflinks (they were a gift from my mother, inlaid with the bone fragments of St Benedict and far too precious to just hurl into the void) then tear off my shirt. My skin burns in the rarified atmosphere of the abyss, this fragile barrier between realities, and my chest – or rather the sigils tattooed into it – begin to glow.
Only an idiot doesn’t prepare himself for anything in my line of work and I have spent a painful six months building the most extensive and elaborate system of protective tattoos. Using ink blessed by a Catholic priest of my frequent acquaintance I am wearing a combination of runes and Chinese protection sigils that, thanks to the gift of transubstantiation, are effectively drawn in the blood of Christ. If that’s not a potent bit of protective magic, I don’t know what is.
The air above me quivers and the shift in pressure makes my eardrums pop and ache as the massive body of whatever it was that loomed over me slips back to where it came from, withdrawing its ectoplasmic net and its presence in our world. Of course, the moment it does so, our train is fully back in the “real” world and the wall of air that hits me, the slipstream caused by the train’s speed as it races along the track, knocks me off my feet.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A FOLD IN REALITY
It is an experience that frequently returns to me, even after everything else that happened. That carriage, the hellish web of what Carnacki later informed me was ectoplasm, a by-product of spiritual interference, of the invasion from one reality to another. To a rational man, a man who had always held strong to his beliefs in a solid world, a world that had no place for the table rappers and carnival palm readers, it was an assault on the mind as well as the body.
The young woman, panic stripping her of all common sense, had made a break for the door, believing that Carnacki meant to abandon rather than help us.
“Carnacki, man!” I had shouted. “Do something!” But it was clear that he felt intervention beyond him as he vanished from the carriage.
As the glutinous strands of ectoplasm reached for her, I made the decision that, whether or not I understood what was happening, I could no longer be a bystander to it. The woman would not come to harm if I could help it. I have never been a man that can stand by when others are in danger. Had that not been the case I probably would have avoided the bullet wound that pensioned me off from the army in the first place,
“Hold on!” I shouted to her. “Help is coming!”
I doubt such naïve offerings consoled her much but, grabbing a meat fork from the waiter’s serving trolley, I leaped upon the woman’s table and thrust its thick, steel tines into the ectoplasm. It was like attacking a jellyfish with a stick, counterproductive and likely to end in the aggressor being stung.
The ectoplasm formed a new strand which wrapped itself around my waist. For all its apparent lack of substance, when it constricted, my breath was forced from my body and I imagined my ribs might break were it to squeeze any tighter. I tore at the thing with the meat fork but the jelly simply reformed as quickly as I could tear a furrow in it. I felt hands grip my ankles as a fellow passenger sought to yank me free.
“Never mind me!” I shouted. “Grab the lady!”
People were already trying, but as much as they pulled at us, they too were grasped by the slick tentacles. In a matter of moments the whole carriage was a screaming mess of juddering ectoplasm and passengers desperate for their lives.
Those that had originally been captured in the web began to shake violently. Carnacki had said the thing was feeding, had the exertion demanded it drain even more energy from its prey? If so could they survive the experience or would they follow the same, presumed fate of the poor man we had watched flung aside a few moments ago?
It would seem there was little I could hope to do about it, in fact, as the tentacle’s grip tightened, my vision began to blur and I realised I was close to passing out.
Then, with no warning, the ectoplasm vanished, and we all found ourselves back in our seats.
“Dear Lord,” I whispered, looking at Silence, “did that even happen or was I...?”
He held a hand to his temple, face crumpled in pain. “It happened,” he said, “I can still taste the after-effects in the air.”
There was a resounding crack and Carnacki, bare-chested, appeared outside our window, clearly hanging on for dear life.
I pulled down the window and Silence and I grabbed the young man by the shoulders and pulled him inside.
“How on earth did you end up out there?” I asked.
“Battling the infernal, as per usual,” he replied, lifting my wine glass and draining it of its contents.
“I say, sir!” cried the young lady whom I had risked the continued solidity of my ribs to rescue. She showed no sign of distress from her encounter, in fact the only emotion clearly on display was one of indignation. “Do you really think that is suitable attire in a mixed dining carriage?” she asked.
I lo
oked to my colleagues in some confusion. “I’m sorry?”
She flicked her fingers towards Carnacki’s bare chest. “I can assure you ‘gentlemen’,” and the sarcastic stress she placed on that word was only too clear, “he is as scantily dressed as my salad and twice as unwelcome while I’m eating. Please retire to your carriage and avail yourself of a shirt at the very least.”
“Madam,” I replied, “do you not think there are more important things to concern ourselves with than the sight of some pectoral muscles?”
“And fine pectoral muscles they are too,” muttered Carnacki.
“They are as tanned and tattooed as a maritime thug, sir,” she replied, “and it sickens me to look upon them. I fail to see what can be more important to a gentleman, if indeed there are any in attendance, than the feelings of a lady. Kindly retire.”
“But madame...”
There was a scream from the far end of the carriage and our attention was drawn to the elderly lady who was still in my debt to the tune of one rail fare to Inverness.
“He’s dead!” she cried, pointing at the middle-aged clerk sat across from her. “And I was only just talking to him!”
“Well, of course...” I began to say before Silence gripped my arm and pulled me back.
“They don’t remember,” he said, “none of them have the slightest idea what just happened.”
“But how can that be?” I asked as Silence made his way to the other end of the carriage to console the elderly lady and check on the state of her dinner companion.
“It’s more common than you would credit,” said Carnacki, “I’ve seen entire households ignore the most grotesque supernatural incursions simply because their rational minds cannot accept it. Either that or reality itself has been folded back as a direct result of the beast’s departure.”
He pulled his watch from his trouser pocket and checked the dial. “Could that be it?” he asked himself. “The entire event expunged from our personal timelines?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” I told him. “If they have forgotten then how come we remember? It makes not a jot of sense.”
Carnacki smiled. “Welcome to my working life, Doctor. It puts missing diamonds and homicidal dowagers in their place somewhat, doesn’t it?”
Silence returned. “Dead from heart failure,” he said quietly, “with no external signs of anything untoward.”
“Nothing to corroborate what just happened?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he replied. “I must talk to the conductor.”
“Good evening, gentlemen,” came a voice along the gangway. “I hope I haven’t missed service?” I looked up to see Holmes striding towards us. He stopped in his tracks, the shock in our faces – not to mention Carnacki’s state of undress – giving him pause. “Ah,” he said momentarily. “I see that perhaps I have.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A MEETING IN BLOOMSBURY
We all retired from the dining carriage. Carnacki strolled off towards his own compartment agreeing to rejoin us once he had improved his appearance to the tune of a shirt and collar.
For myself I had an almost overpowering urge to console myself with a brandy. Perhaps several. Who knows, if I drank enough of them I might even begin to understand the evening’s events.
Holmes was quiet, clearly happy to listen to Silence’s explanation and make his own conclusions. I had no doubt that those conclusions would likely be sceptical, and yet how could he doubt now? This wasn’t the story of a single man, this was a series of incidents witnessed by a whole carriage – albeit bizarrely forgotten by most of them. One man lay dead, a victim of these infernal forces that seemed stacked against us. Surely even a man of logic, such as Holmes, must accept what was going on?
The door to our compartment opened and Carnacki stepped inside, now wearing a shirt and smoking jacket.
Holmes took that moment to stand up, open the window and knock the bowl of his pipe against the frame, tipping the burned embers into the darkness below.
“These are murky waters,” he admitted, “and I must confess I begin to wonder what use a man of reason may be amongst them. I am used to confronting the physical, the well-practiced criminal, the murderer, the thief... I have no experience of devils other than those metaphorical examples who lie behind the bars of our nation’s gaols. Is this something that is beyond my scope?”
“Logic and scepticism are not out of place in the world of the supernatural detective,” said Carnacki, sitting down and removing a cigar from a silver case in his pocket, “in fact I would consider them two of the most important weapons in my armoury. There are many times when I have been consulted on a case – or have taken it upon myself to investigate – only to find a perfectly rational explanation for the reported phenomena. I have thwarted imaginative smugglers, attempting to divert attention away from their store by perpetuating a belief in the ‘Lost Sailor of Lulworth’. I have scotched the plans of no less than three impatient off spring seeking to encourage their parents into an early grave by scaring them to death. I am the man who put paid to the reputation of Stephen Jones, the so-called ‘Wembley Horror’, a man who claimed to channel some of the most infamous spirits of our age.”
Silence pricked up his ears at that, though I must admit the reference meant little to me. “That was you, was it?” he asked Carnacki.
The younger man nodded. “He was merely seeking publicity for a new compendium of supernatural investigations he had edited. He channelled little but his ill-gotten gains into whisky.”
Holmes had refilled his pipe and proceeded to smoke it, a common, if unhealthy, replacement for his forgoing an evening meal.
“Very well,” he said, “so there is still a place for deduction and reason. Perhaps, from what you say, more so than in many of my cases, for mine can be the voice that leads us away from a natural inclination towards the supernatural.”
“I fail to see how else this evening’s events could be explained,” I said, almost with regret.
Holmes shrugged. “It would seem to defy any rational explanation.” He looked to Carnacki. “How did you become involved in these matters?” he asked.
“As you may have gathered my workload is fairly evenly divided between phenomena I choose to investigate and those I am hired to investigate. This was one of the latter, though regretfully I can tell you little about the man who hired me. He went absurdly out of his way to ensure that his identity remained secret.”
“Why would someone do that I wonder?” asked Holmes.
“It’s not uncommon,” Carnacki said, “I face a great deal of scepticism in my line of work —”
“You’re not the only one,” interrupted Silence, casting a slight smile towards Holmes.
Carnacki ignored him. “The people that ask for my involvement are often embarrassed to have done so, or fearful that others will get to hear that they’ve taken such unorthodox steps. My case files are littered with anonymous letters. What is intriguing about this case, however, is that I actually met the man face to face.”
I was first contacted in the Reading Room of the British Museum where I had been reading up on acoustics in the hope of developing a machine with which to negate a banshee’s cry. I am a great believer in the application of science and practical thinking when it comes to combating the supernatural.
I was gathering my papers, meaning to retire to a little place I know in Fitzrovia for a light lunch, when I noticed a small rectangle of black card.
“Do you still have this black card by any chance?” asked Holmes.
Carnacki shook his head. “Now... if you let me tell my story without interruptions?”
Holmes smiled and waved his hand for the younger man to continue.
The note requested my presence at the office of a small publishing house just off Great Russell Street, claiming that it concerned a matter of “intense mutual interest”.
Well, gentlemen, I must confess I am easily swayed by the dr
amatic and, having already taken a break in my researches, I went straight to meet the appointment.
The office was hidden away in a particularly unloved alcove of Gilbert Place and claimed to be that of the foremost specialist publisher of occult literature in the country. A claim immediately disproved by the fact that I had never heard of it. I entered and rang the bell on the reception desk in order to gain someone’s attention.
Presently a small gentlemen appeared from a rear office. What hair he lacked on his head was more than compensated by that which grew from his chin. In fact the beard was almost an encumbrance, wrapped as it was between the large pile of books he was carrying. When he placed the books on the desk it was with considerable care that he stood up, slowly withdrawing his curly hairs from between the covers of the dusty volumes.
“Can I help you sir?” he asked, in that awkward and croaky-voiced way of the true bibliophile, men who have lost all semblance of human contact between the library stacks. I gave him the card I had found and he ferreted within his beard for a light pair of pince-nez that hung from a chain and had become lost. Popping them onto the bridge of his nose, he scrutinised the card.
“Ah,” he said, dropping the card into his pocket, “yes, I was warned to prepare for that. You will be Mr Thomas Carnacki?”
“I am and always will be,” I replied. “You were expecting me then?”
“Indeed, sir.” As an after thought he extended his hand. He then glanced down at it, noticed it was covered in dust, brushed it against his tatty waistcoat and extended it once more. I shook it, not wanting to be mean-spirited. “I’m Algernon Newman, proprietor, publisher, senior editor and art director here at New Man Publishing.”
“And receptionist?” I couldn’t help but ask.
He had the grace to simply smile. “Times being what they are it’s frightfully difficult to find reliable, economical staff,” he admitted, “especially when working at the more... specialised end of the publishing market.”
