Sherlock Holmes vs. Cthulhu

by Lois H. Gresh

  Curled on the floor between crates of Old Ones Serum and a sagging sofa, I stroked my swollen neck flaps, and with each stroke, a wave of heat flushed through me. I tensed my toes, stretching the webbing between them to the limit. Of what use were my large webbed feet and toe suckers inside this London den? My soles longed to clench rock, to sucker the sand, to flip through the depths of Half Moon Bay. My gills fluttered, aching for the rush of water. My nose desired the perfume of bergamot.

  Moriarty told me that his men had kidnapped Koenraad Thwaite and imprisoned him in a remote cottage north of Half Moon Bay. The humans would control Koenraad briefly, I felt sure, before the Deep One, father to my spawn, broke free and killed them all. Koenraad’s second-in-command, the giant Koos, roamed free, and like all Dagonites, his heart beat in unison with the Others from Beyond—with the swarms of the Thames, with the Great Old Ones, with Dagon, with Cthulhu Himself… and with Koenraad.

  Yes, Koenraad would escape.

  As would I… for nobody controls one such as myself.

  Moriarty was an idiot, who thought mistreatment would make me talk.

  The spawn inside me squirmed for release. It wouldn’t be much longer before I burst open and set them free. These squalid surroundings were irrelevant. My spawn were all that mattered.

  A door whisked open, and with it came a blast of dirt and dust that clogged the filtering pores in my gills. As the door clicked shut, muting the ecstatic moans from the den, I wheezed and pushed myself to a sitting position, and then I pushed air through my gills. After a few heaves, my aching gills dislodged the grit, puffing it off me into a cloud of human-created filth.

  My belly bulged before me, and beneath the same ankle-length gown I’d been wearing since the kidnapping, my squirming spawn kicked and clawed at me. I allowed myself a smile, for this type of pain pleased me.

  Sweeping dirty hair off my face, I peered through the gloom at my jailer, Professor Moriarty. My eyes adjusted to the murk, just as they adjust to the murk of the deep sea.

  He was unshaven and wearing rags. His skin had an oily sheen to it. It must displease him greatly, I thought, to ignore his fastidious standards and façade as a gentleman.

  I gave Moriarty a look that—in other circumstances—would tell a mortal that death was imminent. Thinking I was in his clutches with no escape, my jailer did not flinch.

  “You’re tough,” he said, “I’ll give you that.” He whipped off a nondescript black hat and tossed it on the sofa. He offered me a hand. “Come on, dear, you’re in no condition to fight me. Be a good girl and get off the floor, and let us talk like civilized people.” He graced me with a false smile, which instantly vanished when I didn’t struggle to my feet.

  “What is it you want from me?” I hissed. “To chant some spells to create gold out of thin air? Is that what you desire, Professor? Do I strike you as one attuned to the fake promises of alchemy? Do I look like a snake charmer, an elixir salesman, perhaps someone who peddles what you call Old Ones Serum?”

  He bristled, and his body tensed.

  “As I thought,” I continued. “We both know that Old Ones Serum is a simple mixture of alcohol and narcotics. There is nothing of the Old Ones in it.”

  He reached for me again, this time grabbing my hand and wrenching me from the floor. I waited, keeping my eyes level with his, until finally, he released my hand, and with a look of disgust, wiped his own hand thoroughly using a pocket cloth.

  “You are an Old One, aren’t you?” he said, surveying me from top to bottom. “You are the same as those things in the Thames, just in a different form.” The smile returned to his lips, but this time, the smile was real. He enjoyed solving puzzles and mysteries, this man, and to him, I was a mystery that came with a pot of gold.

  He leaned against the stack of crates lining the wall.

  “You crave nothing I can offer you?” he said. “Food, a bath, a bed, some wine? Nothing?”

  “I wish only to return to Half Moon Bay.”

  “But how can you survive without food?” he asked.

  I filter it from the air, fool, I thought. It’s meager here and does not fill my stomach, but it suffices to keep me alive. Now water is another matter. If you deny me water…

  He regarded me quizzically and interrupted my thoughts.

  “So you get your food in a manner other than through your mouth.” His smile widened, and his eyes glittered. “I see, my dear. But what you don’t see is that you must do as I ask, for I control the very things that you cannot live without.”

  I knew what he had on me. I knew what he meant.

  For a moment, panic gripped me, and dizziness washed over me. I groped for the back of the sofa, and clutched it to keep from falling over. Hanging my head, I let the dirty hair sweep over the sides of my face, obscuring Moriarty’s view of me.

  “But,” I said, enunciating each word as a pick punctures ice, “even if you dig the spawn from my belly now, they are so close to birth that they will survive your assault. They will attack viciously and torture and murder anyone remotely responsible for the death of their mother.”

  Straightening, I balled my hands into fists, and glared at Moriarty.

  “So you see,” I said, “you have nothing over me, and you cannot make me do anything.”

  At that, he grabbed my upper arms, whirled me to the sofa, and threw me onto the exposed springs. As the metal prongs pierced my skin, I cried out, and within my belly, the spawn beat upon me for release. I saw now that he was holding a gun.

  Standing but a foot away, he pointed the weapon at my face.

  “You will do as I say,” he threatened, “or I will fill your belly with bullets. Neither you nor your filthy spawn will survive. Do you understand?”

  I nodded, my mind whirling with possibilities—none of them good. He was right. He could kill me with that gun, could kill all of the offspring. The fertility rights of the Order of Dagon demanded their birth. To fulfill the final rule of the Order, to bring forth Dagon and his Deep Ones, to unleash them upon the Earth, I had to give birth to the young of Koenraad Thwaite. He had mated unsuccessfully with many females before me. Ours was an unusual chance—together, we could fulfill the final rule. Without either of us…

  “You still have Koenraad Thwaite?” I asked.

  Moriarty kept the gun leveled at my face, but nodded, that yes, Koenraad remained alive.

  “He’s under guard twenty-four hours a day,” Moriarty said. “My men have orders not to permit him any freedom, nor is he allowed to utter a single word. He’s alive, but imprisoned and in a secure place.”

  “I cannot simply chant some words and magically make gold appear,” I said, lifting myself back to a sitting position, as Moriarty lowered the gun but kept it in his hand. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Perhaps you are not powerful enough,” he said, and then, “So tell me, how does it work?”

  “If I help you, will you help me, in return? Will you let me go back to Half Moon Bay to raise my children?”

  He snorted. “A devoted mother, eh? Next you’ll be darning socks and baking a pie. Tell me, for a start, about the creatures in the Thames—great monsters that flicker in and out of view. They are a part of all this, I am sure. What can it harm you to speak of them?”

  “I have not seen them for myself. But I know the things you speak of. They come from another place and time. They can go there, then return, in the blink of an eye.”

  “Can they be sealed off in that other domain when they go there?”

  I snorted at the absurdity of his question. “These creatures are in the air, they infiltrate a human as easily as I obtain food. They can drive a man mad.”

  “They cause… insanity?”

  “Whatever term you choose to apply will do,” I said. “They mutate a man’s internal constitution. They cause deformities, physical and mental. They don’t affect all people. It depends on an individual’s fundamental—let me choose a word you might understand—composition.�
��

  A mask of concentration settled over his features. He clasped a hand to his chin, the gun slipped back into his pocket. He was deep in thought. When he spoke again, his words were calm and smooth, uttered as if from the lips of one who tutors students in philosophy.

  “The reason Old Ones Serum first began to sell so well was that people believe it flushes these creatures into their stomachs and minds. But the serum simply adds to the startling effects of the Eshockers. It lifts the dazed to a higher level. It makes the head swim. But it contains none of these creatures. You are telling me that these creatures are in the air we breathe, they’re swimming in the Thames. Very well. But there is another theory about these creatures, and it’s the truly important one, Miss Scarcliffe: Do they trigger the tram machine to produce gold?”

  Again, the infernal tram machine, something I knew of only from my fellow Dagonites. He’d spoken of almost nothing else since plucking me from my home at the Bay. Quickly, I answered, “No.”

  “No?” he said, as if not believing me.

  “No. There are splinters in time and space, yes. But they alone do not yield gold. For that, you need to feed the machine with the fuel it needs, phosphorus and lead. The fuel reacts in the other place and time, where the creatures go when they are not here.”

  He struggled to understand, and finally, unclasping his chin and dropping his hand, he told me what had to be done.

  “With your help, my men will secure the tram machine building. We will go inside the building, and my men will feed phosphorus and lead to the machine. And then you, Amelia Scarcliffe, will utter your incantations to bring the machine to life and crank out the gold.”

  I didn’t care about the gold, about Moriarty or his greed. I wanted only to crawl back to the beach of Half Moon Bay and into the water, to swim out to the reef with my spawn, bring forth Dagon, the Deep Ones, and Cthulhu. I had no doubt that the Old Ones would take care of the human scourge. Of what use were humans to those who existed infinitely before time and after time and everywhere in between?

  If he let me out of this building, this den, then perhaps I could escape. It was worth the risk, wasn’t it?

  30

  MISS AMY SWITZER

  Whitechapel Lunatic Asylum

  I knelt by Mrs. van der Kolk’s bed, listening to the old woman snore and mutter in her sleep about her dead husband’s mistresses. Soon, Dr. Sinclair would be done with Willie Jacobs. Although Jacobs hadn’t mentioned anything to me, I was certain he’d seen me that night when I laid poor Caroline Brown to rest.

  Down the hall by Willie Jacobs’s room, Dr. Sinclair continued to praise the lunatic.

  “Excellent job, Mr. Jacobs. Your father taught you well. Thanks to you, I should be able to supply enough Eshockers to keep the Whitechapel Asylum donors happy.”

  “I know not what ails me,” the lunatic replied in his hideous rasping voice. No doubt, he was picking at his nose or clawing at the scabs on his scalp. He emitted a stream of gibberish, then stuttered as if trying to stop himself. “It came upon me quick. When the tram machine went wild. After it killed me dad.” He uttered the words in spurts laced with gasps and choking noises. “When-when-when those creatures come from beyon’ is when me brain started hurtin’. Gaahh! The rest of me ills, they be due to the beast.”

  “You poor fellow. Get some sleep. I’ll do all that I can to make your time in the asylum as comfortable as possible. You’re a good man. I’m sorry to see you suffer. Life is unfair, Mr. Jacobs, it truly is.” Dr. Sinclair’s voice sounded gentle and reassuring. He was so good with the patients that my heart swelled just to hear him talk.

  Still crouching by Mrs. van der Kolk’s bed, I gripped the metal side rail and bent my head. Tears filled my eyes.

  Why, oh why, Dr. Sinclair, can’t you talk to me so kindly, just once? Can’t you see that I worship you, that I would do anything for you, that I love you?

  “Thank you, sir,” Willie Jacobs rasped, and then after yet more babbling, choked out, “I’m glad not to be Eshocked meself, is all. And when it’s time, I’ll be glad for a quick death.”

  At this, my head snapped up. He had no idea how soon death would come, did he? But I knew that he didn’t have long to live. Insane, afflicted with an unknown brain condition, he also had an advanced case of phossy jaw. If he died tonight, nobody would be surprised. Dr. Sinclair would find someone else to help him build Eshockers. I knew how the Eshockers worked. Perhaps I could help the doctor in some way. Perhaps we would become a team, an inseparable couple. I imagined him smiling at me, warmth in his eyes, his hand touching my arm, his lips slowly parting. “What would I do without you, Amy?” He would whisper in my ear. “You’re so much more than a nurse. You’re everything.”

  My body grew warm, my heart quickened. I felt my cheeks flush.

  “Well, let us hope for the best, shall we?” Dr. Sinclair said from afar, his voice fading as he padded down the hall away from Willie Jacobs’s room—and away from me. The doctor was heading home, leaving Willie Jacobs and the rest of the inmates to me. Of course, he didn’t know that I was working tonight, but then, I rarely told him when I stayed overnight in the asylum.

  After Caroline Brown died, I’d slipped from the building and hurried home. I’d let Miss Klune find the dead girl in her bed the following morning. Sure, there’d been some wailing and weeping—that was standard when any inmate died—but nobody had thought anything untoward had occurred. There had been no hint of foul play. They’d carted her away as they did with all the dead. And now, her bed was empty. It awaited a new patient, and given how many indigent psychotics roamed the streets of Whitechapel, I doubted it would remain empty for long.

  Jacobs’s bed squeaked. He grunted, as his shoes dropped to the floor.

  Mrs. van der Kolk rolled onto her side. I jerked back, released my grip on the side rail of her bed. Her eyes dimmed, then were still. Her lungs rattled with air. This one wouldn’t live much longer, either.

  Perhaps I need not bother with Willie Jacobs. Even if he tells Dr. Sinclair that I killed Caroline Brown, the doctor won’t believe him. Jacobs is always babbling nonsense.

  On the other hand, why take any chances?

  Willie Jacobs must have seen me that night. If he spoke up, I could end up imprisoned for the rest of my life. I could end up worse off than the asylum’s patients.

  Slipping from Mrs. van der Kolk’s room, I headed towards Jacobs’s room. The hall was dark, as it always was this time of night. A faint glow emanated from the nurses’ station at the end of the hall past the day room. Out in the reception area, the night guard would be sleeping. Had Dr. Sinclair decided to sleep in his office tonight rather than in his bed at home—I imagined it must be soft and large with sumptuous fabric—he wouldn’t hear anything. He never did. In the back room, should any of the lunatics be slaving away building Eshockers, they wouldn’t hear anything, either, for the walls were heavily padded to prevent noise from going out or in. I never heard the lunatic workers hammering, banging, chopping, or shrieking.

  Standing outside Jacobs’s room, I slid my hand into the pocket of my uniform and withdrew the hypodermic needle and vial of medicine. We regularly tranquilized the lunatics. When not working on Eshockers, Jacobs remained in a stupor in the day room.

  What’s the harm in a little more tranquilizer? I thought, suppressing a chuckle.

  From within the room, he wheezed and then muttered more nonsense about a beast murdering his father and wanting him dead, too.

  “It will kill you all,” he muttered several times, his voice rising with each iteration.

  I pushed open the door and stared at him in the dark. A frail man, nearly skeletal now, barely forming a lump upon his bed. Thin blankets heaped over him, and yet, he shivered. I crept closer and stepped to the side of the bed.

  Willie Jacobs stirred, and his lips flapped as he muttered more nonsense. Even in this dark room, I could see the effects of the phossy jaw: the rotting flesh exposing an inch or two of
his teeth and jawbone. If he lived another week, he’d be lucky.

  Again, I hesitated. Why not let death take its course? Why intrude and push it along? This man was already dead.

  And yet…

  His eyes opened. He stared at me, but only for a moment. In a flash, he whipped off the blanket tatters and swiveled to a sitting position. I shoved the needle and vial back in my pocket, then dived for him. Smashing him back onto the bed, I pressed hard—I’m a big, muscular woman, tall and brutish, or so say the men as they push me away—and I flattened him, pinning his arms to his sides. He shrieked, and I slammed my right hand over his mouth, making him flinch and cringe from the pain of the phossy jaw.

  Nothing made me flinch. I was a nurse at the Whitechapel Lunatic Asylum. I’d seen and done things that would give most folk nightmares.

  His arms flailed, then his fist beat my shoulder. Poor fellow, he was too weak to inflict even a bruise.

  “Shhh,” I whispered harshly. “Shhh, and I won’t hurt you.”

  The idiot believed me. The flailing ceased, and he stopped struggling.

  “What do you want?” he whimpered, as I released his other arm and dipped my hand back into my pocket.

  Fingering the needle, I told him that I’d come to release him from his misery, that he would suffer no more.

  “K-k-k-k… you come to bring me to ’eaven?” he asked softly.

  “Yes, Willie. Heaven,” I said.

  His right hand rose from his side. His thumb jabbed his left nostril, then his right, and the pace increased until he was poking them rapidly, one after the other. Blood dripped from one nostril into his mouth. He didn’t seem to care. He licked the blood off his exposed teeth and jawbone.

  “W-w-why?” he asked.

  I pushed the needle into the vial, filled the syringe with medicine. I crouched by his side, gently touched his right arm. It calmed him, and he made a cooing noise as a baby does with its mother. Still, his right fingers jabbed his nostrils, flitting over them in some bizarre rhythm.