The Mobius Murders

by Brian Lumley

  “But we can go much further, deeper than that. Oneiro-mancy is the interpretation of dreams: the science which attempts to explain the very meaning of dreams. Alas that it so frequently fails due to the ephemeral and tenebrous nature of the subject. Similarly we have precognition, where expert dreamers may even glimpse the future! And there, in connection with matters I’ve already spoken of, with regard to extra or parallel dimensions—also with regard to pure thought, mathematics, and equations that govern the universe we think we know and regions we can’t as yet even begin to know—from personal experience I myself can guarantee the irrefutable truth and existence of precognitive dreaming!”

  Following which he smiled his awful smile again; and again the drifting wisps of Hemmings’ aura quaked loathsomely, until the extrasensory storm of his ego gradually subsided.

  Then, as that smile became a grimace, slipping slowly from his face, so his pale features took on an almost spiritual look as he continued: “Oh yes, indeed! For I have dreamed such numbers—such incredible numbers—that I know they can be nothing less than the keys to portals on alien regions and even to past and future times!”

  That, as far as the Necroscope was concerned, said it all; he knew exactly what to do and how to set his trap. Straightening up in his chair, he stopped shielding himself behind those in front, turned down his collar and prepared to rise.

  But now Hemmings was glancing once again at his watch, and saying, “There, time flies! My hour is almost up; we have only a few minutes for questions and answers, four or five at most. Who can say? Perhaps next time if there is one, we may delve a little deeper. But for now…?”

  Looking down with only a small measure of anticipation into the faces of his audience, Hemmings’ gaze immediately fell upon at least one such mainly credulous idiot; someone, no doubt, in need of just a few more specious “words of wisdom.”

  For finally the Necroscope was on his feet…

  For the first time that night, (but in fact for the second time in his life) the great leech noticed him, saw Harry across some thirty feet of drill-hall space; especially his scathing, possibly insolent expression. And the condescending look on the fat man’s face quickly became a frown.

  “Yes, young man?” he said, as Harry moved sideways into the aisle and paced forward to come to a halt directly under a set of ceiling lights. “What is it that so obviously gives you pause? What’s your question?”

  “I have several,” Harry replied, looking the other straight in the eye. “Several questions, and one complaint.”

  “A complaint?” Hemmings’ eyes widened momentarily, and just as quickly narrowed. “Would you care to elaborate?”

  “Ah, exactly!” said Harry. “Which is precisely what you’ve failed to do! Oh, you’ve gone to great lengths to tell us what you think, or what you believe—and, in the case of so-called ‘portals’ and ‘alien dimensions,’ what you’ve allegedly experienced—all of which without ‘elaborating’ or actually telling us anything! Your words are as void of proof, evidence, as the ocean on the nights when those Very lights rained down. You expect us to believe everything you say, while showing us nothing but a certain eloquence of speech and a degree of plausibility. Even your poster is a lie; for you’re no longer a professor but an ex-professor; you gave up your university position when many of your unfounded beliefs were challenged by your superiors. So then, those are my complaints, and as for my questions—”

  “Stop!” Hemmings growled, his jowls wobbling and his round face paler still. He had let the Necroscope get that far—had appeared frozen, impotent to stop him—but no further. Now he came from behind the lectern and stepped heavily forward to the edge of the stage. And no more than fifteen feet apart, the two stared fixedly at each other if only for a moment or two; until suddenly the great leech’s jaw fell partly open, his body jerking as he gave a perceptible start!

  Now he knows me! thought Harry. And he was right.

  On the stage, taking a pace to the rear, Hemmings gradually composed himself. The drill hall was full of astonished murmurs now; Hemmings’ audience, every head turned toward this know-it-all enigma, this nameless nemesis from the fat man’s waking and dreaming moments alike, seemed fascinated by the completely unexpected but not entirely unacceptable interruption. Several of the gawping morons actually appeared to agree with this pest—which of course they should, if they had any brains at all! But while all of this would be intolerable in normal circumstances, still Hemmings felt obliged to ignore the embarrassment he felt under the weight of matters that were suddenly much more pressing. And to give himself a little time in which to work things through:

  “Young man, you have me at something of a disadvantage,” he said. “You seem to know me, to the extent that you’ve even done a little obviously erroneous research into my previous professional career…while as yet I don’t even know your name!”

  “Not that it’s important, but my name is Harry Keogh,” said the Necroscope. “And like you—while I’m not as, er, ‘famous’ as you—I’m something of a mathematician. Which is important, for that’s why I’m questioning your authority, Mr. ex-Professor Hemmings.”

  Even as Harry was speaking the other was thinking: Oh, yes! I can’t be mistaken, it’s him! That face—I would know it anywhere! And while Mr. Harry Keogh can’t possibly be aware of it, he is the living proof of much of what I’ve been saying. Simply by existing, appearing here, he provides the answers to his own petty complaints!

  For this could only be another “von Stradonitz moment”—a “eureka moment”—or more properly the result of two such occurrences, events that Hemmings had already experienced: the first when he had fed on that cripple and stared into the dimensional interface in the alley off Princes Street in Edinburgh, and the second when once again he had seen the same somehow threatening visage framed in a portal in a dream.

  Briefly, following the first such event, he had considered the look on that face—one of accusation and horror where it stared back at him out of the darkness beyond the interface—either a figment of his imagination or even (however improbably,) a symbol of his guilt. But…guilt? Gordon J. Hemmings? Most unlikely! No, for his actions in that respect were little more than a matter of survival: the survival of the fittest.

  So then, nothing of imagination, and certainly not guilt, but a prescient glimpse of the future, that was all! And likewise the second time, when in a nightmare he’d seen that face again: a prophetic reflection from the future which, with its ominous air of accusation and menace, had brought him snarling awake. Since when, like some relentless phantasm—in defiance of his every effort to dislodge it—it had taken on a hateful permanence in Hemmings’ mind and memory.

  But not for much longer. For the source of the problem was standing here in front of him, still accusing and still threatening…but of course, obviously it was! For this was the defining moment: the very beginning of that future which Hemmings had twice foreseen!

  And Harry Keogh had questions, did he? Questions that only Hemmings could and must answer. Which he would answer: tonight, this very night! But not here and not right now.

  For which reason:

  “Young man, er, Harry, if I may?” he said. “I find it possible that we have much in common. And I would gladly answer all your questions and perhaps resolve your every complaint, but my time is up and I’ve a bus to catch. If you would care to wait a moment until the hall is cleared, I’ll gladly meet you outside. And then if you’ll accompany me as far as the bus station, I’ll endeavour to satisfy your curiosity. And who knows? Before this night is out, perhaps we’ll be friends. But of one thing I feel certain: you shall learn something from me, and I’ll definitely benefit from knowing you! Now what say you to that?”

  Saying nothing, his throat momentarily dry as a bone, Harry replied with a simple nod. This was what he had hoped for after all, but from this moment on he knew he would have to be on his guard and very, very careful…

  It made no differenc
e that Hemmings was wrong, that what he had seen in that Edinburgh alley had been the real thing staring at him; for his course was set and so was Harry’s. In just a short while, tonight, this game would be played out to the full.

  It was of course to Harry’s advantage that Hemmings thought he had glimpsed the future, for that being the case the Necroscope’s fate was already as good as sealed, his soul drained off and his shrivelled body hurtling toward a watery grave. In addition to the great leech’s megalomaniac self-confidence, he now felt completely invincible; he was even jolly when he met Harry outside the drill hall’s doors as the caretaker locked them and the last handful of people from the audience began to drift off into the gloom.

  “Ah, there you are!” he said, reaching out a flabby hand.

  Together with the caretaker, there were still several audience members in the vicinity; so this was hardly the ideal spot for Hemmings to conjure a door and initiate Harry’s murder; but still—and for all that the Necroscope could scarcely bear the thought of even touching this monster—he could see no way to avoid it.

  The fat man’s hand, despite being soft and clammy, was cold as ice—preternaturally cold—where Harry held it oh-so-very lightly. The cold was of the creature’s slimy ectoplasm; for as their hands clasped, so Hemmings’ aura had flowed forward as if to wash over Harry, touching him however briefly. Briefly, yes; for unable to hide or disguise a shiver, he had quickly taken a pace to the rear.

  “Eh?” said the other, raising a red eyebrow. “What, chilly, are we?”

  “It’s rather a cold night,” Harry replied, fully aware that the street was quickly emptying, and that the awful chill which he had felt—a chill of the soul?—had withdrawn along with the monster’s bitter aura.

  Hemmings sniffed at the air, and replied, “Really? I hadn’t noticed. But then, there’s more meat on me than on you.”

  Yes, and I intend to keep what little I’ve got! thought the Necroscope. And glancing left and right he asked, “Which way is the bus station?”

  “Ah, so you’re a stranger in town! And where, may I ask, do you hail from?” Hemmings was keeping up his feigned air of affability.

  “From Edinburgh,” said Harry, which gave the other yet more reasons for concern. Just how much did this irritating man know or think he knew about him? Not that it would matter much after tonight.

  “The bus station is this way,” said the fat man, leading on into the night only a single pace or so ahead of Harry, who was deliberately holding back. Half-turning, Hemmings looked at him over his shoulder and continued: “Now then, what of these questions you wanted to ask me? For it appears to me that now would be your best opportunity to get them dealt with. And mine, too, er…to reply to them, I mean.”

  “You’re probably right,” Harry answered. “Very well, question number one:

  “You said you were ‘absolutely certain’ that those lights floating high over the sea had arrived there from an alien region—I take it you meant a parallel dimension? But how can you possibly be absolutely certain unless you’ve been there or have at least had access to such a place?”

  “Ah!” said Hemmings. “Well, perhaps you’re putting too much emphasis on ‘absolutely certain’—or rather, perhaps I was! If I was overly assertive, you may put it down to my simply trying to impress upon my audience the fact that I personally believe, and absolutely.”

  Now he took the Necroscope’s upper arm in soft but incredibly strong fingers, guiding him into a dark and narrow passage between tall wooden fences and well away from the street’s lamp posts. “Er, this way, Harry.”

  Managing to shake free of the other’s pulpy hand, which was unnaturally cold even through the material of his jacket, Harry repeated him dubiously: “What, this way?”

  “Yes,” the great leech answered. “A short cut through these allotments here. My, but you seem nervous!”

  Allotments: fenced-off and gated garden areas, “alloted” to usually retired townspeople with no gardens of their own, where they could come to grow their vegetables or flowers, tend their pigeon lofts or their beehives, or simply relax and picnic on a blanket in the sun during the holidays. But Harry knew from experience in the coastal coalmining north-east of England, where he had been brought up, that the weathered asphalt and trampled ashen lanes that separated these allotments could seem labyrinthine to anyone not born to them. As an infant Harry had played hide-and-seek with a very small handful of friends in just such allotments.

  But as for a short cut…a short cut to where? Hell, perhaps?

  Yet however paradoxically, this too was entirely in accordance with the Necroscope’s plan; it was how he had foreseen it; he had known it would have to happen this way: night…a dark deserted place…the monster, crushing close, and conjuring a door from nothing but a freakish mathematical formula.

  And Harry, certain that at any moment now—within the next few seconds, maybe a minute or two at most—he would sense the fantastic power of that formula as an interface formed. But not just yet.

  And meanwhile:

  “Question number two,” he said, knowing he had to keep this going, trying to keep his voice from trembling as Hemmings turned to face him in the night, his gross outline a lumbering blot against darkly distant skies, and his piggy eyes—feral now—ablaze as from internal fires. “Or not so much an actual question,” Harry managed to continue, “as an accusation.”

  “Oh, indeed?” said the monster, the words seeming to burst from his bulging throat like bubbles over a swamp, glutinous in the night air. “An accusation, is it? And now we get to it: the real reason why you’re here. And also why I’m here with you, of course! Very well—go on—accuse away! What is it you think you know about me, Mr Keogh?”

  But as Hemmings’ huge hands reached to clasp his shoulders, Harry shook his head. “It’s not so much what I think, you great leech, but what I know. I know you’ve discovered how to conjure portals into parallel places which so far—thank God!—have been beyond your understanding. I know you tested these portals with Very lights, to discover their exit, and how you have used them ever since to dispose of your victims. And I know—”

  “Stop!” Hemmings gasped. “My…my victims? But what could you possibly know of my victims?”

  “I know you drained them of their souls…or at least you tried to. But in every case they resisted you, and a tiny spark remained. Those sparks cry out for vengeance, Mr. Hemmings, from the bottom of the grey North Sea!”

  “Ah!” the great leech stepped closer still, his aura billowing out before him, enveloping Harry in its freezing coils. “So then, you’re a psychic! You’ve been appointed by the police, or perhaps the families and friends of my—my victims—to contact their dearly beloveds in the so-called afterlife. And moreover it seems you’ve succeeded! Well, who would have thought it, and what can I say? I wish we had more time in which to discuss your talents, some of which even I do not possess; alas that we haven’t. But as for my special talents: I think it’s about time I put them to the test once again; and where you are concerned, my psychically gifted friend, for the first and very last time. So then, Mr. Harry Keogh, let’s see what you make of this!”

  Trapped against a stout fence, and surprised by Hemmings’ speed and agility despite the man’s more than borderline obesity, Harry tried to defend himself; to no avail. Caught in the monster’s aura, he felt the bitter chill where rubbery fingers gripped firm flesh through the material of his jacket directly above his collar bones. Simultaneous with the Necroscope’s immediate resistance to that chill—even as the fat man’s loathsome aura, at full strength in his coldly magnetic hands, began to suck on Harry’s soul—he sensed something else happening: a strange yet paradoxically familiar something which surprised him not at all.

  Indeed, little more than a minute ago he had been thinking about and even anticipating this very moment; had known it must come, and soon. It was what he had been waiting and hoping for; and now it was here, conjured by this murde
rer’s formula out of alien regions, from spaces between the spaces we know…

  Harry could feel the stout, inch-thick boards of the fence losing their integrity, becoming immaterial, and giving way to the pressure from his back; a very strange feeling which could mean only one thing: that the monster’s door was warping into existence directly behind him!

  Worse, he was weakening; his life-force was being drawn out of him, sucked out by Hemmings’ vampiric aura! And even now the darkness in the allotment labyrinth—especially the area framing the pale bulk of the fat man’s face—was beginning to glow with a faint pink blush, a hellish precursor of the fiery reddening which would suffuse Hemmings’s features as the last dregs of Harry’s essence left him—

  —Not that he would let it go anywhere near that far!

  “Well Harry, and how is this for metempsychosis?” the great leech asked him with a greedy, belching chuckle.

  “Transmigration?” said Harry, pitting his will against the other’s, fighting to hold himself together. “Not how it’s supposed to be, that’s for sure. Souls aren’t meant to be stolen.”

  “You…you resist me?” Hemmings grunted. “Unusual, but not entirely unexpected. No, for there’s more to you than meets the eye, Harry Keogh, which I have known from the moment I first became aware of you in a prelusive glimpse out of time—a precognitive von Stradonitz moment—when I saw an image of your face framed in a portal that was the duplicate of the one I’ve just this minute called into being behind you.”

  “Ah!” said the Necroscope then, summoning all the strength of his unique mind to resist the magnetic attraction of the fat man’s mutant aura. “So that’s what you think you were seeing: a scene out of the future—out of my future!” And he immediately felt the freezing pain in his shoulders easing off as Hemmings’ grip partially, if only momentarily, relaxed. Then:

  “What I think it was?” the monster repeated him. “But what else could it have been? Now don’t try to confuse me, my young friend, for I cannot be mistaken. It was definitely your image that I saw in the portal that I conjured in the alley off Princes Street; your face, Mr. Keogh, as I shall see it again in a little while on the far side of the new interface which I have created especially for you!”