by Brian Lumley
“But as I’m now trying to tell you,” Harry insisted, “that wasn’t a mere image. It wasn’t some kind of precognitive scene from the future, Hemmings; it was me—the real me—looking back at you! Maybe you should ask yourself something: how else could I know about such things without having experienced them for myself? Without having seen them with my own eyes? Without having been there?”
How else indeed? And the monster’s grip relaxed more yet as Harry continued:
“No, Hemmings, it was no image but me that you saw. Me, you great fat leech! I was right there, watching you as you drained Wee Angus of his essence—then consigned him to a half-mile of thin air and an unknown depth of salt water!”
At which Hemmings snatched a breath of air as he sensed his much vaunted superiority, his alleged authority suddenly slipping away, to be replaced by uncertainty, alarm and fear. He had said there was more to this Harry Keogh than first met the eye, but could never have guessed how much more.
Well, he had seen and heard enough, and he would put an end to this now—at once!
Oh, a pity to go hungry and let this sneeringly enigmatic necromancer keep his life-force for even a little while longer—at least until he took his terminal plunge,—but if an acceptable measure of hunger and temporary weakening of Hemmings’ own essence was the small price he must pay to rid himself forever of the threat that this Harry Keogh posed, then so be it.
As for Keogh’s mind—the vessel of all his dangerous knowledge, however obtained and from whatever source—his mind and very life: as of this moment both lore and life were as good as lost! So thought Hemmings.
With which and inevitably:
“Now you die!” the fat man grunted—and pushed.
But the Necroscope only thought: What, me die? No, I don’t think so, Mr. Hemmings. Been there, done that, didn’t much like it! So now it’s your turn.
Harry had felt Hemmings’ freezing fingers releasing him and had known what it meant. But unlike the monster’s previous victims he had certain advantages. For one: having witnessed all of this or something very similar before, he’d been ready for what came next; and as the other heaved his gross body forward—in effect forcing the Necroscope into the void of the interface behind him—so he had acted. His right knee had slammed into the great leech’s pulpy groin with a piston’s force, causing him to squeal and double forward. Or rather he would have doubled forward, if his huge surplus of flesh had allowed it.
At the same time as Harry’s knee had connected with the fat man’s crotch, so his hands had shot forward to grasp the flabby jowls under his chin at both sides of his neck. His fingers had sunk in deep, finding and gripping cords of flesh that Hemmings had lost contact with a long time ago; and hauling on the creature’s wattles, Harry dragged the huge head down until he could look directly into its no longer florid face, its wet and bulging eyes.
Another advantage: the monster’s portal was just as tangible to the Necroscope as it was to its maker; Harry sensed it in his mind with senses other than the regular five, and was aware that in its current form and size it could only accommodate the great leech’s fleshy bulk if Hemmings himself were to perform a headlong dive into it…which wasn’t at all likely!
But as recently as yesterday Harry had called up exact duplicates of this mutant’s variant door into his own study, where he had practiced changing their structure. And this door was no different.
Now he tweaked it, at once doubling its size and simultaneously altering its terminal space-time coordinates, and without pause toppled himself backwards into it—dragging the suddenly shrieking fat man in with him!
Beyond the interface the Möbius Continuum wasn’t quite as Harry had always known it, but close enough. And Hemmings’ shrieks of terror were adequate proof that for all the bluster of his lectures he knew nothing whatever of the interior of the Continuum. And his cries were deafening, an absolute cacophony of sound in what were otherwise an eternal and infinite void.
Ever available to Harry, the alien or metaphysical mathematics that governed this seminal place were at his command as he slowed the speed of his and Hemmings’ passage to something less than instantaneous. And then, unable to stand the great leech’s tortured screaming any longer:
For pity’s sake, shut up! the Necroscope told him. This is one of your alien regions, Hemmings; even a “classical” region, which was here before God ordered light out of universal chaos. But I’ll grant you this: you and Pythagoras were mainly correct about the power of numbers and pure thought. For speech is redundant here, where even the most fleeting thoughts have weight. But it isn’t so much telepathy as the “natural” order of things in an unspoiled continuum.
The other was quick to catch on, and eager to catch hold of Harry, too. He did so now, regaining his two-fisted grip on the Necroscope’s jacket close to his neck, steadying himself a very little in the faint glow of their rushing bodies as they orbited around a common gravitational center. “BUT…YOU KNOW THIS PLACE?” he began, until Harry cautioned him again:
Just think it, Hemmings! Trust your own doctrine! Let pure thought prevail! And yes, I know this place, or something much like it. But this place is of your doing—you brought it into being, and it has a certain feel to it—while the one I know is far more to my liking.
Now Hemmings, a quick study despite that he was terrified, knew how to proceed. But you…you understand the secrets of such parallels? You can control the interfaces, explore all of the myriad possibilities of alien space and time?
No, not all the possibilities. Harry shook his head. I mean, they are infinite—or at least “myriadfold”—after all.
But you can get us out of here? (The creature drew himself closer.)
Harry shrugged. Well perhaps. It remains to be seen. But I haven’t tried yet, and why should I when you got us in here?
Now Harry felt the bitter chill of Hemmings’ fat worm fingers on his shoulders, and saw that burning flush slowly returning to the other’s cheeks.
If you can get us out of here, said the great leech, and do it soon—before our ride is ended—I may let you live.
Until when you’ll continue to suck on me, Harry replied, so that when we leave the Continuum I’ll be weak, unable to defend myself. No, I think not. Maybe we should wait and see what will happen at the end of our ride.
“YOU BLOODY FOOL!”…oh, you fool! Surely you know how this will end? And how soon?
How it’s probably going to end for me, yes, Harry answered. At least I think so. But not for you. How it’s going to end for you…well, that’s not up to me.
What? Hemmings burst out, his hands even colder and his face flushing redder yet. What? Are you deliberately trying to drive me mad?
No, said Harry. For I believe you’re that already.
But no, no! the fat man snapped. This isn’t about me, it’s about you! I want to know about you, Harry Keogh! For one thing seems certain: you can’t be of this world! So tell me now—who or what are you really,—and what are trying to do to me?
Always the same old story, Harry replied, shaking his head. I was nobody, nothing in your eyes, as I’ve been in the eyes of so many others, so often; just another imminent victim…until suddenly I became the one those previous victims call the Necroscope. That’s who or what I am: the Necroscope. And I know that with your much vaunted knowledge of metaphysics—your assumed intelligence and alleged familiarity with every variety of esoteric subject—you’re well able to work that one out for yourself.
And with Hemmings pressing ever closer, as they gyrated and tumbled toward their appointment with the sea, Harry continued: As for what I’m doing: let’s call it an eye for an eye. Far too many eyes, and all of them innocent. Or if not innocent, guileless. Or if not guileless, then at least human. But in any case it’s what a handful of your previous victims want me to do; and more to the point, it’s what you were about to do to me!
Also what he might yet succeed in doing, if the Necroscope didn’t immedi
ately put an end to what he now felt was happening to him all over again: his will and his strength draining away, as the near-sentient aura surrounding the fat man’s gross body slowly but surely took on the inky sepia of an octopus’s smokescreen. And as Harry was well aware, in the normal light of the three-dimensional world they had left behind, that colour would be a pale but deepening shade of red!
And now the big questions: how much of his life-force could he allow Hemmings to siphon off before reaching the point of no return? Harry knew such a tipping point existed, as witness the diminished estate of the whisperers under the sea, (or wherever they were now.) But were such conditions permanent from the onset? Was his soul already in jeopardy, forever depleted, by the small amount that this monster had already stolen from him? And if so would he still be an entire, functioning being and “soulful” entity as a survivor of this enterprise—if he survived?
For the time being, however, all these were questions without answers; but Harry also knew that he could regulate his and Hemmings’ rate of travel through the Continuum—even as he had been doing since entering,—causing them to speed up and instantly shoot through the exit portal over the sea, so calling an abrupt halt to whatever scheme the great leech was still trying desperately hard to bring to completion.
Except…lessons remained that he had hoped to teach this creature, and there were other things he’d hoped to learn. Hemmings was a madman, that went without saying, but in his own way he was something of a genius too. A great pity and a waste, but the stage was set and promises had been made.
And meanwhile, even as Harry considered these things, the fat man was fastening to him closer still, much like the vampirish annelid worm for which Harry had named him. Moreover, the devil in this monstrous man was still trying to reach some sort of fallacious accommodation with him:
Not long now, Harry, but my offer stands. Save us from this place and I shall let you live; for once we are ejected, that’s the end of both of us. After falling for a good half mile, even an ocean like a millpond is as hard as concrete!
Correct—and yet wrong! Harry replied. For as I’ve already told you, I believe I know how this will end for me. But as for you: you won’t have far to fall,—not nearly so far as half a mile,—following which the easiest way for you to die would be by drowning, which is something I can’t guarantee. Your previous victims may have other ideas.
“VICTIMS?” Hemmings howled. Is that what they were? Those useless, despicable creatures I disposed of? Each and every one of them, they’re dead! What do you think you know of them? A handful of psychic messages from beyond their watery graves, that’s all you’ve learned of them, you…you miserable necromancer!
No, you shouldn’t call me that, said Harry. Not necromancer but the Necroscope. Perhaps you weren’t listening, or maybe you’re not as clever as I supposed.
And finally, as a glimmering of understanding dawned:
Ahhh! Hemmings cried. Necroscope! From the Greek, Skopos: a watcher. And as for Necro, that speaks for itself! So then, you misguidedly believe you have some sort of grand connection with the dead: that in fact you “watch” over them!
Or over what’s left of them, said Harry. Which in the normal course of things I like to think of as their souls. Why yes, that’s correct!
Oh really? The monster immediately shot back at him. But my so-called victims—the scum of the earth, the rabble I’ve got rid of—they have no souls, not any longer.
Not as individuals, said Harry, but as a group? You live on what you took from them—and what you are trying to take from me—as a parasite lives on its unwilling host. You are a mutation, Hemmings, a different kind of vampire, a loathsome thing that derives sustenance from the souls of the poor unfortunates it dispatches into oblivion. But you didn’t get it all! A spark remained in each of them, and as a group they now have a single voice that speaks out against you…and I have heard it!
Hemmings gnashed his teeth, foamed at the mouth. What? Am I to die because of your sick predilection with dead men? Then so be it…but at least I’ll leave no spark of you behind!
The Necroscope felt his life-force—his very soul—being sucked out of him faster yet, and concentrated his will to stop it from happening. But since there was nothing more he could do for or against Hemmings, he knew the easiest way to fight would be to distract the man, give him something else to think about. And what better than an imminent plunge into the grey North Sea from what Hemmings might still believe was a colossal height?
He removed the restriction that governed velocity. Distance immediately shrank from the indefinitely far to the absolutely contiguous—and time, no longer in suspension, became the NOW. One place and one time: the Möbius interface over the grey North Sea, which spat them out just thirty feet and approximately one second above the gently lapping ocean!
Only a single second—the interval between two ticks of a clock—but oh-so-much can happen in a second. Stars that have lasted a billion years may go novae in a second; an entire universe of stars can be—has been—born from nothing in far less time than that; while even the strongest of hearts have eventually grown tired…faltered…and stopped!…in the space of just one final, very special second, as each and every heart will and must stop given time.
Time enough, then, for Harry to scan the night ocean as he fell toward the gently heaving, darkly sheeny deep; time enough to glimpse the silver-eyed rowers in their eight-man inflatable where the vessel stood off not fifty feet away, and to read the legend on the starlit starboard hull’s flexible rubber pontoon: Seagasso VI: the sixth of the nearby rig’s small support fleet, silently pirated from safe anchorage under the platform’s titan legs.
Time, too, for Hemmings to snatch a panicked breath through his gaping mouth and wide yawning nostrils, but insufficient to release it in a scream as he hit the water. And between times—somewhere within that solitary second—the fluid mantle of his soul-stealing aura shrivelling back into him as the bulk of its semisentient tendrils recoiled like some weird sea-anemone galvanized by a spear-fisherman’s probing trident.
Harry Keogh sensed that retraction, a reluctant relaxation of what to any other man would be an impalpable psychic suction and inexplicable loss of strength, of will, of life itself: the membrane of his metaphysical existence—a soul in extremis—suddenly wrenched toward its breaking point. But unlike the fat man’s previous victims, Harry knew exactly what he was feeling; and unlike the great leech himself he wasn’t at all distracted, neither by his surroundings nor the immediate situation, which was of course of his own making.
And as the glittering black water closed over the mutant’s spreadeagled form—and as the Necroscope sank knee-deep in the churning brine thrown up by the other’s fall—so Harry exerted pressures of his own, hauling on the psychic vincula that continued to attach his soul to the web of Hemmings’ sucking aura.
Moreover, having glimpsed those silent, silver-eyed rowers in their stolen or commandeered inflatable, Harry knew his work was done here, his promise kept and that it was time to move on. The last thing he desired was to witness or be party to the beginning of the end of the Möbius murderer; that wasn’t the arrangement; let the dead people in the rubber vessel—who doubtless had their own take on how matters should proceed from here on—have the final say.
And as Hemmings’ aura weakened and failed, and the connecting membrane was broken—even as the great leech surfaced and Harry sank to his waist—so the Necroscope conjured a door of his own. At which a second second commenced, whose simultaneous events were even more momentous than those of the first.
Harry had brought his door into being, directly beneath his plummeting body, in the sea just inches below his feet. By simply letting himself fall he would enter into it, but he couldn’t close it behind him until he was satisfied that he was complete in himself, that his integrity had not been compromised and the essential Necroscope was not only physically but also spiritually whole; in short, that as well as being soun
d of mind, body, and limb, his entire soul remained intact within him!
Which was why, in addition to the sudden shock of cold and salty water, a feeling of intense relief had also flooded over Harry as he felt the web of Hemmings psychic aura rupturing and its torn tendrils shrinking back into the fat man’s gross body. For nothing of him went with it; and indeed that portion of his life-force which had been partially drawn off at once rebounded into him, buoying him up, renewing and returning him to spiritual and therefore physical completion. Nor had he realized just how feeble, how diminished he had been feeling, until that moment when he was whole again. It was as if his body and mind had been mired, and now were set free again.
Harry snatched a single shallow breath in the split second before the water closed over his head, but that was enough. And a further split second later—or more properly, in no time at all—he hurtled home and staggered unsteadily from the Continuum into his rank, creeper- and weed-choked garden in a pool of yellow light from his study’s patio doors, and another pool (of sea water) that fell from him in a shining near-solid column to go coursing down the garden’s crazy-paving path, away under the rickety gate, and eventually down to the river.
Then, after swaying and shivering there for a minute or so, drenched, stinking of brine and breathing deeply as he regained his sense of balance and something of three-dimensional reality and objectivity, finally the Necroscope gave himself a shuddery shake; and heedless, entirely uncaring of where each soggy item of his clothing fell to earth, he stripped naked right there in the garden before trudging indoors and wearily upstairs to take a long hot shower.
