16
Grave Concerns
The doors of the College on the Moors creak open as if moved by invisible hands as the four friends enter. Outside, the hooded driver sits on the carriage, with his black horse hitched to it, watching. Inside, Usher floats toward them, emerging out of the shadows, dressed in his black school robe with vertical red stripes. His round face is especially white in the dimly lit entrance hall. Voices echo off the stone walls as if their owners were speaking down a well.
“Good evening, gentlemen, my lady,” says Usher, bowing to Lucy, who starts.
“Good … good evening, sir.”
“I might observe that I am not ‘sir,’ my lady. I am a mere servant, the porter.”
“Usher,” says Lear, “I trust you received my telegram. These two are my grandchildren, Lucy and Jonathan. They will be accommodated in the empty rooms on Master Brim’s floor. We shall handle our own bags. Our young friends are tired from the long journey. Could you arrange for their meals to be sent up to them? That is all.”
“It is as you wish, sir.”
He glides back several steps, stops directly under the chandelier in the cavernous room, and his bald head glows as he lowers it and bows to them.
“I shall meet you all later,” says Lear quietly, “as discussed.” He lumbers toward his quarters on the ground floor.
The others climb the big staircase with the ornate balustrade, their boots making sweeping sounds on the stone steps. The staircase opens wide at the first floor, where they turn left under the dim gaslights toward Edgar’s room. Classes are still in session and the halls are deserted. Each room’s wooden door is closed and only the muffled sounds of professors barking instructions and the students’ responses are heard.
“This is nice,” says Jonathan, “such a sunny, welcoming place.”
“Lovely. How do you stand it, Edgar? It is nine months of the year, isn’t it?”
“Thirteen, I believe, Lucy. Wait until you see your room.”
“Fit for a lady, I’m sure.”
“The lady, sister dear. Do you not feel honored?”
Mrs. Shakewell, the cook at the College on the Moors, is round with hairy arms and a stained uniform. That is it for females.
“Tiger should be here by dusk,” Lucy says.
“Yes,” says Edgar and smiles. It’s the only thing about this evening that doesn’t make him tremble inside. He thinks of Tiger the Brave finding her way to the abandoned farmhouse out on the moors. Only she would volunteer for such a thing.
Edgar shows them their rooms. Lucy is directly across from him, where Tiger used to be. Jonathan is next to her.
“Remember,” says Edgar, “we stay in our rooms until midnight.”
Perfect silence usually reigns in the college once darkness has descended. It is a hard and fast rule, and rules here are not meant to be broken (thus, loud nightmares and sleepwalking are particularly frowned upon). But there are whispers this night in the corridors. Three figures are sneaking down the stone steps, meeting another one near the entrance. They slip out the door, almost through it, like ghosts. Usher stands in the shadows in an alcove near his counter, observing.
They keep their voices low as they walk toward the graveyard. Sounds carry remarkably far on the treeless moors. The wind is cold tonight, though it is early summer. They wrap their coats close as they move across the back grounds, the college rising behind. Lear has distributed the tools they need: Jonathan is carrying the shovel, Edgar two coils of thick rope. The professor keeps looking up to the moon, which is far too big and bright for their purpose. A vigilant eye could spot them from an upper window.
Do we really have to do this? wonders Edgar.
When they reach the grave, Jonathan raises his hand, although no one has spoken. He has seen something, far out past the boundary of the school grounds. They all cast their eyes through the moonlight toward the horizon. A figure is on the move out there. It seems human but it is hard to be sure. It stops, appears to spot them and then runs. It is coming right at them.
Edgar left Thorne’s guns in his room. He wishes now he hadn’t. But Lear had said they needed their hands for other things—the weapons were for later. Edgar tosses the ropes to the ground with a thump, ready to confront the approaching figure.
“It’s Tiger,” says Lucy, relief spreading across her face.
They wait for her to arrive. She is wearing a thick coat and cap, gray trousers and black boots. Edgar has often thought that he has never met a more practical person.
The grave is a small one, befitting its inhabitant, at the back and freshly filled in. It has been less than a week since the funeral.
“Let us begin,” says Lear. “Jonathan?”
His grandson sighs and drives the spade deep into the soil. It cuts through the gravel and clangs against stones like a sword encountering bone. He pauses. “And so, our happy task commences.” Jon’s dark-blond hair and sideburns are almost black in the dim light. He puts his back and his big arms into it and doesn’t stop digging for a long time. The others stand motionless near each other to block the wind. Lear keeps alert, scanning the horizon, examining the few trees on the grounds for a figure in hiding.
“Shall you give it a go?” asks a perspiring Jonathan, turning to Edgar when he is three or four feet down. “It’s quite fun, it is.”
Edgar doesn’t want to do any digging. In fact, he doesn’t want to be in the graveyard or at the College on the Moors or even in Scotland. But he knows he must face this. His father had told him so. But he hesitates to answer Jonathan. Though he can do many difficult things these days, can he do this?
“I’ll finish the job,” says Tiger, stepping forward and reaching out for the shovel.
“No!”
Edgar seizes the spade, leaps down into the grave and begins to dig. It smelled damp and earthy up above. Down here he finds the stinking odor of death. It almost makes him gag. Jonathan had pulled his scarf over his mouth as he worked, but Edgar is determined to face the stench. Life, to him, can be like a series of stories connected by vivid scenes, and the one he is in now deeply worries him. But he keeps digging.
His shovel strikes wood. He steps back and drops the spade as if an electric shock has hit him. Tiger leans down and offers a hand. He takes it and scrambles out.
They all stand staring into the grave for a moment. Then old Lear struggles down into it, his movements heavy but purposeful. He takes the shovel in his only hand and scrapes another few inches of soil away before dropping to his knees and sweeping back what remains, revealing the outline of the coffin beneath. It is tiny, just four feet by a little more than one.
Lear looks up toward his partners in crime. Lucy turns her face away, but inserts her arm into Edgar’s. He is thinking of the dead child in the box below.
“Get the rope,” says Lear, his face like granite in the night. “Let’s pull the coffin out and open it.”
Edgar bends down and gets one of the ropes and soon Jon has the other. They drop into the grave and get the ropes under the coffin. Tiger and Edgar take the ends of one and Jonathan and Lucy and Lear the other and together they hoist it up. But as they do they realize that one of them could have lifted it alone because it is shockingly light. They set the little oblong box down on the wet grass under the moonlight. It is a simple wooden container. The child’s parents could have afforded much more; Driver had made this meager final resting place.
The smell is stronger now. Lucy pulls the collar of her coat up around her mouth and long-ish nose. She can’t look, but she keeps holding on to Edgar, to comfort him, he thinks, as well as to seek solace. Tiger frowns. Jonathan is staring at his grandfather as Lear takes up the shovel and jams it into the crack between the lid and the main body of the coffin, beginning to pry it open. It creaks and squeaks as he leans on the shovel. One side pops up. Lucy utters a little cry but stifles it. The other side pops up. All the nails have been released.
“We must do this,” says Lear.
“You all know that.”
“God forgive us,” says Lucy.
“He will.”
Lear pulls back the lid and the smell is overpowering. Lucy turns and walks several strides away and Jonathan steps back too. Tiger and Lear peer down into the coffin. Edgar stands still, pushed forward by his willpower, pulled back by his nature.
“My God!” whispers Tiger.
Lear’s face is transfixed on what is beneath him. He takes out his knife, his huge sharp one. For an instant, Edgar sees it gleam in the moonlight and catches Lear’s face reflected in the blade. His expression is deadly serious but it contains something else, almost a smile, unlike any Edgar has ever seen.
Edgar steps forward and peers down too, Lucy coming forward with him. Then she buries a scream into his chest. He wishes he could cry out too. But he can’t. He can’t do anything. They are looking down upon a corpse that is as pink as life. The cheeks are rosy. The lips are red. The eyes are wide open … and moving.
The child is alive.
17
A Grim Decision
Tiger finds her voice first. “Can it speak?”
The little corpse is staring right at them.
“My friend, can you …?” asks Edgar into the coffin, not sure if he wants a response.
The child’s eyes start darting back and forth, but they don’t focus. His chest is pulsing up and down, but he remains silent.
“He is paralyzed.” Lear leans forward, bringing his big knife toward the little boy’s chest. Lucy can’t stand it. She grips her grandfather’s arm.
“No!”
The professor gently removes her hand. “I am not going to harm him, not yet.”
None of them like the sound of that. But they stand back and watch as Lear brings his blade nearer the child. He inserts the tip into the shirt near the stomach and in one quick motion slices the material right up to the boy’s throat. Lucy starts.
Lear reaches down and pulls back the shirt like a science student peeling back the skin of a frog. There is the pitiful little chest, the ribs evident, the beating of the heart almost visible in the rising and falling of the torso. Edgar wonders if it is just him, but the child’s eyes look terrified now.
“Look!” says Tiger.
There is a wound on the boy directly over his heart. It is small and circular, about the size of a shilling coin. It is indented as if it were once a little hole.
“What does that mean?” asks Edgar.
“Perhaps it is an old wound,” says Lear. He takes the child’s jaw in his hand and turns his head from side to side, examining his neck.
“Why are you doing that?” asks Edgar sharply.
“The neck is clean, not a single mark on it.”
“What do we do next?” asks Lucy. “We can’t leave him like this.”
“No, we can’t, my dear.”
“It was here,” says Tiger, clinical and calm.
Children die mysteriously, thinks Edgar. It happens. But they don’t look like this in their coffins beneath the ground almost a week later. He glances around the graveyard and out over the moors.
“I am guessing the child is in agony,” says Lear. “He is not alive nor is he dead.”
“We need to kill him,” says Tiger.
“No,” whispers Lucy.
But Lear had nodded at Tiger. “And when we do it we need to make sure that he is dead.”
“What sort of creature could do this?” demands Edgar out loud. “What are we searching for?”
“I am sure it will introduce itself soon,” says Lear.
Jonathan is standing near his sister. “Lucy, you should go.”
“I’ll walk her to the door,” says Tiger.
They turn and head back toward the building.
Lear looks at the two remaining boys.
“There is one sure way of driving evil from a corpse, for rendering it dead beyond a doubt. It is done in all ancient cultures.” He picks up his sword-like knife. “We must sever the head.”
18
An Offer
As they enter the Great Dining Hall for breakfast the next morning, they say nothing about what was done to the child’s corpse. Lucy doesn’t ask. No one who walks upon the back grounds of the college today will notice that the grave has been disturbed.
“What do we do next?” asks Jonathan.
Lear brings a finger up to his lips. Griswold is approaching.
“May I be the first to welcome your grandchildren to the College on the Moors,” he says, attempting a smile. He curls his thin red lips and his gums show. His teeth are unusually long and a little yellow.
“Thank you, sir. This is Lucy.”
The giant headmaster extends a long skeletal arm down toward her, raises her hand to his lips and kisses it wetly.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Edgar admires her ability to show not an ounce of revulsion.
“The pleasure is most certainly mine.”
“And this is Jonathan.”
“Good day, sir. Welcome to our institution.” He attempts another smile and pumps Jon’s hand, which despite its substantial size disappears into Griswold’s.
“It is good to be back, Headmaster,” says Lear.
“Of course it is. How was London? Did you see Irving?”
“I didn’t have time.”
“He is a genius!” Griswold’s face lights up, but then he remembers himself. “Brim,” he says, nodding at Edgar. The boy nods back. “It was a shame to not see these young ones at dinner last night.” He pauses, an expert employer of silence. “What did you do with them?”
“They were tired, sir.”
“Yes, quite exhausted,” says Lucy.
Griswold turns to her again. “Of course, my dear.”
“They stayed in their rooms.”
“No moonlit strolls?” asks Griswold. He regards Edgar when he says this.
“Of course not, sir,” says Jonathan. “Slept like a corpse the whole night. I look forward to a hearty breakfast.”
Griswold pauses again. “I am forgetting myself. I must let you eat. I shall watch over you all whilst you are here, make sure you have no needs that are not fulfilled. Good day.” He is about to walk away but turns back to Lear.
“You are dining with the children?” He pronounces the last word particularly clearly. Jonathan looks like he wants to strike him.
“Yes, sir, for today. I thought I might.”
“I suppose we can make an exception.”
The headmaster pivots and departs, taking his usual long strides toward the table up on the dais where he dines. He still has his favorite companions at mealtimes, though they have changed from year to year. Lear is no longer a regular honored guest; his time appears to have passed.
Edgar watches the back of the headmaster’s bulbous skull move away, its bone color showing through wisps of white hair and shining under the candled chandeliers that line the center of the ceiling. Griswold ignores the nearly two hundred students filling the wooden chairs at the thick tables, not deigning to say hello to even one of them.
Edgar looks at the two professors at the table of honor, awaiting their headmaster’s return. Numb is looking the boy’s way with a hard expression, but the other is smiling and waving. Edgar waves back.
“Lovecraft looks so out of place up there,” he says as he and his friends take their seats.
“Looks can be deceiving,” says Lear. “Now, we may not have much time. We must examine what we learned last night and decide on a course of action.”
They keep their voices down, especially since talk, in general, is subdued here. The mere movement of a chair echoes in the room.
“Well, no marks on the corpse’s neck,” says Jonathan, “which rules out one of our more famous monsters. I bet you are disappointed with that, Lu.”
“But what about the one on his chest?” asks Edgar.
“Little boys have many scars,” says Lucy. “It could have come from anythi
ng.”
He wasn’t very active, thinks Edgar.
“But it was indented, like a hole,” says Jonathan. “It seemed recent.”
“The open eyes,” says Lucy. “And they were moving!” She shudders.
“A lovely look, I thought,” says Jonathan.
“I was told,” said Lear, “that Newman’s eyes had to be closed when he was found dead in the infirmary.”
“And they opened again in his coffin!” says Lucy.
“How is that possible?” asks Edgar. “Some reaction of the nerves? Some return to his expression at death? Was he seeing something terrifying the moment he died?”
“An interesting way of putting it, Brim,” says Lear. “Some … thing.”
“Yes,” says Edgar, “… not a presence or a spirit—”
“Not a fog or a floating poison in the air,” Lucy nods. “The child saw something that reached out and put a hole in his chest!”
“Scintillating debate,” says Jon, “but as I said, methinks some time ago, what’s next?” His leg is pumping up and down under the table. Some might call it a nervous twitch, but he wouldn’t. He is ready for action. “I suggest we do something that you tall foreheads are dancing around. Whether it is a body or a phantom or the big bad wolf, we need to hunt this thing and murder it, now.”
“I agree,” says Edgar.
“But even if we’re sure it can be seen,” says Lucy, “we have no idea where it is.” She glances around the room and up at the table on the stage where Griswold is staring back at her.
“Maybe we can find out,” says Lear.
“Yes, I’ll get some cat food and we’ll go out onto the moors and call it,” says Jonathan. “What do you think it would respond to? Here, kitty, kitty?”
“No,” says Lear, “but you are close.”
His response makes Jonathan swallow. The old man is deadly serious.
“We must offer it something.”
“What do you mean?” asks Lucy.
“I should think that predators, whether they be human, animal or monster, prefer to attack their victims one at a time, when they can catch them alone. The odds are better that way. Not that this thing likely needs much in the way of odds.” He turns to Edgar. “Do you have any thoughts on the subject, Brim?”
The Dark Missions of Edgar Brim Page 12
