Machina Mortis: Steampunk'd Tales of Terror

by Derwin, Theresa

  She had been taught archaic rituals for the banishment of demons she explained. And this body she wore did indeed belong to Mary Kelly, who the fates had chosen to die in two more sunrises. It was only her mind that possessed Miss Kelly, via something that she called a download into the neo cortex part of the brain. I struggled to understand this concept, but she further explained that in her current year of 2096 technology had advanced significantly, and as such, through use of infernal devices the mind, memories and knowledge of a future person could be transported into the body of my contemporaries to solve cases and inflict punishment. Her police department was equipped with the knowledge to defeat many supernatural creatures including demons. This was her ‘job’ she told me. And with each demon she was able to send back in time a ‘case file’ she called it, some medium sort of paper file in a dingy brown that she showed me that contained details from each individual case including the afore mentioned photograph and the accoutrements of demon banishment. Who would suppose such a thing, thought I, a female taking on such a powerful masculine role? This, of all she had told me thus far, had been the greatest surprise.

  ***

  I said my farewells to Miss – Morgan and got me abed. It was after 11pm by the time she left and we were to be up early the next morning, 8th November. She knew the location that her murder was due to take place but not what guise the demon would take this time. Our plan, though it was not much to speak of, was to gather together any necessary tools and ingredients required to banish said demon, depart for a late supper, then spend the night scouring Dorset Street area. I planned to include some of the regular police force in our endeavour. I would tell them that I had received anonymous information that the next victim was to be killed in the early hours of 9th November. I just had to pray that my story was believed.

  I slept fitfully that night, demons, witches and all manner of supernatural creatures dancing in my head as I tossed and turned in my bed. I arose finally, not much rested but determined to attack our mission that morning with gusto. Prior to leaving, Miss Morgan had asked me if I knew of a particular but unobtrusive place to purchase medicines. Indeed, I did, and recommended that we visit a close friend of mine. I had used Elizabeth Garrett Anderson before in my investigations. She was the most qualified and discreet Apothecary, or Dispensing Chemist that I knew of. For she had struggled to achieve recognition by her peers, and despite gaining membership of the British Medical Association and working diligently in her field at London School of Medicine for Women, she was considered far too rebellious in nature to be recognised for her talent.

  As such, when treated with the respect she truly deserved, she could be convinced to assist in my police work. I sent ahead a messenger this morn as I broke my fast, entreating her to help. Being a woman who deeply cared for her sisters in life, Mrs Anderson agreed to assist with our case and Miss Morgan and I were to appear at her Whitechapel lodgings at 12:00pm on 8th November.

  Miss Morgan arrived at my lodgings a quarter of eleven, which was time enough for our walk through Whitechapel. I offered my arm for Miss Morgan as we exited my lodgings. The morning was ghastly. A deep black cloud hung above the already smoky city as we began our perambulation through the grimy cobbled streets. The words of Jacob Adler sprung to mind as we left the more affluent areas of Whitechapel and descended into the heart of darkness. “The further we penetrated into this Whitechapel, the more our hearts sank. Was this London?” Indeed, such squalid, ungodly, degenerative sights we saw that made me wonder ‘was this my home?’

  We continued our slow walk, revelling in the sight of dirigibles in the air above taking eager travellers on their journeys, as we continued ours by foot, enjoying the scents of baked bread, hot nuts, sizzling sausages, beer and the aromatic sputter of onions in a frying pan in the street or close by pubs and taverns that soon gave way to darker, dingier streets, where we must beware of bedpan contents being thrown from nearby windows. The aroma of hot food was now replaced with the malodorous stench of sewerage, faeces, and cloying perfume that the women of very low class wore to cover their general lack of hygiene.

  It occurred to me as I walked arm in arm with Miss Morgan, that though she was dressed in cheap attire, she did not have the demeanour of the many women who hung about these streets, from Thrawl Street, to Berners Street and finally to Wentworth Street, who flaunted their wares. No, indeed not, she carried an air of respectability despite her outward appearance, and in our brief acquaintanceship, I had quite grown to like her.

  Finally, feet soggy from the streets, we reached our destination; the residence of Mrs Anderson, formerly Miss Garrett.

  The House Girl showed us in to drawing room, where we had but to wait five minutes for our Apothecary friend to appear. She entered wearing a scruffy leather apron over her day dress of grey, her hair tied up in a smart bun.

  “Dearest Inspector Bestwick”, she exclaimed upon seeing us, “please be seated. And please do introduce your companion.”

  Before accepting the offer of a seat (tea had already been laid out), I introduced my fair companion by her true name Miss Victory Morgan and we accepted an offer of tea.

  The usual small talk gave way to Mrs Anderson enquiring as to the urgency of our visit.

  “It has been so long”, said she with a smile, “and yet, your request to visit has come so urgently. Pray tell Inspector, what is the ‘to do’ now?”

  “It is, I’m afraid to admit”, I replied, “a matter of life or death”.

  “Pray explain”, she fairly gasped.

  “Well”, said I, “this will sound most peculiar, but you must believe me when I say that I do not jest. It is of the utmost urgency that you provide my colleague and I with some particulars no later than tonight. It is this Ripper that stalks this very district! I have a means of preventing further atrocities. But it must be done carefully”.

  “I see Inspector. But please, how can I possibly help with this?”

  “So very easily”, I said with a smile in her direction, “please permit my friend Miss Morgan to explain”.

  Thankfully, my friend Mrs Anderson was of a strong constitution. When Miss Morgan showed her the photograph I myself had seen only the previous night, she did not have an attack of the vapours. Indeed no. Taking a deep breath, she stood up a little shakily and went to one of the large glass door cabinets in her drawing room and took out a glass carafe brimming with an amber liquid. One of the items we had requested thought I, but no. Most generously, Mrs Anderson poured a large helping of the amber fluid into three small glass vials, passing one to myself and one to Miss Morgan, before taking a healthy swig from a vial herself.

  “I always keep a drop or two handy”, she explained, “for medical emergencies”.

  As I enjoyed the smoky flavour of the spirit I could not have agreed more.

  ***

  Had I thought we were in her apothecary suite? Not so. Though the glass cabinets were filled with a myriad of concoctions, glass jars, bottles and vials and all manner of liquids, it was nothing compared to Mrs Anderson’s innermost sanctuary.

  After we had finished our drinks and were much more fortified, Mrs Anderson drew us over to her fireplace. I thought she was about lowering the fire that was steadily burning, but much to my surprise, she proceeded to turn a valve at the side of the grate that reduced the flame until it entirely disappeared. At this point, I could hear the familiar metallic resonance of what sounded like cogs and gears moving, and then I saw it. Where Mrs Anderson turned a brass wheel, so the entire fireplace turned with it, gradually moving around until it was about face, but a man sized gap remained and she stepped through, then called us after her. To my utter astonishment, what lay behind the fireplace was a descending stone staircase that headed downwards into complete darkness. I suddenly felt claustrophobic at the thought of taking this staircase, but I knew I had to be brave for the sake of my companions. Miss Morgan in particular was dependent on our success.

  Mrs Anderson lit a small p
ortable gas lantern then led the way down the steps. We followed cautiously, and I was surprised that we ended up in what appeared to be a laboratory of sorts. It rather reminded me of the room where Mary Shelley’s creation Viktor Frankenstein created the poor creature of her infamous novel. It was a darkened stone chamber, lit only by Mrs Anderson’s lantern until she proceeded to light a number of wall mounted gas torches. At last there was light sufficient to peruse the laboratory.

  It was a relatively small chamber, a table waist height in the centre of the room. Each wall held a number of glass cabinets, like the one upstairs, apart from the far wall which held a tall wall safe made from brass or iron. Mrs Anderson went towards this safe, and again, through action of a series of cogs & gears & wheels, managed to open this safe from which she took an extremely aged book bound in what looked like incredibly faded leather.

  With an unwomanly grunt she heaved it from the safe and carried it to the centre of the room, laying it on the table. A distinct smell of burning or sulphur assaulted my nostrils as she opened this book, I assumed because it had been kept in the safe for so long.

  “This is what you require”, said Mrs Anderson, “but the book cannot leave here”, she continued, “you must copy down the passages you need”.

  A dread chill crept down my spine as my fingers reached out and touched the yellowed pages. The writing was in a language I could not recognise. I felt my heart enter my chest and stick in my throat. The language was certainly not my schoolboy Latin. It was no language that I had ever seen.

  “And this is the paraphernalia you require”, she continued.

  She had left me to scribe the foreign writing whilst she gathered a series of tools together; chalk, a large jar of what appeared to be salt, an old dagger that looked to be rusty, but no, to my dismay I realised that it was covered in dried blood, and finally, a selection of herbs and spices I assumed.

  “They cannot cross salt”, Miss Morgan interjected, “and yes a pentagram traps them, different demons have different rituals to banish them. I just make it up as I go along until I know what I’m dealing with, but given when we are, this should do the trick”, she finished.

  “I say, I do hope you are more certain Miss Morgan”, I sputtered.

  At that she smiled, a most mischievous smile and I thought it how strange that someone could possibly jest at a moment like this. She must truly be an experienced Demon Huntress as she proclaimed to be. Whilst she, and in fact Mrs Anderson, seemed calm and at peace, I was cold with fear.

  What is the ritual did not work? What if Miss Morgan were to lose her life because we were ill prepared or our plan was ill conceived? Clammy fingers danced down my spine again. How quick I had come to accept a Supernatural hand in all of this. But what if we were wrong? What if we were wrong?

  ***

  It was past three am and Miss Morgan and I had spent the evening enjoying a late supper near Charing Cross, only three miles or so from Whitechapel, before taking a slow perambulation to Dorset Street, the most squalid street in Whitechapel and the sight of the next murder if Miss Morgan was correct. According to her, the murder would take place in less than one hour. We needed to be prepared. As I watched, she knelt on then stone floor of her own – no, Miss Kelly’s bed chamber, drawing a large circle on the floor. Once the circle was complete, she then drew three triangles interlocked inside the circle, but the chalk was very faded, and in this circle she left a gap of just one inch, to be drawn in later by myself as she dealt with the accursed creature. Then we pulled her cot mostly over this circle, so it was almost concealed.

  “Demons cannot go outside a containment field once it is created, or rather once it’s sealed”, she informed me as she drew, “The trick is to get it inside the circle before it realises what we know. And what the circle is”.

  “I understand”, I answered as she passed me the chalk.

  Her chambers were dimly lit, one small gas lamp. The fog outside had begun to creep further in to the district the later it became. I could hear faint footsteps echoing on the street outside, the raucous laughter of the ladies of ill repute touting their wares. The smell of sewage clung to the night sky.

  Miss Morgan took her position, lying on her bed, feigning sleep, the knife and parchment tucked beneath her shawl.

  I waited in the darkened corner of her bed chamber, crouched quietly hoping my breathing would not betray me to the fiend we awaited. With each breath I took I was sure he, or it, would hear me.

  It must have been nearly four am, when the noise awoke me from a brief slumber, what sounded like the loud ticking of a clock. I awoke with a start.

  At first I heard the footsteps, almost metallic in their clipped echo, I felt that moment of fear again. A smell, almost like rotten eggs of some atrocious chemical wormed its way into my nose. A wind started to work its way outside and I could hear my own heart beating loudly, but not loud enough to cover that ticking sound. I was sure the sound of my heart beating would betray me.

  Slowly, the man walked in, his movements stiff and unnatural. Though he was encased in shadow I could see he was tall, dressed in a top hat and cloak, his walking cane tapping on the stone floors in time to that infernal ticking as he walked in to the room and stopped, his head turning left then right. His face was concealed in the darkness of the room and I could not see his features. A cold sweat ran down my spine as he started to sing;

  “Mary, Mary Quite Contrary how does your garden grow?”

  His voice was not as I had expected. Not cockney, not common, nor refined. I could discern no accent. The chill spread further in me as I realised what was wrong with his voice. It too was unnatural. There was no joy, no fear, no pain – no life. The voice was cold, as though the creature were dead inside. I sat in my corner, trembling, clasping the chalk between sweaty fingers, fearful of discovery.

  “With silver bells, and cockle shells, and pretty maids all in a row”

  Slower still, he crossed the room towards the cot where Miss Morgan lay, pretending sleep, taking an eternity to reach her.

  “Well my pretty maid”, the voice said into the dark, “shall we dance? Shall we play? I should so like to play with you my pretty maid”

  Gradually, Miss Morgan feigned her waking and let out a short scream as she beheld a tall figure sitting on the end of her bed.

  “Ahh, you’re awake” the cold voice said, “I am so glad. I really wouldn’t want you to miss the fun”.

  And then the creature laughed; a howling, screeching, animal laugh that grasped my heart nearly tearing it from my chest.

  “Now!” Miss Morgan screamed, and grabbed hold of her would-be attacker.

  I dived from the dark corner, my sanctuary and dashed across the stone floor on my knees, chalk held aloft, closing the circle in only the time it took for the creature to look back at me, hiss and slash a knife across Miss Morgan’s cheek.

  I heard her hiss and grit her teeth, brave woman that she is she did not scream out loud. She merely held on tight to the creature as I grabbed the jar and darted around her cot surrounding it with the salt. The clockwork demon was trapped, for clockwork it was. It was up to Miss Morgan to vanquish the creature now.

  “Bitch!”, it screamed, grabbing a chunk of her hair from under her cap and pulling it out. That made her scream, but she did not flounder. From under her shawl she grabbed the bloodied blade and aimed for the creatures’ breast, just as it too raised it’s hands, now metal claws with iron talons and started to rip her flesh.

  “Victory!”, I screamed standing helpless by the cot, for I could not break the circle, “The passage, read it now, or for God’s sake woman let me!”

  “Bestwick, I’m so sorry”, she cried in torment as she fought the demon, desperately trying to hold it back from her pale flesh, as it too fought, and growled and hissed, slicing away parts of her flesh, tearing into her chest, scooping out parts of her intestines so the coil of grey fleshy rope fell onto the cot below her abdomen, “no – so sorry, there is n
o passage. Mrs Anderson was mistsaken. This is it. I die here. Mary & I both die, but this bastard comes with us”.

  No, I thought, it couldn’t be. I had to get to her.

  “No!”, she screamed as though sensing my movement towards the pentagram circle, “Stay!”

  It could not be. All this, she could not die now. It was not possible.

  All I could do was stand and stare, then collapse in a heap on the floor as she fought valiantly against the creature, I, locked outside the demon’s prison as the dawn began to come over the horizon and I saw it’s features, skin darker than night, a hardened type of metal, yet eyes redder than burning coals as it’s iron talons tore into her chest, scooping out her still beating heart amid a wash of blood and guts and slicing open her throat until the blood gushed forth like red wine.

  And still she fought. Impossible, but as the demon began to crush her heart between its talons, she collapsed on its form and stabbed it with the bloodied dagger, the parchment of paper pinned to its chest with her knife. The parchment was the spell, I realised!

  And then the creature impossibly began to burn, a pungent smoke rising from the clockwork carcass to melt, then mingle with blood and fear as the demon began to fall apart, cogs & brass gears tumbling to the floor. Victory’s body crumbled, bloody in a heap on her cot. Just like the photograph she had shown me.