Carnacki: Heaven and Hell

by William Meikle

  “Come in Dodgson. The rest of the chaps are here already. And tonight I have such a tale for you. Show and tell if you will.”

  He laughed as if he had just delivered the most amusing of quips, then showed me into the parlour. As he had intimated, the others were already there, and Carnacki wasted no time in showing us through to the dining room. The repast was as welcome and hearty as ever, but our host would not be drawn on the nature of the promised tale. It was not until we were once again ensconced in the parlour, smokes lit and drinks at hand, that he saw fit to begin his tale.

  * * *

  “I have such an adventure to relate,” he began and cut off any sign of our protestations by continuing. “But never fear. I have not disobeyed the doctor’s orders. For this tale takes place, from inauspicious start to horrifying finish, completely within the confines of this very house.”

  And at that he sat back and made a show of filling then lighting his pipe... and taking his time over it too. None of us spoke. We knew from long experience not to disturb the flow of the story at this juncture. There would be plenty of time for questions later – if any were needed.

  “It began last Monday morning,” he said once he was satisfied the pipe was lit. “As you chaps know only too well, I was in no fit state for any more excitement, and when I heard a knock at the front door I was in half a mind to ignore it completely. But if I had, I would have missed one of my most extraordinary adventures.”

  “When I opened the door there was no sign of anyone around. There was however a large package leaning against the railing, tied in brown paper and string, with a plain envelope neatly attached with fine silk thread.

  “I had quite a job of manoeuvring the bundle inside, for I have not yet recovered my full strength, and I regret to say that I built up a fair sweat merely dragging it as far as the hallway. By the time I had done that and closed the door again I was near to collapse. For once I heeded the good doctor’s advice and dragged myself off to bed.

  “But sleep would not come easily. You chaps know how I am with a puzzle, and this latest delivery had me mightily perplexed. However I am ashamed to say I was too weak to rise from my mattress. I lay there as the sun threw shadows across the ceiling, my mind racing but my body betraying me. At some point I finally fell into a fitful slumber.

  “I woke in the dark, disoriented, to the sound of a soiree. At first I assumed it was you chaps, come to take advantage of my drink cabinet in my absence. But there were female voices in the rising clamour, high and laughing loudly. It was as clear as if I was there in person. Then came the clink of glass on bottle, followed by raucous singing, men and women together, a song so bawdy that my cheeks reddened as I lay there.

  “I could take it no longer. I forced myself to rise and on shaky legs made my way downstairs, intent on curtailing the festivities. But even as my foot hit the bottom stair the noise cut off abruptly. The house fell silent around me and suddenly I was alone with only moonlight and shadow for company. I strode into this very parlour, expecting to raise hell. The room was empty.

  “That was when I felt it -- the cold tingle at the back of my neck that told me I was in the presence of something from beyond. Yet there was no sign of anything untoward. Nothing had been disturbed and the drink cabinet was firmly closed. I thought I caught the faintest trace of cigarette smoke in the air, but that too faded.

  “By this time I was too intrigued to retire to bed. I stoked a fire, lit a smoke, and awaited whatever might come. But all that happened was that I grew stiff and sore despite sitting in this, my favourite chair. Morning found me still there, the coals having gone cold in the grate. I was by now willing to write the whole matter off as an aberration brought on by my weakness. But as I left the parlour my gaze fell once more on the package in the hallway. Some of the wrapping paper had torn, leaving strips of it lying on the floor. Beside the paper lay the white envelope, the silk cord lying beside it, neatly cut in two places.”

  * * *

  Carnacki paused to fill his glass, and we took the opportunity to do the same and get fresh smokes lit. Arkwright broke protocol by raising a question.

  “Dashed strange, that package turning up on your doorstep unannounced?” he said.

  Carnacki smiled thinly.

  “Not at all,” he said, chiding our friend gently. “I was just coming to that. Now if we are all settled, may I continue?”

  Arkwright immediately looked bashful, which got him another wry smile, but the faux pas was soon forgotten as we were transported once more into Carnacki’s tale.

  * * *

  “My first thought was to open the package then and there and get to the bottom of the business. But as I bent to look at where the paper had been torn, my head started to swim, and I am afraid I lost my balance and tumbled headlong to the floor. My hand fell on the envelope, and as I pushed myself upright I found that I had it gripped tight in my palm. I yielded to the inevitable and returned to the parlour.

  “Although it was not much past dawn I fortified myself with a snifter of brandy, and by Jove it perked me up no end. That, and stoking the fire again, had me feeling almost like my old self. I sat down and finally studied the envelope that had come so unannounced to my door.

  “It had indeed been intended for me, having been addressed simply to Carnacki, 427, Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, London. It was a plain envelope; no decoration or taint of perfume to show where it had originated. The paper inside did not help matters much. The note was short and to the point. There was no return address, and none of the customary salutations.

  “‘I send this to you in the hope that you will know how to deal with it. I cannot have it around for one second more.’

  “It was written in a firm, masculine hand, but that was all I could glean from it. I turned it over several times, looking for anything further, putting off the moment when I would have to rise from the chair, but finally there was nothing else for it. I rose, fighting against a growing stiffness in my spine, and went back to the hallway. This time I managed to bend without losing my balance and was able to tear the brown paper and string away from what was within.”

  * * *

  Carnacki stopped once more and laughed.

  “I might not have shown any great deductive skills up to that point, but you chaps have proven even less adroit than I. The contents of that package have been right in front of you this whole time, yet none of you have remarked on it.”

  Of course that caused some consternation among we friends. It was Arkwright who finally saw what Carnacki had hidden in plain sight. He pointed at a looking glass behind Carnacki on the wall. It was large, almost four feet high by three broad, and the frame was intricately carved, the woodwork so finely detailed that it could not be made out from where we sat.

  “You have a new mirror old chap?"

  Carnacki gave a small nod of his head.

  “Indeed I have. And its history is what I must relate now, for it is of vital importance to what will follow. But first, let us recharge our glasses for the tale is a long and tortuous one from this point forward.”

  As we rose Arkwright moved to take a closer look at the mirror but Carnacki stopped him from getting near it.

  “Not yet old chap. We wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  Two minutes later we were once again settled and ready for enlightenment. Carnacki paused as if in thought for long seconds, then continued.

  * * *

  “Yes, it was indeed the very mirror you now see behind me that was underneath the layers of paper. I had started to open it with the glass faced away from me, so at first I thought it might be a work of art. There was little on the back to dissuade me of that, merely two words, badly faded and penned in a crude hand.

  “Medmenham Abbey.

  “I turned it over, expecting to view an oil on canvas depiction of an old ruin, and was surprised to see my own tired features looking back at me. The glass itself was old, showing signs of tiredness and flocking at the edg
es, but it held a deceptive depth -- the hallway reflected behind me seeming to vanish into some dark vast distance.

  “But it is the carving on the frame itself that, as you can see, catches the eye. Tiny swirls and curlicues have been expertly carved to give an impression of a small forest of foliage that might itself conceal hidden meanings within its branches. I had to drag the mirror through to the parlour to get enough light to study it properly, so it was only then that I noticed a motto, cunningly woven amid the twigs and leaves.

  “Fait ce que voudras.”

  “The cold chill crept back at the nape of my neck, and suddenly I wanted nothing to do with thing that had been delivered, unwanted, on my doorstep.

  “You see, I now knew its provenance. This mirror had belonged to Francis Dashwood, 15th Baron le Despencer, and it may very well have witnessed the vile rituals of the Hellfire Club itself. Even then, I was more disgusted at the thought of having such a thing in my home rather than afeared of it. For the Hellfire Club, despite its reputation, was no more sorcerous than I and Dashwood had used his notoriety more as a means of shocking the social mores of his day than any intent at evil. After all, the man went on to hold the post of Chancellor of the Exchequer and other high offices in the colonies - hardly the life of a master sorcerer.

  “The effort involved in moving the heavy mirror into the parlour, and the lack of sleep the night before, finally caught up with me. I slumped into my chair, exhausted, barely having the strength to get a pipe lit and going. From the chair, and given the angle at which I had leaned the mirror against the wall, I only saw my slippers reflected in the glass, and the patterned rug beneath stretching away from me into the distance.

  “In my tiredness I was lost in a reverie, just sucking smoke and letting my mind drift, so it was some time before I realized that there was something happening in the reflection, and, by Jove, it gave me such a fright. As I looked in the mirror I saw a dark shadow creep towards my feet, tendrils of blackness like a nest of snakes crawling forward to grip around my ankles.

  “I was up and out of the chair so fast that I dropped my pipe at my feet. To my astonishment it did not show in the reflection, where the forest of shadow continued to grow. Even now it crept up my shins, reaching for my knees. And as if in response I began to feel a coldness seep into my own limbs.

  “I left at a run for the dining room, returning with a tablecloth which I threw over the glass. Immediately the cold dissipated, melting away as quickly as it had come. I smelled burning, but it was only my dropped pipe, which had spilled ash on the rug, ash which continued to smoulder.”

  * * *

  Carnacki stopped as we all looked down at his feet, where there was indeed a new dark smudge among the patterns on the carpet. Then we, as one, looked up to where the mirror sat on the wall behind him.

  “Are you still keen on having a closer look Arkwright?” Carnacki said with a smile.

  Arkwright looked suitably contrite as we refilled our glasses.

  “So have you now changed your opinion on the Hellfire Club?” I asked Carnacki.

  “Not at all Dodgson,” he replied. “In fact, I am more sure than ever that they were little more than amateur dabblers in the arcane who got sadly out of their depth. But once again we are getting ahead of ourselves. I suggest that you keep your questions until the tale is done. All will become clear.”

  At that he chuckled, as if at a secret joke, but he refused to be drawn further until we were all once again settled expectantly.

  * * *

  “Sleep was now completely out of the question. I spent what remained of the morning in my library, reacquainting myself with the story of Lord Dashwood and his Monks of Medmenham. I learned nothing I did not already know, for as you chaps are aware, I have been a keen student of all manner of arcane matters these many years. But that did mean that I was at a loss to explain the shadows I had seen in the mirror, for they spoke of something from the Outer Regions, something far beyond what I knew of the so-called powers of Dashwood and his friends.

  “Further investigation of the looking glass itself was my next task, but I resolved to take no more chances. I moved the mirror through to the library where I knew I would have more space for what was required.

  “I started by drawing a circle of chalk and rubbed a broken garlic clove in a second circle around the first. I took a small jar of holy water and went round the circle again just inside the line of chalk, leaving a wet trail that dried quickly behind me. Within this inner circle I made a pentagram using the signs of the Saaamaaa Ritual, and joined each Sign most carefully to the edges of the lines I had already made.

  “In the points of the pentagram I placed five portions of bread wrapped in linen, and in the valleys five vials of the holy water. Now I had my first protective barrier and with this first stage complete the interior of the pentagram already felt more secure.

  “I set my electric pentacle to overlay the drawn pentagram upon the floor, seven glass vacuum circles -- the red on the outside of the pentacle, and the remainder lying inside it, in the order of orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. This particular order of colours had proved most efficacious during my adventure in the Larkhill Barrow, and I felt sure that it would once again serve me well with this particular problem. When I connected up the battery, a rainbow glare shone from the intertwining vacuum tubes. Content that my protections were in place I detached the pentacle from the battery and made for the scullery, for I knew that if I were to face any denizens from the Outer Regions, it would be best to be fully fortified in advance.

  “I made a hearty meal of potatoes and cold meats that I found in the larder, and washed it all down with a bottle of Fuller’s London Porter, which in itself was enough to fortify me for the day. I washed up the plates and was about to brew a pot of tea when I heard the first voices waft in from the library. As I headed in that direction I noticed that night was falling outside. I only just remembered in time to snatch my pipe and tobacco pouch from the parlour. Once back in the library I pulled the cloth away from the mirror, reattached the battery and entered the pentacle.

  “As I sat cross-legged inside the safe zone I could make out voices raised around me, but as yet it was little more than a loud whisper and I could discern no detail. At first all I saw in the mirror was my own reflection but shortly other images formed, as if painted in to the scene, strangely clothed men and women laughing and joking. My own image sat among them, but they walked through me as if it was I who was the phantasm. I sat there, astonished, as a whole night’s festivities of the Hellfire Club replayed itself before me, as if I watched a recording not just of sound, but also of vision.

  “I will not bore you with the vile debauchery or the lewd and libidinous conduct on show. Suffice it to say that my theories as to the amateur nature of the hellish Club were more than confirmed. It did however raise a question in my mind as to how such a band of mindless seekers after carnal pleasures managed to get recorded in such a manner.

  “I was on my third pipe by the time my question was answered.

  “It began almost imperceptibly. A voice, far away in the background, started to intone a chant. I could scarcely make it out amid the sound of frenzied coupling that seemed to be all around me. However the azure crystal on my pentacle flared and pulsed in time with the new voice, also showing me that there might be some external manifestation of the mirror’s power.

  “A tall, well built man strode forward, wandering amid the frolics, reading from a large book he held in front of him. It was obvious from his expression that he felt he was having a bit of fun but I was starting to recognize pieces of what he said, and a deep fear crawled within me.

  “The words being spoken formed a ritual that is mentioned in the Sigsand MS alongside dire warnings against its use, for it summons entities from the Outer Planes to come to the bidding of the speaker. And, of course, such a thing is not to be done lightly... and certainly not by dabblers like those in the Hellfire Club. I
sat, pipe cooling and forgotten, as the gathered revellers inside the mirror came to realize the extent of their predicament. Black shadows gathered, in the distance at first, then with great speed coming into the foreground, slithering, snake-like among the now fearful revellers. Screams broke the sudden silence as the black tendrils surged. Soon the whole view was engulfed in squirming darkness, and the screams died away, first to pleading whimpers, then to a dead silence that was perhaps more frightening still."

  * * *

  Carnacki paused, and I realized that I had been clinging tight to the arm of my chair, my knuckles white with tension. I forced myself to relax, but I was aware, even as I lit a fresh cigar, that the very mirror from Carnacki’s story was looming over him on the wall behind his chair.

  Carnacki himself looked tired, as if the tale was draining his energy.

  “There is no need to finish tonight old chap,” I said. “We can wait.”

  Carnacki smiled wanly.

  “Ah, but can you? Can any of you say that you will be able to look in a mirror without wondering? No, I shall finish tonight, and in the telling give you all some degree of peace.”

  * * *

  “At first I was at a loss to comprehend what I had seen,” Carnacki began again. “And while I was still pondering, the mirror cleared, leaving just my own puzzled reflection staring back at me.”

  “By this time it was well into the night, and I was feeling the effects of lack of sleep. I once again took myself to bed, and, for the first time in several weeks, slept the sleep of the just, not wakening until almost noon, but feeling much refreshed. Finally I felt able to tackle the problem head-on. I brewed a pot of strong tea, took it and my pipe through to the library, and began my quest for enlightenment.

  “I found many scraps of evidence from a variety of sources. According to Horace Walpole, the members' practice was rigorously pagan, with the obvious worship of Bacchus and Venus, but he hints at a night where matters took a more Babylonian turn. There is a mural by Hogarth still existing in a house in Northumbria that purports to show a dark thing reaching for Dashwood as he shows it his devil-may-care smirk. And then there is the matter of the Wycombe church records. I do not, obviously, have the records themselves, but I gathered a commentary on them many years ago as part of my ongoing quest for the arcane. It mentions numerous details of the Club’s practices. Prior to 1777 the members addressed each other as "Brothers" and the leader, which changed regularly, as "Abbot". During meetings members wore ritual clothing: white trousers, jacket and cap, while the "Abbot" wore a red ensemble of the same style -- the same style of dress I had seen for myself, worn by the man reading the ritual. This practice changed abruptly, overnight, after one particular session that ended with many of the club members being driven totally insane!