Gaslight illuminates the streets of London, where Queen Victoria's subjects walk secure in the knowledge that theirs is a great and righteous Empire in the eyes of the one true God. Nothing can afflict them, nothing can affright them; there is no trial to which the great English Empire is not equal. But in apparently peaceful Devonshire, something stirs to afflict, to affright, and to try. It lurks in the shadows and the crypts, in the fogs and the storms, the fens and the moors. It gathers its strength, and spreads, secretly, silently, wreaking its destruction and accumulating its powers where it may. It threatens all that is human, all that is holy, and is not impeded, for the human and the holy cannot admit to its existence.
In Devonshire, in the neighboring parishes of Hambridge and Fivehead, a force has been gathered to defend against the invasion of the demonic. They are small in number, eccentric in character, and limited in knowledge, but they are resolved and steadfast; they will engage the supernatural determined to do whatever they can to overcome the evil that confronts them. They may sacrifice their sanity, they may sacrifice their lives, but for God, Queen and Country, they will not give up the fight.
The year is 1883. The place is Devonshire, England. The campaign is SomeWhatTMScary.
The following is an excerpt from the journal of Swiss Dr. A. Gilmore Pitcairn-Strangechilde IV, skilled general physician and orthodontist, recently in the employ of the late Jonah Montgomery Persicue, and member of the Hambridge & Fivehead Cryptozoological Society. It has been translated from the original Schweitzerdeutch (or French, or Latin, or Finnish, or from whatever it happened to be in at the moment).
Having not yet fully reconciled myself to the events of the previous two days, I undertake now to commit them to paper as they are remembered to me, fully expectant that a rational and scientific explanation might be made to account for them, and the hope that such an explanation shall in time be made evident to me. Until such time, I shall reserve judgment.
That the temperance of a country's weather is inversely proportional to that of its landscape, one may hypothesise. In any case I fear I shall never acclimate myself to the palette of meteorological phenomena with which I might be presented between dawn and noon, nor to the broad range and subtle variation within that which I have heretofore known only as 'damp'. Some indecisive qualification within this category is apt to describe the day which saw the reading of the late Jonah Montgomery Persicue's will. Perhaps the half-not-quite-rain is significant. Perhaps, and probably, not. It is noted.
Present with the lawyer along with myself were his nephew, A. K. Persicue, who before this time I did but barely know and whose forenames I persist in forgetting (ALEXANDER KENNETH); Fraulein Agnes Fairberry, at leisure since the death of the senior Persicue; this Persicue's friend and fellow in drinking, shooting and poetry, Aubrey Todd-Worthington; the Vicar Stuart Whyte, and inevitably, Jerence. Now, often enough I have noted the peculiar eccentricities to which old J.M. Persicue had been given: far be it from me to judge any person the worse or better for such qualities as this; indeed it is for me only to remember well a man who would never do as he was advised but continued to drink, smoke and carouse himself eventually to death, for his bearing and actions towards me even eight years ago as an unknown physician with about the same facility in English as could be imparted to an extraordinarily slow parrot in the space of half a day, had represented nothing but kindness. As generous as he was in life, and as eccentric, he has managed to be in death, and I am much wondered at what sort of fellow he may indeed have been.
I am left with a letter of recommendation, a peculiar artifact in the shape of a jeweled egg, and 1000 pounds (note: to put this directly into Elsa's and my joint account in Switzerland). Stipulated as required for the fulfillment of the will is this unusual condition: that all the beneficiaries spend the night in the Persicue wine-cellar, and consume entirely a bottle of wine vinted in the respective years of their births. Concerns over the possible negative effects this might have upon my constitution have proven not unfounded. Alas Todd-Worthington! For he could not find any wine from the appropriate year, and was therefore obliged to consume an entire decanter of brandy, which, to be quite fair, he accomplished as easily as I managed the claret. He did much regale us with poetry. I fear their particular breed of poetry will be forever beyond me, and in the circumstances I found it more confusing even than ordinarily I do, and so I was obliged to stop listening to him, until all choice as to listening or not was removed from me to the fruit of the vine. For amusement, people do this. There, but for the grace of an obscure neurological fault, go I.
I was awakened from my ill-gotten stupor by being trodden upon. Or this I imagined, though no one was there when I looked, but I soon was able to discern what appeared to be a ghost. Quite naturally I took this for a drunken hallucination, and observed it to slide the peculiar egg-artifact across the shelf, waiting to see if it would turn into a pink elephant as drunken hallucinations are supposed to do. It failed to oblige me in this, and as it pushed the egg over the edge I obliged its apparent veridically objective existence by catching the falling object. This, and the fact that others of my companions were by this time awake and were also able to see the apparition as it was sucked howling into a Vortex of sorts appearing in the stone wall, convinced me that my reaction to it was not entirely misplaced. The egg, having a hinged aperture, had upon being caught sprung open; it proved to be full of some kind of powder whose identification I attempted to effect by its odour. I remember nothing more of the evening. This powder seems to be rather toxic, and is certainly highly soporific, provocative of most horrific dreams. I spent much of the next afternoon trying to identify the stuff. Failure. It is ferrous, alcohol or water soluble, and glows orange and green when incinerated. I shall persevere.
On a more mundane note, I am rather concerned for the well-being of F. Fairberry,
who seems a bit unknowing as to what to do, now that she is freed of her
responsibilities towards the house. I shall look out for her as I might.
These dreams, apparently inspired by exposure to this peculiar powder, persist. Fraulein Fairberry informs me today that she, too, has had them, and of the selfsame nature as my own; they concern small grey toothsome creatures committing various reprehensible acts of small-grey-toothsome-creature-lichkeit about Devonshire. Upon making some inquiries I am finding that all who were in the wine-cellar that night have had them, and that Todd-Worthington has had them while awake (be it noted that Todd-Worthington, noting the powerful effect which the powder had upon myself, demonstrated the same effect upon his own person by tasting it. Alcohol can do strange things to one's mind). I have a not altogether elusive suspicion, that all is not well.
Meanwhile Fraulein Fairberry refuses to relinquish her position as head housekeeper of Persicue Hall, and is retained. This, at least, is well.
English banking! How can such a powerful empire possibly sustain itself with such a profoundly ludicrous banking system? Indeed, my incredulity knows no bounds! Even so, in the face of laughable policy and in spite of the studied ignorance of those whose paid position it is to effect it, I have prevailed. I have little doubt but that after this morning, I will have but to appear at Lloyd's to command their immediate surrender.
I had taken to spending Sunday afternoons at Persicue hall, finding the relaxing effect of the house and the pleasant company of the young Persicue et alia an amenable counterpoint to the week's practice. Persicue is a fine conversationalist, and he finds my Continental non-commitment to the brute existence of extension amusing-- A staid Newtonian absolutist, he is. I have heretofore not kept much in the way of company, and have found the social atmosphere and the trivial metaphysical banter involved with these excursions to Persicue hall most pleasant; they are, however, hardly ever relaxing anymore. This evening we are summoned out into the storm by the terrible screams of Persicue's gardener, Fred Lynch, upon whom a tree had fallen; thus became he impaled and pinned to the ground as nicely as a beetle on foolscap. There was much trouble in freeing him, owing to the dark, the storm, and my not having a saw with me-- well, it is hardly ever that I am performing amputations outside of office hours. It was immediately evident that the poor fellow would die in a matter of days at most, for his ribs were crushed into his lungs and there was much distress about the place where the branch had impaled him, which is to be expected with impalings, though some of that may have been due to the Vicar's slight indelicacy in restraining him.
However hopeless, I did what I could for Mr. Lynch. Thus was I alone attendant when early in the morning Mr. Lynch ceased for the third time to breathe. I must now admit that I deliberated in a way I might not-- nay, certainly would not-- have done had anyone else been present. I knew that I could not save him from a fantastically painful death. Oh, I suppose there are more gruesome ways to die than from the sort of toxic weeping infection and gradual collapse of the vital functions normally accompanying sucking wounds of this rather extreme magnitude produced in this sort of way, but since University, when such an occupation of the imagination is considered humourous, I have not been in the habit of listing them. And so, rather than bolstering his vanishing life any further, I let him go. What else could I have done, that would not have constituted mischief? And yet what might I have done under observation? Pathetic, truly. But before he died, the gardener managed a howl from his shattered, bloodless lungs, and he whispered, just inaudibly-- 'Goblins! The Goblins did it'-- he was looking upwards, most certainly at something; I followed his line of vision and thought I could see something scuttling away. A rat? If so, a tremendous one indeed, and under F. Fairberry's housekeeping?
Goblins! It seems we are now faced with a tri-lemma. It is the case that: a). there are goblins roaming about being goblinly; b). there are not goblins roaming about and we, or at least I, have gone quite mad; or c). there are not goblins roaming about and mass hallucinations are a normal, healthy part of human existence. As the second option is abhorrent and the third is silly, I am inclined to accept the first, though I like that not at all.
Poor F. Fairberry is sorely affected by the Gardener's death. They must have been great friends. She will not be consoled, and in any event I would not be one to effect consolation. She has of late been in the habit of reproaching me, I do not know why, and with this, combined with my forsaking the dying man who was her friend, though she does not know about that but doubtless would understand if she did, I cannot face her. Even so, they would not suffer me to go back to Atherstone through the storm at 4:30, covered as I was in the gardener's gore, which I suppose might have given the local constabulary cause to take an interest in me. An altogether restless night of two full hours therefore did I spend at Persicue hall. I was obliged to go home in H. Persicue's clothes-- an ill fit, that! Blessedly he allows me the use of the trap. F. Fairberry calls me 'freak of nature'-- true perhaps, and true she has never been exactly kind in her dealings with me, but why now does she so ill-treat me? Have I done something particular to earn her reproach? Perhaps this is equivalent to her use of the familiar? How like my mother she is.
No progress in researching into the whys and wherefores of how to contact ghosts of whom one might want to ask questions about eggs and powders has been made, or about eggs and powders themselves. I hardly thought I would ever find myself conducting such investigations (I have deliberated, and determined not, at this point, to include any specificities regarding these matters in my correspondence with my sister). The young mdchen Margaret Williams is not coming to her afternoon appointment, which is odd, and even more odd is that she had not told me beforehand; she is normally so punctual.
I wonder if I might convince Jerence to allow me into the wine cellar?
Note: Mrs. Percival day after tomorrow: bring from home the larger forceps, and reinforce the restraints.
I am saved from having to present my trilemma to my companions, for overwhelming evidence for my preferred conclusion has come to light. It is to my discredit that I am grateful for having them to suffer this along with me, that by their afflictions I should be encouraged to believe that I have not become entirely strange to reason.
It happens that the young F. Margaret Williams has gone missing, and as I had no engagements until the afternoon, I joined the morning party organised to search for her. H. Todd-Worthington and the Vicar had found a cave, and an expired sheep (some of these had also vanished under mysterious conditions, apparently, though I was unaware of it at the time). Naturally this must be searched (the cave, not the sheep). Four young men and my companions volunteering, I was somehow convinced to attend. This cave goes on: maybe 600 meters, at a gentle slope downwards; branches, one way wending upwards and one down. We divided: the Vicar, H. Persicue, Seth and another lad whose name escapes me going up; Reuben, James, Todd-Worthington and I going down. They found a long dead fellow. We found the Williams girl, however, in a den of goblins-- a room, blocked with a stolen headstone, underneath the cavern we entered, this concealed by a thick wall of vegetation, oddly enough.
Strangely Reuben and James seemed unable to see the goblins. I think I now know another of the effects of that powder, but whyever did H. J.M. Persicue leave it to me? I do wonder about that Ghost-- we were obliged to fight the goblins for the mdchen, and would surely have lost, though the others did join our efforts, had not the Vicar's Bible repelled them so. This fact I find most astonishing, but so it is. We did thus escape, with the Vicar shielding and protecting us: but the larger creature, pursuing us, called out-- I think it said, 'This is only the beginning'. To be quite sure.
F. Williams was in a pitiful condition, and H. Persicue and Seth were sorely injured; H. Todd-Worthington has received a shock, and I am not exactly unscathed. Seth's skull has been cracked and he will probably be blind, if he does not die, which is the more likely thing. I have sent him to the main hospital and I shall call on him tomorrow.
The goblins have, as it is commonly put, 'had their way' with the young Williams girl, and have terribly ill-treated her in other respects. She was quite incoherent with the trauma. I could hardly send her back to her family in such a condition, and the stains on her clothing are telling-- I feared for her shame, and for what I may or may not be allowed to do, should this diabolical union prove fruitful, which eventuality I do not care to contemplate. Therefore I took her back-- not to Ilminster, but to my home, and I hope that Witwe Weatherby next door is minding her own business as is not particularly her wont; I do not want unnecessary trouble over this. I kept the child overnight and hypnotised her, which I did not wish anyone to observe, it not being standard medical methodology, in the attempt to restore her to her senses. Success. The goblins did not speak to her, and signified nothing to her, their only contact with her being physical and horrendous; I had her relate as much as she could, and could not bear to hear it save that there might be some scrap of information in the poor child's tormented brain to use against the foul beasts. Fraulein Williams will now remember nothing-- I asked rather directed questions upon the morning, and her responses indicate complete disrecall-- and I hope I do not have to bring her here again. The goblins have made a dedicated enemy, by this.
I had asked Fraulein Fairberry's help, that she might come and bathe the
girl, and bring her some clothing, which in her good way she readily did,
though she is still most harsh to me. Oh well. Perhaps it is nothing, and
I should just learn to expect it
Indeed it appears that death lies in store for Seth. I am not altogether
certain I agree with the methodologies of the local physicians, which sentiment
I have of enough expressed, not here to go into particulars. There is not
to be arguing now
Not having gone this Sunday to Persicue Hall, but summoned thereto anyway by Telephone (I had no idea, when I procured it, how useful it would be), to discuss the situation with the goblins and what we are to be doing about it. Not long had we been rapt in discussion of this altogether consuming topic when there unexpectedly arrives an Egyptian archeologist, just from Cairo, to see H. J. M. Persicue, of whose death he had not been aware. He seems to have taken it well. I have taken an instant liking this Egyptian. He is pleasant and well spoken, as long as one sticks to his native tongue. I must admit to a somewhat dishonourable satisfaction in there being someone about even more foreign that am I-- H. Ptachsp is easily as tall as am I and dark besides, and his poor command of English rather undoes him in society. Now shall Fraulein Fairberry have another to whom to refer as 'freak of Nature'? I am a scoundrel.
Though a somewhat awkward discussion of the weather followed closely upon the heels of the Egyptian, this same evidenced some understanding of our circumstances, such as they are, and as would be anyone who willingly admitted to us that they had seen some demons and were willing to do the aforementioned some damage, he was quickly admitted into our society. A bona fide society, now-- it is, incidentally, to be called 'the Hambridge&Fivehead Cryptozoological Society'. An odd English phenomenon, this creation of secret societies. I suppose it is the closest thing to tribal warfare this enlightened Empire will tolerate. Some though seem to have more genuine reason for existence than others, videlicet, the Hambridge&Fivehead Cryptozoological Society. I shall insist upon a negative vote should anyone propose a secret handshake.
But, to rejoin. Though typically unflusterable, Fraulein Fairberry is running
into the house having gone to fetch bay leaves, in a terrible shock, claiming
to have experienced an overpowering sense of horror by the tree near which
J.M. Persicue's heart finally gave in. Never insidious premonitions of disaster
to let lie, we naturally went to investigate this. We found a key lodged
in the roots of the tree (should it become relevant, this tree is an oak,
and there is mistletoe, I checked), and there was some difficulty in extricating
it; fortunately I have not inconsiderable skill in extricating firmly lodged
things. H. Persicue remembered a little shed in the nearby overgrown spinney,
so we went to see if this key fits the lock. It does not, but this is immaterial
as the door is off its hinges and the key does fit the trap door inside.
We went just far enough to determine that the passage continues for some
way, and smells dreadfully of death and rot; we made it up to return tomorrow
with Todd-Worthington and an elephant rifle. I was all for continuing, as
it is all dark underground anyway (and I did not see quite how Todd-Worthington
would fit). So on tomorrow, and well equipped with firearms and holy items--
in neither of which can I put much trust, but Ptachsp confirms the effectiveness
of the holy items heretofore observed, and Hn. Persicue and Todd-Worthington
seem to think that an elephant rifle is the solution to almost any problem.
I shall just have to have faith in the faithful
If we have escaped this time, it is because we are blessed, or cursed, or something, but it is not through the ordinary course of Nature. This of course seems hardly to apply anymore. Sorely, sorely trying!
So. We go to investigate the underground passage, armed to the teeth (this is an expression; it means: 'very well armed'). The passage is fully walled in stone. We go left, it ends in a small chamber. We go back. We go right, it forks, we go left, it ends in a small chamber. I sense a pattern. We go back and take the other fork, it ends in a door sealed with spikes recognizably manufactured for Persicue Hall, and not terribly old. What to do but pull them out? To our credit, we did debate the issue. How stupid does one have to be in order to strike a blow against evil? So on we went, and found the passage ending with a large block projecting into the passageway. Naturally we pushed this back into the room behind it, which roved to be a crypt, of no particular family that we could identify-- dates from 1766 to 1872, all present, the Vicar checked. We found also a broken dog's collar, not old at all. This wonders me greatly. How did that large block come to be pushed outwards as it was? The normal entrance to the crypt was sealed from the other side; nothing could get out that way without effecting serious damage, we were able easily to ascertain. Could someone have pushed that block out to escape from within? Why then replace the block, if not to keep other things from getting out, as also suggested by the manner in which the passage had been sealed shut, with Persicue nails? Why bring a dog? Do I suspect that it was J.M. P. himself who escaped, and nailed shut the passage? Why is there an underground passage leading from the Persicue estate to an off-estate crypt?
I did not have much time to be wondered, because on our way out, we encountered a huge pile of rubble which had not been there before, and some evil laughter, which Todd-Worthington instantly shoots. Then there was more evil laughter, but as of something bigger-- H. Ptachsp was utterly insensible, repeating 'very bad, very very bad'; all attempts to calm him were in vain, and why not? It was assuredly a singularly unusual and desperate situation. We were after much gruesome fighting able to defeat the creature which accosted us, a rather large one, black and leathery skinned; it was able to pass through the walls. Fire, H. Wu's explosives, and holy water undid the abominable thing. We escaped, but narrowly. H. Persicue is badly wounded in the chest, but the cavity is not infringed and all vitals are intact; he shall recover. I am only minorly inconvenienced and will not be doing anything with my right arm for a bit. It is Ptachsp who worries me, for his state of mind has become quite fragile, and I cannot make him hear me to attempt any restoration. Hopefully, time will heal him.
But that was the afternoon. This morning, before all this, I had gone to see how Fraulein Williams is, which mundane event itself has almost cost me dearly. Her father and four large brothers (they are bricklayers, and in more than one way well suited to their occupation) have taken it into their heads that I am responsible for the atrocities effected upon their young female relative. Needless to express my incredulity; indeed I did at first not understand the nature of their complaint, or the particular manner in which they were threatening me. Immediately it wonders me how they came to know about that-- for the girl will not remember and therefore cannot relate, and I certainly did not tell the family about it. They must have made a rather thorough inspection. They would not accept my plea of innocence, but agreed to take the word of the Vicar-- to whose presence I was obliged to bring the Williamses, all five, as they would not let me out of their custody. Thus did I take them to Persicue Hall, where the Vicar was later to come, having given the sermon for an injured colleague.
But now, I think I understand. The Vicar has done me great injury, in suggesting, when I explained to him the belief of the Williams fellows, that it was necessary for me to tell him whether or not it was true. How co uld it be true? Notwithstanding the stipulations of my oath, how could such a thing suggest itself to me as a viable course of action? And how could I be suspected of it by anyone who knew me at all? I know myself to be incapable of thinking in this way, but it would appear that to me is not attributable the same sort of moral respectability as to the natives of this isle. Mine is, after all, a barbaric race. How can I possibly be trusted to manage the more animal passions? Surely there is even a sense in which I could not be held responsible for failure to abide by civilised constraints on behaviour, as the wolf is not guilty of murder if it kills a man, but only of being a wolf? Ah, but are we all not mere beasts, following with brute necessity the dictations handed us by the development of our various forebrains and cerebellums! Indeed. If that were the case it should only count in my favour. It seems that the prejudice is a bit more unreasonable. Perhaps if my people as a whole engaged more often in pressing outwards to far-away nations and killing some of the people who live there for the glory of an Empire, we should not have so much difficulty in overcoming the limitations of our inferior characters imposed by Nature. Perhaps we should even become smaller. Even so, the Vicar did accept my statement, and the Williamses his, and so I am not obliged to marry the poor girl, who has but fourteen years (her opinion in this regard was, incidentally, not asked, and it seems evident to me that had it been, she would not have been entirely congenial towards such a proposal; can't say as I blame her really), or to be pounded into oblivion, or both, should Williams preferences be met. But I suspect that some of the Vicar's words may yet damn me in some way or another. I fear that the Vicar and H. Persicue may have misinterpreted my use of the word 'incapable'. Oh well. I suppose it can only be to my advantage, at least at the moment.
This is troublesome, but other things more so. What now, should it turn out that my fears should be substantiated, and the young Williams girl has become host to some parasitic demon? What can I do about it? And no one else would, for anyone else would see it as a normal pregnancy, and the girl as nothing but an unmarried strumpet; it would be very bad indeed, on many levels-- and what, when it finally comes to fruit? I cannot allow it. Should it be necessary, I must do whatever is required, however it should happen to stand.
The Vicar has found a peculiar bit of parchment in the neighboring Vicar's
Bible, strangely marked; Ptachsp, before his unfortunate affection, was
able to make out the nonconsecutive words 'red' and 'sunrise
Nothing supernatural has this day commanded my attention, though this
may have been serviced by my having left from work early and remaining at
home completely uncommunicative. I have had chance to pay attention, as
has poor Mr. Willoughby, whom I believe I may have given a bit of a turn,
and do not feel quite at all well. There is with me an insidious doubt as
to my own stability through these preternatural occurences. Surely regression
is impossible-- this much, my sister has assured me-- but I think that I
ought to be careful
For a time, things seem to have quieted; no supernatural activity of special note has required the attention of the Hambridge&Fivehead Cryptozoological Society. This can only be short-lived, I am certain; I can only think that the creatures are biding their time, counting their resources, evaluating their losses, waiting-- 'this is only the beginning', it said, didn't it? There is some respite for us. H. Persicue is healing well. He has a soldier's constitution, and will recover completely if he will but rest; he will of course not. It is something perhaps in the Persicue nature that makes them loath to follow he advice of their physicians? The Egyptian's state of mind is very delicate. I do not think it will be well with him. H. Todd-Worthington has retired to his estate. I suppose it was wise in a self-preserving sort of way. Would that I were not so committed, or such a fool, for the Alps are lovely, in a cold and white sort of way, this time of year. So the bones fall.
It has been most strange, most strange! -and has only become stranger with time-- but there comes a point when it must end. A fever breaks, clouds lift, the day is settled by darkest night. The events of the last few days, or whatever, have prompted a serious revision of my entire weltanschaaung, and I am reconciled. These events have changed me. For the worse or for the better is a question with no meaning. For the sake of whoever comes to be reading this, let me save you the trouble of analysis by informing you now that this is where the account begins to smack of complete insanity on the part of its chronicler. I assure you, however, that if I am changed, I am yet quite sane.
The Hambridge&Fivehead Cryptozoological Society has gained a member, a valuable extradimensional ally; also is reduced by one member, though it was not the goblins or the demons or the vampires who are responsible, but only I can claim that. I could not have done it, however, without the malice of omission committed by H. Persicue. It is a complicated affair. Consider: if a man shoot another, not having been informed by a third man, who is present, that the rifle was loaded, is the first guilty of murder? Is the third? Clearly neither. Both are at fault, but the greater fault lies with the first, as it lies with me now, for the act was mine. If not murder then manslaughter. But what court would hear this case?
Let whatever forgives forgive me, for besides the death-dealing offense of which I am unintentionally guilty, I have broken a solemn oath and laid hands on Mr. Persicue with intent to do bodily harm, and would have done so, save that I maintained sufficient sensibility that he might have been counseled towards the prevention of such, to which he readily took, and so only I emerged the worse for this encounter, and that only morally: he did me no injury, though perhaps it had been better if he had. Such a loss of integrity on my part is if not forgivable certainly understandable, for it is only long after the fact of a horrible transposition, the death of one of our number and the endangerment of us all, that he informs me that along with the spells there were notes. Inspection of these informs me that I might, had I seen these notes beforehand, known never everthe course of action, which I in my ignorance in fact did choose, to undertake. But choose it I did, and Clive Billock Abercrombie's horrible, uncanny, unnecessary death is on my head and my hands-- mine, and Persicue's.
But ahead of myself, I am getting. Beginnings should begin.
There was a summoning to Persicue Hall on the occasion of the December 22nd birthday of the departed J.M. Persicue; representative of the H. F. CZ. S. are just the younger H. Persicue, and myself; present also is the aforementioned H. Abercrombie, whom I had before but briefly met, a Dr. Cadwalliter, a botanist patronized by the late H. Persicue, whose acquaintance until this occasion I had escaped, and a schoolteacher Mr. Flitworth, who does not seem to like me at all. Oddly absent from the proceedings was Fraulein Fairberry. Time passed, as it does, and she did not appear-- this naturally was a cause of some concern to me, and no small portion of worry, unshared by my associates until it became evident that my more extreme reaction was justified. The Botanist behaves very strangely, taking it upon himself to get outside and hide in the garden-- he suffers from a malingering jungle fever, he says, and is compelled to take medication for it constantly, though he avoids queries about what this medication is. Indeed.
A search of the house was conducted, turning up nothing but the fact that F. Fairberry was last seen about to have been dusting the study, which proved to be partially dusted. Already convinced at this time that the goblins had renewed their vigilant attacks upon the more peaceful denizens of Devonshire, abducting F. Fairberry, inspection of the study revealed a peculiar vortex-like damaging to the varnish upon the wall, underneath the window, No concomitant mark could be found upon the outside-- though I did receive some strange looks from my companions for having gone out of the window to check-- but the wall is stone, and none might be expected. It was concluded by H. Persicue and myself that Fraulein Fairberry had been taken through the wall. At this point, as the incredulous remarks of our companions suggested that they thought this unlikely (with the exception of Mr. Abercrombie, who seemed quite comfortable with such notions), an initiation into our society was made. It is a good thing I have been carrying a sample of that powder. I am not certain that it was needed by Abercrombie, for he seemed to have seen quite a bit to this general effect, though his African experience differed from anything I would recognize-- there was no time to compare notes, however, as Fraulein Fairberry's state was uncertain and hours going by, The inevitable storm crept insidiously in from the moors. Does the weather always thus provide an appropriate backdrop to grim circumstance? Why do the interactions of the human and natural with the horrific and supernatural never occur on bright sunny afternoons? But more immediately: Where could they have taken Fraulein Fairberry? The suggestion that they might have taken her back to the cave where they took Margaret Williams-- for whatever dire purpose-- suffice it to say that I could not consider it.
It became evident that the botanist would have none of these affairs, not being swayed to our position of credulity as regards the existence of malevolent demons by our discourse regarding such. I must admit that I cannot fault him that. He determined to leave-- it was late, and as we knew that things were afoot, or ahoof, awing, or whatever, we could not allow him to leave alone. We did try to compel him to remain, but he broke away-- I was able to overtake him at the gate, where he was convinced to stay only at my insistence that if he would not, I would accompany him home-- the gentleman, I fear, was at this point quite convinced of my instability, even relative to the rest of present company, and he was not particularly pleased with this offer of mine, as I anticipated. Through the clever machinations of Abercrombie, the gentleman was convinced to accompany us on an excursion to the crypt, protesting all the while that goblins did not exist, and that he would prove it by going first. Naturally this did not meet with much resistance from us.
An excursion was mounted back to the crypt, turning up nothing but the remains of our late victory there, sans bones and still dripping from the wall, which fact had a rather extreme effect upon our poor botanist friend. Abercrombie however tasted the ichor-- his reason for so doing eludes me utterly. Though my education and the nature of the exposure it requires has inured me to much of the natural aversion to gore and such nastiness natural to most civilised people and even some soldiers, this I found positively repugnant.
Fraulein Fairberry was not to be found, and we returned in defeat. At H. Persicue's suggestion that we try the portal spell he had found in the attic during our earlier search of the house, and about which he had mentioned nothing, to my discredit I very nearly forgot the constraints of my oath, and verbally most certainly abandoned politeness-- reverting, indeed, to my native dialect (At least there is some saving grace in that; H.Persicue's German is fine, but nobody in his right mind makes an effort to master Schweitzerdeutch). Rather embarassing. I wonder how much Persicue knows of which he says nothing, and what else he has in his possession that would be of aid to us or at least a help to our understanding, that he will not show? It was a dreadfully trying occasion; I really feel that I might be forgiven this slip. Not so the botanist, who had made his way down to the gate and at our approach began shooting at us. I am not utterly convinced that he knew it was us, but this may be due to my admittedly deteriorating faith in human nature. In any case, horrors!
So back to the study, and H. Persicue read the spell out, though his pronunciation was atrocious and it did not work. How the English do run their vowels together, though not as much as they shy away from their consonants. So the reading was left to me, and so the portal opened, a cone of icky green light leading into the wall at the point where the varnish was damaged, where we fear they have taken poor hapless elder Fraulein Fairberry.
A low tunnel opened into the wall-- once within, all was very dark-- and it proved to be constructed, or comprised, or lined, or envigilated, I know not-- with flesh, human and non-human, dissociated parts commingled...
Needless to say this was profoundly disturbing. I managed to regain enough control over my senses, once the exit was gained, to check whether or not these disassociated parts, still vaguely warm, were alive. Stranger things might happen, I suppose. They were not, yet even so, as I checked for pulse a hand reached from the gory mire and tried to ensnare me. This was when I noticed the similar behaviour of the lot. This tendency was soon noted by all. I did not communicate any further findings to my companions; it did not seem that such details they had to know.
Not that they would have heard me anyway. I was shaken nigh to insensibility, but I believe I was in fact the one with the greatest grip on reality: Mr. Flitworth darted to the back of the chamber, stupefied to inaction, Herren Persicue, Cadwalliter, and Abercrombie all being military men and having seen active service, they all seemed to retreat into some hallucination of past battles. Persicue kept firing at random calling out drills I could not quite make out, as I had at this point rather lost all command of English, and Cadwalliter fired randomly; Abercrombie, preserving method if driven to madness (which may have been his natural state, but I shall probably never know now one way or the other) fired with some purpose, to release from the ceiling the cage constructed of bone which there hung, which once I had recovered enough presence of mind to relight the lamp proved to contain Fraulein Fairberry, poor thing, in terrible condition. My efforts to dissuade Abercrombie from this course of action failed-- indeed he attacked me-- and I was forced to some violence, I fear, but justified given the situation. Indeed it only helped: his impact with the floor apparently brought him back to himself and we were able to get F. Fairberry down with the reluctant and deluded help of Cadwalliter, whereupon we were attacked by demons of the most horrific kind. These were eight or nine feet tall, with four tentacles in addition to arms and some projection of muscle and teeth out of the chest, which when it struck burrowed, almost as if it had purpose of its own... and continued to do so if severed, as I might attest first-hand. We managed to get Fraulein Fairberry up to the study through the same passage by which we had arrived-- I was obliged to return for both Persicue and Cadwalliter, who had a bit of trouble getting back up. I believe they each thought themselves somewhere else entirely, and Abercrombie, who was most sorely injured by the demons, called me Boer and would not let me touch him until Persicue told him that I was just the medic. Dreadful, dreadful affections. I believe I was at that moment the only member of the company who had not utterly departed from reason.
And then I tried to close the portal by reading the spell over, as I vaguely recalled should be done. How wrong can one be! I could not have been more so.
When one re-reads a portal spell whilst a portal is already open, there is not a reversal of effect of the open spell but an on-top-opening of another. This, I have come to understand, is very very bad for what I may only call the continuity of the continuum, for want of a better term. Apart it comes. Mr. Abercrombie was caught in the hole opened up by the rending of space. Parts of him accelerating faster than other parts, with an apparent retention of some cohesiveness (or viscosity), the effect need no further be described: yet he continued to scream as he discorporated and was pulled into the vortex. I cannot ask whether he is alive or dead, could not hope for answer, if indeed there is an answer to that question; or where or how many wheres he might have gone, but I know I have not heard the last of that scream. O Persicue, Persicue! If I ever forgive you the retention of the notes, it will be the same day I forgive myself this murder, and this day I cannot forsee.
So when the explosion settled and we found ourselves again in the dark, we were and were not in H. Persicue's study. Apparently we had taken the places of our counterparts in an alternate dimension, where the supernatural is holding more power, and the human beings mad with helplessness and terror. Fraulein Fairberry I managed to stabilise as far as sleep. Putting her in bed I sought out one of Persicue's staff-- Johanna-- to watch her; the girl seemed unduly terrified of me. Having ascertained that it was not a Williams-related delusion and not being able to get any more out of her as she became a bit hysterical, I naturally mesmerized her into calm. (I shall acquire a reputation for mesmerizing young girls. I suppose it is better than the reputation I might have regarding young girls. At least the former one would be in reality grounded)-- it was in the course of this interview that I recognized our peculiar transpositional situation. Naturally intending to convey this information to Persicue, I sought him out to discover that he already knew, as he had been informed by the gentleman I met whilst bringing Fraulein Fairberry upstairs: Mr. Simon Stoatley, who seemed already to know us, or alternate versions of ourselves. He seems to know-- or to be able to deduce-- rather an uncomfortable lot about us, as well. I wonder just how much he knows about that whole affair at Leiden and all that? Mr. Stoatley, acclimated to this dimension, knows a good bit more about these affairs than we do, and was able to perceive the situation. (It is no doubt good that I made the discovery independently anyway, for doubtless Persicue would not have told me then if at all. I shall have to break disinclination towards telling me things I really ought to know before I kill him accidentally or unaccountably.)
Cadwalliter responded as I would have expected someone in his condition to do and it was only very narrowly that I was able to perceive the signs and prevent him from doing himself serious injury with that medication, which obviously enough is cocaine. He got Persicue in the belly with it though; will have to keep an eye on him. Cadwalliter, understandably though fantastically frustratingly, tried again to make his excuses and leave, running away; again I chase him so that he will not be eaten by demons and the scene at the gate is repeated with him holding me at gunpoint. I believe he might actually have shot me-- he certainly tried-- had not Stoatley interfered on both my and Cadwalliter's joint behalf by jumping on him and distracting him enough for me to get him in the base of the skull with enough laudanum to do him quite in. Whereupon up springs Mr. Stoatley, and 'Quickly, we have only moments before the vampires attack' he says; not one to argue with such a statement I obliged, and then the vampires attacked. Heavens, but they are volatile things, in every sense. Flitworth completely refuses to toss them into the fire, even as my aim with small bits of vampire is terrible. (A perfectly decent if neurotic fellow though he be, I reserve judgment on whether Flitworth is Cryptozoological Society material). Vampire anatomy is quite interesting. I do wish that it were possible for one to sit still long enough to take it apart. Is it vivisection, if the thing is undead? It must be nonvivisection but not thereby not vivisection. Inmortisection then. What surrounding ethics? It wonders me.
Not that I could trust myself after I have so badly treated space and time I thought at this point I might have seen a way to get us back. The spell focuses. The continuum, once rent, weakens. If you cast a portal spell in the vicinity of a recently weakened area of the continuum, it will rend again. If you force something which does not belong to the dimension in which it finds itself and which has therein no counterpart into the focus of the portal, the rent may tend towards the home dimension of the thing. H. Persicue's silver-plated cat skull, the one with the eight sided dice in the eye sockets, apparently has no counterpart here. We can use that. Hopefully the spell will not focus on a dimension belonging to one of the skull's counterparts. Anyway I thought, maybe. There was a brief moment of panic as I could not find the spell; wrong pocket. When will I learn? It was determined that Mr. Stoatley should accompany us back. He wishes it, he can be of immense assistance to our dimension whereas he can be of little help here, and the metaphysical considerations seem reconcilable.
WHY did it not occur to me to suspect that our dimension was not the home dimension of the skull? As if I am used to seeing such things about! A patent flaw. Alas; to the consideration of interdimensional dynamics, I am as yet ill-accustomed. And could I really be expected to know that Jonah Montgomery Persicue had been an interdimensional explorer?
I do not clearly remember what happened next. Perhaps it was the morphia. Perhaps the retroactive effects of the assimilation. I do not know, and do not particularly care, except that there was a time-- rather a long time, I fear-- where I seem to have taken complete leave of my reason. I suppose that this sort of thing, spellcasting, interdimensional travel, all that, has rather extreme effects upon the human mind. In any case, I have since completely recovered, if I am not entirely the same. I am whole.
Casting the spell for the third time, the paper seems to have crumbled into dust, though that does not matter now. The portal opened a hole into blackness going down, filled with some filamentacious vegetable matter of some type, which proved to occupy much of the sky of the dimension in which we landed. Only Flitworth managed to retain consciousness upon said landing, and he says he defeated an enormous reptillian bird-like thing in combat. Given his normal disposition, to believe this, I am finding it difficult. But if he says so. Light-headed myself with lack of blood and morphia (it was necessary; the pain was too much to be seen through), I was obliged to put most of my companions back into working order. I hope I did not damage them unduly. I am told that earlier I delivered to Cadwalliter quite a smack, requiring to be from him separated, though Persicue assures me that this was not without provocation; this is not remembered to me. Perhaps I will remember to apologize.
I dimly remember a concern of some kind on the horizon, which was pounding on something and constituted a threat, such that there was some shooting, some running away (by Flitworth), and so I undertook to read the spell again. Stoatley had copied it over, having remembered it. His memory is astonishing. Not astonishing enough, for he had written it wrongly. This did not trouble me, however, for in thinking of the spell, it simply manifested before my mind, and I knew it.
The moment is strangely remembered to me, for it has the character of a dream-- no, not a dream, but one of those moments of discovery one has when one finally sees through an obscurity, reconciles apparent incommensurables, recognizes possibility where none before could be seen, such ineffable revelation-- one of these which, when later you grasp at them, you find them inscrutable. It is not something that can be remembered. It is not something that can be re-experienced as such. It is a state of being, transient, like any other, like none. The incantation itself, however, is as present to me now as it was then. Maybe more so. I have but to call it to mind. Never before have I been taken with such complete tranquility, as when surrounded by the velvet blackness of the void; never have I comprehended more, than when the veils of definition that we erroneously interpret as expressive of essence had been lifted. It is useless to try to express it; indeed, the notion is genuinely paradoxical. That is amusing! But I must cease from these thoughts, for they may still be dangerous. In thinking of the spell-- or hearing anything having to do with it, or with spells in general, or anything vaguely reminiscent thereof-- it is right there, immediately present, commanding attention to itself. I fear to be recalled into the void, and yet, it beckons.
I cannot remember very much else. I am told that the spell consumed me, so that I had to be from recitation forcibly stopped. I am told that I wasn't going anywhere, and that when this was pointed out to me, I responded that there isn't anywhere to go. Reasonable; it's true, but I suppose at the time I couldn't recognize the actuality of the situation. It was only much later that I was made cognizant of the extent to which I had been adversely affected, through Stoatley, whose attentiveness to my photosensitivity suggested to me that I was perhaps not in the best of conditions. Much later, he told me that as I made the recitation, I was surrounded by some kind of nimbus, and that there was another creature present. He did not see what became of that creature-- though when I noted to him that when the scarred priest took my mind apart, there was something screaming, and whatever it was was neither myself nor the priest, Stoatley thought it altogether possible that it and I might now coexist. That's fine. I cannot now-- yet-- feel anything else there, so if indeed I am not altogether alone in my head, whatever is here with me does not constitute much of a presence to me. If indeed this is the case I have every willingness and faith that the two of us should live in peace. But again I am getting ahead of myself. I shall relate it in as much detail as I can remember.
Stoatley informs me that after opening the portal it is necessary to wait a certain amount of time before doing it again, so as not to catch the attention of certain undesirables who are attuned to such things. So it was to be the next morning before we could attempt to return home. This gave me ample time fully to recover myself. We constructed a fire, but even so the night was quite cold; this did not bother me for some reason, though F. Fairberry keeps my coat. I could not sleep anyway. Mr. Flitworth was likewise affected, but he seemed disinclined towards conversation. He is, it comes out, terrified of tall people, and this is the reason for his reticence towards me. This unreasonable phobia proved extremely troublesome indeed to him upon the morning, however, and I the least of his worries. Quite literally. My own six feet and eleven, though not altogether remarkable at home, is considered by British standards rather impressive; Flitworth is probably only just five feet high himself. The Skeid seem to average about seven and a half.
They are a rather attractive race, the Skeid, tending towards the leaner end and quite dark. They dress peculiarly, in long robes, typically red, and wear their hair long and with many multicoloured beads. They were riding what can only be described as eight-leggedracing giraffes. They accepted Stoatley's open-handed gesture in the intended spirit and proved quite amiable, offering to share their breakfast of dried fish. It was not quite what my companions were expecting, I think. I did not partake, thinking the rather dramatic effect had by flesh upon digestive tracts unaccustomed thereto unseemly given the situation-- though I did taste it, and indeed, it was vile. Flitworth, of course, had fled in mortal terror. One of the Skeid went after him, and brought him back looking quite pale indeed. Generally we got on well with these people, and with the help of one Malali I was able to learn a bit of their language. Theirs is a pleasant tongue-- non-declensional, odd verb system, lyrical, inflected rather not unlike some northern African languages...
(Here follows a brief outline of some simple grammar and vocabulary.)
Malali was quite happy to teach me and I managed to gather enough to be understood. Cadwalliter, rather unwisely I thought, shared his cocaine with some of them. Their reaction was a little extreme and I was really very worried that he might have done them some serious harm. It appears to have turned out well, though; the affected two are likely to join the priesthood. So a good time was had by all, until we tried to leave.
Malali very politely protested that we must instead come back to their village. So I politely protested that we really couldn't, and this went on for the usual three cycles before the other party is supposed to say 'Well goodbye then'; this, however, did not happen. Instead it became rather evident that we were going to the village, like it or not. All very politely, of course. Stoatley advised me to open the portal in the midst of them, if they would not let us go. I was reluctant to do this, but it was quite obvious that they were not going to release us, so I did. Tried. The Skeid as a group did not take kindly to this and I found myself rather hurriedly bound, gagged, guarded, pronounced very very bad and tied to one of those eight-legged mounts. Everyone except Cadwalliter (fancy that!) declined to resist. I was very concerned that he would begin shooting people, regardless of the extreme stupidity of the action especially given the number of bows instantly trained upon him at his warning shot; he did not, and all was well. So we went to the village, on the periphery of a larger city; high architecture and reasonably advanced agriculture evidenced.
My companions were generally let to themselves, as the village was walled and guarded, and there was no real possibility of escape. I was not to be allowed this freedom, however, and Malali was assigned to ensure that neither I nor any of my companions could release me from any of the rather uncomfortable restraints, to which task he attended with extreme vigilance and politeness. We were eventually gathered together in the center of the village, where we and our personal possessions were inspected with great thoroughness. This was all rather awkward; more so for my Anglically prudish associates than for myself. Poor Flitworth was beside himself with terror, inspired by this treatment at the hands of these tall foreigners to incontinence. I hope this is not a normal reaction for him. In any case I shall have to try to remember never to frighten him overmuchly. The Skeid did give us back our clothes, but they did not return to me my spectacles; I remember the High Priestess as a very colourful smudge. There was food-- I did not trouble Malali to assist me, for I would not be untied or ungagged-- and then there was sleep.
The next day we were brought by wagon, in rather sorry condition, to the Emperor. Much politeness seemed to have been abandoned by this point-- except for myself, we had not been physically mishandled, but I was rather nastily whacked for asking Persicue to tell me what transpired, as I could see nothing, and he for trying to tell me. I expressed no further interest in the journey, since in my rather battered condition and not having had the benefit of dinner, I felt perilously close to seizures. But everything changed when we reached the Emperor-- a very pleasant, gregarious fellow, and enormous-- who astonished us all by greeting us in English. He explained that he had learned it from 'the great Mister Jonah', who had visited some time before. At last, at the word of the Emperor Malali untied me, and Persicue's implorations rescued me from blindness. The Emperor was greatly pleased to meet another Persicue, and saddened to hear of J.M.P's death. He and Persicue talked for some time, and seemed to be getting along well.
We were blessedly allowed to bathe, and were given food. They attended to our injuries by some curious method-- I was unable to observe, as it was highly soporific, but it involved rather a lot of candles and incense and a meditative priest. I haven't a clue what they did once we were asleep, but it was most efficacious.
I was rather cruelly awakened by the entrance of another priest, to whom the first was apparently utterly subject; this first looked nervous, bowed, and went away backwards and left me with this newly arrived one, who had a thin red scar neatly dividing his face, bald head, and chest as far as I could see. He said nothing and did not respond to my greeting, but looked at me and then I knew him to be going through my mind as through a ledger. I resisted, tried to force him out, to no avail: he was too strong. So in desperation I tried to attack him physically, but he simply held out his hand and I could not move. I fought him-- but he took my mind apart as easily as a child pulls the wings from butterflies. It was as though my soul were shredded and put through a strainer, excruciatingly painful-- and something was screaming. It was not him, of that I was immediately aware, and after a moment was sure that it was also not me. Then he was finished, and he left. I thought he might have taken the spell, but as soon as I thought of it, it was there-- I struggled to rise and went after him, demanded to know what he had done, but he said nothing, and went away. I only vaguely remember the other priest collecting me from the hallway.
Later, rejoining my companions and others, I tried to get it out of Malali, what that priest had done. Malali looked rather astonished that I had had anything to do with this priest, said it wasn't his priest, it was the Emperor's priest, and wouldn't tell me anything more. Persicue, asking about the content of this intent conversation, mentions to me that he knew that someone was going to come to me and take a look at the spell, to see which one it was. Had I but known that! I should not have resisted, and perhaps it would not have been so fantastically, amazingly agonizing. I mentioned to Persicue that I could, if he was interested, give him rather an impression of the experience, through creative use of an orthodontical drill. Why does he never tell me anything!? Not had time, he says. I did not feel particularly inclined to join in the evening's festivities, and felt it judicious to refuse Flitworth's request that I mesmerize this ridiculous terror of the vertically advantaged out of him until I was a bit more stable. Fortunately, I was left to myself, and nobody tied me up.
We were gathered the next morning by that same scarred priest and four others and taken to a tower balcony, with a splendid view of the city. The priest-- whose tongue, it was evidenced, is cut in half-- began a recitation, of something like the incantation I know, but it was wrong somehow, the wrong timbre, like trumpets when one is used to French horn. Indeed it became painful. I desired powerfully to fix it, but decided it would be unwise, and the blackness descended again.
Eventually, the darkness lifted, and (whatever it was like, it was not like a giant hand rising up) and became a lighter darkness, above which could be seen stars: Our stars. We were dropped, it soon became evident, approximately six miles outside of Exeter, in a wood, upon a barrow (Persicue tells me this-- I believe my earlier expressions of my wishes that he be more forthcoming with information have been effective, or perhaps it was the drill threat), on Sunday, December 28, six days after our departure into unknown regions and alternate dimensions in pursuit of the abducted Fraulein Fairberry. We have succeeded, at least in this mission, but at considerable cost.
But now, it is almost six; I shall be late to work if I do not leave immediately.
Stoatley has only just recently fallen asleep: I can tell because the deliberate
pacing has stopped, the melody of the concertina has ceased, and the tobacco
is not renewed. I shall resume this at another time.
And so. We were dropped on this barrow, as mentioned, about six miles from Exeter. My theory is that the location in the particular dimension in which the portal is opened is relevant to the place in which one will find oneself on the other side. I know it is a barrow, because Persicue informs me-- apparently, my earlier expressions of my desire that he be more forthcoming with information have had the desired effect, or at least these combined with the threat involving the drill. No, I am too cruel, and he does not deserve it; he has made considerable effort to bend himself to my perhaps unreasonable expectations in this and I am content. But for those notes! Alas, Abercrombie.
Stoatley at first seemed much put out by our being outside at night, but he appears to be getting used to not being pursued by preternaturals on quite such a regular basis. Heading through the snow (of which there was almost a respectable covering) towards the lights of the city we came to a road, and a farmhouse, where we were taken in and given tea in a most gracious fashion my a man whose name I have in my typical fashion forgotten, his wife Ethel and son Fred. Fraulein Fairberry had at last regained consciousness, even able to stand, though quite weak; she was much strengthened in body and spirit by the provisions offered by our hosts, and I was quite heartened to see her return to her old abusiveness towards me. Her resiliency is astonishing-- Three days of unconsciousness, interdimensional travel and not inconsiderable bumpings about have had surprisingly small effect on what ought to be an extremely frail constitution. Anything broken has healed-- this is true of the rest of us as well, and I must put that down to the medical methodology of the Skeid--it must be some form of electromagnetism. She remembers little of her experiences, and I see no particular reason to inform her; Persicue agrees.
Upon taking lodgings at The King's Arms in the nearby town of Butterly, we discovered upon reading yesterday's paper that Mr. A. K. Persicue has been missing and is presumed dead. We had been removed utterly, and were not, it would appear, replaced by alternates from another dimension. Additionally, Stoatley's alternate is still here. This wonders me as to what became of 'us' in Stoatley's dimension? Poor Fraulein Fairberry-- I fear she may have suffered some change in attitude; I shall have to keep a careful watch on her, and carefully indeed. She fell asleep before the fire at the inn, and when I woke her, with the intent of escorting her upstairs to her room, she asked quite bluntly whether or not I was propositioning her-- in fact, so blunt was her manner that I received the distinct sense of being propositioned myself. I have learned better than to underestimate Fraulein Agnes Fairberry, but really! But she keeps it up. It is frightening me. I think I preferred the abuse.
The journey back to Ilminster was uneventful if anxious. Flitworth's educatory responsibilities are lifted by the holidays, and Persicue and Cadwalliter of course have none that require them to keep any certain hours, but I was six days and three hours late for work. Mr. Willoughby expressed great surprise upon my return, and thus did I learn, much to my relief, that I had not been replaced by a possibly quite unstable alternate who could have done anything. I have told Mr. Willoughby that I was rather indisposed. I suspect he will require something a bit more substantial in the way of explanation-- if only I were not such a wretched liar!
Mr. Willoughby had moved all of my appointments. Blessed, competent Mr. Willoughby! Such a contrast to his predecessor. He tells me that they had had the police around, which reminds me, I have not yet gone to them to tell them that I am back; I suppose I should think of something to tell them first-- and that Margaret Williams was nearly beside herself, what with the baby and all. I nearly fainted straightaway. It has only been two months! Eight pounds and four ounces, a healthy boy, so they believe. Fraulein Williams has apparently asked for me, so naturally, even were I not so inclined anyway, I was obliged to go-- I took Mr. Willoughby with me, as a precaution, or a witness, which ultimately proved unnecessary but not unfounded.
Mr. Williams has disinherited his daughter and sent her away-- he will not tell me where-- he believes the child to be a changeling and says he will bring charges against me. My pointing out that the suggestion that children were being replaced with preternatural creatures at the hands of spellcasters would not go over very well even in a British court did not meet with congeniality. In any case I was not murdered on the spot, for which I count myself fortunate. Mr. Persicue went around later to try to facilitate a reconciliation, or at least to find out where they have taken the Fraulein; no success, and apparently Mr. Persicue was himself threatened. Neither have they told Johanna, whom I questioned over some onion-chopping, from which Fraulein Fairberry later chased me. Anyway, it should be an easy matter for Stoatley to find her.
I have other responsibilities in this regard as well. How to get rid of this child! Well, children die. It is the first child of a too young mother, and in the dead of winter, born Christmas day. It is reasonable, that it should die. But if I am not excruciatingly careful! If I am caught! I must not think of the possible consequences, however. The consequences of inaction would be far worse and further-reaching than any consequences of any actions I might take, which should probably be hanging, or perhaps they have something special reserved for foreign babykillers? Oh, lords. I never did think that I should find myself contemplating infanticide. Though infanticide generally involves human infants. Fortuna rota volvitur.
So, I returned to Persicue Hall. There was dinner; Cadwalliter enters late, with a cat he has not a half an hour ago poisoned with the filamentacious vegetation brought from the home of the Skeid. It is, as the charming expression goes, stiff as a board, which he demonstrated by dropping it into the soup. He agrees not to shoot at me if we might use my facilities to examine the animal, and so Stoatley, Cadwalliter and myself left for Atherstone, accompanied only a short way by Flitworth, who lives close to Persicue Hall. Fortunate for Flitworth, for shortly after he took his leave of us we were attacked by some kind of horrendous demonic canine, which has done Cadwalliter considerable damage, and which took considerable damage itself before we were able to destroy it. Most cleverly done by Cadwalliter: with the creature dentally affixed to his face, he managed to retrieve one of those small fused flasks of alcohol we have been using as ammunition (someone, Flitworth I think, has christened this device 'pitcairn', since it was my invention), light it, and smash it on the beast; this set it and Cadwalliter on fire, whereupon he was able to get his revolver into the thing's mouth and shoot it down the throat. Impressive, and rather messy. There was little I could do for him at Persicue Hall, and so we brought him to my home where with Fraulein Fairberry's assistance Ihave been able to stabilize him, and do all in my power to repair the damage-- and if I may say so, I do not believe that much more could have been done. He will regain consciousness in a couple of days, and will have very interesting scars.
I have taken on Mr. Stoatley as a boarder of sorts. I am grateful for the company, acerbic though it be; his concertina-playing at all hours is something to which I shall have to become accustomed. That I believe possible; he's actually quite an accomplished player of the instrument. I do not think I shall ever get used to that infernal tobacco of his. And he keeps singing this song about a fishmonger's daughter who is a fishmonger and dies of fever. Be that as it may; I am, at this point, concerned for my own potential hazardousness. It is the spell-- I am seriously affected. There is never a moment when it is not there, and if I should happen upon the thought, it is immediate and complete. Indeed I need not think of it, but am obliged to exert constant effort to keep from invoking it, which would be no effort on my part at all. That Stoatley is present and can keep an eye on me, and prevent me from accessing alternate dimensions in the unlikely event that the need should arise, is a comfort.
I have copied the rest of the spells-- Summoning; Death; (darkness?) and
one which J. M. Persicue had titled Llama, crossing this out and replacing
it with the title 'Giraffe?'. I am intrigued, but do not anticipate casting
this (or anything) in the foreseeable future. The one I accidentally destroyed,
I have quite naturally been able to replace. Also I have the notes, and
appended my own observations to the original, which I hope I shall remember
to return to Persicue.
Note: the following is on several very small sheets of paper, fastened
in with a stitch.
As in London, so in Broughton-on-Sea. Nobody rises before seven thirty, and so I shall have two and a half hours at the very least.
Tuesday midmorning, Stoatley and Mr. Jim Tremaine, Persicue's gardener, arrived at my practice with the message that I must remove immediately to Persicue Hall, for Persicue has received a telegram of utmost importance, from, of all people, Stoatley's theologian alternate. This telegram summons our entire company to his offices in London, where we are to discuss the particulars of some matter with which he thinks us uniquely qualified to deal. I did not realize quite how much Stoatley had been telling his alternate, but there it is. So I am dragged away from Mrs. Percival and her recalcitrant molars, about which fact I am just dreadfully remorseful, O dreadfully! to London, along with Persicue, Fraulein Fairberry, and Mr. Tremaine. The journey took many hours longer than it ought to have, for problems with the track, which would not have been nearly as trying as it was if they did not insist on sizing the seats in trains to suit only the average Englishman.
We were much concerned about the possible consequences of placing interdimensional alternates in proximity, and Stoatley thinks this concern warranted; for this reason we were obliged to leave him in a cafÈ whilst we went for interview with him, that he should not meet himself. Mr. Stoatley of this dimension, to whom though I suppose I ought to ascribe him primacy I shall refer as Stoatley2, is much more sociable than his alternate, my lodger. Stoatley2 tells us that he is deeply concerned about a parish in the remote coastal town of Broughton-on-Sea. It seems that whereas the congregation had been diminishing, it has recently and suddenly risen, and the vicar, normally an amicable and garrulous fellow, has become strangely uncommunicative. All most unusual--he is concerned over 'what they may be worshipping' there; therefore he wishes us to go and observe. So we go. Who else would?
The town immediately presents some oddities to us. The inhabitants are taciturn, though friendly enough if approached. But the church itself yields the most striking evidence that all is not well here. To the eye, all appears normal, but the odour of the place struck me immediately upon entering as similar to that of an anatomy and physiology lecture theater. Stoatley observed blood on the altar. Some of the parishioners possess a peculiar sheen to the complexion, as though they had been oiled and buffed, these including the Vicar, but seem otherwise, outwardly at least, in reasonable health. Introduction of Devonshire holy water to the native stuff produced bubbling, in a most unwholesome sort of way. Stoatley2 was very right to be concerned.
Stoatley, being typically amazingly clever, approached a parishioner as a tourist inquiring about the architecture. The poor fellow, a Mr. Samuel O'Keefe, obliged readily, offering us a tour-- after showing the church proper, he brought us to the apse, where oddly enough there are stairs going down and back. This alarmed Stoatley-- he imagined this farmer to be leading us down to some inner chamber, there to do lord knows what-- and so as Mr. O'Keefe preceded us into the stairwell, Stoatley struck him, with the intent of knocking him down and questioning him. Dreadful accident! Mr. O'Keefe went tumbling down the stairs, breaking his neck somewhere along the way-- I do not believe that he survived to the bottom, where he landed bleeding profusely where the shards of his skull had lacerated his scalp. Persicue followed quickly upon our heels, and upbraided Stoatley most sharply-- indeed, I have never heard Persicue speak so irately, not even when he and I have argued over metaphysics or I have to my infinite discredit attacked him; it is not his way, he is normally a soft-spoken gentleman-- while I in my mercenary way took the opportunity afforded by this unfortunate occurrence to examine the poor fellow for signs of bloodletting. I could find none, but the examination was quite cursory. Stoatley, however, was able to ascertain through even more cursory examination that the man was a pig-farmer, left-handed, who had recently killed a game-bird of some kind, and several other bits of information.
The screams of a female who came upon us from above soon brought several other parishioners, and these soon brought the constabulary, who questioned us, and accepted our story that Mr. Stoatley had been leaning down to look at something while Mr. O'Keefe walked nearby, and that Mr. O'Keefe tripped over Stoatley's walking-stick. It was accepted as an unfortunate accident, and I have no doubt that the post-mortem conducted by the local physician, an obviously English-educated Dr. Morris, will turn up nothing to the contrary.
Poor Mr. Tremaine, with whom I shared quarters at the Broughton Arms, seems to have gotten along well with the local population but slightly less well with the local ale-- he awoke quite the worse for it, but I managed to restore him, and he seems to like me better now. Flitworth appeared later in the afternoon, joining us after a morning of unsuccessful investigation, all inquiries proving fruitless, all appearances of normalcy maintained faultlessly by the locals. Therefore we determined later to attend an Evensong, to see what we could make of the service. Thus were the some of the complications and the true nature of my condition revealed.
All seemed reasonably normal, at least as far as I can remember it; the church was full, the liturgy the usual one, and the only suggestion that anything untoward might be taking place was the odd sheen of a rather large percentage of the people, and the fact that these people tended to occupy the front sections of the church, exhibiting rather more attentiveness than one normally associates with churchgoers. Quite early in the service, however, I was obliged to leave, for I was taken with a rather extreme headache; immediately upon leaving the church, it diminished. A short walk in the company of Mr. Tremaine, who followed me out, and an attempt at rescu ing a treed cat resulting in the breaking of branches and falling of Tremaine and cat, restored me completely, and so we returned to the service. Scarcely had I reentered the church when the pain returned, much worse, and I could not escape the building before the seizure was upon me, much more severe than those to which I am normally subject. I did not regain consciousness until early the next morning. But before that--horrible visions of being pursued by enormous canine creatures, preternatural, but not Hossochs, away from a gate of some description, with some mountains in the distance; I was ever so gradually overtaken and taken to little pieces. I did not look back at the creatures, so I do not know what they looked like, only that there were very many of them and they were very large.
I awoke in Dr. Morris's offices, and failed to escape without waking the nurse. Persicue was there, waiting, and Stoatley as well. It comes out that Persicue has known all along that I am epileptic. Apparently, the late J. M. Persicue took it into his head that he would occupy himself for the duration of one of my fits in the composition of a sonnet on the subject, which he did not finish, as I was not gracious enough to seize for an adequate time. I remember the occasion; I had no idea he had done that. Such an unusual character, the Great Mr. Jonah. I am glad Persicue knew: it is an awkward topic, which of course he is far too polite ever to mention. Stoatley, of course, had deduced it, but hypothesized that this instance was precipitated by the presence of the spell with me-- vocally, aloud, and persistently, until in my weakened state I could not keep up the restraint and let it go. Stoatley stopped me, which involved knocking me senseless, and so I imagine that I was carried back to the inn.
In spite of all this, I awoke promptly at the usual hour, and so had several hours to contemplate the peculiar array of characters that occupied my visual field. Similar in nature but unlike those that were present when the spell had assimilated me, I know them to be related, but do not understand the precise relation. I cannot read them, as they are blurred; if I concentrate I can with much difficulty separate one from the others and almost make it out-- but separate they lose meaning anyway. They move around a bit and follow things like after-images-- it is terribly confusing, and rather vertiginous, especially with quickly moving things. It was not until my companions awoke and pointed it out to me that I realized that I had developed that peculiar sheen present in so many of the townspeople. Stoatley informs me that I am possessed, and that this is symptomatic. He explains that to cast a spell is to invoke an entity, which then comes and does whatever it is that it does. He points out that this is rather what is entailed in any orthodox blessing: one invokes God to come and 'do His God thing', as Stoatley so eloquently puts it. He tells me that when I cast the portal spell that fateful third time, I did so with an interesting twist, invoking the entity not merely to open an interdimensional portal but also inviting it to come and make itself comfortable, which it has done, and so now I am possessed. He does not know if the entity is sentient or not (attempts at initiating communication prove fruitless). About the images, he speculates that it may be preparing another invocation, which at some point I shall be compelled to say.
Perhaps it is odd, but neither then nor at any other time was I particularly worried about this. I am quite in control, and though the changing nature of my occupation, as it were, can be a little unsettling at times, it seems to be something to which I can become accustomed. Perhaps if I had not stepped into the void, I should be concerned. But that experience has imparted to me a certain serenity, which makes it impossible for me to attribute to this a significance such that I should worry.
Ten thirty or thereabouts-- who should walk in but Heironymous Cadwalliter, looking quite gruesome indeed, but functional! I had not expected him to be up and about for at least a few more days, but I suppose his 'medication' makes him better able to function under some adverse conditions. His appearance will improve, once the swelling goes down, and the stitches come out. He is a fiercely uncooperative patient! I shall probably have to turn him over to someone else-- he dislikes me strongly, and no recommendation of anyone's will make him willing to submit himself to my care while he is conscious. Unfortunate, that, but on his head be it. Yet he alarms me considerably, for he is still of the opinion that I am a dangerous lunatic, to whom his brother, who apparently maintains an asylum, should attend. He makes much of my rather large collection of sharp objects; pointing out to him that this is an occupational necessity only makes me paranoiac in his eyes. I might not worry, except that I know him to resent me, and I fear he may actually consult his brother on my behalf-- and if any of my history came to light, things could get very bad indeed.
We have made it up to break into the church for investigative purposes, under cover of night, but first to travel to the neighboring town (Broughton) to test the effects of non-corrupt religious observances on me. I admit to some considerable trepidation over the notion. The pain before was extraordinary-- and if I am defunct for the whole duration of this investigation, I shall prove an entirely detrimental element to be. But, I suppose it must be known, and this is the quickest experiment we have it in our power to perform. I feel rather like a laboratory animal. Oh well. Perhaps it will be well, and they will leave me be over this matter of 'possession'.
But the train will soon arrive, and we must depart
Note: the following pages are on
the same small sheets, written with a very unsteady hand; the occasional
blot of ink keeps company with what appears to be bloodstains.
Sunday 3rd January 1884.
'o' Some clock somewhere informs me that there are three hours only in this day. I am exhausted, and debilitated, yet I cannot sleep. The evil in Broughton-on-Sea is diminished-- the church is gone-- the affected, dead. Others also. It is with me rather as if someone has taken a range of metallurgical equipment to the inside of my skull. The spell is gone. There is only a dim memory of presence. Morphia only keeps me operative. What have we done? Only what must have been done? What no one else could have, or would have, done? First do no harm-- I must only tell myself that we did what was necessary. That there was no other way. I would not write this, I do not want to-- but I must acknowledge it. And if anyone ever is to know-- let it never be so-- then someone must. So I do, while I yet can.
It did not go well for me at the church in Broughton. Fire, pain like being torn apart with hot knives and lightning. Again it was necessary for me to flee the building, bleeding from the ears, but I managed to avoid another seizure, I know not how. Stoatley's praying over it seemed to help, though at first I was sure it would kill me.
The corruption of Broughton-on-Sea appears to be (thus far) restricted to that town; we observed nobody with that sheen in Broughton, save for one, noted by Mr. Tremaine in the church; a tweedy fellow, with a mustache and walking-stick. After the service Persicue instructed Mr. Tremaine to follow this gentleman, and to meet us later at the station. He did so, and met us with a fair amount of alcohol in his system and an extraordinary tale-- the tweedy gentleman had noticed Mr. Tremaine tailing him, and responded by concealing himself in a shadowed alley, until Mr. Tremaine came upon him, and then attacking with his stick and his hand raised 'like he was going to pick an apple'. A short scuffle ensued, in which Tremaine proved the inferior contender, and so he fled, at which the tweedy gentleman threw a fireball at him-- not like one of ours, but entirely supernatural in nature. Quite naturally Tremaine gave up the chase at this point and retired, smouldering, to the pub.
The train arrived, and we got in and away, though Mr. Tremaine had to be sick on the platform-- he does tend to overconsume his ale-- and Fraulein Fairberry could not be compelled to leave it. Upon arriving in Broughton-on-Sea, whom should we discover to have been all the while on the train but our tweedy shiny gentleman. It was already pulling out of the station, and banging on the doors did not command the conductor's attention, so-- unmindful of the impropriety-- I jumped it. Stoatley and, of all people, Flitworth followed me. Persicue however managed to call it to a halt in a far more dignified manner, involving a guinea, I think, and gave me quite a stern look. Rather embarrassing. But we got back on the train.
Persicue, Flitworth, Stoatley and myself pursued the gentleman through the train, until he finally settled in a first-class cabin also occupied by a lady and a man who could only have been an undertaker. Stoatley's initial and rather tactless attempts to get his attention failed. While he and Persicue and Flitworth seemed quite interested in provoking conflict with him, on a moving train, filled with innocent bystanders, this proved problematic in the planning-- how exactly does one go about attacking a demoniac spellcaster to whom one has Not Been Formally Introduced? I managed to convince them that given that I shared his peculiar affection of complexion, and was indeed possessed, he might recognize and be willing to talk to me, peacefully. Stoatley broke a long habit and commended me on rational thinking. I suppose I ought to feel complimented. Somehow, I do not.
Persicue and I entered the cabin as legitimate first-class ticketholders, we having had no prior interactions with our subject, who therefore should not have regarded us with any suspicion. Stoatley, accompanied by Flitworth, took my stethoscope to the next cabin, listening for trouble, or for our codephrase indicating such, 'the game's afoot'. Inoffensive enough query-- had he the correct time? He turned, and politely gave it-- his eyes were fields of green, without center or pupil. They remained this way for only a moment, reverting quickly to a more normal appearance. I made nothing of it and proceeded to introduce myself, get his name-- Jameson-- and to ask insignificant questions as a means of initiating more interesting discussion. He saved me the trouble, turning to me, leaning close and looking very carefully, with the green eyes again, saying >Oh, I see you have company<.
Persicue attempted to intervene at this point, but seeing that I was not threatened, and perhaps unsettled by the gentleman's appearance, thought better of it. To my indication that yes, I was aware of aforementioned company, and had been curious as to whether he might not be able to help me with that, Jameson answered that I had better come with him, and proceeded to take me by the arm, and open the door-- the outer door-- of the moving train, and step out. This struck me as unusual, but I followed, and found myself in what I took to be Jameson's parlour. I was unable to determine if this was a simple spatial translocation, or if any interdimensional travel had occurred.
Jameson proved too be quite a pleasant, if unusual, sort of person. He invited me to sit, and conducted a thorough but entirely non-invasive examination. Much of it was standard, but much was not, and involved some instruments with which I was not familiar; he examined my eyes with a powerful glass-- giving me some opportunity to observe his, which remained quite green-- and checked my ears as well. He was most concerned with the bump on my tongue, appearing to regard this as very serious indeed. He asked a number of questions about visions, nightmares, recent changes in attitude and behaviour, that sort of thing, and informed me that yes, I had a spell, he wasn't quite sure which one-- either Agravor or Helloch, and that it would have to come out. Moreover, since we were not within the same time frame as we had been, he was going to effect this, immediately.
Naturally I protested that I wasn't particularly interested in having it out. I was not, as noted, overmuch concerned about its presence there, and my experiences with church services led me to suspect that I might not survive an exorcism, and besides which what qualified him to perform it? He responds that he is an hourman, which is what I would probably call a sorcerer. He reacted with some confusion to my queries as to what kind-- there is only one kind, he says. He insisted that it was absolutely necessary for the spell to be removed, and at this stage in the transformation I probably had a 90% chance of survival, for I was still recognizably human. Well then! If I do not acquiesce, into what could I expect to turn? He did not give me a very clear answer to this, but I rather received the impression that he thought I would not like it. And what else could I expect from this transformation? I would become absent. How much longer did I have? About two weeks, maybe more or less, difficult to say. The prospect of becoming absent before February brought me around to the notion that exorcism was probably in order. What precisely did this entail? He would have to do battle with the entity. And then he would send it back whence it came? Certainly not! He would imprison it. It must not be allowed to get out. Once imprisoned, would it still be usable? Oh yes.
These questions answered, I agreed to submit to the procedure. Good man, says he, and was rather impatient and anxious to get on with it, but I asked him a number of other questions anyway, regarding what he was doing in the village, what was transpiring there, and tried to get out of him where his allegiance lay. It occurs to me now that he never gave me a perfectly straight answer, and perhaps Stoatley is right, and I was wrong to trust him as I did, but he did seem genuinely concerned for my well-being, and that I would not become some horrible affrightment to the natural order. I was certainly clear about my agendas-- and why would he tell me as much as he did, and why prevent certain transformation, perhaps at considerable risk to himself-- I do not know-- if he was not interested in preventing demonic invasion? I am willing to accept that some of the people on our side might not be what we normally expect in people.
He was dreadfully reticent, and I had much difficulty in getting anything out of him, but he did give me some information. Like us, he was there to observe. The peculiar appearance of the villagers of Broughton-on-Sea, he tells me, is due to the fact that they are no longer entirely human, but Sh'shim-- vessels, harbouring demons, which would eventually leave their hosts. I asked him if he wanted to prevent this, and he said 'we must all prepare for the coming evil'. He did not seem to have the sheen himself, anymore, but I remarked that I was certain he had had it-- an illusion, he says. One must keep up appearances. The same with the eyes, which are, he says, always like that. It occurs to me that I did not ask him whether or not he was human. I can be so naive. This was as much as I could get out of him before he insisted on proceeding, and so I assented, whereupon he simply laid a hand on my forehead, rendering me unconscious.
I suppose Jameson must have sent me back, though he did not return with me. I ended up in the same cabin on the train I had left, in extremely poor condition and a great deal of pain. I was thoroughly disinterested in answering Stoatley's persistent questions-- actually I could not remember what had happened at the time-- but only in being asleep. Therefore I owe my life to Persicue and to Stoatley, who kept me from this, for had I not remained upright I would surely have drowned in my own blood, which issued in considerable quantity from my eyes, ears, nose, and the vacant space where the mass in my tongue had been. I was quite blind, though I couldn't have cared less until at my request, Persicue had Cadwalliter give me morphia. For a cocaine addict, Cadwalliter is certainly indelicate with a hypodermic-- but then, Cadwalliter doesn't like me, and could have been being deliberately nasty. Apparently I had been bound-- I am quite badly bruised at the wrists and ankles and throat-- Persicue declares that he has seen injuries like these only on public school students. They brought me to a doctor at the next stop and we managed to get back to Broughton-on-Sea the same evening, where we must have presented a bloodily alarming spectacle to the people at the inn. At this point I probably had more blood on myself and on Persicue than in my veins, and so Persicue was obliged to support me, for which his game leg will certainly complain. But I was able to answer Stoatley, through intermittent bouts of coughing up blood. I still cannot bring myself to think much about Jameson's conflict with the spell: it is just too horrible. I remember him becoming fire, and pouring in through my eyes-- but he did not fit, forcing the bone until it cracked. Though it has never particularly bothered me when external, the sound of one's own skull cracking is singularly disturbing. And then he was there, a creature of fire, and the spell took shape as well, both of them having spines and claws and such-- they did ferocious battle, which was excruciatingly painful to me as host. I do not know what happened to Jameson, but presumably he won, for the spell is gone.
Mr. Tremaine woke me at 4:00, when he came in from whatever. He was not particularly coherent, but seemed delighted, and I did not ask; instead I took some morphia and went downstairs, leaving him to his distractingly audible repose. Fraulein Fairberry, who normally is up at 6:00, joined me-- may she be blessed-- around 5:00, and I was extremely happy to see her, for now that the spell is gone, I feel an overpowering sense of loss. It is lonely. So I managed to dissuade her from dusting, which she does compulsively, and she distracted me by being pleasant company and trouncing me at chess until everyone else appeared for breakfast.
The agent sent by Stoatley2, Mr. Grossman, arrived around midmorning, proving to be an ex-Rabbi with a very eclectic collection of tools. Stoatley and he talked for some time, and I offered what information I could remember Jameson having given me-- it seems that this particular demonic infestation is spread to the parishioners at communion, through completely unholy transubstantiation of the wine into blood, which would be happening at the special mass to be held that day. A convenient gathering of all possessed parties-- Grossman was to perform a mass exorcism. We must effect elaborate preparation, and Jim and I were sent out for several gallons of vinegar and some iron filings. I should not have gone, as being extremely light-headed from loss of blood and morphia, I found myself inexplicably somewhere along the seashore, quite lost, with the vinegar, but managed to get myself back in enough time. The plan was this: we would make all of the necessary preparations without attracting the attention of anyone, which would be rather difficult, as it involved placing eight small phials of fluid around the church, joining them by means of an unbroken circle of iron filings. The exorcism itself would be performed from the bell tower, which would necessitate getting Mr. Grossman and Fraulein Fairberry, who would assist, into the bell tower before the service. We must be positioned so as to prevent people from leaving the church, and must be prepared for resistance-- I was probably immobilized by Jameson for a good reason. I was to remain outside, to ensure that the circle of filings should not be broken after everyone had entered the church, and to prevent escapees if I could; though I should have been fine, we were also a little uneasy about reintroducing me to services so soon. Cadwalliter had the brilliant idea of positioning himself such that he would be first for communion, and keeping a quantity of holy water in his mouth, which he would surreptitiously deposit into the chalice, thereby sanctifying the brew before it got to the possessed. Any extra sanctity could only help. It was a good plan.
Stoatley, Tremaine and Grossman managed to get the phials and iron filings placed with only a small amount of interest evidenced by someone who decided to allow Stoatley to take rubbings from the gravestones for sixpence. Getting Grossman and Fraulein Fairberry into the bell tower was a bit more problematic, and the vicar took some exception. Stoatley failed rather miserably to get his attention, by tripping himself up and falling very quietly and gracefully onto the floor. I was a bit more successful, stumbling into a pew in the painfully distracting manner that only the very tall can; a well-timed bout of coughing up blood convinced the vicar that I, who had thrown a fit at Thursday's Evensong, was not long for this earth and should be counseled, but most importantly, taken outside where I would pose no threat to the furnishings. I assured him that I was not for it just yet and asked him all manner of questions about Anglicanism, giving him the opportunity to have at a receptive German pantheist-Catholic at which all good vicars jump, occupying him long enough to let everyone get into position. Once people started filing in, staying near Cadwalliter and appearing consumptive assured him of his foremost position, so at least I managed to use my burdensome infirmity to advantage.
I remained outside the church for the duration, and it was my task, along with Fraulein Fairberry-- oh, Fraulein Fairberry! I never could, still cannot, imagine her capable of such violence-- to keep the panicked innocents and the doomed Sh'shim from escaping until the exorcism could be completed. They began to scream, and ran for the doors. To no avail. Even had Stoatley and Tremaine not been so vigilant in their guarding of such, I had managed to get it locked from the outside; though I have not picked a lock since Leiden, I seem not to have lost the talent. Others of the parishioners then attempted to escape by smashing the stained glass windows, and jumping the eight or so feet to the ground. My efforts to persuade them to stay inside went thoroughly unnoticed, so since the church was all of stone, and there was nothing inflammable I could there detect, I-- and I shall be damned-- set the windowsills alight with alcohol and kerosene. What else could I have done? Had they escaped, their fate, and not just theirs, would have been infinitely worse. Alas, but for the innocents!
This occupation I was obliged to quit, for I was interrupted by the sound of gunshots from the rear of the church; I got around as quickly as I could, to see that several of the choirboys had escaped through the vestry and were scampering away into the woods. Persicue was there, standing in the door to prevent further escapees, who were very much dissuaded from their object, for as they ran, he shot one of them in the back of the head. He is a good shot. There was nothing left. Another went down, and bringing them back within the circle, I discovered the cause of this-- an arrow from the bell tower had pierced the decadenarian through. By some providence, he was dead by the time I got to him, but this must have taken some time. I do not know if I could have brought myself to cut a choirboy's throat. But I have done worse, much worse. Oh, lords, Fraulein Fairberry! At least there is this: she is a terrible archer, and this alone saved the remaining child from similar fate, for I managed to catch him. So suffered he worse at my hands than would he have at Fairberry's. But how could I have anticipated this horror?
He struggled, and in my weakened state, almost did me in; only the vast discrepancy in size there was between us saved me. I had thought myself quite finished with being beaten up by Altos, but apparently, it is not the case; this time, however, I won. Lacking time for kinder methods I was obliged to render him unconscious by dislocating his jaw, and thereupon deposited him back into the vestry. Persicue, having established that I had no idea whether or not everything was under control on the outside, and with an exclamation of 'Jolly good then', had gone back to the battle inside, which had become intense. I brought the dead choirboys back into the circle, for I was unknowing as to their human status, and barely had time to reestablish the morphia content of what blood I had left, this really the only thing keeping me upright, before people started leaping from the window that was not on fire.
Whether they were human or Sh'shim, I could not tell; I only knew that they were frenzied, and desperate, and that to engage them in my condition would be to die. I had to prevent their escape, and had only one means at my disposal, that I could see. I set three people on fire. Grievous, grievous! Can it be forgiven? Could any just deity condone this? First do no harm-- it cannot be, it cannot be. Somebody-- Stoatley I think-- was shooting from the window, and much of the woodwork had caught fire; again, my doing. Two people escaped-- a man jumped from the window, and landed badly, and broke like an overfilled pudding. It was truly horrible-- he had been filled, most of him, with these things like enormous slugs, which spluttered out, covered in his blood, and slimily slithered in every direction-- many, many of them. This doom had awaited so many of the parishioners. They would all have died this way, exploding into demon-slugs, had we not been successful. Alas, the cost of our success! My companions finished off the last, inside the church, as I set about mashing the slug things with a tree branch, and having found the keys, I unlocked the front door.
The sight inside! Everyone lay dead. Bits of demon-slug were scattered, squashed, everywhere on the floor. Mr. Tremaine, who had been trying to break down the door with Stoatley's axe, was covered in blood, not all his own, but much, and was a grim sight indeed-- I could not help him, for Stoatley quickly appeared, covered in gore, and brought him away to hunt down the last of the escapees. But surely, it was protested, they could not have escaped if they had not been human! Surely they would have exploded into sluglings! But they had to be caught. I did not ask what Stoatley and Tremaine did with them, when they caught them. I do not want to know.
Persicue had been shot in the chest, and Tremaine stabbed; Stoatley badly battered. Cadwalliter, too, was sorely injured (he had managed, it seems, to shoot himself in the foot). Of all, only Flitworth seems to have escaped serious harm, at least, of a physical nature. And I, in no condition to help them. My attempts to support Persicue in our escape only brought him down with me. I did what I could, but even wresting the bullet from Persicue's rib, where it had lodged, proved too much for me, and I had to enlist Flitworth for brute strength, which is an odd notion.
Tremaine and Stoatley rejoined us in the copse whence we had fled from the burning church. Perhaps the pyre will erase all traces of the, oh God in heaven, it was a massacre, along with the sluglings, and with any fortune there will be no one to connect us with it. Grossman, unbloodied, found us a cab, and we escaped under cover of darkness, taking a devious route to Exeter.
Whatever forgives, forgive. My companions and I have slaughtered an entire congregation, of which there might have been more than two dozen innocents. Men, women, children and elderly, indiscriminate. I myself locked them inside, and set fire to the church. Do no harm! Must it have been? Calvin never suffered anything like this, not to doubt. Must so much of what is healthy, so much innocent life, be lost, to destroy this infection? I can only hope that it must have been, for if there was any other way, then there can be no justification. None. Ever
An in-depth Discussion was conducted (over the E-mail, during the absence of the GM) concerning What To Tell The Authourities should Any Investigation Be Made into the Unfortunate Events at Broughton On Sea. Quite revealing as to the nature of interparty dynamics.
Credits to Sam Kington for putting this online.
Lord save us from Cadwalliters! It must be a family affliction, this particular madness of our wildly violent botanist. Surely it must only be exacerbated by the cocaine. For pity's sake, could he not have chosen some less enervating substance to which to become addicted? Another of his fits of paranoia and indiscriminate shootings have nearly brought down Stoatley (barely grazed, but an inch and a half leftwards and he would have lost a substantial portion of his brain) and my poor unsuspecting assistant Willoughby (for whom it was necessary to send after I, in the very midst of protesting that I was well enough for a man bleeding from the ears, collapsed in violent seizures in Persicue's parlour) was only narrowly missed. Stoatley and I have replaced his ammunition with blanks, a fact which in itself provided us and Persicue with some considerable amusement later, when Cadwalliter, in his typically violent and firearmly fashion, stood up to his aunt. Lord knows what would have happened in the wine cellar had she known that the gun was not loaded! The man is stark raving mad, and hates me for being a spineless German (indeed), but even we have achieved a sort of conspiratorial camaraderie-- Oh, for Aunt Candida!
I meet Doctor Cadwalliter on the stairs, (This would be Monday, Jan. 4), my going up and his going down-- this itself enough to take a year off the life of the most stouthearted--and in she strides, trapping me between them, this apparition , a paradigm of matronly feminine enbonpoint, a miracle of convexity, howling HEIRONYMOUS! and faced with this female he runs for it-- I would take his example, in terrorem, while she is occupied with dragging the rotund Doctor Heironymous Percival Cadwalliter down the stairs by the ear, but in most commanding tone she calls me 'young man' and bids me stay put until she should return for me-- and there I stand, rooted to the spot in absolutest despondency, until she does and treats me likewise. I am terrified of her. She has, I am ashamed to admit it, soundly thrashed me thrice in the week she has been present at Persicue Hall, once knocking me perfectly senseless. She calls me 'foreign boy'-- in fits of social grace, Doctor Foreign Boy. I can only hope that somewhere in that ample form lurks some semblance of rationality, or if there isn't, that she will go away soon, before I am reduced to a perfect milksop by her presence.
Meanwhile Jim Tremaine had gone missing, and investigation of his rooms revealed some supernatural influence-- Stoatley was able to deduce what had happened, but I was able only to note the presence of something very very bad and to get out again. Yet later we received a postcard bearing his signature from Soho, and he seems fine, paradoxically enough, if an abominable speller. And an Arthur Briggs had gone missing and later been found dead in Butterleigh, as we read in the papers under most distinct absence of detail; it later comes out that the poor fellow had been stretched out over considerable distance in mimic of a spider's web. As far as the H&FCZS is concerned, there can be little doubt as to the extraplanar origin of the perpetrator of such an offense. And, ach, the police-- an Inspector MacDonald has twice now been around, the second time bringing along two large and burly officers who refused to join us for tea, inquiring after events in Broughton-On-Sea. Ostensibly it was a further investigation of the O'Keefe affair, but the church comes up as well. Our story holds as far as we know, and I only slipped up once and not so badly. Hopefully I shall be able to avoid overmuchly grueling inquisitions by bleeding profusely, something for which I seemed to have developed considerable talent and little inclination to quit; this is vaguely distressing but may prove useful if not burdensome to Persicue's staff. I must remember to tip them extravagantly, for my exquisitely messy infirmity makes me a tiresome guest indeed. But it is worse-- I fear that I am no longer taking morphia for the still not inconsiderable pain, but through some other, more insidious compulsion.
Stoatley and Flitworth have located Margaret Williams, who has not, it happens, been sent away; they are simply hiding her in the house. They lied, but naturally, this went right over my head, such a guileless dizzard am I. As the new Curate, Stoatley has taken it upon himself to go and bless the Williams household, and each several chamber-- with his reverend influence, he has managed some truth to persuade form them, and to arrange for us tomorrow to go and deal with what they recognize as something nasty in the upstairs bedroom. Stoatley has developed the singularly distressing habit of referring to the changeling child as A. Gilmore Pitcairn-Strangechilde V, much though I protest. I suppose he does not know how sorely this affects me, or I don't think he would; he is tactless and heavy-handed, but not altogether horrible. Persicue is my advocate; Stoatley will stop eventually, but I do wish he would do so at my behest. He won't listen to me, but I suppose I ought simply to be getting used to that.
Meanwhile I have managed to hypnotize Aunt Candida, and have compelled her to react calmly and favourably towards us; I seem to have neglected to mention Heironymous Cadwalliter alone by name. Vindictive absentmindedness? Perhaps. I have also programmed her-- I have as yet told nobody this-- to go to sleep whenever I should utter a particular phrase: this in my own dialect, so unlikely to be uttered accidentally by anyone in the near vicinity. This will, I have no doubt, come to be very useful.
Candida Cadwalliter has fourteen dogs, to which she refers in the singular, as Percy, and she seems to believe that she has only one dog. Indeed a fascinating delusion! I wonder if similar cases have been documented? I must remember to ask Dr. Thursdale when I encounter him next.
Note: The following
entry is written in complete mirror-image, with more spacing between lines
than has been customary; the lines are, relative to each other, just slightly
off.
If for whatever reason someone has found it to be reading this, then I must apologize to the reader for obliging them to puzzle out my enantiomorphic cipher. But I can hardly keep track of the edge of the page at all, much less to keep track of it whilst writing in the orthodox direction taken by those of dexterous dexter hand. And with the penning of this tale, I cannot really ask Johanna to assist.
We went, as planned, to the Williams's house, where things were worse than we could have foreseen. The family was cowed and affrighted by whatever it was that they thought they had upstairs, and as we made our way up we discovered that they had been keeping the young Fraulein and her malevolent parasite of an offspring locked in her room. Mr. Williams opened the heavy lock on the door, but no sooner had he called his daughter's name when an imp at astonishing speed came from the room, taking with it the top of poor Mr. Williams's head, scattering bits of its contents everywhere about. The wretched thing did not get very far, blessedly; somebody-- Cadwalliter I think-- mangled it on its way out. And the room was full of them-- and there was the Child, appearing for all the world like an infant having two years but at sixteen days old, blonde and cherubic-looking, smiling as itsa t on a cushion in the middle of the room. The young Fraulein herself lay insensible on the bed. We closed the door, and locked it again.
Seth Williams (Another Seth!), apparently the most intellectually gifted member of the family (which is not, indeed, to be saying very much), after witnessing his fathers gruesome demise, joined us in our efforts; indeed the only reasonable course of action. Stoatley blessed the snow in a circle around the house, that the creatures could not escape our assault, this determined to be as quick, absolute and effective as possible. Therefore made we many holy snowballs for use as ammunition, and sent for two kegs of gunpowder for entirely to blow the place up. There was some minor trouble in evacuating the Williamses, necessitating the subdual of Mrs. Williams. Better anyway. She wouldn't have understood. Seth was blessed and drenched in holy water and sent in after his sister, whom he was to wrap in a similarly drenched sheet, to which task he attended with admirable courage: though surrounded on all sides by more horrific entities than he could have counted with all day to spare and sweetly challenged by the Changeling itself, he did not sway from his task, and brought her, safely, albeit comatose and wasted, out.
But I do not remember that, for Jameson chose the moment that Seth was there in the room to reemerge from my head, cracking my skull nastily and taking my eyes with him. Really, I had no idea he was still in there; he could have said something, one would think-- I don't imagine that the laws of social convention cover the harbouring of guests within one's skull, but it seems that some notification of the host by the guest would only be proper. In the form of a concentration of green light he went, I understand, straight to the Child, and by Seth's report the Child was not at all pleased to see him, but Seth did not stay to see the outcome of the altercation. However much I would have liked to be in a position to anticipate all this, and whatever fault I might therefore find with the fellow, I do hope that Jameson has come to no harm. He seems to be a powerful ally for us, at least insofar as our interests converge, and can be a reasonably pleasant sort of man, in his way.
So the building was blown up, without possibility of our denying to the local constabulary either that we were there or that we were responsible-- our presence was noted, and our sending for the gunpowder obvious. We shall have to do something. There is some discussion as to the possibility of our coming clean with the authorities, and thereby attempting to get the Hambridge and Fivehead Cryptozoological Society legitimized as an extension of Her Majesty's peacekeepers, or something; the viability of such a course of action is, admittedly, questionable, but it may be our only hope of continuing our obviously necessary activities, certainly the only way we could do so without the unsavoury prospect of operating entirely outwith the law, this entailing our having against those whose lives and livelihoods we mean to protect to be contending!
Fraulein Fairberry had gone, I am told, back into the house, apparently not knowing what was therein to transpire, and was propelled outward by the explosion-- fortunately, for otherwise she would have been killed, while she now lies only grievously injured. Fraulein Williams is in pitiful state; efforts are being made by Dr. Alexander Havisham to restore her, but it seems grim. And I can do nothing, for in addition to being battered such that I am astonished at my survival, I am utterly blind.
Bother! I am profoundly annoyed at this utter debility. I am sure I shall learn to live with it, as soon as I become accustomed to the necessity of being helped with the simplest of tasks and the possibility of becoming lost in the back garden. And here I had just mastered to necessary social standards the technique one employs for managing solid food with a hole in one's tongue, which is trickier than it sounds, and now this! I would askwhat next, but fear that I should be answered. I am offered assistance from all sides, however, and ought not to complain-- Persicue has relieved Johanna of her duties and fairly well assigned her to my upkeep, though he tells me that she is frightened of me-- troubling, that; I can't think why-- she has been wonderful, reading to me for hours on end, and never after that one unfortunate occurrence never forgetting that doorframes and I are occasionally at odds. I fear I am becoming inordinately fond of her. Flitworth has kindly condescended to teach me Braille, as well as having undertaken to stay near me in order to keep Dr. Cadwalliter away, and Stoatley endeavors to impress upon me the art of navigating with a walking-stick. He has found placing low pans of water at irregular intervals a most effective instructive aid in getting me not to lift my feet too high, and has come up with a number of other similarly innovative educational techniques to improve my facility with what senses are left to me. Though I am sure I would not learn so quickly if he did not so employ himself to my benefit, I must admit occasionally wishing he were not quite so resourceful. Ach, well. At least he can no longer test the effects of flickering gaslight upon those prone to epileptic fits.
-There is a blotch of ink.-
-Note: the following entry
does not follow the format of the preceding, but reverts to that formerly
employed-
I suppose it would be positively churlish of me to deny an Hourman refuge, but again, I cannot help but think that something in the way of notification, or warning, when peculiar effects are to be expected, might be in order. Poor Johanna, who up with so terribly much has of late been obliged to put, should not be expected to be dealing with bizarreness of this level, though I imagine it might be considered an occupational hazard if one works at Persicue Hall: coming to me in the morning as ususal, she informs me that my eyes are glowing green, and so they must quite brightly be, if she can see the light through the bandages. I tried to allay her quite natural discomfiture at this, and procured a promise of silence from her as to the whole affair; once she is gone, removing the bandages I find that I can see. Rather better than I used to, in fact, though greenly and as though underwater; I no longer require my spectacles (and have found that the spots on the moon, which formerly I had taken to be originally creditable in their noting to Galileo and his technological innovations, are quite visible from the ground). Muttering to myself that Jameson has a lot of explaining to do, I am only mildly startled by his reply. I suppose I am learning to expect this kind of thing from him. He is tired, having been obliged to expend rather much energy in the battling and containing of various things in the recent past, and has found my neurosystem a convenient resting-place. Well enough, I suppose, even if it does cost me dearly in discomfiture and blood; I can manage that. Though he assures me that he will be nicer about it next time, I cannot help but have my doubts as to whether or not I shall survive his next exodus, which should be in about three weeks; if I do survive, I shall be well and truly blind, as my current sightedness is a spell of Jameson's. In the interim, I am charged not to tell anyone of his presence there, and so have to keep up the charade of blindness. I do not at all like concealing things from Persicue and Stoatley, and would prefer not to keep from Flitworth such matters as long as they did not upset him overmuch, but I don't mind if the Cadwalliters don't know-- I can't imagine what would become of me if it came out to Aunt Candida that I was a particularly effective light source. Apparently, half of Percy died because it would not admit to being a good Christian dog who loved Jesus Christ. What of foreigners with distinctly supernatural components to their sensory array?
Well, Jameson's current whereabouts is somewhat profitable, as he now is eminently available for consultation. So, reticent as he is about straightforwardly answering, to quizzing him I have set, and have gotten a bit from him. There are, apparently, other organizations like ourselves; he has given me a list of them and their whereabouts, but says it would not necessarily be profitable for us to contact them at this time. As to the invasion of the demons itself, Jameson says it is about as bad and as advanced as I think that it is, and is mostly confined to Devonshire. This, naturally, is of some comfort to me. Stoatley is not to interfere too much with the future of his alternate or his brother, either on his own or through us. Apparently, it's bad. Something came with us through the portal at Butterleigh. It is called The The Kellimet, and it is a sapper; its function is to weaken the boundaries of this plane such that other things can make their nefarious ways in. We are to contain it-- this requires some substance with a high index of refraction (glass or crystal won't do), cut with angles, but none acute, or else it can escape. The crystal has to be at least an inch in diameter. It need not be absolutely transparent, but the more so, the better. Diamond, he says, would be ideal. Perhaps he is not aware of the difficulty involved in producing a diamond of this size? And no, water contained in a transparent vessel of the appropriate shape will not work; I asked. Garnet shall have to do. And as it happens, the head of Stoatley's walking stick is perfect. Well met; this has to be done within the next couple of days, before The Kellimet finds some person to possess (which it will do utterly) and becomes more mobile and difficult to contain. We are to go to where The Kellimet is focused and place the stone at the focus, at which point I am to be given instructions as to the relevant incantations.
Also he offers clarification as to the natures of the other spells, and
brings it to my attention that I do not have to read them (I had my suspicions).
Darkness brings down the void, as I had thought. Summoning does just what
it says, and is more dangerous than I had thought. Death has a radius of
1500 feet and kills almost everything. A few things are excepted-- some
demons, some of the alien races, the odd individual or two; it is horrendous.
'Giraffe' is a transmogrification spell, but after some considerable persuasive
efforts, I have ascertained that Jameson does not know into what it turns
one, and I certainly am not able to be figuring it out.
Most trying. The Cadwalliters leave the Persicue household in peace, with which condition I am quite satisfied, still being rather confined here, but the Botanist inevitably disturbed the relative quiet by ringing to inform us as to the condition of his being attacked by small and lively demons. Persicue and Stoatley went to his aid, leaving me, as I am useless, with Flitworth, who opted out. They managed to destroy or contain the abominations, and returned on the heels of our inspector friend MacDonald, who comes with his big burly officers Smith and Johnson; the questioning is most direct this time. We determined to answer as directly, offering a dead imp in a jar as evidence of our veracity, but true to the hallucinatory powers of the human psyche in willing not to believe or to the illusionary powers of the demons to compel hallucinations, he sees the canned imp as a rat. We were obliged to initiate him on the spot. Under my instruction, Flitworth employed the same method as I employed for Candida: a short pipette, loaded with the powder and blown into the face of the target. It failed to put Candida down, which much wondered me at the time, but MacDonald dropped unconscious as expected. Flitworth tried to accomplish the task without attracting the attention of the large and burly officers, but they observed anyway, and now we may very much be in trouble, especially as this all backfired most terribly; apparently our good Inspector was not quite prepared to believe that there were demons roaming about Devonshire, much less pickled in a jar on Persicue's coffee-table; once he comes back to consciousness he only gibbers and calls us all mad and they make much haste in leaving. We could not detain them to explain, but we didn't force the issue.
But we had no time to struggle with this, for we had many other concerns. Over tea, as all were present, amid many exclamations and enquiries as to the sources of my understandings, about which I necessarily have to be evasive, I revealed the nature of our responsibilities towards The Kellimet. It happens that we are not required to do much looking, because as Persicue is quick to observe, there is a great purple swirly cloud visible out the west window, some miles off. So it's into the coach with Agnes Fairberry (still in pushchair; she insisted), the Cadwalliters, Persicue, Stoatley, and myself (Flitworth stayed behind, having suffered a bit of a concussion at the hands of the burly policemen), and into the fray again. But before we go, Persicue tells me that there are some notes. What do they say, I ask; he says he doesn't know because some of them are in Skeid, he just wanted to tell me as I am a bit particular about this sort of thing-- so I am obliged exasperatedly to drag him into a side room and remove the bandages to have a look for myself, and I believe I frightened him a bit. Really, it's just a bit of green light; not all that bad, all things considered; it's not as if I were possessed or anything of the sort, but he says he does not know if he knows me anymore. Well-- I am sure I shall be able to bring him around. There was not enough time to read the notes-- they have to do with the contents of the cellar-- and I could not find anything immediately pertinent to the task that demanded our attention at that particular moment.
On the way we passed many people, proceeding as if mesmerized towards the manifestation-- they would not speak when dragged aboard, and I could not break their enchantment, so we tried just to get to the barrow before them. Unfortunately when we got there already many of them were also so arrived, as we watched, two stepped into the swirling and were sucked upwards into it, bursting into fire. Disturbing, but not so much as that that Cadwalliter shot three people, killed three who didn't need to die-- Murderous, purely murderous, unprecedentedly! Possessed choirboys is one thing, but this! It is feared that he has gone quite around the bend, and Stoatley, Persicue and myself have discussed having him committed. Much though I hate the idea of anyone's being committed, this may be one of the instances where only good could come of it... Candida was about to do the same so I had no choice but to send her to sleep, whenceforth I was able to disarm her before waking her again, and Cadwalliter more productively employed himself in the knocking unconscious of people who might otherwise have stepped into the fire, or be possessed, an eventuality of whose possibility I had been made aware. But for a moment, there was Cadwalliter being horrendously destructive, and I had Candida's firearms to hand-- very, very nearly. Very.
We succeeded, with little difficulty overall, in capturing The Kellimet,
who was focused within the barrow itself, necessitating some efforts into
excavation. We managed to escape while the police whistles still distantly
sounded, and we had the garnet stored away in a jar fashioned for the express
purpose of containing evil, one of several to be found in the cellar (not
all empty; the Great Mister Jonah must have kept himself busy). But whether
or not we are associated with this latest development, I feel certain that
the next few days will present us with much in the way of trouble, and not
all of it extraplanaranymore. Alas, if only things could have remained so
simple
Not just Jameson, but Helloch, Ku'Kur, Tiuoe, Ashach-Hurip, and Uujl as well! All these voices-- it is enough to make one think one is going mad. But I am told that I don't have them. Jameson has them-- and he was vaguely surprised to find that I could hear them; though he assures me that I ought not to worry, I have heard that enough times to know that often, it means precisely that I should.
And the police! Poor old Inspector MacDonald seems to have gone utterly stark raving mad, and so now we have DCI Soames, an utterly implacable, completely imperturbable, thoroughly dislikable gentleman with very high interrogatory powers, who comes along with a secretary and someone else called Wallace who has been to India (Stoatley says) and more constabulary. They are treating the Broughton-On-Sea church affair as suspicious, and it seems rather apparent that they are treating us as suspects in some rather weighty offenses-- of which, I suppose, broadly speaking, we might be construed as guilty, if it weren't for all the demons, about which pointed questions were asked as Inspector MacDonald seems not to have ceased to talk about them since he left here, claiming now that they are coming through the walls. Poor fellow, I know how he feels. They have arrested Cadwalliter, as he was Looking Very Uncomfortable In A Guilty Sort Of Way, and that he shall incriminate us all is the general feeling, and so we are to 'bust him out'; as a rather extreme measure towards convincing the local constabulary, or those representatives thereof that matter and are not likely to be driven insane-- e.g. Soames and perhaps a few others-- I have volunteered to turn myself into Something-I-Know-Not-What. Gott in Himmel! Into what have I gotten myself? I can hardly believe that I have taken such leave of my senses as to be doing this.
©C. Nightshade, 1997.