were more convoluted, twisted and savage in nature.
I traced one with my hand, feeling the grooves, the smooth, polished stone, the embossing. With a shock I drew my hand away as I realised that what my fingers had caressed was a stylised scene of torture – a poor soul, bound hand and foot to a large slab, being speared by some monstrous curved blade.
The evil! The unspeakable horror! I screamed, yet my voice was not in my throat. It sounded from afar, joined with the mournful chorus that came from the obsidian rock.
I turned to run, to get away from that place, to leave those accursed walls with their immoral engravings, to put as much distance as I could between myself and the howling voices, only my path was arrested by a form. For a fleeting second my mind saw the beast that was stalking me through that ancient construction.
Its gruesome, unholy features have been etched into my mind so that, while I am writing this, my hands tremble and I fear I must reassure myself that it truly was just a dream. It filled the space between the pillars, holding its arms out wide, its cruel, clawed hands ready to catch me should I try to skip past it.
That gut turning stench filled my nostrils, burnt my lungs, brought tears to my eyes. I made to run around the beast, use the wide doorway to my advantage, but it moved just as fast, its claws mere inches from me.
Giving up on that route, I wheeled an ran pell-mell across the atrium, blindly falling over skulls protruding from the masonry, heading toward the centre of the atrium in which stood, like a leering, black monolith, a stone slab, reminiscent of the sacrificial scene depicted on the wall.
With a jolt I came to my senses, sweat-soaked through my nightclothes. Even with my leg baying for my attention, it took a cold bath and a solid cup of coffee to assure me that the realm of my dreams was only a figment of my over-active imagination, inspired by my fever.
For the rest of the night I huddled at the kitchen table, shunning sleep and doing my best not to think of the nightmare I had endured.
I knew I should have been resting, the good Lord knows I was exhausted, but the coffee, the pain in my foot and my aching back prevented any further sleep, and my desire to have no more of such horrific dreams drove me from the house as soon as the sun crept over the horizon.
Walking the streets that morning was an odd experience. They were the same lanes and roads that I had taken every day, yet, perhaps it was the morning air, or my injured state, there was an unsteady vibration rocking my nerves.
Though the morning air was very cool, I was in a sweat. In spite of my injuries, I was walking as briskly as I could, avoiding the piercing glances of the pedestrians. Could it be that their eyes, like those of the offensive gargoyles from my nightmare, were following me?
The shadows were still long when I reached the library. I entered quietly, quickly, finding a desk toward the back where I would not be disturbed by the daily traffic.
Driven by a desire to understand what was going on, the book shelves became my hunting grounds for the day.
For the morning and past lunch time, I examined documented cases, stories and even mythology, surrounding aggressive, violent spirits. I discovered a trove of legends, ancient tales passed down through cultures, one generation to the next, to finally be collected and documented in the pages I now thumbed.
My first foray led me to what is called a Domovoi, a benevolent house spirit that hides in the recesses and corners of a building protecting it and its inhabitants from harm. The owners of the house would welcome such a creature, not in fear, but in gratitude for its services. Considering the cuts and bruises I suffered, not to mention the mess in the cellar, such a good-willed creature would surely not be my aggressor.
Then I came upon fair-folk, hobs and goblins, creatures of the Earth that make themselves known to through their actions. The stories certainly showed a more sinister side to them, yet their intentions were more mischievous than violent. Being corporeal rather than ethereal, it put them to the bottom of my list since neither the professor nor I saw any trace of a body except the enormous footprints left in the dirt.
Poltergeists, noisy ghosts that create a clamour and throw things about, was my next stop. In my time with the Professor, I have not dealt with such cases. Certainly they are rarer than the typical hauntings we are used to. Documented cases and stories show that much of their activity is localised and destructive, somewhat like an insolent child seeking attention.
The bruise on my back told me otherwise: whatever hit me wanted to hurt me, not have a chat. The being that brought me to that strange, demented realm in my dream had no benevolence to it.
I searched on. Trolls. Imps. Elementals. Familiars. Demons. The further I looked, the darker my studies became. The books I took off the shelves were older and more fragile, their yellow pages had not felt breath upon them for decades.
Late in the afternoon, after a quick bite to eat, I sat down and plopped open a large, stiff book on Kabbalah or, more precisely, a Study in Unorthodox Esoteric Kabbalah and Its Rituals, having found it as a bibliographical reference in a book on paganism.
The pages were torn and worm eaten, yellow like mustard. The text within was written by a rheumatic hand in faded brown-red ink. At first I thought that it was written in another language entirely, so faint was the shaky cursive.
“Lilith attempts to bring her Offspring, maleficent and foul as they be to all righteous folk, into Civilisation to respire and grow and be among us. Vigilance and Purity are our tools against her vile Descendants and their wicked Ways. Be vigilant, you, of the Signs.
Of this Evil Lilith may be guilty withal more Evils lie on the other side, in Sitra Akhra, for which she cannot be condemned, for they are themselves condemned for their crimes.
In Sitra Akhra hides Samael, wrapped in a cloak of Darkness, and from Sitra Akhra his Minions fly forth to our World, through Conjurers, Sorcerers and Necromancers, and to Sitra Akhra will they deign with the Souls they shall devour. Be not among them, you.”
I turned the page carefully, noting down my findings. When I looked down the page I gasped for at the bottom was a diagram, some kind of geometric star, with a particular rune placed at each point. The runes matched those that had been embroidered into that cloth in the cellar!
“The symbols serve as Protection against the Horde when arranged as such or when arranged so, as a Yoke to bridle the dark one's Ambition so as to serve the Conjurer. This Binding can be entwined in a Shroud, engraved permanently upon a Board or cast into a Plaque, depending upon the ritual, depending upon the Conjurer, depending upon the Entity.”
“Be vigilant, you, of the Responsibilities that come with the Binding, for such an undertaking is not without Peril to your Soul.”
The cloth! The cloth was the binding!
I had to get the book to the Professor and show him what I had discovered before all else! Being so old and fragile, I was concerned that it may not be allowed to leave the confines of the library.
Nevertheless, I was determined to at least ask.
Mister Blake, the head librarian, was surprised to see me. Slow and precise, he looked up from his tea, down at the book in my arms, took out his watch, flipped open the cover, closed it once more and straightened his back.
“Good afternoon, Mister Blake.”
“You're about four hours too early, by my watch. And I keep it in step with the clock in the town square,” he said, drooping his luscious eyebrows over his eyes, “I certainly hope you aren't playing truant from your Professor?”
I shook my head, “No, Mister Blake. I am supposed to be resting. I had, er, an accident yesterday.”
“Some accident,” he replied, fishing out a newspaper from underneath his tea cup, “Although I can understand if you are trying to make yourself scarce by hiding in a library.”
“Hiding?”
He tapped the paper.
I picked it up and stared at a grainy image of, I am ashamed to say, me, with my pants around my ankles, shirt undone, lying on the floor of D
octor Halfpenny's surgery with a startled look in my eyes.
I read the headline:
Assistant Injured in Clandestine Opium Den!
“I – I was at the doctor's,” I stammered, “They barged straight in. How can they say this? It's a lie! Mister Blake, I have never used opium. I – I...”
For a few seconds I forgot how to breathe.
“I have never asked you what you get up to with that Professor. It's none of my business, for starters, and I'm sure I wouldn't understand a word of it if you told me,” he said as I finally exhaled, “And, luckily for you, I'm not one to put any credence in what gets printed on this mush. You may be clumsy – Lord knows how many books you've dropped – but I know you're not a patron of Chi-Su.”
“Th-thank you, Mister Blake.”
“Unluckily for you, most of the townsfolk don't share my enlightened opinion. I was late arriving today, for I was detained at every corner on the way here to engage in conversations.”
“Oh.”
“I'm a practical man, you know, and I have a reputation for being an upstanding citizen.”
“Oh.”
“Whether this,” he said, patting the paper, “Is the truth or not, you will need to find a way to salvage your reputation, or find yourself a new occupation. This library cannot be seen to be harbouring riff-raff.”
His words rattled around in my ears as my eyes focused on the page:
Yesterday, at a quarter past one in the afternoon, a certain 'scientist' and his assistant were seen exiting hurriedly from a house in Jolimont Street. Several witnesses claim that they were acting in a strange manner, with one limping, having sustained an obvious injury to his leg.
It has been speculated that the pair were using the house in Jolimont, owned by one Mister Gordon French, as a clandestine opium den.
“Opium den? It's nothing of the sort!” I cried.
“Hush! This is a library!”
“I'm sorry, Mister Blake, I am! How? How can they write this?”
In a fit of opium induced stupor and hallucination, a common ailment among consumers of laudanum, it is alleged that the assistant wrecked the room in which they were partaking, injuring himself in the process.
Neighbours say the pair came often to 'chase spirits', quite possibly a euphemism for smoking or drinking narcotics.
“They can write it because they protect themselves with words like 'alleged' and 'opinion',” he replied, “Rumour can be disguised as fact with the insertion of quotes or a nameless witness. Hence my distrust of anything written on this rag.”
To test this assumption, this journalist has gained legal access to the cellar and has found, among the mess, items indicating to the positive, including powders, spilt liquids and broken bottles. All evidences will be handed to the constabulary when the matter is forwarded to their capable hands.
“The constabulary? Mister Blake, I have done nothing wrong! We have permission from Mister French to be in there.”
“And just what were you doing in there, hmm?”
“Observing. Recording. Measuring. What we always do!”
Mister Blake creaked forward in his chair, “Let an old man give you a word of advice: your story had better be watertight if the constabulary are indeed involved.”
“I will tell the truth. I have nothing to hide!”
He pointed to the paper, “The truth? This is the truth! This is what people will believe. Truth is as malleable as gold and shines just as brightly when rubbed the right way.”
I shook my head, unsure of what to say.
“Go. Go back to your Professor. Straight away. Talk to no one. If he has any sense, he will construct a story to save your reputations.”
“Yes, Mister Blake.”
“Until then,” he sighed, “I must ask that you stay away from the library. Guilty by association and all of that. I'm sorry. That is how it has to be.”
My world slipped away as my head nodded, my arms picked up the book and my lips moved on their own, “Yes, Mister Blake. Sorry, Mister Blake.”
Persona Non Grata
I was under no illusions. Heads did indeed turn and mouths whispered as I hustled back to the laboratory. Of this I am certain. My presence made the townsfolk uneasy. They would stop mid conversation as I passed, only to avert their eyes, lower their voices and continue in whispers when I was still within earshot.
Nevertheless, the urgency born from my discovery and my desire to be off the street and away from the eyes that burned through me drove me on, and I did not slow down until I reached the safety of the laboratory doors.
The sky was growing dark over the city, and there was that palpable, threatening heaviness in the air that comes before a big storm that only added to my trepidation. I opened the doors and scuttled up the stairs to the bosom of the laboratory.
Miss Fitzgerald was brewing tea in the kitchenette.
“Good afternoon, young master,” she snapped, “You appear quite flushed.”
“I was walking quickly...”
“Yes, I'll bet you were!”
“Ma'am?”
“I'm not one to mince words. What is this nonsense that you and the Professor have gotten yourselves caught up in, hmm?” she said, arms akimbo, “He won't say boo to me, only sits there cursing 'the state of affairs' and some cretin named Chester. I can't make heads nor tails of it. Tell me what is going on.”
I wiped the perspiration off my brow, “I would tell you, Ma'am, I would, but I was instructed not to say anything to anyone before I spoke to the Professor.”
“Oh, you too? I thought more highly of you! Well, go on! Go have your little secrets! Go waste money on whores and opium! Don't worry whose employment is threatened by your actions!”
“I'm sure it won't come to that, Miss Fitzgerald. We have, neither of us, committed any wrongdoing. You see, the whole situation is a lot more complicated than it seems –” I began, but a bark from behind prevented me from telling her any more.
“Not another word, lad! Didn't I tell you that Chester or his cronies could be lurking about, listening in to your words?” the Professor said, coming in from the anteroom, “Why, Miss Fitzgerald could be in the employ of those monsters!”
“I most certainly am not!”
“And I most certainly cannot afford to take you, or anyone, at their word!”
“The very insinuation!”
He was flushed. His beard was uncombed, as was his hair.
I said, “If we just tell the truth...”
“No! They have a way of twisting the truth. Anything said is moulded to best sell more papers, not repair our reputation, and that means we sink deeper. And I'll thank you, Miss Fitzgerald, to not probe any further,” he said, “If you have no dealings with them, then that is well, but still I must be cautious. The less you know, the less they can weasel out of you.”
She brought herself up to an impressive height and thrust out her equally impressive bosom, “I am a lady of honour, sir, not some gossiping, dull-eyed flibbertigibbet!”
The Professor nodded, “I apologise, Miss. That wasn't what I meant. It's just that I know those snakes better than anyone in this laboratory and, believe you me, as a farmer can use water and manure to grow a crop, journalists can use facts and rumour to grow a scandal.”
“I only wish to know if I need to be looking for new work next week...”
The Professor blew through his beard, “Don't – don't be daft.”
“I resent the insult. And you haven't answered my question.”
Miss Fitzgerald and I both looked at the Professor. His mouth flapped. His arms flopped. His eyebrows jigged.
“Professor?” I prompted, “Everything will be alright, won't it? Professor?”
“I – I don't know!” he gasped, “How could everything turn so sour?”
Miss Fitzgerald took the tea off the boil, poured some cups and shoved one under his nose.
“Well when you find out, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know, s
ir,” she said, packing up her things, “Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to head to the square to see if there's anything going for a simple, unemployed charwoman.”
The Professor let her go. I sat down next to him.
“Drink up, Professor,” I said, “Tea is good for the nerves.”
“Have you even seen the papers, boy?”
“Unfortunately I have, Professor, yes. I did not think they could say such stuff.”
“Stuff! That's putting it politely. I can think of more appropriate words – say? What are you doing here?”
“I went to the library.”
“You are supposed to be resting. If I were you I'd be hiding at home. Your name is mud, I tell you, as is mine.”
“Can't we plead our case? Surely the public would rather hear our side of the story,” I said.
“The public would rather not. The public loves a scandal. Offer a dog a juicy sausage or a dry bone, and guess which one he'll devour?”
“But when the truth comes out –”
He looked up at me with red, swollen eyes, “One cannot un-eat a sausage, lad. No amount of facts can dispel the suspicion of the public. It's only a matter of time until news reaches the University. And that would be grounds enough to...”
“Professor! Don't say it! Look, we have an opportunity here!”
“An opportunity? Now you're delusional.”
“We can turn this around.”
“Have some tea. Tea is good for delusions.”
I thumped the desk, spilling the cups. I only wished to snap him out of his gloom. Instead, the searing hot water on his lap brought the fire back into his throat.
“The devil!”
“Oops! I'm sorry, Professor, I shall get a cloth,” I said, hurrying to the kitchenette.
“You clumsy oaf! Why would you do such a thing?”
“To get your attention!” I called, rinsing out a rag, “Listen, Professor, I am, like yourself, up to my neck in it and, no, please, let me explain. You can fire me in a few minutes if you like but please let me tell you what I have found.”
I gave him the rag and let him daub at his shirt and pants while I explained.
“The press wants a story,” I said, “So, let us give them one! Let us give them the most amazing story. One that will sell papers. One that will appease their money-lust and, at the same time, clear our names. We have an active entity, very active, and aggressive. We might even get Chester to come and have him recount his words. If we can show the people what we are really dealing with, then they will forget all about the speculation –”
The Professor stopped dabbing, held out his hand for me to stop and sat back down in thought. He sipped some of the tea remaining in his cup and thought some more.
“It won't do. Ghosts have a notorious habit of, well, playing dead,” he said, “More likely than not, we'll show him the cellar, nothing will happen and he'll report that we concocted the whole story”
“Or we could, you know,” I coughed, wondering why the words sounded so terrible in my throat, “Summon what is in there.”
“Summon?” his eyebrows collapsed, “Summon?