cried, “No. You do it!”
“I cannot, you must!”
The next thing I knew, I saw, through the haze over my eyes, the Professor thrown like a rag-doll against a bookshelf. The crowd cheered in a frenzy and then the unholy audience turned its attention back to me.
There was no one left to help me. The rain was lashing through the room. The lightning crackled outside, illuminating the hellish stage. The noise of the beast was growing in volume once more, furious, unearthly. His black form materialised, towering higher than before.
“Sew, laddie,” the Professor breathed, “Sew!”
Hearing my beloved employer's voice in so pathetic a state, my heart beat harder, my limbs regained their function and a renewed vigour swept through me, despite my pain and obscurity.
I recovered the cloth, the needle still poking out of it and with shaking hands I stabbed and pulled, drawing the pieces together, joining the tears as best I could, using long strokes to bind as much of the material as I could.
Behind me the monster bellowed and screamed and grunted with each stroke of my needle. The choir teased, they bayed for my attention, yet on I sewed, ignoring their faces.
The Professor called weakly, “Keep it up, laddie, he's weakening! No, don't look, sew!”
Now that I had the larger ribbons roughly sewn in place, it was easier to make finer stitches along the length of the tears, firmly holding the pieces together. With ardour I fell to my work, finding it easier and easier as each stroke came together.
The roaring petered to a whimper, and the whimper to a sorrowful cry that, as I pushed through my last stroke, sounded like nothing more than the wind whistling through the broken glass.
It was then that I looked up. The pain was gone. My blood was no longer boiling inside me. The haze lifted from my eyes. No longer were the shades of Hell dancing about me. I was sitting awkwardly on the remains of the chair that had knocked me down, holding the limp, damp cloth.
“Professor? Professor, are you alright?” I called.
“I'm over here with the Sergeant,” he replied, “Good thing he had his helmet on. He made quite an impression on the wall!”
I could hear the Professor slapping him lightly on the cheek, “I say, Sergeant! Sergeant Hart!”
From there on, the Constable took over securing the room and Chester, who had been unwillingly giving a statement to the Constable, Sergeant Hart, the Professor and myself all piled into a carriage to pay a visit to Doctor Halfpenny.
Needless to say, he was more than a little surprised to see such a ragtag bunch at his door. The Sergeant apologised, Chester whimpered, the Professor poked curiously at the doctor's equipment and I, I fear, merely sat in a daze while I was bandaged up.
I was delivered home, by who I cannot say with certainty, and I slept a dreamless sleep, being so exhausted that I did not wake up until nine o'clock the next morning.
The Light
Looking out the window into the humming street, the Sun was shining over the roads, reflecting a brilliant orange upon the surfaces, still dark with water. The breeze was calm, barely moving the leaves, and the sky was making up its mind between amber and azure.
The memory of the pain I endured the night before was still upon me, so I barely grunted as I changed my bandages and inspected my bruises – such superficial issues were pale in comparison!
The looking-glass had never seen such a wretch. I scrubbed up, dressed and made myself as presentable as I could, wearing a low hat to cover the larger contusions on my head, and soft gloves for the pin-pricks on my fingers.
I walked slowly to the laboratory, sorting out the jumble of events from the night before. The whole matter seemed so unreal that it might as well have been a dream, and I would have entertained this were it not for the painful physical reminders that adorned my head, torso and limbs.
The door of the laboratory was locked when I arrived. There was no response to the bell, which meant that neither the Professor nor Miss Fitzgerald were in.
I had not brought the spare key, so I sat on a box out the front, content to rest and watch the people go by. The faces that looked over did not have the same countenance of suspicion and scorn as the day before, instead they wore a mask of awe mixed with intrigue.
Indeed, it was a step up from ridicule, although my preference to receive no celebrity altogether. I learned to deal with how others feel toward my line of work, considering the general attitude Paranormology attracts, still my face flushed with every sideways glance.
The box was comfortable, the morning Sun was warm, yet I wished nothing more than to be inside the laboratory, away from the eyes, away from the opinions.
“Going to sit there all day, laddie?”
Jolting upright, I looked left and right, then up to see the Professor leaning out from the window upstairs.
“Hello, Professor. The door is locked. I thought you were not in.”
“What have I told you about assumptions?”
“I, er...”
“Did you ring the bell?”
“Yes, Professor. It was not working,” I said.
“That's because I unhooked the clapper. Oh. That might explain why Miss Fitzgerald is not here – Dear me. I hope she hasn't taken that the wrong way. Well, come in, come in, hurry up! Actually, before you do, hurry to the baker and get something for breakfast. I'm famished!”
I returned promptly with a few buns. Upstairs, the Professor was rummaging through the kitchen cupboards.
“Where do you keep the blessed tea, laddie? I've spent all morning without a cup.”
I reached in front and drew out the tin, “Right here, Professor, where it as always been. Say, why is the clapper off the bell?”
He explained, “What with all the sticky-beaks, I had every Tom, Dick and Harry ringing and knocking and poking their noses in and asking the same old questions. Not that they got anything for their troubles, mind, although they've given me a frightful headache. I got sick of the bell ringing – ooh, I'd better put it back in now that you're here.”
“Me?”
“Yes. If the bell rings, just tell them that there is nothing further to add and, er, have a nice day or something, and nothing more and no further correspondence will be entertained and, you know, words to that effect.”
“Yes, Professor,” I said and, unsure about what else to do, I set about making the tea.
The silence in the laboratory was broken only by the whistling of the kettle. When I came back from the kitchenette, the Professor was at his desk, reading the newspaper.
The Professor accepted the cup, “How's that leg?”
“It is fine, thank you, Professor, mending nicely. My back is still sore. And my head. And I've done something to my ribs, maybe when I fell.”
“I am sorry to hear that. Do you want some time off?”
“Yes, Professor, but, at the same time, no.”
“You're still concussed, it would seem. Indecision and vagueness is a symptom. Have some tea. Tea is good for concussion.”
“What I mean is that I will heal just as fast here as at home.”
“You didn't really recuperate, did you? You were at the library the very next day. And you got knocked about a fair bit last night.”
I said, “I am fine, Professor, really, and thank you all the same. How is your head?”
“Better than Sergeant Hart's, for sure! He was in quite a tizz when we left Doctor Halfpenny. My, it was quite an experience, wasn't it?”
“That was something I would rather not come across again,” I said.
“Nor I,” he replied, adding “Even though it would be have been an incredible topic for research.”
I put my cup down, “Professor! You cannot possibly –”
“No, no, no. Far from it. That was too volatile a situation.”
“Volatile? Professor, that – that thing hurt us!”
“Yes, I suppose it did. But, oh! Did you witness how it manifested itself? A form! An actual form created fro
m shadows! Oh, forgive me, laddie, I know you were affected by this the most.”
“Yes, Professor,” I said, taking up my cup.
I nearly dropped it.
“Professor!”
“What? What is it?” he asked, looking about.
“The cloth! Where is the cloth?”
“Ah. You needn't be so dramatic. It is safe.”
“And where is that?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Professor...”
“It is best that you do not know, for your own safety,” he said, checking his watch, “Just know that it will soon be in the hands of one who is knowledgeable about such things. One who understands the dangers, and can safeguard future accidents.”
“But who?”
“An old colleague of mine. Another Paranormologist, you could say,” he said with a chuckle, “We're a breed, you know.”
“Will I meet him?”
“Her. Perhaps one day I shall introduce you. If she decides that it is safe to do so, that is.”
“Safe?”
“That curse was tied to you, you know. You tore the cloth. Your blood is on it. If you read the rest of that book, you'll find that you were unwittingly binding that beast with yourself, feeding its energy with your own life,” he said, “That's dangerous on an unfathomable level.”
“It was an accident! How was I supposed to know?”
“Accidental or not, rituals, incantations and the like are not to be taken lightly. Your actions, though unintentional, brought an ancient beast forward. Why, any more contact with – no. No. I shall say no more. It's for the best.”
I pressed him but he would not say anything further about it. I sat back, rubbing my head, staring at my tea, feeling foolish and